Tremble & Depart

by DarkoftheMoon

Summary:

Draco Lucius Malfoy. Death Eater. Disposable.

Life on probation at the Ministry meant keeping his head down and his mouth shut. On his first field assignment he’s tasked with investigating an abandoned Death Eater manor hiding more than a few secrets in its walls.

Stuck with the only witch who agreed to work with him.

Chapter 1

Notes:

Russian translation in progress on ficbook.
Podfic by PaperCraneAudiobooks

There was a time when cruelty had come easily to him. When saying the very worst thing rested at the tip of his tongue, ready to strike without hesitating. There was a time when he reveled in it, smiling smugly after a particularly barbed insult hit its mark. A time when he wouldn’t think about it days or even hours later. It was like releasing a breath. There until it was gone.

Now, though, it was like a little piece of Draco Malfoy broke off with each cruel remark. A piece that was a part of him as much as whoever was on the receiving end of his wickedness. It made him quieter. More thoughtful. And particularly more vulnerable if he’d forgotten to occlude that day, which was why, after the glares and stares that followed him most mornings turned into whispered jeers, he was feeling a bit like his old self. Poised to snap at whatever unsuspecting fool crossed his path first.

There had been another write-up in the Prophet. This time about the longterm effects of the cruciatus. Before the Dark Lord’s rise and fall it hadn’t been studied extensively. Unforgivable curses were unforgivable for a reason. Their use was rare. But now there were willing wizards and witches who had been tortured and wanted to understand why their joints hurt or what was causing their migraines. The article mentioned Longbottom’s parents. With a picture of an infant Neville cradled in their arms. Detailed the expense of their neurological damage. At the hands of a witch who bore the same mark as him and shared his blood.

It gave them all a reason to continue to hate him and for him to hate himself. So as he reached his desk that morning he had already run through his long list of failures and misdeeds at least twice. It helped him prepare for the whispers of Should be in Azkaban and Death Eater and perhaps his favorite, You’ll get what’s coming to you. It was such a thing he would have said as a thirteen year old. Hilariously lazy.

Draco never slouched. Posture was something his father enforced from an early age, rapping his knuckles with his wand if he slumped at the dinner table. Rigid, upright, shoulders back. Chin tilted down in submission when in front of superiors. Nose angled upwards in the presence of those beneath them.

Granger clearly never had such training. Her shoulders, her entire torso, it seemed, was forever hunched over a piece of parchment or curled around a book. When she walked it was usually weighed down by those books. But when she stood defiant, with hands on hips and nose in the air, she was truly in charge. In the halls of the Ministry she vacillated between the two.

Today she had an armful and a half of stacked parchment and books. A quill behind her ear. Spots of ink on her face and hands. Like she didn’t notice. Somehow couldn’t feel it on her skin.

Most days he would have kept his eyes down and avoided her. Avoided anyone he knew from school. But today wasn’t most days, apparently. Sensible shoes, knee-length skirt, lumpy jumper. Hair not as bushy as years past but still wild. She dressed like she was far older than their twenty-one years. As if by appearing to be older she could climb the ranks to Minister faster. She was a junior cursebreaker, so she was often in and out of the offices in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to consult on various cases.

He knew the sound of her ugly shoes on the wood floor. Could sense her passing his desk. If he looked up, she was always looking somewhere else — at the floor or a piece of parchment in her hand. Not that he had wanted to catch her eye. More often than not she was with Potter or Weasley or both. As if nothing had changed. The golden trio, together forever. Saving the wizarding world one unfair advantage at a time.

Her shoes clacked, accompanied by someone with a loud tread, and then the footsteps stopped close enough that he had to look up to see why.  A wizard he didn’t recognized was smiling at her, flirting, really, over her stack of books. If he’d been a gentleman he would have offered to help carry them.

“I’m sure you’ve already read it, but there’s a new treatise on werewolf rights and…”

Draco listened to him ramble on, annoyed at the endless chatter taking place in front of his desk. He had work to do, and couldn’t this idiot see that she was carrying heavy books and shifting her weight from foot to foot? Obviously she had better places to be. Wasn’t interested in this drabble. So he opened his cursed mouth.

“I’m sure she’s not only read it but left smudged notes in the margins,” he said. “You’ll have to think of something else to impress her with. Better luck next time.”

“The junior Malfoy, isn’t it?” The other wizard said. Granger glanced over at him then back to her companion.

“Sorry, I don’t think I know you. Maintenance department?” Fucking stupid retort. Some of the only people worth talking to at the Ministry were in that department. Why had he said it?

“Just as charming as they say. How often has someone broken your nose? I know Hermione here’s left you bruised and bloody before but maybe you need a reminder—”

“Charlie,” Granger said, and it was the familiar way she said it that made him reassess her companion. The red hair. Fresh burn marks and old scars on his forearms. One of the Weasley brood, clearly. The one who worked with dragons. Older than them by a few years. A Hogwarts quidditch legend.

“Whatever else you have to say, Weasley, I don’t care. Take your discussion elsewhere,” Draco said, then made a show of flicking his quill and returning to his work. Writing a report on exploding toilets at Royal Albert Hall. The prestige of his job a forever delight.

“Looks like you’re busy doing my little brother’s paperwork for him. How nice that the department takes pity on the unemployable.”

“Do remind me the last time your little brother accomplished anything without riding someone else’s coat tails and then we can talk about pity.”

“Listen, you arrogant—”

“It’s fine, Charlie, we’re leaving,” she said, shifting the books in her arms. Some of her parchment fell to the floor and the Weasley stooped to collect it. “Don’t pay attention to him.”

“Don’t worry, Hermione, I can handle a smarmy bastard on my own.”

“Piss off, Weasley. Plenty of other places in this building for you to flex your muscles to impress whatever witch walks by,” Draco said, his quill hovering over the parchment. Leaving little spots of ink he’d have to remove later.

“Unlike some, it doesn’t take much effort on my part,” Weasley said, crossing his arms. A weak intimidation tactic that made Draco laugh and shake his head. Granger shifted her books again, and he bit the inside of his cheek to refrain from saying something about it. But then she did.

“Honestly, it’s like being with a bunch of fourth years,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Granger, you do know they stop giving marks after you leave school. No need to break your back with all those books. Everyone’s aware you’re the Head Swot without a bunch of props.”

He regretted it the instant he saw the flash of hurt on her face. A piece of him fractured off. Studying in the Slytherin common room. Feverishly reading and rereading the passage about grindylows for Professor Lupin’s class when Marcus Flint and a few of the other older Slytherins returned from whatever trouble they were causing in the corridors after hours.

Reading again, Draco? Why you think you have to study is beyond me. Can’t you just get dear old dad to buy your good marks? He buys you everything else.

“Some of us need books for our jobs, Malfoy. Not everything is for show,” she replied, her eyes were narrowed and she made a pointed glance at the pin in his tie. A family heirloom. Some emerald he’d found in the vault, wrapped in silver. Nestled in the dimple of his black silk tie.

And then they were gone. Striding away with the echo of her clacking shoes. One last nasty look from the Weasley over his shoulder.

For several minutes Draco stared at his report, trying to remember his line of thought. All he could hear was the sound of her shoes. The tone of her voice. Just how true that simple statement was.

He sent Theo an owl — Drinks. Diagon 6pm. The first few months after the war, after house arrest and a trial, he couldn’t go anywhere even if he wanted to. The tattoo on his forearm prevented it. If he tried, restaurants were booked. Pubs were full. Shops would turn him away, even when he offered to pay double. There were no laws about reform, only suggestions. Most pubs still lacked refinement but they weren’t allowed to refuse service anymore. Not that he reported it when he was refused.

When he’d finally finished writing his report a few hours later he cleared his already immaculate desk, sending off memos and moving discarded parchment to the waste basket. He liked to leave his workspace empty at the end of the day. It seemed like a rational thing to do. His presence there was conditional. His job probational. Working for the Ministry had always ranked low on his career aspiration list. For most of his childhood the only thing he wanted to do was play quidditch. At school he developed an aptitude for potions. But no one wanted a former Death Eater as an apprentice. So instead he toiled away, assisting the aurors of the DMLE with the promise that, perhaps someday, he might move up from his lowly paperwork and occasional dark object assessments accompanied by multiple aurors should he be tempted. He’d excelled in trainings — both physical and written. Every year he was required to complete the tests and every year he earned top marks. And yet here he was, in a small desk. With an emerald fucking tie pin.

Not everything is for show.

Indeed.

Theo met him at the corner of Diagon and Knockturn, right outside his flat. He pulled out a gilded pocket watch and shook his head. “Three minutes late. Abysmal.”

“You’ll recover,” Draco replied, keeping his steps quick as they twisted down the street. It was crowded, and he considered suggesting they just go back to Theo’s flat with a bottle. But Theo liked to observe the room at the bar. Which of the patrons cast stones at them and which ones avoided them altogether. To him it was all a game. And neither of them ever won.

The Leaky Cauldron was generally off-limits because of the familiar crowd. But the Scroll & Raven on the outskirts of Diagon was usually open to them. The bartender was an old woman named Oona who didn’t so much as say hello when they walked in and took their usual seats at the booth furthest from the door.

“How’s the slog today?” Theo asked, stretching his arms over the backrest. He tapped his fingers — an old habit his father failed to snuff out — waiting for their drinks to appear.

“Intolerable. Robards still won’t give me much to do beyond useless paperwork and filing. It’s a fucking joke,” Draco said, snatching his glass of Ogden’s the moment it arrived. He drained it in a single gulp and signaled to Oona for another. Theo quirked a brow and followed suit.

“Did you get a paper cut?”

“Did I— no?”

“Oh, sorry, just assumed since you’re knocking back the firewhiskey like a sixth year that your horrid job filing paperwork must have done something terrible to you,” Theo said. He chuckled to himself, forever pleased with his own wit. “My mistake.”

“You ever think that it’s your company that drives me to drink?”

“I happen to know that you adore my company.”

Draco sighed. “Knew I would be better off buying my own bottle and going home.”

“Ah, but then you’d have no one to complain to. So what is it?”

The bar was nearly empty but he still glanced around, looking for any familiar faces who might eavesdrop. There was a hag in the corner, sipping gillywater. A few goblins whispering near the door.

“Nothing, really. One of the Weasleys came through my department. Sight of them always ruins my day, you know that.” Draco sipped his second drink, warmed by the first.

Not everything is for show.

“Not the fit sister then?” Theo asked. “Shame.”

Draco changed the subject. “What misery did you bestow on the world today?”

Theo tapped his fingers against the back of the booth. Drumming from his little finger to his forefinger and back again. “Had a lovely little meeting with some of your auror pals actually.”

They’d both grown used to the endless interviews and inspections and “We’re just here to follow up” knocks on the door. Three years of it.

“And?”

“And it appears my dear father has finally admitted to hiding something at the estate. Wanted to know how to access it. Robards and Potter and some quiet wanker I can’t remember the name of.”

Theo’s father was much older than most of their parents. Married three times. Widower two times. Father one time. Theo’s mother had died in childbirth. Theodore Nott, Sr., quickly remarried and left his son to be raised by house elves in a separate wing of the estate. While he conducted “business” from the other. Occasionally wandering to Theo’s rooms to pick a fight. The day he turned seventeen and came into a large portion of his inheritance, Theo purchased a flat and moved out. The estate became a Death Eater holding after that.

“They want you to help them?” Draco asked. He knew what the house meant for Theo — bruises and hurled curses. Dark magic dripping from the walls. Before the Dark Lord had taken over Malfoy Manor, Theo had spent more time there than his own house. On breaks from Hogwarts they would get into petty bouts of trouble together until Draco’s mother had enough. She’d indulge them much longer than his father would.

“I told them everything I know. Not much else I can do for them,” Theo replied.

They sipped their drinks and Draco tipped his glass, contemplating the whiskey for a moment. Tilting it back and forth in the cloudy tumbler. “He say what he hid there?”

“Number of things. Experimental potions seemed to be the main entity Robards was concerned about. A few cursed objects they’ll want to stabilize. Rare books to take for the Ministry’s libraries. Hey,” he said, brightening, “do me a favor and let them know I left a couple Muggle magazines under my bed. I’d like them back.”

Draco scoffed. “That will be a top priority for Potter, at the very least.”

As the hour dwindled they talked about upcoming quidditch matches and the latest gossip from the Greengrass sisters and their other classmates. The ones who still spoke to them, at least. More patrons filtered into the pub. A few taking the energy to narrow their eyes at them. Draco scowled and finished his third drink.

It was always the same face leveled at him. Like at any moment he would declare himself an eternal servant of the Dark Lord, instead of a 21-year-old with a mild drinking problem and growing anxiety. He left a galleon on the table, paying for their drinks and a rather large gratuity. Theo lit up a smoke and Draco let himself enjoy the plumes before they dissipated. He’d never taken up the habit himself but something about the proximity of it soothed him, though he wasn’t thrilled at the way the smell clung to his hair and clothes after he’d been around Theo. After a few minutes he waved goodbye and started walking to the apparition point. He had to pass the busier end of Diagon, getting a good look at the crowd at the Leaky Cauldron.

Standing in the shadows beside it was Granger and the older Weasley from earlier. He was having a smoke and she appeared to be lecturing him about it. The door opened and Potter joined them, laughing. The Weasley stubbed the cigarette out in the bricks, then vanished it. For a moment Draco watched him lean closer to Granger, whispering in her ear.

He kept walking until he reached an apothecary that was still open, bought a bottle, then headed to the apparition point. Before he apparated he chugged some pepper up potion. If he splinched himself on a random Tuesday, he’d be really put out.

Part of his probation required him to live near an auror. Someone who could monitor his comings and goings with special wards on his living quarters. Dawlish was middle-aged and clearly hated being reduced to such a task. He mostly left Draco alone. It was a Muggle neighborhood, so he wasn’t allowed to apparate directly into his flat. Instead he had to jump to another apparition point and then walk several blocks in the November chill. Stopping at the corner store for a pick and mix. Hands in the pockets of his Muggle pea coat. A tight grip on his wand until he had climbed the stairs, opened his wards, and reset them once the door was locked and he could breathe again.

The flat was small and mostly empty. It seemed useless to have much furniture. It wasn’t as if he did any entertaining besides Theo for the occasional drink. He ate his pathetic dinner, poured a glass of firewhiskey, and grimaced. It was barely eight. Occlumency was harder when he’d been drinking. Most nights he couldn’t fall asleep until well into the wee hours of the morning. He needed sleep tonight. Needed to turn his brain off entirely. To silence the voices and the stares and the replayed visions of the day the week the month the last five fucking years. Instead of finishing his whiskey he grabbed his last vial of dreamless sleep from the cupboard.

Not everything is for show.

He drained it and let the peppermint flavored potion take him to oblivion.

---

There were three blissful days without incident. Three days where he’d centered his thoughts and hid his fears and anxieties away behind layers of walls in his mind. Three days of being left alone before he was summoned to the Head Auror’s office with a vague note. He made sure his desk was clear before he went.

John Dawlish yawned, covering his mouth with his sleeve. Smacking his lips together. He looked about as bored as a teenaged mandrake. And he startled awake when Head Auror Gawain Robards slapped a folder down onto the table in front of them.

“We want you to lead the investigation of the Nott estate,” Robards said. Draco glanced at Dawlish, expecting him to ask questions. When he didn’t, Robards cleared his throat, gaining both of their attention. “Malfoy, this is your chance to prove that you can handle being out from behind your desk.”

What the fuck? He must have said it aloud because Robards leveled an icy glare at him. “Sorry, sir, just caught off guard. You want me to lead? Not Dawlish?”

“Dawlish has given you quite the glowing review for the last year. Excellent marks on your training aptitude tests and quick reflexes with the field modules. You’re consistent with your paperwork and you follow instruction.”

That was debatable. “How will this work? Will there be a team or—”

“You’re familiar with the Nott family, aren’t you?”

“Theo and I grew up together. Our fathers… well, you bloody know they worked together. So yes, you could say I’m familiar.”

“We’ll need you to get as detailed information on the layout of the estate as you can. Nott Sr. has been cooperative to an extent, but when it comes to the layout of the house he’s always vague.”

“How so?”

“Oh, he’ll say, changes with the day or That depends on who opens the door. We’d rather not have to rely on his information when we can. You’re close with his son, that will help the case.”

He remembered what Theo had said about it earlier in the week. What his father had divulged. “What exactly am I looking for?”

“Your standard Death Eater menu — dark objects, cursed objects, basilisk in the basement,” Dawlish said, laughing at his own stupid joke.

“Right,” Draco, flicked his eyes over him with distaste. “Nott Sr. was very skilled with potions. He provided the Dark Lord with anything he needed brewed.”

“That’s what he has told us, that there are experimental potions somewhere in the estate. He also alluded to something that was to be deployed upon You-Know-Who’s death. Do you know about this?”

Draco shook his head. “The Dark Lord always spoke as though he’d live forever.”

“Apparently not all of his followers thought that would happen. They wanted to ensure that his…progress continued. We believe this potion to be dangerous to Muggles and Muggleborns, based on what little information we were able to extract from him and our current intelligence.”

Extract. With Veritaserum, likely. Though he wasn’t sure that the Ministry was above torture, especially for someone convicted on heinous crimes. Nott Sr. had performed the killing curse on more than one occasion. Though he had an appeal within the next year, Draco doubted he would be given a lighter sentence. This bit of cooperation was his last resort.

“You received top marks in potions,” Robards said. Draco nodded. “Highest N.E.W.T score we’ve seen.”

There was no way he had a better score than Granger but he did believe that he at least excelled compared to his other classmates.

“Yes, I always had an interest in it. Professor Snape was a good teacher.” Slughorn was passable.

“This is why I want you on this case, Malfoy.”

“And who else will I be working with? I’m not exactly the favorite in the department.” In the country. Perhaps on the entire bloody continent.

“No, you’re not.” Robards laughed to himself. “You know the rules. No one goes alone; you’ll need a partner.”

“And who’s the lucky Auror?”

“Actually, you’ll be paired with a cursebreaker. The likelihood that there are cursed objects throughout the estate is high. There’s also the chance that certain rooms themselves are cursed. We want you to be prepared.”

One of the Weasleys was a cursebreaker, but he worked for Gringotts. Or he had before the war. There’d been no reason for him to know much about that department beyond their occasional presence on his floor.

“So a lucky cursebreaker then. Who’s assigned to me?”

“Believe it or not we had a volunteer. She’s a junior cursebreaker but very bright, and Potter says she could have been an Auror herself.”

A volunteer because no one else would want to work with him. Brightest witch of her age, likely. There was only one person who fit that description. One person who seemed to put what was right over everything else.

“Granger volunteered?”

Robards glanced at his watch. “She’ll arrive any moment and we can go over what we know.”

Draco hadn’t seen her since Tuesday. When he’d snapped at her. But her words still rattled through his brain. Of course she’d volunteer — as a bonus she got to nanny him. Put him in his metaphorical place.

Right on time, she knocked on the door and Robards let her in.

“I think that’s all you need me for,” said Dawlish. He gave a lazy wave. “Nice to see you, Miss Granger.”

She wore her same practical shoes and dowdy attire. “Auror Robards,” she said, tentatively pulling the chair formerly occupied by Dawlish. Sitting at the very edge of it, hands in a nervous bundle on her lap. As if she’d have to flee at any moment. Or answer a question, hand high in the air.

“You two were in the same year at Hogwarts?” Robards made an attempt at smalltalk that neither Draco nor Granger was thrilled about. They both nodded when required and provided basic responses to his questions about their favorite classes and professors. Where they spent their summers. Bloody stupid.

“Right. We don’t have much information, but you should both read through the file that we do have. Set up a meeting with your friend Theo. You might want to talk with some of the other Aurors, get some advice.”

Draco stared at the folder. Theodore James Nott, Sr., it said in large black letters. Death Eater. High rank, part of You-Know-Who’s inner circle. Even the aurors hadn’t stopped using his many nicknames instead of the regal one he bestowed upon himself. But it wasn’t that detail that snagged his interest. It was the folder itself. Thin. Labeled like he labeled his own paperwork. And he wondered what the folder for Draco Malfoy had written on its front. Draco Lucius Malfoy. Death Eater. Disposable. There would probably only be a single page inside. Pathetic. Listing all the things he was told to do but failed to do. The punishments he’d received. The ones he was ordered to bestow on others.

He looked at Granger out of the corner of his eye. She’d pulled the files from the folder and began to flip through them. Large brown eyes reading quickly. She would devour entire textbooks in the library in a single evening. Leaning in her chair and taking up the nicest table at the back, away from the other study areas. Hoarding the books he needed to write his own essays. Jumping a little in her seat if she noticed him.

“As a precaution, you’ll be given a portkey to be used in an emergency. Should there be anything unexpected at the house or if one of you is injured, it will take you straight to the field office in Dover,” Robards explained.

Draco nodded. It had been years since he’d been allowed to travel far without permission. Local apparition was about all that anyone on probation was afforded. Granger continued to absorb the information in front of her.

“Your main objective is the retrieval of a potion that Mr. Nott invented,” Robards said.

“What do we know about the potion?” Draco asked, knowing the answer from their earlier discussion. He asked instead for his new partner’s benefit.

“As he describes it, it’s a poison that only affects Muggleborns,” Robards flicked his eyes to Granger. “He was not involved in its distribution, so we’ve been unable to trace it to its source. However, he claims that we can find the potion in his manor. From there we can begin to work on an antidote and get it into the hands of every witch and wizard in Britain.”

“You say you’re unable to trace its source. That makes it sound as though this potion has already been released, somehow.” Granger said, sat rigid in her chair with the folder on her lap.

“And thus the need for expediency. Take the next few days to prepare yourselves but try to move quickly. We’ve already had a few admissions to St. Mungo’s and I’d like to avoid any more,” Robards said. He glanced at the clock on his wall. “My apologies but I have another meeting. I’ll leave you to discuss and make your plans. If you need me, you know how to reach me.”

They all stood and Draco realized what he had to do now just as Granger turned to face him.

“We can go to my office,” she said, gathering the contents of the folder and sweeping from the room. He followed her clunky steps to the lifts, leaving some space between them.

“I think it’s probably best if we do some research first. And I can talk with Harry about some of his tips for investigating a Death Eater hideout—”

Draco snorted.

“What?”

“You do realize that I grew up going to most of these Death Eater hideouts and there’s really not much Potter can tell you about them that I don’t already know.”

She held the folder over her chest, arms crossed. “Right. Yes, I suppose you would.”

The lift arrived and he held the door as she boarded it. As they rode down to her floor he tried to think of something useful to share but nothing came to mind.

“You’re friends with his son?” Granger asked.

“Yes.”

“Could you schedule a meeting with him to go over the layout of the house? And anything else he can tell us? I’d rather not have to pull an Auror in for that meeting. Maybe something more casual…I don’t want to scare him or—”

“You can’t really scare Theo, Granger. He’s not some naive sot. Son of a Death Eater, remember?”

She sighed, pushing past him when the lift stopped. He followed her to her cramped office. There were stacks of paper everywhere. Some were weighted down by what he assumed were formerly cursed objects. On one wall was a large calendar with her diary entries listed in blue ink. A small framed portrait of the Golden Trio. A Muggle photograph of her with her parents, at least a decade old. Her teeth were still overly large and hair a tangle.

When she caught him looking at her things she cleared her throat. “Shall we begin then?”

For the next two hours they discussed strategy and he mostly listened while Granger listed the types of curses they might encounter and what books she thought they should review. When someone knocked on her door, wondering why she wasn’t in a meeting, she jumped and excused herself. Leaving him in a jumbled daze in the guest chair in her office. He took one last look and returned to his desk, wondering what in the hell he was going to do.

With a few flicks of his wand he sent memos to the Ministry archive requesting some of the books Granger had mentioned and one to Theo, who replied with a lewd drawing of a Veela. The archivist replied that all of those titles had already been requested. So he wrote to his mother to request copies from the Manor’s library.

Theo met him at the Scroll & Raven after work, positively gleeful at Draco’s assignment.

“Just think, if you don’t botch it, you could be an Auror like Potter. Imagine if they made you partners. Personally, I can see it. There’s something beneath all that animosity—”

“Shut it,” Draco said, rolling his eyes. “This is clearly conditional. And you know I don’t want to actually be an Auror.”

“Looks like you’re not the only Ministry employee in need of a drink this evening,” Theo said, nudging his chin to the direction over Draco’s shoulder. When he turned and saw her curly hair his stomach turned. Once again she was with Charlie Weasley. Through some subtle investigating and ill-advised eavesdropping on the more gossipy witches in line at the café he’d learned that the elder Weasley brother was assisting the Ministry with some adolescent dragons that had been confiscated from a traveling magizoo. And he was single.

“You do know if anything happens to her they’ll blame you,” Theo said. It was matter-of-fact. Practical. And accurate.

Across the bar he watched Granger and her new Weasley. Laughing together over pints of butterbeer. Her brown curls cascading down her back. Cheeks pink from the alcohol and the company. Eyes bright.

He wondered when she’d grown so beautiful. Wondered when he’d first realized it. Was it a random day at the Ministry? Or was it further back? Covered in ash and sweat in the Great Hall, grieving and celebrating victory with her friends. Or maybe it was long before that. In a blue dress with Krum on her arm. Or in the steely look in her eyes before she punched him.

With the last swig of his whiskey he swallowed it down.

Chapter 2

Notes:

Mild content warning, see the end notes.

The thought of investigating Nott Manor didn’t frighten Hermione. Being alone with Malfoy was another story. She knew he was a capable wizard, one who’d received top marks at Hogwarts and was skilled at dueling. He was basically an auror without the title. Had received the same training as Harry. But instead of being in the field, like Harry was most days, he was a glorified administrative assistant.

She wasn’t sure she felt badly about that; it seemed to keep him busy, and she imagined he needed that. When she first heard about Nott Manor she was intrigued. She’d watched her fellow cursebreakers lead investigations. Searching known Death Eater hideouts for hidden objects — most of which were cursed or held dark magic. As if they were hoarding things away for whoever decided to make a play for Voldemort’s vacant throne.

But it had been three years since the so-called Dark Lord fell, and things were mostly quiet in wizarding Britain. The majority of her own assignments required her to assist more senior cursebreakers. Occasionally she worked with Bill, who had a newborn at home and wasn’t exactly itching for the bigger cases across the globe.

Or she assisted Aurors with their work to round up the last artifacts from Voldemort’s regime. Sitting in labs and analyzing old books and empty potion vials and jewelry and weapons for dark curses. A lot of the time it was solitary work, and she liked that. Being part of an extraction team was exciting but she’d had enough excitement in her seven years of school — well, six years and one year of war. It had been a relief to return to Hogwarts for a few weeks to finish her N.E.W.T.s, though she’d secretly wished she got to have the full experience of her final year of school. McGonagall insisted that she didn’t need to. And her marks proved it. But being in those halls, with the stain of death, made it easier to sit the exams and leave.

Now she contemplated what to wear to a meeting with Malfoy and Theodore Nott, Jr. Her appearance was never something that bothered her. Practicality made sense. Especially for her job. Spending hours in front of a mirror seemed tedious and beyond the point, unless it was a special occasion. But she knew that the success of the mission would require accurate information. And she also knew that sometimes it was worth playing into the hand of an opponent. She might not have been as good at chess as Ron, but she understood the fundamentals of the game. Know your opponent.

Theodore had grown up with money and the power and privilege that money brings. Just as Malfoy had. Though she couldn’t quite picture Theodore, she was always able to picture Malfoy quite clearly. With his striking features and impeccable posture, strutting down a hallway when they were in school. The strut faltered in sixth year, and he became more reserved. He’d seemed that way now, too. Except for last week, when he’d been cruel to her. Like they were thirteen again.

Charlie had ranted about the encounter for the rest of the day. Rest of the week, really. He’d been visiting his family and reporting at the Ministry to share new information on illegally crossbred dragons. He stayed to help with the dismantling of an illegal magizoo and the seizure of their young dragons. Though she and Ron had parted ways romantically, Hermione still kept up with the Weasleys. And Charlie always made time to see her. Too much time according to Ron and not enough according to Mrs. Weasley. He was handsome in a rugged, stocky sort of way. Like Viktor had been. But there were too many complications with Charlie for her to really consider him an option. Not that that stopped him from flirting with her.

So she had purchased a new dress and worn her nicest shoes and a wool coat for her meeting over drinks with the two Slytherins. They’d asked her to choose the location and the Leaky Cauldron was the only pub she went to with any regularity. She apparated there and immediately noticed them — and the wide berth given to them by passersby. They were speaking in hushed voices, though they seemed to be having some sort of argument. Malfoy looked particularly tense, his hand was clenched in a tight fist at his side and his eyes simmered down at Theodore. They broke apart as she approached.

“Lovely to see you, Golden Girl.”

Theodore Nott, Jr, was more handsome than Hermione had remembered. He could have passed for a Muggle in his cream colored jumper with a silk patterned scarf beneath a tailored coat. Hair in dark waves swept back from his forehead. From what she remembered at school he had been scrawny — perhaps he had a delayed growth spurt after 6^th year, and she missed the transformation. A cigarette dangled between his fingers and he took a long drag before vanishing it. She was surprised to see a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight smoking; most wizards considered it a Muggle habit. A pureblood smoking was ironic.

Malfoy seemed to catch her staring and scoffed, reaching out to open the door. There was a warmth creeping up her neck that she tried to extinguish as she lead the way into the pub.

“Thanks for accompanying us. They don’t usually like our presence here,” Theodore said as they slipped into a booth near the back. He stretched out in the center of the bench, forcing Malfoy to sit beside her. She struggled to take her coat off in the cramped space without hitting him. Keeping enough space between them.

Tom took their order, and while mid-afternoon on a Thursday seemed the appropriate time for both wizards to order a firewhiskey, she stuck to butterbeer. The wine selection at the Leaky was abysmal and anything stronger would make it difficult to plan for the mission.

She wondered if she should make smalltalk. It wasn’t something she was good at. Not like Ron and Harry, who could laugh and joke with anyone. It seemed like a waste of time to her. Talking about the weather or asking what they were doing that weekend. Instead she plowed ahead.

“I think it’s obvious that the most helpful thing you could do is draw us a map,” she said.

“And when did you have time for an arts class at Hogwarts, Granger?”

“You know very well there are no extra curricular classes available to wizarding students. And I don’t expect you to be an artist but a basic idea of the layout of the house is rudimentary. Which rooms we should take particular attention to and which ones are unlikely to hold any secrets. Things like that.”

“Fine,”  Theodore said, cricking his neck. “Parchment and ink, if you please.”

She conjured both for him and he conjured his own elegant quill. Taking his time to chew on the end in thought before dipping it into the ink. Their drinks arrived and Hermione was annoyed at the amount of foam on her butterbeer. She twirled a finger in it to try to make it deflate. It worked better with Muggle beers.

Theodore first drew a rather large rectangle, and then a series of connected smaller rectangles on each of the narrowed ends until they connected at the back, forming a sort of courtyard. A few circles and random lines around the main structure. She had a hard time following his logic until she realized that he was drawing an aerial view, complete with trees, ponds, and paths through the grounds. If he’d had paints, she imagined it would be a beautiful landscape.

“Sold your artistic abilities short, mate,” Malfoy said. Hermione agreed.

“I used to fly over the estate quite a lot. Makes it slightly easier, though I’m afraid it’s not to scale.”

He started to label things in infinitesimal little letters, a precise print she had to squint to read. Then he started to point at different spots on the map. “This is the main entry, and it splits off into the public and private wings of the house. Ballroom,” he pointed, tapping the quill at each place, “drawing room, music room, conservatory, kitchens will be beneath the dining room but pretty inconsequential. We had elves.” Hermione wondered at his use of the past tense while Theodore continued. “This side of the house is mainly bedrooms and studies. There’s a sculpture room that I was never allowed in. A…I supposed you’d call it a trophy room. That might be one of the places you check first, it’s warded extensively. Lot of heirlooms there.”

“What’s this here? You’ve drawn an X down this wing—”

“That’s my suite, and Draco has specific instructions for what I’d like you to retrieve from under the bed—”

“Oh shut it, you git.”

“This is helpful, thank you, Theodore,” Hermione said, eyes memorizing the map and categorizing the rooms.

“Theo, please. Bad enough to share a bloodline with my father. He hates being nicknamed but I happen to adore everything he hates.”

“Theo, then. What else should we know? Anything specific about the wards, especially if there’s blood magic there. I know a lot of the older families use them and that would prove to be a problem for us.”

“As a precaution I’ll drain some blood just for you, Golden Girl, but as far as I know, my father removed the blood wards so that his Death Eater pals could come and go as they pleased.” Theo sipped his whiskey and tapped his fingers on the table.

Hermione had a thought, but she bit her lip, unsure if she should voice it.

“Out with it Granger, before you draw blood,” Malfoy said.

“Well, it’s just…if Death Eaters came and went as they pleased,” she swallowed and looked through her lashes at him. “Were you ever called there?”

Malfoy stiffened, the fingers gripping his drink tightened. “I was mostly a prisoner in my own home during my service. I haven’t been to the Nott estate in what, ten years?” Theo nodded, staring vacantly at the table. “My memory isn’t the best,” Malfoy added, casting his eyes to his drink and taking a deep swig. She wondered if he meant something he wasn’t saying. But then again she was used to that from Malfoy, in the few days she’d interacted with him lately. Working on their plans for the next day. He’d been professional but private.

“So no blood wards then. What else should we know about the house? Or your father, I suppose.” Hermione had spoken with Harry about Nott Sr. but having a written dossier would only get them so far.

“The house is enormous, cold, full of hideous portraits and bad tapestries. A lot of collections. I’m sure the Ministry will be interested in most of what you’re able to recover. Some very nice furniture that would do well at auction,” Theo drolled.

“And your father? What should we know?”

“Granger—”

“Pretty standard abusive father, really,” Theo said, his tone flippant. “I would expect he’s installed a fair number of traps of his own but he also had…friends staying there for a few years. They would have practiced putting things together for the Dark Lord, I imagine. I haven’t been there in almost five years and before that, I kept to my own wing so I’m afraid whatever intelligence you’ve gathered is probably more comprehensive than what I know.” Theo seemed mildly irritated. Drumming his fingers on the table faster.

“Theo, I don’t need you to relive your past. You don’t have to share anything you’re not comfortable with but if there’s anything you think we should know, it’ll be helpful for me and Malfoy to prepare.”

“He was always interested in potions. Experimenting in his lab. I know Robards thinks he was working on some sort of poison but I don’t really know much about his activities in the last decade. I do know he liked games. Perhaps more than anything.”

When Theo didn’t continue Hermione flicked her eyes to Malfoy, who had a crease between his brows and a scowl on his face.

“What do you mean?”

“Granger—”

“Well, for one, he liked to lead me into different rooms and trap me there until I could find my way out. Sometimes it was the library, if I was looking for a book for school. The shelves would move and I’d be in a cage. He’d order the elves to leave me there until I figured out his riddles. Build my character.”

She chewed the corner of her lip. “Did you just have to find the right door or something?”

“No, I usually had to sacrifice something I cared about like a toy or a sweet or otherwise humiliate myself for his enjoyment. I already told Robards but I think sending only two of you there is a mistake. That house…it’s designed to keep you inside of it, if that’s what he wants. If Senior is helping aurors get inside of it, he wants them to stay there. It’s always for his amusement. Even from Azkaban.”

Hermione looked at Malfoy again, and he’d turned to look at her, too. His expression was hard; she could see him clench his jaw. She looked at her hands and back at Theo, who leaned against his chair. Fingers drumming.

“Will you have a way out?” He asked, looking at Hermione. His green eyes weren’t arresting, like Harry’s. They were haunted and darker, almost like pine in the heart of winter. Beautiful with his tan skin and brown hair. The features that must have come from his mother. She’d seen pictures of his pale and unremarkable father.

“I’m guessing we can’t apparate,” Hermione said.

“And no Floo access, of course. You’ll need a portkey.”

“We have an emergency portkey from Robards. I suppose I can always call one of the elves from the manor, if it comes to that,” Malfoy said.

Hermione didn’t love the idea but it was a good backup plan. Elf magic worked differently. It was possible they could breach the wards. Like Kreacher could, in the cave.

“When will you leave?” Theo asked.

“In the morning. Robards wants us back on Monday to report. Seems to think we’ll be able to do it in a day and have the weekend to recover,” Malfoy replied. “What do you reckon?”

Theo laughed, the motion of his fingers stopped, replaced by a slap on the table. A fly buzzed and landed elsewhere. “Just promise me you’ll use that portkey if my father’s games are too much.”

Malfoy nodded and finished his drink. Hermione took another sip of her butterbeer, wiping her mouth after in case she had any foam lingering on her lip. It made her fingers sticky.

“Anyway. This has been…something. I could use a smoke,” Theo stood. “Lovely chatting with you, Hermione.”

Malfoy slid out of the booth and donned his coat. She pushed to the edge of the bench and hesitated.

“Granger, I’ll meet you at seven at the apparition point,” Malfoy said. And then she watched the two former Slytherins walk out the door.

She needed parchment and ink. Needed to write things down and make lists before she forgot. It was still relatively early, and Tom was used to her hunching over a table surrounded by books and papers. So she summoned everything she needed from her satchel and got to work.

 

---

 

It was late and Hermione contemplated what to pack once again. She hated to be underprepared, but bringing the tent seemed excessive, so that stayed. If they weren’t able to finish the investigation in a day, they could transfigure their own beds. If that wasn’t safe they could use the portkey and leave. It would cost the department to get them another, so it had to be a last resort. Most of the things she’d packed for hunting horcruxes remained in her little beaded bag from Bill and Fleur’s wedding, hidden by a (not strictly legal) extension charm and a featherlight charm. She didn’t want to carry that bag with her, though. It felt odd to wear it now. So she sat on the floor of her bedroom, sifting through the beaded bag and moving things to the leather satchel that Harry had given her for her birthday that year. She’d already added extension and featherlight charms to it. Made her day-to-day a bit easier.

This time she left most of the books, bringing Spellman’s Syllabary and her Runic Dictionary along with a few more obscure runic translations, just in case. And a few potions texts. Parchment and ink and quills, of course, to take notes. A Muggle notebook and pen as well. As a backup.

Potion making supplies, some essence of dittany, some calming draught, and a few other potions that might be useful. She had bandages, too, and other Muggle healing supplies. Some spare clothes. Rations and chocolates and empty flagons she could fill with coffee and water with the wave of her wand. As she packed her teas and sugar, she remembered that she’d always seen Malfoy put honey in his tea at breakfast. So she rummaged in her cupboards for the small jar Neville had sent her from the apiary he’d started at Hogwarts.

Normally she’d pack some dark art detectors, though she expected them to light up the second they reached the property lines. Most of them she left. A few Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes products — instant darkness powder, extendable ears, a portable swamp.

She eschewed her typical Ministry uniform for more of a Muggle outfit that would be easier to move and run in, should she need to. A t-shirt under a jumper. Slim jeans and lace-up boots that had good tread and steel toes she’d reinforced with magic. She wore a warm wool coat, a scarf, and her satchel over it all. Pulled her hair back into two loose plaits and topped it with a knit hat. It was cold, and the Nott estate was near the coast.

Crookshanks wasn’t happy that she was packing. He trudged through her little piles of minimized supplies, kicking things with his large paws and swatting them with his tail as he moved through the room. What he did wasn’t exactly meowing; it was like a soft roar. Harry would stop by to feed him and check on him while she was away. It was supposed to be an easy mission, in and out, but she wanted to prepare in case it took an extra day or two and Crooks got lonely. He was a nightmare whenever she came back from a trip, however short. Howling at her and ripping up whatever was closest. Last time he destroyed the side of her sofa, glaring at her as if to say How dare you? It had taken more than a few spells to repair it.

She scratched under his chin, where his mane was thickest. With a purr that was more growl, he leaning against her. Pressing against her shins and wrapping around her legs. “Harry will be by later to feed you and I’ll be home very soon.”

Crookshanks let out a final rowl and swished his tail, retreating into the bedroom. Hiding in his favorite spot in the corner under her bed, tucked between her old schoolbooks.

With one last look around the cramped flat she apparated to Diagon. Landing firmly on the pavement. Malfoy was already there, leaning against the wall of the Leaky though he straightened when he saw her.

It was surprising to see him dressed in Muggle attire. Black trousers and jumper over a charcoal collared shirt. Topped with a black pea coat and a grey scarf, hands in the pockets. Likely holding his wand.

“Granger,” he said, nodding in greeting.

“Shall we?” She replied, and took a step closer. He’d been to the estate before, so he’d be the one to apparate them outside of its wards.

Malfoy held his arm out and she gripped it tightly, ready for him to turn and take them there. Instead he hesitated.

“Granger, Theo wasn’t exaggerating about his father. There’s still time for you to back out. Get someone else to go.”

“Why would I do that? I volunteered,” she said. “I want to do this. Now stop stalling and—”

She didn’t get to finish her thought before he twisted them away, a precise movement that was so much less jarring than whenever she apparated with others. Like there was an elegance to it. They landed high on a cliff overlooking the sea. It had been months since she’d seen the ocean. Felt the spray of salt on her face and tasted the tang of marine on the air.

It was bitter cold, and she could feel her teeth begin to chatter. As she looked around, she saw nothing. Just cliff and sea and endless fields.

“Where are we?” She said, shivering.

“We’ll need to walk from here,” he said. “It’s just beyond the ridge and hidden from sight by a number of spells. Once we’re close to the wards we should be able to see it.”

“Like Hogwarts,” she said quietly. He nodded. It didn’t have the same memories it once did, but the magic of the castle would always interest her. Perhaps one day she’d be able to read Hogwarts, A History again. For now it was tucked away, like all the memories she wasn’t ready to access.

They trudged through the grass and mud, and she struggled to keep up with his long strides. He’d always been fit, lean like a seeker, but where Harry was on the shorter side, Malfoy was tall. Shoulders broad and spine rigid. They didn’t speak much, other than to warn each other about large stones and other places where one might trip.

“You said you spent time here before,” she started, stepping over a root. There was more vegetation now, little trees and brambles. Crows perched and cawing.

“When we were small, on occasion,” Malfoy said. Picking up the pace. “If my father had business there and I accompanied him. Most of the time it was the other way around. Once we went to Hogwarts Theo spent his breaks at the Manor.”

“To get away from his dad?”

Malfoy nodded. “I don’t think his father even knew. Just assumed he spent the Christmas break at Hogwarts. My mother kept rooms for him.”

Hermione tried to imagine what it must have been like for both of them. And for Narcissa Malfoy, to care for a child that wasn’t your own. She didn’t know his mother other than from sight, but after what she’d done for Harry — for all of them — just to protect her own son, she thought they might have at least one thing in common.

They crested a hill and at first all that was in front of them was another large field. But there was a slight shimmer to it, and Hermione knew they were near the property line. In a few steps, they cleared it and the Nott estate came into view.

It was large, nearly the size of Malfoy Manor, and much larger than any other home Hermione had ever been to. Outside of royal residences with her parents. The front walk was paved and meticulously manicured, though no one had lived there for over three years. The house itself was Georgian in style, made of cream colored stone and columns. Three storeys. It looked like a museum. Or a mausoleum.

They neared the gates, and Hermione could feel the magic rippling in the air. The gate was made of iron, with an ornate door of twisted nightshade and thorns. At the center was the Nott family crest — a Hebridean Black, curled around the door handles. Its bright purple eye the size of a Galleon. It looked like an amethyst, and it probably was.

“Before we get too close,” Malfoy said, putting out an arm to still her. She nearly walked into it, and her breath caught. “You should put this on.”

He reached into a pocket of his coat and pulled out a small vial on a silver chain. It looked goblin wrought, and inside the crystal vessel was a dark red liquid.

“What is it?” She asked, though she had a guess. It was warm from being against his chest. The silver chain was long, and the crystal had tiny stars etched on it. She thought it beautiful, if a bit macabre.

“Theo spilt his precious blood as promised. It’s likely that I’ll be able to cross the property line but this will ensure that you can, too. If the blood wards were reactivated.”

She looked up at him and tilted her head, the vial still between her fingers. “Won’t the magic know that I’m Muggleborn regardless?”

Malfoy nodded. “Yes but because you have the blood of the heir on your person it will assume that you’re allowed in. Or at least, that’s what everything I’ve researched seems to say.”

“You looked it up?”

“Granger, you’re not the only one who reads.”

“I know that, Malfoy, I just meant that you took time to research something for my benefit. I’m surprised, that’s all.”

“Well I like to be prepared and if anything happens to you, it’s my arse that will end up in Azkaban. Right next to Theo’s father. So yes, I looked into it.”

“And you’re sure this will make it safe for me to enter?” She turned the pendant in her hands. Watching the drops of blood move like mercury.

“You should wear it,” he said. “Put it on before we get to the Guardian.”

“The what?” She asked, but he had already moved towards the gate and began to test the wards.

There were a few spells that she could cast to determine if the gate was safe to open, so she began to weave them into the air, softly speaking the incantations. The gates glowed a deep green, and the dragon around the door handles began to move, as if woken from a deep slumber. Its purple eyes gleamed, catching the midmorning sunlight.

“Who wishes to enter?” A deep voice said from the mouth of the dragon. It sounded metallic and old, both masculine and feminine. The Guardian, it seemed, was the Hebridean Black of the crest.

Hermione looked to Malfoy, unsure if she should be the one to answer a pureblood enchantment.

“Open your gates to the Malfoy heir,” he said, with the haughty superiority she expected from him. It was more command than request, and the grip on his wand was firm.

“Two wish to enter, two must be named,” said the dragon.

She swallowed and straightened her spine. “Hermione Granger,” she said, as firmly as she could. “Let us through the gate, please.”

The dragon unfurled its wings, stretching them across the iron. They flapped lightly, and it turned its face to them. The eerie eyes focused somewhere in the distance. They had no pupils. Just the purple gemstones. Its tongue flicked like a snake’s.

“A riddle you must answer. Answer wrong and the doors will forever be barred to you, young wizards. Do you accept?”

They looked at each other and answered yes in unison. The dragon spoke again:

 

I am born in fear,

raised in truth,

and I come to my own in deed.

When comes a time that I’m called forth,

I come to serve the cause of need.

 

Malfoy took a sharp breath and huffed it out in annoyance. “Well then, Granger? What do you reckon?”

He watched her with his cool grey eyes. Lips twisted as he contemplated the answer. It seemed a simple riddle. Which meant it was likely more complicated. Hermione thought through the lines for a few moments, puzzling it out to herself in whispered guesses while Malfoy watched her. It seemed like he was impatient but he didn’t speak. Just watched her with a furrowed brow.

Born in fear — come to serve the cause of need, she thought. There was only one thing that she called upon when she was afraid.

With a quick clearing of her throat she said clearly, “Courage.”

“Reason leads the way,” the dragon said, then it moved to one side of the gate and curled back into a ball, like a cat. And the gate swung open.

“Better let me go first,” Malfoy said. When he reached the gate he inhaled and took a measured step onto the property, casting a few spells. Nothing seemed to alarm him so he nodded for her to join him. She clutched the vial of Theo’s blood and took her steps to join him. “Not so bad, then.”

She laughed. “Seriously?”

“Come on,” he said, rolling his eyes. Taking long strides down the front path.

Topiary trees lined the drive and there were groomed little gardens of rosebushes and several statues throughout. Most of it matched the map that Theo had drawn them. She pulled it from her satchel and compared the little sketches he’d made to the flora around them. There were patches of plants, magical and nonmagical, right where he’d said. But the house itself seemed slightly off. As if something with the scale didn’t match up. It looked both larger and smaller than it should.

The statues throughout the grounds moved slightly. She recognized Merlin and Salazar Slytherin. A witch who could have been Morgan le Fey. Turning to watch them as they walked down the lane. Hermione could feel their stone eyes on her. And she wondered if they could leave their posts. If they were like the suits of armor at Hogwarts. Ready to strike.

Notes:

CW: Brief mention of childhood abuse/neglect

 

Thank you for reading, I am so honored by the response to the first chapter! I hope the dual POV is a nice surprise. xx Lu

Chapter 3

The Guardian glared at them from the main door, its eyes narrowed in distaste. Most of the times that Draco had visited Theo’s house, the Guardian slept. Wrapped in on itself and immobile. But now it seemed it had been instructed to do its job and guard the estate. It was the Nott family sigil, which meant it was all over the house. In the etchings on silver goblets and embroidered onto cushions and sculpted of marble, sitting on tables. In the rugs and the wallpaper and the duvet covers. Fucking everywhere. Its eyes were always pure amethyst, an arresting shade. So like the Hebridean Black he’d once seen at a dragon sanctuary on holiday with his parents as a boy.

The real one hadn’t asked riddles. It had been fascinating to watch Granger puzzle out the answer. The way that she seemed to read through the pages of her vast brain, flipping back and forth, searching. Like going through the stacks of a library. Her thought process was thorough and so sure. It was terrifying, how captivated he’d been with the way she bit her lip. How he’d stared at her until he’d taken a deep breath through his nose and occluded it away.

The wind picked up, and he knew they should get indoors soon. “Good morning, Guardian,” he said to the carved dragon at the center of the large oak doors. Its scales had been chiseled into the wood in even little diamonds. The Guardian turned and looked at them, its dark purple eyes glowing brighter in the sun.

“Is it?”

Granger gasped without opening her mouth, but he still heard it. A sharp inhale through her nose, halting at the end.

“Right. Either way we would very much like to enter the house. Your master knows we’re here,” he added.

The Guardian yawned and stretched, bringing its claws far from its body and arching its back. Great wings unfurling to flap once before settling down on its heels and laying in a curled ball. “Have it your way,” it said.

There was a clicking sound, as if a dozen invisible locks were opened, and the door swung forward into the dark house.

They both gripped their wands and cast a lumos to light their way. The entryway was large, with tall ceilings and a crystal chandelier that hummed to life once they’d crossed the threshold. It was big as a hippogriff and twinkled softly. The white marble floor gleamed beneath their feet, echoing their steps. But instead of the twin staircases Theo had drawn meeting in the middle, and the large hallways to each wing of the house that Draco had known as a boy, there was only an elegant table at the center of the space. A single door behind it. No windows or skylights. In his memories the foyer was always bathed in sunlight. The entry point for the vast lengths of the mansion.

This was not the house he’d known.

Granger held the map from Theo tightly in her left hand. Squeezing the parchment as if she could wring its secrets from the ink. “This isn’t what Theo said it would look like,” she said, holding the map out so that Draco could see it.

“Yes, it’s a bit…different from what I remember. But Theo hasn’t even been here since sixth year. We knew there was a chance the house wouldn’t match what he’d said.”

“But it doesn’t even make sense compared to the exterior. There were windows beside the door, and the roof slanted—”

“Robards said something to me, before you arrived the other day. That Nott Senior was vague. Something about the layout of the house depending on who opened the door.”

“And you think he was being serious?”

“Given the architecture we’re looking at, yes.”

“Doesn’t make it any less inconvenient,” she said and he silently agreed. “I’m going to run some detection spells. Just the standard fleet for traps and hidden things and the like. If you know any it would be helpful if you did them too. We should be thorough,” she said. And with a nod, she started to mutter incantations and twirl her wand through the air. Writing runes and speaking quickly.

Draco surveyed the room. There were no portraits or tapestries, just subtle wallpaper in a dark purple, with the Nott family crest blended in among the flora and fauna of the surrounding area. No house elf greeted them, though the Manor had a squadron of them before the war. He cast some dark magic detection spells, a bit useless since the ley lines of the house were steeped in it. Of course there would be dark magic present. Then he tested for hidden traps and watched Granger perform her own spells. She was precise with her wandwork, and some of the spells she cast were intricate and made use of runes drawn into the air. Lighting her skin, a faded tan still freckled from summer. He’d never seen spells like them before.

At the center of the room, on a dark mahogany table, was the Guardian. Carved of obsidian and resting on a golden chalice. Not quite a throne though it lounged as if it sat on one, lording over its subjects. Its bright purple eyes fixed on Draco. The amethyst reflected the candlelight from the chandelier, lending a hunger to its stare.

“Guardian,” Draco said, taking a few steps closer. Granger continued with her spells but turned to watch from the corner of her eye as she traced the room.

“Honored guests, welcome to the Noble House of Nott. My Lord wishes you well on your journey, for you will need it,” said the dragon in its timeless voice.

“I used to come here when I was a boy. The house is different from what I remember,” Draco said. He held his wand tightly in hand.

“It has been rearranged special for you. Through this door you will find the origin of your path,” as it spoke the Guardian swished its tail to the lone door at the other end of the foyer. “Until you have answered the questions asked of you and completed the tasks in front of you, Nott Manor will be your home. Forever.”

Granger whipped her head towards the front door, and her large brown eyes grew even larger. Draco turned to understand why and laughed. A startled huff of a laugh. Because where there was once a great oak door now showed nothing but a blank stretch of wall. He spun around the room, looking for the front door. Trying to find where it moved. But there was only the door ahead of them and the Guardian on the table, smiling with sharp teeth beneath black gums.

“We can’t leave?” Granger said, looking from the statue of the Guardian and back to Draco. It was more statement than question but he answered it anyway.

“Afraid not. Have you found anything else we need to worry about?”

She shook her head. “It’s clear.”

They walked closer to the table, stopping just before it.

“Guardian,” Draco said, “Is there anything you can tell us about what’s through that door?”

It was a stretch, he knew, but worth a try.

“Through the door lies your entry to the first of many tasks. Prove yourself worthy of this ancient home and the prize shall be yours. Fail, and you will remain within these walls,” the Guardian said. Finality in its tone.

“Well, Granger, shall we head towards our doom now or do you need a minute or two of catastrophizing?”

She rolled her eyes and strode ahead of him to the door, beginning her incantations once more. Trying to determine if there was something beyond it. He let her do it, waiting a few minutes until she was satisfied. “If you open the door, I can take the brunt of whatever curse might await us on the other side,” he said.

“What a gentleman,” she replied, and yanked the brass handle, swinging the door towards them.

Though he had his wand at the ready and a long list of hexes on his tongue, what greeted them on the other side was shockingly benign.

It was Theodore Nott Sr.’s study. Draco had only ever walked by it as a child, when his father and Mr. Nott would smoke cigars and reprimand them for snooping. Run along, Draco. It wasn’t a large room, perhaps the size of his old suite at the Manor. There was a black marble fireplace that roared to life when they approached, a lush grey sofa, two black arm chairs, a grand mahogany desk, and lots of leather bound books in shelves along the walls. Above the fireplace was a large tapestry from at least the 17^th century. It had faded, but the slumbering dragon was as black as night and alive as the other Guardians they’d encountered thus far. This time it was nestled in a forest, surrounded by pine trees beneath a stormy sky.

“They didn’t talk before,” Draco said as the two of them examined the tapestry. Watching the dragon’s body rise and fall with its slumbering breath. The woven threads seemed to breath, too.

“Really? You address it like you’re familiar,” she replied.

“In the past I’ve only ever had to speak to the one at the gate, to announce myself. It’s the Nott family sigil so it’s in every room at least once. They were always just…there, before. And now they all seem to speak.”

“Do you think we can even trust what it says?” Granger tilted her head and searched the stitched dragon.

Draco contemplated for a moment. “I think to an extent we might have to. It’s part of the game but it’s also been in this house for centuries. It serves the family and that includes Theo.” He pointed to the vial around her neck. “It must know that a part of him is here.”

“Blood magic isn’t my favorite,” she admitted, twisting the pendant in her fingers. Smoothing her thumb over the engraved stars. “But perhaps it will help in a place like this.”

“What secrets are waiting to kill us in here, do you think? Dawlish made some crack about a basilisk in the basement—”

“Why don’t you start searching and we’ll find out?” She said, crossing in front of him to look at the bookshelves. He wondered when he felt comfortable enough to talk to her in this way. And when she’d decided she could respond in kind. Almost like they were friends.

It was warm from the fire and so far nothing had tried to murder him, so he took off his coat and draped it over the arm of the sofa, followed by his scarf. Then he reached into the inside pocket for his potions folio, which he slipped in his trousers pocket. He kept it on his person at all times, just in case. Granger kept her own jacket on, along with her knitted hat and scarf. She remained predictably occupied with the bookshelves so he tested the drawers of the desk. Locked, of course. Impervious to magic. The large window behind the desk overlooked the extensive grounds. Something about the lighting was off. As if the sky didn’t match the early hour in the day. It was then that he noticed they were elevated, though they hadn’t climbed any stairs. It was as if the door in the foyer transported them upstairs and down the hall to the study. The little square Theo had drawn on his map. The view overlooked the rose garden, with its bubbling fountains. The window was locked, too. Impenetrable.

He moved away from there to inspect other corners of the room. The fireplace was just a fireplace. The furniture was fine velvet and supple leather but nothing lurked in the cushions or under the rug. If they were stuck here forever, at least whoever decorated the estate had taste.

Theo had said that the house would want to keep them inside of it. Though his blood status would likely allow him to get out if it came to that, hers would not.

“Is there any magic that could prevent the portkey from working?” He asked. “Could we really be trapped here?” When he looked back at her she was focused, trailing her detection spells over each and every book. Lips forming the titles along the spines in between incantations.

“The only places with that level of defensive protections are Azkaban, which does a rigorous search of all entrants, and Hogwarts. Between Dumbledore and the combined magic of the Founders its wards are distinguished. Nothing that I’ve read has been able to replicate that security measure,” she said, and he knew that she had likely read everything about it twice over. Probably reviewed them again after Robards gave her the portkey the day before, wrapped in a silk handkerchief.  “Everything seems…normal. I’m almost more worried about that than if there’d been, I don’t know, a manticore behind the door. Why make such a big deal about challenges and then stick us in a room like this?”

Draco flopped onto the sofa in front of the fire, warming his still cold boots as he stretched his long legs into the room. “Cozy enough,” he said, leaning his head back, hands clasped over his stomach. He never sat this way in front of company. “Maybe we’re just meant to wait.”

“Malfoy, we’re meant to do a job,” she said. “You can’t just relax like you’re in your own sitting room. The mission is supposed to be as quick as possible. Get in, get the potion, get out.”

“Seems like we’ve found our base. For the mission,” he added. As he said it he sat up and stretched, stepping away from the couch.

“Greetings, honored guests.”

The Guardian had woken at some point during their investigation of the room. Its voice was almost sultry this time. “You are most welcome here,” it said, pacing the length of the tapestry. Its talons digging into the woven forest floor. Scattering embroidered pine needles.

“Thank you,” Draco said. It had seemed the polite thing to say.

“On the desk you shall find a note from your gracious host. May your stay at Nott Manor be unforgettable,” the Guardian said. Then, with a mighty flap of its wings, it disappeared into the hazy sky, soaring out of the border of its tapestry. Off to terrorize some woven village somewhere else in the estate.

Granger pulled a cream envelope from the top of the desk. It hadn’t been there when Draco examined it just minutes before. He stood over her, wand at the ready. With strong fingers she broke the purple wax seal and removed the thick parchment, unfolding it. She read aloud, her voice clear:

 

Distinguished guests,

Welcome to my home, the most Noble House of Nott. I confess I don’t like visitors, but I am nothing if not a gracious host. May you find refuge here in my personal study. The books are yours to peruse. The furniture is yours for rest. Fear not, for nothing within these walls can harm you.

 

Beyond this room you will find a new room through each door. Solve my riddles and complete my tasks and you will make your way back to the entrance. If you have the grace and grit to beat the clock, dear guest, you will be rewarded. Should you fail, I look forward to adding you to my collection.

 

It was signed in looping script, Theodore Nott. The ink as purple as the walls around them. Draco remained in his spot, rereading the letter over her shoulder.

“What do you think he means here?” She asked, dragging her finger over the last line. Lingering at my collection.

“Maybe that’s what the trophy room Theo mentioned is. Just taxidermy witches and wizards who got stuck in this nightmare house,” he replied. “Or perhaps it’s like Medusa, and we’ll end up stone.”

Granger took a deep breath and let it out harshly. “So we can at least assume that the danger is greater than Robards anticipated.”

“Always is.”

“And what do you think? Is it safe in this room?”

Draco thought for a moment. Knowing Mr. Nott, and just how much he liked to play games, he wondered. But what use was creating such a game for it to end quickly, all because your participants summoned a glass of water?

“I think we can trust his word,” he said, moving back towards the fireplace. The Guardian was still out of frame. “It seems to me he would want us to succeed at first, get us to a feeling of complacency. It’s no fun if we fail too soon. So presumably we’ll be able to return here at least once. Easiest tasks first, hardest tasks later.”

Granger finally took off her coat and scarf, placing them next to his. Then she thought better of it and used her wand to transfigure one of the candlesticks on the desk into a coat rack, sending both of their coats to rest neatly in the corner. She took off her hat and ran a tentative hand over her hair, which had begun to creep out of its plaits.

“Right. Then we should think about the rest of the letter. Beyond this room you will find a new room — that seems to tell us that every time we open the door we’ll be somewhere else.”

“Well deduced,” he said, rolling up his sleeves. No use fraying the cuffs. If they were to face the unknown in Nott Manor, he figured he should be ready for a fight. More ready than he had been at the gate. “We can mark them off on Theo’s map.”

Granger bit her lip and toyed with the end of one of her plaits. “How will we know what the tasks are? It’s not likely he’ll leave instructions at the door.”

“I think we’ll have to just…see what happens. What’s behind the door, as it were.”

She seemed to look far away, lost in a memory. “We should think about different magical buildings. Specifically ones that change. Like Hogwarts.”

Draco swallowed his distaste. When their eyes met, he saw the same hollowness that he felt whenever he thought about the castle. How hard it had been to go back to take his N.E.W.T.s. To walk across stones stained with blood and walls that had felt death. Echoed its song. The new layers of sorrow in the air tasted like the ash on the wind that day, when the Dark Lord finally fell.

“I’m sure he was inspired by parts of the castle. Have you read about any other places that might be worth talking about?”

“Using transfiguration and different charms is fairly common in magical prisons and banks. Sometimes private homes will take extra measures for valuables. I can’t really think of anything specific though,” she said, keeping her head down.

“What about the bit in the note about the clock? Are we being timed?”

“That was my thought as well.”

As they were brainstorming the different meanings of Nott’s words, Draco noticed a small section of wall begin to stretch. “Granger,” he said, pointing. The door to the first room shimmered to life.

It was fairly innocuous. A basic wood, possibly pine. Simple iron doorknob. No etchings or details. Just plain planks of wood hinged with wrought iron fixtures.

“There’s nothing decorative on it, so it’s likely a private room that wouldn’t be used often,” he mused. “What I remember of the house from being here as a child is grand doorways and golden doorknobs on even the wardrobe doors in the least attended guest rooms. Something like this would be, I don’t know, the door to a storage closet or something. Nothing the actual residents would use.”

Granger summoned some parchment from her satchel and a fresh pot of ink. She pulled a quill next and began to write notes and sketch a rough version of the layout so far, comparing it to Theo’s map as she went. Trying to puzzle out what else it could be before they walked head first into something they weren’t quite ready for.

She traced her wand over the wood of the door, drawing a rune. Letting it etch itself in, glowing gold and bright. Each line created with care. He’d taken Ancient Runes at school and mostly kept up with it out of boredom, so he recognized it once she’d pulled away.

“Eihwaz?”

“I want to make sure we mark the places we’ve been, just in case,” she said.

Eihwaz, a rune for strength and endurance. They’d likely need both.

The speed in which she summoned everything she needed from her satchel gave him pause. “What else have you got in that bag of yours?”

He watched the blush paint her cheeks, and she tried to hide it by turning away from him. But it was too late. It was already tucked away in his mind. “Just some essentials. Emergency items. Potions. A few Weasley products—”

He snatched the satchel when she was distracted, peeking inside. “Good grief, Granger. A featherlight charm? And — is that an extension charm? You know those aren’t legal.” He tsked and shook his head. Reveling in the thrill of teasing her in this way. “Breaking the rules, just like the old days I see.”

“I like to be prepared,” she said, reaching for it. He chuckled and held it beyond her reach. Raised high above her head while he rummaged through its contents.

“Prepared means packing this?” He replied, holding up a gnome-shamed teapot. She looked as though she could murder him with her scowl. “Oh, and of course we will need—” he rummaged in the bag and pulled out a small, square block of parchment “whatever this is. Why is this parchment stuck together? Who needs hundreds of pages of neon green parchment held together with a sticking charm?” He pulled the top layer off, and was disgusted to feel glue against his fingers. So he stuck it to her arm. Watching it cling to her knit jumper. “Just the necessities when on a mission, eh Granger?”

She ripped her bag from his hand the moment he lowered it, then roughly took the teapot and the strange parchment from him and shoved them back inside. “They’re for taking notes! It’s useful to be able to stick them inside of books without writing on the pages. And the teapot has an obvious purpose,” she said, the words a flustered rush. “You’ll be glad I thought to bring it when your stomach grumbles in an hour!”

“Did you think to bring anything useful? A bottle of Ogden’s, maybe. Some bandages or—”

“Of course I brought bandages.”

“Well that’s a relief. Somewhere in the depths of your bag is a bandage. Hope you can summon it before I bleed out. Might take a while to find it, what with the teapots and—” 

“When you’re bleeding on the floor it will be my honor to step around you and leave you there,” she snapped, hands on her hips. Nose in the air. Defiant.

And he laughed. Truly laughed. It had been a while since he’d done more than the expected polite chuckle, whenever he was unfortunate enough to be pulled into small talk at the Ministry. “Alright then,” he said. “Point taken.”

Granger read over the map again, listing rooms that it could possibly be. “It should be something fairly simple,” she deduced, “since it’s the first room we’ve encountered. If he’d planned everything out, then it’s reasonable to believe that things will start off easy and then get progressively harder from there.”

“I guess we’ll never know if we don’t get a move on,” he said. With a few quick detection spells he deemed it safe to reach for the iron doorknob.

The door opened to a long hallway made of rough hewn stone and lined with sconces that lit up as they crossed the door frame. All the way down an endless narrow hall.

“After you,” Draco said with a smirk. She stepped ahead of him, and once they were fully in the hallway, the door shut behind them and disappeared. Rippling until it was the same stone as the walls.

Chapter 4

Everything was covered in spiderwebs and dust. Hermione lit her wand and kept it aimed by her side, ready for any traps that escaped the litany of spells she’d cast to look for them. The only sound was their footsteps on the stone floor, echoing in the cramped space. The crackle of the flames on the sconces.

The ceiling was so low that he had to crouch. The hall itself was narrow, and they had to traverse it single file. It wound about in an unpredictable pattern. First they would swing left for a dozen paces. Then the wall would curve and round them nearly the opposite direction. The further they went the more the hall widened to accommodate them. The walls stretched further apart and the ceiling creeped taller. As if it knew that they needed more space, somehow.

“These games Theo’s father plays,” she said, slowing her steps a bit until he did the same. “I know it’s not really my business—”

“If you know it’s not your business and yet you’re still asking about it you don’t get to be angry with me if I choose not to tell you.”

“That’s fair,” she said. She turned to face him in the dim passage. “So it’s mind games, possibly, and it sounded like he would be… physical with Theo.”

“Yes,” Malfoy said, then stepped around her. He began to quicken his pace once more. “Mr. Nott loved to play tricks on Theo and he was often violent with him so I imagine we will have at least a bit of both waiting for us behind all these doors.”

“And did—does,” she started, unsure how to ask what she needed to ask. Her stammering must have annoyed him because he stopped moving. “What about your father?”

Malfoy didn’t turn around. The sharp lines of his shoulders raised slightly as he took in a breath before relaxing on the exhale. “My father mostly played wizard’s chess. With and without the board,” he said. “He liked rules and discipline. There’s a certain way things are meant to be done. Certain…expectations.”

“Of you?”

He turned just enough to look over his shoulder at her, grey eyes narrowed. “Yes. And of others. If you didn’t know the rules it was hard to keep up.” “Is that why you did it?” She asked, then regretted it. One of his eyes ticked in the candlelight. His mouth a tight line. “Never mind, I’m sorry,” she said, and stepped around him to lead the way once more.

Though he didn’t say anything else she could feel him close behind her. A few times she thought he had been about to say something, but other than their steps it was quiet.

At the end of the hall was another simple wooden door with an iron handle.

“This is disgusting,” Malfoy said, his voice low. “Do you think the entire house will be like this? A spider’s web?”

“It’s just a bit of dust. You’ll live,” she replied. They were side by side now, facing the door.

“Ugh,” Malfoy said, grimacing at the cobwebs on his sleeves. He cast a quick tergeo, instantly pristine again. Hermione rolled her eyes at his primness.

“Honestly, who cares about dust on their clothes in a time like this?” She said, hoping her tone was light. Teasing, like he sometimes did.

One of his pale hands reached for her and she tensed. A habit from the war she’d never been able to lose. He frowned at her flinch, then gently pulled something from her hair, holding it out for her inspection. It was a fat black spider, about the size of a Knut. Legs kicking in the air until Malfoy tossed it to the ground. The disgust on his face mirrored her own.

“Yes, who cares indeed.”

“Oh god,” she groaned, then cast her own cleaning charms over her body. Shaking her head as she did so. Hoping nothing else had clung to her plaits. When she looked back at him his lips curled faintly. “Fine, it was gross in the hallway. You’re not just overly concerned with your looks.”

Hermione tossed her plaits a bit, still worried that something else was caught in them. But it didn’t do to dwell on something like that. She turned her attention back to the door.

“Some of us take pride in our appearance. That was another one of his rules,” he added softly. It made her wonder if he’d ever tell her more about himself that she didn’t know. Behind the carefully crafted facade. Behind the taunts and teasing she’d known when they were young.

“Right. So the door is plain. And the hallway seemed spelled to adjust to the occupant’s height.”

“It’s clearly a house elf passage. I’d say store rooms or kitchens. Though it could have somehow taken us the stables, considering how long the walk was. The Notts have several Granians, unless Magical Creatures seized them after the war.”

Hermione thought for a moment. “I don’t think we can trust how far a hallway is. Or what a door looks like, either. What if we’re meant to expect a storage room and instead we’re greeted with the conservatory? Theo made a point to name some of the more dangerous plants housed there.”

“Well, Granger, the only way we’ll know is if we open the bloody thing,” Malfoy said, taking one last moment to pat down his pockets and check that his sleeves were to his liking. The faint edge of the Dark Mark peeping out on his forearm. The muscle flexing from his tightened grip on his wand. It wasn’t the hawthorn wand that Harry had won from him. She thought it might be the same wood as Ginny’s. Yew, maybe. Harry hadn’t kept the hawthorn wand but Malfoy must have purchased a new one for whatever reason.

First she cast all of her detection spells, looking for hidden traps or dangers behind the door. She thought about summoning one of her dark detecters from her bag but then she remembered what Malfoy had said about the ley lines of the house. Once she’d exhausted her preparations, with a deep breath, she yanked the door open.

Before them was a large kitchen with a grand hearth at the center of the opposite wall, a gigantic table with carving knives, stacks of plates, and glasses. There was a sink full of soapy water, dishes washing and drying themselves. A loaf of bread, still steaming where it rested on a tea towel. Step stools and bags of grain. Pots and pans hanging from the low ceiling and against the walls. Cutting boards of all sizes and shapes. The room was lit by a large, iron chandelier with fat beeswax candles dripping butter yellow wax.

The ceilings were low, except for above the hearth, which narrowed to a chimney. The counters and tabletop were shorter than any wizard would need. Because no witch or wizard needed to cook here. The knives were sized for small hands, too. In fact, everything was smaller than her kitchen at home — for the elves, she thought. Elves who no longer lived here. Before being sent to Azkaban, the elves of the convicted were freed by their masters. Hermione had been pleased with that.

Something about the way the room was designed reminded her of the kitchens at Hampton Court Palace. They’d gone there as a family once. On holiday before Hogwarts. Hermione had been awed by the gardens and the carved wooden ceilings of the interiors. But the kitchen had fascinated her. The size of the hearth and the feel of the uneven stone floor beneath her feet. The light from the windows, bathing everything in a warm glow. She’d begged her parents to purchase a dozen books from the gift shop. For months she was an expert on Tudor castles. Until she’d received her letter and purchased her first copy of Hogwarts, A History.

“What do you think we’re here for?” Malfoy asked, his deep voice shook her from the memories. He lazily trailed his right hand over the work table while his left continued to perform bits of magic to test the space for danger.

“Well, this is our entry into the mind of Mr. Nott. Whatever it is will set the tone for the rest of our…visit. If there’s some sort of creature I’m sure our presence will draw it out.”

They investigated the room a bit further, opening cupboards filled with serving dishes for all occasions, from informal to formal and gilded to garish. Drawers of silver cutlery and silk linens. It all seemed fairly normal.

“Maybe we’re meant to find something?” She said, examining the contents of the pantry. Glass jars of rice and pasta and tins of tomatoes. A basket of onions at the bottom. Another with potatoes. Perfectly preserved. As if someone had just popped down to the market for them.

“Right. You take that half and—”

“Greetings, travelers.” It was the Guardian. Stalking around a stretch of wall high above the hearth. Where the flames of hundreds of years of fires had stained the stone black with soot. Etched into the stone itself in thin lines. Its long tail flicking back and forth. “Many meals have been prepared here by careful hands.”

Hermione hadn’t noticed it when they first entered the room. It stopped its movement and turned its gaze upon them. It was the first Guardian they’d encountered that didn’t have an amethyst for an eye. Probably because this wasn’t a room for guests. It wasn’t a place to show wealth. It was fitting that its hide was black from soot and its lines were crudely drawn. Amateur, compared to the elegant depictions she’d seen so far.

“It is the wish of your host that you be taken care of, once you survive the meal,” the Guardian said. With a stretch of its hind legs it settled into a more comfortable position. Wings folding against its body. With a final look to Hermione and Malfoy, it closed its eyes, tucked its head on its front claws, and went to sleep.

“That was…helpful,” Malfoy said.

“I’m sure it loves to leave us confused,” she said. “I wonder if food will appear? Maybe we’re supposed to decide which of it is poisoned.”

Malfoy shook his head and tapped the work table. “I doubt that. No wizard of Nott’s lineage would expect to eat in a kitchen. They have formal and informal dining rooms for—”

The stack of dishes on the work table rose into the air and barreled towards them one after the other. Hermione blasted the first wave of them, shattering the porcelain throughout the kitchen.

The carving knifes stood on end, more of them shot out of the drawers to create a wall of blades.

“Granger, move!” Malfoy said, sweeping the broken shards from the floor and sending them flying at the second wave of plates. They collided in the middle of the room before crashing down. Hermione cast a shield charm in front of them but the knives sliced through it. She ran to the other side of the table and flipped it with her wand, creating a barricade. Malfoy ducked behind it, firing his own spells at the attacking kitchen.

“Any ideas?” He shouted as mixing bowls surged towards them.

The sink began to boil over, steam rising from the scalding water. Bubbles sticking together, forming a massive chain. It slithered from the water.

“You handle that side, I’ll handle this side,” she yelled back at him. She raced through different spells, a cooling charm on the sink to make the water less hot. Orchestrating a wave of water to try to extinguish the bubbles. Instead of eliminating them, the water made the bubbles even larger, twisting around the work table. Trapping them like a coiled snake around a rabbit.

On the other side, Malfoy was struggling with the knives. They’d changed direction, coming closer to their flimsy barricade. He pushed against it with cushioning charms and shield charms. More dishes careened towards them and he shattered them efficiently. Hermione had started to cast blasting spells at each bubble, satisfied when they popped and sprayed soapy water everywhere. Soaking them through. Finally she created a chink in the chain, large enough that the bubbles couldn’t reconnect.

“I have an idea,” Malfoy yelled over his shoulder.

“Brilliant, put it to action don’t just tell me about it!” She replied, popping more bubbles and trying to break the chain in more places before it could fuse back together.

Suddenly she was thrown to the ground, beneath Malfoy’s arm against the floor. “What are you doing?”

He flipped the table back to standing and pulled it over them. Its low height pressed down on his back, and he crowded her, pressing her closer to the stone floor. The weight and warmth of his body against hers. She kept her wand arm out, continuing to blast the bubbles. There was a loud thud above them. The wall of knives had followed them.

“Did you just—?”

“I improvised,” he said, then levitated the table off of them and stepped away, helping her to finish with the bubbles. The knives shivered in the wood, trying to remove themselves but they were stuck. “Keep moving!”

They skirted the edge of the room, blasting the serving plates and soup tureens. The shards of porcelain from the destroyed plates ricocheted off the walls, peppering their skin with little cuts. Another wave escaped the cabinets, glassware that spun through the air, taking aim at them.

“Survive the meal,” she ground out between spells. They were back to back now, deflecting wine glasses and turning them into piles of crystal sand. “More like survive the dishes!”

Clearly she’d spoken too soon. The hearth fire roared, flames licking outward. A pot of what might have been stew grew larger as the flames increased. The lid rattling.

Malfoy aimed a freezing spell at it, suspending the cooking pot in ice. Its contents frozen in a waterfall. Hermione threw a blasting curse towards it, eliminating it as a threat. The hearth’s fires crept back towards the inner wall as the cauldron clattered against the stones.

There was a rattling from the drawers. Cutlery jumped to the floor, forming even lines and standing sentinel. She and Malfoy resumed their fighting stance, their backs nearly touching, circling the room. They swept spells over the forks and spoons, brushing them into twisted piles that Hermione transfigured into barricades around them. Adding cutting boards as another line of defense. Soon they had a few layers of protection.

She chanced a look at the stones above the hearth where the Guardian slumbered. It wouldn’t help them here. It seemed as though every drawer and cupboard had been emptied and yet they still fought their way through an onslaught of measuring cups and spoons.

“When do you think it will end?” She asked, spinning to yell “Incarcerous!” at a stool that had come to life, galloping towards them on its wooden legs. It stumbled to the ground, its legs moving uselessly against her spelled binds.

“What did it say again?” He shouted back, wrestling with a table cloth that had draped itself around him, tightening. She severed it with a charm and pulled his sleeve until he was back in their more protected circle. They were both breathing heavily.

“Just the thing about surviving the meal, there wasn’t a listed menu!”

“Every meal ends with dessert, right?” He said. “Seems like we’ll have to face off against a massive creme brûlée before we’re through.”

He was probably right, though she didn’t look forward to fighting with one of her favorite desserts. The barrage of attacks seemed to slow, and they could catch their breath a bit. Hermione’s hair had come almost entirely out of its plaits. Their clothes had dried somewhat from the heat of the hearth.

The air tasted of smoke from the hearth and their spells. A tang of metal from the silverware. A hint of flour. Everything had a certain haze to it from the heat.

Then they started coughing.

“What is that?” He asked, coughing into his elbow and pointing somewhere further toward the back of the kitchen.

Great plumes of white clouds drifted from the floor to the ceiling. Swirling against the stones and enveloping the counters and work tables. It looked like the exhaust from a bakery.

“It’s flour, I think,” Hermione said, pulling her jumper up over her nose. “Cover your mouth and get down!” She yanked on his sleeve and pulled him to the floor. He did as she said and summoned the work table towards them.

“It could be poisoned,” Malfoy said, voice muffled by the wool of his own jumper. “Shield charms?”

“Bubble head might be better.” She cast one on herself and when he frowned at her she knew he couldn’t remember the spell but was too proud to ask for help. So she did it for him.

The air around them was a fine mist of white powder, slowly dissipating over them and clinging to their clothes. But the bubble head charms held and they were able to breathe clearly. When the flour thickened, Hermione’s hand twitched toward where she knew Malfoy was crouched on the floor beside her. It was impossible to see anymore, but she wanted to be assured that he was still there. To make sure he knew that she was there, too. As her fingers grazed the edge of his sleeve she sent a cyclone of wind around them. Marvelling at the way it cut through the dust in the air until it was gone.

Their clothes were covered in flour. The first thing Malfoy did was remove it from both of them. They waited a few minutes, silent, until the coast seemed clear enough to remove the bubble head charm.

“What is all that noise,” said the Guardian. It hadn’t moved from its lounging position. “Have you no manners?”

“Us? Manners?” Malfoy stammered, gesturing to the debris around them.

“The Most Noble House of Nott is happy to host you,” the Guardian continued. “The third drawer on the left contains a valuable object for your stay.”

And then it closed its eyes once more and resumed its slumber. As soon as it took its first deep breath, the room righted itself. The broken dishes disappeared. The cutlery returned to its homes. The knives that were embedded in the table vanished. All was as it was when they entered the room. On the far wall a door appeared.

While they caught their breath she untangled her hair from the last little bits of plaiting at the roots. It had come undone throughout their ordeal. She cast a smoothing charm to tame the frizz and twirled a few curls around her wand until they fell as away from her face as they would ever get. The reflection in one of the copper pots proved passable. Then she noticed Malfoy looking at her, but acting like he wasn’t looking at her.

“What is with the stare, Malfoy?” She asked, combing through the ends with her fingers.

“Your hair—”

“Can you please not insult my hair right now,” she groaned. It was just like him to revert to his old jibes.

“I wasn’t—it’s—it looks different than it used to. That’s all.”

“Yes I finally learned how to use conditioner properly and mastered a few simple haircare spells. Incredible how well your observational skills have improved.”

“Not everything I say is meant to insult you, Granger. Stop twisting my words to fit your narrative,” he said. Then he crossed over to the drawer the Guardian indicated and removed a large scroll of parchment. He broke the purple wax seal and held it so that she could see it as well. At the top, in Nott Senior’s hand, it said:

 

You’ll need to keep your strength up.

Should you hunger, ask and you shall be fed. Should you thirst, you will be watered.

Simply ask for anything listed on this menu and it shall appear to you, free of enchantments or poison, for I am a gracious host.

Beneath his signature was an endless list of meals, sweets, wines, and other drinks. Hermione cast a detection spell over the ink, looking for falsehoods.

“Well,” she said, “I don’t know how much of an appetite I have after that.”

Malfoy snorted. “Clearly you’ve never had a proper croque monsieur.” He rolled the parchment back up and led the way towards the door. When he opened it, Hermione expected to see the long hallway they traversed to get there. Instead it brought them right back to the study. As soon as her feet crossed the threshold the door to the kitchen shimmered away. Leaving nothing of its shape behind.

 

---

                                                                                      

A low fire crackled in the grate of the study. The Guardian stalked its stretch of tapestry, keeping its curious amethyst eyes on them. It didn’t speak as it traversed its space. Draco threw himself onto the sofa and yanked his jumper over his head, laying it across one of the chairs so it didn’t wrinkle further. He’d use a pressing charm on it later. Granger perched at the opposite end and pulled a small vial from her charmed bag.

He watched as she carefully dabbed the potion against the cuts along her forearms and hands. The faint earthy smell and clear consistency told him it was essence of dittany. A distilled version. Cheaper to brew and cheaper to buy if you didn’t brew your own. Nowhere near the efficacy of the one he brewed himself. When she was finished with the cuts on her left arm she faltered for a moment, clearly unsure about using her opposite hand to perform the healing spells.

“I can help,” he said, clearing his throat. “If you want.”

She nodded, and held out her wand arm. He whispered the spells to seal the wounds, adding a few additional incantations to account for scarring. It took a little bit longer but he’d always thought it was worth the effort. Where a quick patch job always left scars, his work would heal cleanly.

“What’s that you’re doing?” She said, watching him.

“It’ll help with the scars,” he replied. It was a challenge to keep his eyes from the ones on her other arm. The cursed word carved into her skin. It made him think of his own scars. The ones that had been healed in a rush. There was no erasing them.

“The dittany should do that. It’s why I brought it.”

They’d shifted closer together on the couch, and his knee was only a few centimeters from her thigh where he’d twisted to face her. Something was new with her hair. The products she used or something. It smelled like shortbread and peppermint. When she’d tousled it in the kitchen he’d been caught off guard. All that was missing was the smell of roses, like the ones his mother tended to in the conservatory at the manor. Fresh parchment from l'encre et le papier, his favorite stationery shop in Paris. The oaky undertones of a glass of double barrel Ogden’s. Crisp air, perfect for flying. Then it would be the exact smell that had curled into his nose from the amortentia Slughorn had shown them in sixth year. And curled deep into his memory. It was a coincidence that concerned him. All the times he’d seen her over the last few years had been unremarkable. This—this was new.

“Dittany will help scarring to an extent; this will ensure it,” he said, finishing with the wandwork and retreating back to his safe corner of the couch. Granger instead scooted closer and began to heal his own cuts, replicating what he’d done without so much as a lesson.

“Useful bit of signature magic,” she said, watching as the marks from the shattered plates stitched themselves up. Taking time on the gauged flesh of his knuckle, which had scraped against the flagstone when he upended the table.

“I don’t know if I’d call it a signature,” he said. “Most of my adjustments are just borrowed from other wizards I’ve read about.”

“But you’ve customized it to your needs.” She moved on to his face, where he’d felt the quick cuts in the moment but forgotten about it until now. Her fingers ghosted over his jaw and he tilted it for her before she needed to touch him. Saving her the disgust at having to feel his skin. “Very clever.”

He hadn’t ever thought of it as anything other than convenient. If he drew the ire of another Death Eater, or worse, if his mother did, he could reverse the damage. As if it had never happened. Though there were some injuries that rooted deep. Now it just seemed a useful bit of magic for the inevitable day when he pissed off the wrong person outside of a pub just by existing. By being outside of Azkaban with a tattoo on his left forearm.

“Brightest Witch of Her Age paying me a compliment?” He said, and smirked at her. Letting a bit of playfulness in, despite the weight of the morning. They had a long day ahead of them. Or days. Or weeks. Or forever, according to the Guardian.

Granger bit back a smile he wished she’d let out. “Perhaps. I haven’t decided yet.”

“I believe you called my spell useful and me clever.”

“No, I said the spell was useful and clever, there’s a difference.” She returned her weak vial of dittany to her bag and sank back against the cushions. Taking a few calming breaths with her eyes closed.

“So even though it’s my spell I’m neither of those things?”

With the weight of her full gaze she contemplated him for a moment, and he worked through a few rudimentary occlumency tactics to keep his face from betraying his thoughts. Her brown eyes sparkled in the firelight. Forbidden to him but enticing all the same.

“I suppose you’ll have to prove it to me.”

Notes:

My dear friend iconicnovel rewrote "Be Our Guest" for this chapter:

Be our guest

Be our guest

Put our service to the test

Throw a knife right to your chest, cherie

And get eternal rest

Chapter 5

Time passed and still the next door hadn’t appeared. It seemed to Draco that Nott Manor operated on its own schedule. There was nothing to do but wait. Granger conjured a kettle from her endless satchel, along with a few cups made of hearty stoneware. Fine porcelain wouldn’t last long in the pit of chaos that was her bag.

When she handed him a mug he took the handle between his fingers and wrinkled his nose. If they were having tea it simply wouldn’t do. With a swish he transfigured it into delicate bone china, complete with saucer.

Granger snorted. “You’re predictable, you know.”

“Why? Because I had to learn manners and decorum?”

She sighed and rummaged through her bag. “Seems useless to ask what kind of tea you drink, since apparently whatever I give you won’t be good enough and you’ll just magic it into something else.”

“Granger, what you call predictable I call preferential. If I’m drinking tea I prefer a thinner vessel. That’s all. And I’d like Earl Grey, if you have it.”

“Sugar?” She asked, adding a few cubes to her own mug, facing away from him.

“Do you happen to have honey? Local is better for my allergies but I’ll settle for whatever you might have,” he said, tilting his head at her. He could get used to this game.

Wordlessly she summoned a small jar of honey and floated it over to him.

When the tea had steeped she poured for them both and added a splash of milk to hers. Wherever the honey was from, it complimented the tea perfectly. They sipped in relative silence. The window behind the desk showed the same view as when they’d arrive. It confirmed it was enchanted. There was also no clock. Neither of them wore a watch. Draco lamented that the pocket watch his father gave him when he turned thirteen was stuffed in a drawer somewhere at the Manor.

“No timepiece in that bag of yours?” He said, finishing the last of his tea before reverting his cup and saucer back to the stoneware mug Granger had given him.

She put it back in her bag and cleaned up the rest of their tea. “No such luck.”

They stared at the tapestry above the fire for a while. Watching the Guardian wear its path across it. Back and forth. Over and over. It was almost hypnotizing, the way it stalked the embroidered landscape. Draco found himself following the light against its scales, spilling across the forest floor. In that moment he realized that the sun must have changed position. Could tell that the branches were lit differently than they had been when they arrived.

“Granger,” he said, leaning forward to peer closer at the tapestry. “Look at the sun.”

Her shoulders jumped, and she stood, taking a few steps towards it. Standing on the tips of her toes to bring her face closer. He carefully joined her, though while she had to crane her neck he was eye-level with the Guardian.

“Judging by the sun’s position it’s about half noon, don’t you think?”

“I think so,” he replied, keeping his eyes on the dragon. The Guardian neither confirmed nor denied their guess. Instead it gave them a sly smile as it slunk out of frame. Off to hunt some stitched kneazle or burn a village.

Granger fiddled with the pendant around her neck. Pulling it across the chain and back. It made a soothing sound, and his eyes snagged on the silver and glass heirloom he’d given her. The stars etched beneath her fingers where she gripped it tightly.

A low rumble drew his attention to the opposite wall where at last a door began to materialize. It was made entirely of iron. This time he knew where the door would lead. He and Theo had often dared each other to get close to it when they were small. To touch it. Once, he’d even dared Theo to open it. He’d taken a few steps down before turning around and dragging Draco outside to fly for a while. In the open air.

Granger traced another rune on the door — Hagalaz. The wrath of nature. Draco mentally noted the deference from her first rune, which was for protection. He wondered if it was in response to what they’d just seen in the kitchens or if it was meant to represent their own wrath. Either way he didn’t ask her to explain.

“It leads to the dungeons,” he said. “I’m positive.” “I guess we’ll be facing something much worse than charmed dishes and clouds of poisonous flour,” Granger said, twirling her wand between her hands. “Do you…”

“Do I what?”

She swallowed. “Do you think there will be anyone in the dungeon? Now that we know it’s not a normal house…What if it could hide things from the aurors who searched it previously?”

Out loud Draco said it was unlikely but internally, he wondered. If they’d be face-to-face with the withered husk of an Order member. Someone she’d known. Or a poor, unsuspecting Muggle who got in the way. He shrugged on his jumper, stepped in front of her, and pulled the door open.

Inside was endless darkness. The light from the study showed the first of many stairs descending down to the lowest level of the estate. A torch hung on the wall. They both lit their wands, and as his foot touched the first step the torch flamed to life. He lifted it from the wall and began to lead the way down the stairs. They spiralled tightly. There were no windows. No other light but that from their wands and the torch in his right hand. He could feel Granger just behind him. The halt in her breaths. The swoop of her wand light, from one wall to the next, lighting their feet as they stepped further down.

Their descent echoed on the stones. The air grew cold and sharp. He could hear a distant drip of water. It felt as thought they’d walked several storeys underground by the time the spiraled corridor ended. Instead of another door, like with the kitchen, they were immediately deposited in the dungeons.

They were more extensive than what Theo had plotted out. Directly in front of them was a long hall of cells. There was another to their left. Even more to their right. They seemed endless. Cold, black water dripped from the walls and ceiling, leaving little puddles on the slick floor. Draco placed the torch in a holder beside the stairwell. It lit a few other torches along the walls. They stood in the middle of the antechamber, keeping the stairs to their back until, with a groan, they disappeared.

“Fuck,” he whispered. Granger looked determined. The grip on her wand unyielding. He strained his ears, listening for the sounds of a prisoner. If there was anyone down here, he didn’t want her to have to see it. To wonder what had happened to them. If they were still living. If they were magical or Muggle.

They swept their wands over the space. If the dungeons were indeed a maze, Draco didn’t think they had much room for error.

“I can’t find the Guardian,” she said. “Usually it’s in the main part of the room.”

“There must not be one down here,” he replied. As he was about to tell her his reasoning an echoing thud of footsteps sounded from deep within the dungeons.

Granger sucked in a sharp breath and subconsciously stepped closer to him.

The rough scrape of a chain dragged against the stone floor.

“Put out your wand,” she said, her voice barely audible. He did what she said. The only light came from the scattered torches.

Without a word he pushed her to the left until they were flat against the wall. He kept her behind him, using his right arm to hold her as close to the stones as possible.

He felt her breath ghost his ear. “It’s not human,” she whispered. “Bipedal, so either a giant or a troll.”

The Dark Lord had lured several giants to his “cause” but many had abandoned him before the final battle. And they never met indoors. “Troll seems more likely,” he whispered back.

The footsteps and dragging of the chain was joined by heavy breathing. A stuttering intake of air that seemed to get caught in its throat. Draco stretched his neck and strained his eyes to peer down the hall. He moved on silent feet, closer to the sound. A sharp tug against his sleeve from Granger. He waved her off, feeling her close behind.

“First year,” he whispered over his shoulder, “with Quirrell. That was a mountain troll?”

The whole school knew that she’d marched off on her own to face a troll. A bull-headed eleven-year-old with enough superiority to think going after a troll, alone, wasn’t a suicide mission.  “It was more luck than anything,” she breathed back.

Draco thought about what they’d learned about trolls in school. What he’d read about when he spent most of his time with his mother in the library, away from the Dark Lord and his disciples who took over their home. It was one of the only rooms on the first floor that they tended to leave alone. So he’d read. A lot. Trolls weren’t very bright. But they did have a taste for human flesh, and Draco very much preferred to keep all of his appendages.

“That troll — at Hogwarts — it smelled something foul,” she whispered quickly, following him as he slunk into one of the cells.

“And?”

“Before it found me in the bathroom I could smell it. Like old socks and—“

The creature groaned, swinging the chain across the floor. It clattered against the iron bars of one of the cells. Draco pushed her further behind him and she pushed back, trying to stay shoulder to shoulder with him.

There, a few cells away, stood a small troll with pale green skin. Its hair was the color of pond scum, matted to its round head. It seemed hunched and stunted, perhaps from years spent wandering the dungeons. Likely living off of rats and the occasional doxy or garden gnome that got stuck down here. Based on its coloring, it must have been a forest troll. 

Draco swallowed and carefully slid out of the cell, keeping his eyes on the troll. It was looking curiously at one of the torches. The flames lit its face, beady little eyes and a snout that dripped onto its skin. With a grunt it reached for the flame and burnt its hand.

It roared in frustration and ripped the torch from the wall, tossing it into the nearest cell where it extinguished. It wore ragged trousers, torn in places and held to its malnourished body by a length of rope. The chain they’d heard was attached to an iron fetter around one of its ankles. It held the other end of it pinched between its fingers. Swinging it occasionally and letting it drag across the floor.

“We need to knock it out,” Draco whispered, annoyed that Granger had once again forced her way back to his side instead of behind him. The troll tossed another torch. The firelight must have hurt its eyes. Soon the only light was from the torch behind them, where the stairs had been. They tiptoed across the hall, intending to get away from the troll enough to think through a strategy. But the stones were uneven and Draco felt it when she tripped. Heard her knee crack against the floor as her fingers grazed his arm on the way down. Her wand clattered into the dark and she gasped.

The troll jerked towards them and sniffed on the air.

Fuck, he thought, and reached out to help her up just as the troll lumbered towards them as fast as it could, a roar on its breath.

“Stupefy!” Draco shouted, and his spell hit the troll in its chest, halting its steps. It wasn’t a particularly powerful stunner, just enough to stall it so he could help Granger.

“My wand,” she said. Neither of them bothered whispering anymore. He summoned it and she caught it in midair, then sent her own stunning spell towards the troll. It stumbled back and she grabbed Draco’s sleeve and pulled him around the corner.

“It’s probably been down here for years,” he said. “It’s thinner than most and hates the light.”

“Right,” she said, then took a deep breath and ran back towards the creature.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he mumbled and followed her.

“Lumos maxima!” she yelled, and aimed the light straight for the troll’s eyes. It staggered back and landed on its rump. As she turned back, a grin across her face, the troll swung its arm out and flung her into one of the cells. Then it knocked Draco over in his haste to help her.

His head smacked on the stone floor and he saw stars. Blinking to clear them he looked for the troll. It had lumbered into the cell where Granger had landed. She skittered across the floor, trying to get away from it. Until she was cornered.

The troll stumbled — half blinded from her spell. Just as it reached out for her Draco fired a powerful stunner at its back. It swayed then started to fall.

“Granger, move!”

She dove to the side, just as the forest troll toppled to the floor. Its head bounced once on the stones. Its mouth fell open. A foul odor emanated from it. Like stagnant water.

Draco stepped over it and reached for Granger, tugging her to her feet. She was breathing heavily and staring at the troll, her skin pale.

“Alright?” He asked, his hands lightly gripping her elbows. It was like watching her come out of a trance. She blinked rapidly and dragged her eyes from the floor to where he held her then nodded.

“I just…It reminded me of the last one,” she said.

“But you defeated that one,” he started to say but she cut him off.

“I didn’t—I froze. Harry and Ron…” she shook her head and brushed her hair from her face. Her hands were scraped and shook slightly. Without thinking he held them with one hand and turned her head to face him with the other.

“You’re alright, Granger,” he said. Her eyes shut and she took a few breaths, nodding once more. Then she stepped away from him and retrieved her wand.

“What should we do about it?” She said, jerking her chin towards the troll. It was out cold.

“Do you think this was our task? To…kill it?”

She contemplated for a moment, flexing the fingers of her hands. “Even if that’s what we’re supposed to do I don’t think it’s right.”

Of course she didn’t.

“Perhaps we could…free it. Somehow,” he offered, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Maybe there’s a window somewhere? Or maybe the door’s appeared?” She pushed past him into the hall, and when he’d cleared the cell she closed its door and conjured a large padlock to keep it closed. With wave of her wand she returned all of the torches to the walls and relit them. Then she lit her wand and shined the light on the rear wall. It was still hard stone.

“Stay close and we can check down here,” he said, gesturing to the left hall. They explored it in silence, tensed for another attack. But all was quiet. Just the occasional drip of water from a corner or the squeak of a mouse. They reached the end and turned back, then searched the hall to the right. It was much the same. They searched the main row of cells again. At the very back was a wooden door.

“Do you think—?” She asked and he shrugged, then opened it with a quick spell.

It wasn’t the way out. Instead of the study, they were faced with a small office of sorts. It was cramped — just a short stool and a table. An old stub of a candle. And a window the size of a paperback novel. Covered in vines.

“Probably spelled so we can’t open it,” he said, as Granger set about testing it. Even if it could open, they’d never fit through it, let alone a forest troll, no matter how stunted.

She sighed and cricked her neck. There, on the wall, was a small metal dragon’s head. In its mouth was a ring of keys. Draco snatched them — they were for the cells. As soon as the metal had pulled away from the dragon’s mouth its eyes opened. They were a glowing purple.

“Guardian,” he said, taking a step closer. It nodded. And waited. “We defeated the troll.”

The Guardian looked between them and nodded again.

“Is that all?” Draco asked. “Was that our task?”

It merely stared. Then it nodded once more.

“Maybe we just needed the keys?” Granger said. “We should go back and see if the door’s returned.”

Draco kept her at his side just in case there was something lurking in the shadows behind them on their way to the antechamber. When they reached the cell with the troll she stopped and looked in at it, snagging her lip between her teeth.

“Out with it,” he said, though he had an inkling of what she was thinking.

“I don’t…It’s not right to leave it here. Forest trolls thrive in green places. They’re much more docile than mountain trolls and they…attack humans less than river trolls. We should do something.”

It was a wonder she didn’t push paper in the Magical Creatures department. This would be just the kind of thing that she’d campaign for. Rescuing violent beasts and beings and rehabilitating them. Draco sighed. He glanced over his shoulder to find the iron door waiting for them against the wall.

“What do you suggest we do then, Granger? Levitate it up the stairs? Keep it in the study while we continue our journey through this house of horrors?” He pocketed the keys and kept one of his hands in his pocket. Afraid that if he didn’t he’d cross his arms and seem standoffish instead of just mildly annoyed.

“I don’t think it would fit in the stairway,” she said, twisting and twirling her wand.

Draco closed his eyes. There was their emergency Portkey. They could activate it and send the troll to the field office in Dover, but then they’d either be without their only way out or they’d be in Dover with a forest troll and a surely pissed off Auror to greet them. Robards made it clear that they were to use it only if their lives were in danger. A few bruises and a displaced troll didn’t really qualify. There was one other option.

He cleared his throat and Granger looked at him. “Tippy,” he said clearly. With a pop, the house elf appeared in front of him. The uniform his mother had custom made for her pristine. The Malfoy crest embroidered on the chest.

“Yes, sir?” The elf asked, blinking her huge eyes at him. Then she seemed to take in their location and her tone abruptly became concerned. “What is you doing in a place like this?”

“Tippy, this is Granger,” he said, nodding towards her. “She’s very concerned about this troll.”

“A troll?” Tippy said, jumping backwards when she noticed the creature in the cell.

“Yes,” he said. Granger watched them with narrowed eyes. “Could you please take the troll to— Granger, where should it go?”

She gaped at him for a moment then shook her head. “Tippy shouldn’t have to travel a long distance with…that. We’re not far from Hatfield Forest. There are known trolls there, so the Ministry is already aware of a population.”

Draco nodded. “Right. Hatfield Forest, then. Tippy can you handle that? Just bring it there and then you’re free to return to the Manor.”

Tippy looked from Draco to the troll and back. “Master hardly ever calls for Tippy and this is what he asks of Tippy?”

He smirked. “Tell you what,” he said, crouching down to be level with her. “When I’m finished with this mission, you can come to the flat and make tea for me.”

The elf lit up at that and said, “Really?”

He held his hand out and nodded.

“Twice a week,” she bargained. “For a month.” It made him chuckle. She always did drive a hard bargain. They shook on it. All in front of a puzzled Granger.

“I—You—“ she shook her head, curls bouncing, “Thank you, Tippy.”

Tippy inclined her head, then strode towards the troll’s cell. Granger removed the lock and opened the door for her. With a last look the elf placed one hand on the troll’s head and snapped her fingers with the other. And then they were gone.

“Right, let’s get out of here,” Draco said, removing the keys from his pocket. He smiled to himself as he heard Granger scramble to catch up to him.

“You can’t be serious,” she said behind him.

“Sorry, did you want to stay in this cold, dank dungeon for another minute?”

She gripped his arm to stop his steps. “You know what I mean,” she said.

He looked at her hand on his arm then at her shaken face. “I really don’t.”

“That was a house elf.”

“Yes, well spotted.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

Granger pushed him where she’d held his sleeve and folded her arms. “Turn it into some sort of joke just because I asked a question.”

He stopped in front of the door, fiddling with the ring of keys. They were all the same — crudely shaped iron. He began to try them in the lock. “What about it.”

“I thought all Death Eater house elves were freed after the war.”

“They were. Tippy is a free elf. All of the elves my mother employs are free.” The first three keys didn’t work. He kept trying.

“And you…pay them?”

“Yes. They’re on salary and they have their own quarters, though they always had that. And they’re allowed holidays but they’re not thrilled by that idea.” He tried a few more keys, waiting for the next round of questions. When they didn’t come he chanced a look at her, and raised a brow. She was watching him with an expression he couldn’t place. “What? You’re gaping.”

She pursed her lips and uncrossed her arms, though her fists were tight. “I was not.”

“Sure,” he said, and at last he found the right key. It turned in the lock and there was a loud click.

“How was she able to get inside the house? I know elf magic works differently but—”

“Nott Manor always had house elves. The wards must allow for them.”

“Thank you,” she said. There was a bruise forming on one of her cheekbones. “For doing that. The troll.”

He shrugged and said, “Seemed important to you.” Then he shouldered the door open. It brought them back to the study and he was grateful to avoid the seemingly endless stairs. Going down wasn’t bad but climbing back up would have been especially difficult after being thrown around a dungeon. He wanted a drink and a nap.

“That’s why I appreciate it,” she said, shutting the door behind her. It faded away almost instantly. “Most people don’t understand why I care so much about creatures they deem beneath them.”

He thought back to school, when she’d been the champion for house elves and whatever beings Hagrid had brought to the grounds. Potter and Weasley seemed to like the easy grade of Magical Creatures class but they never really supported her other ventures when it came to beasts and beings.

“You like to help those who can’t help themselves,” he said, thinking of the way she’d always stood up for Longbottom before he hit puberty and developed a spine. She nodded.

“It seems fairly obvious to me but not everyone gets it. They think I have a martyr complex or that I just don’t understand that this is the way things have always been.” She sighed and removed her satchel, then began rummaging in it before finally summoning what she was looking for. The jar of diluted dittany. Half empty already. “But just because things have always been one way doesn’t mean that’s the right way. Or the only way.”

Her cheeks had pinked, and she looked up at him through her lashes. And he knew there was more to her words than what she was saying. That she was looking for an answer to a question she wouldn’t ask him aloud.

“Sometimes it takes a bit of growing up—learning that there’s not just one way of thinking,” he said. “It might just take some a little longer to realize it.”

She smiled softly at him, and even though her clothes were torn and her face was bruised, he thought she was lovely.

The edge of his folio was beneath his fingers. “Actually,” he said, pulling the leather carrying case from his pocket. “I’ve something better for that.” He pointed at the potion in her hand. She stilled and waited for him to continue.

First he removed the shrinking charm, then he laid the folio out across the desk. All the vials of potions neatly contained within it. Then he reached for one of the vials of his own dittany, brewed in the potions lab at the Manor a few days before their mission.

“It’s more potent,” he said, holding it out to her. When she took it their fingers brushed, and he didn’t look away.

Chapter 6

The Guardian was still away. Judging by the light in the sky of the tapestry it was nearing twilight, and they were no closer to discovering all of the Manor’s secrets. Granger applied murtlap essence and dittany to her scrapes and bruises. The mottled purple mark on her cheek fading back to the soft tone of her skin. This time she didn’t need his help.

Other than some soreness Draco felt relatively fine after their trip to the dungeons. Though he was still shaken at the thought of Granger’s frozen face, backed into the corner, eyes wide as she looked up at the troll. He’d not known her to be afraid before. The classic Gryffindor bravery was always on display. If he’d been seconds behind, what would have happened to her? Would she have snapped out of it or would she have been hurt?

Granger cleared her throat, snagging his attention. Then she abruptly glanced away and worried her bottom lip. He could practically hear the buzzing from her brain. She looked like she was about to change her mind and keep whatever she wanted to say to herself.

“You’ll give yourself an aneurysm if you keep thinking that loudly,” he said, leaning against the back of his chair. Tipping his head against it to flick his eyes to the ceiling before meeting her own. “Just ask whatever you’re trying to ask.”

“The elf you called,” she started, and he held onto all of the patience he possessed to wait for her to continue. “She’s—is she your elf?”

“She works for the household, for my mother. But yes, Tippy is who I call on when I have a need,” he replied. Watching her absorb the new information. Different from how she catalogued a lecture in school.

“It seemed like you’re close. Friendly, even—”

“And why wouldn’t I be friendly with someone I’ve known all my life?”

“Well, because she’s a house elf and you’re…I guess I just assumed that because of Dobby—”

He sighed. He’d forgotten about her connection to that elf. “Dobby caused a lot of destruction and didn’t quite…fit. He was the exception, not the rule. And even then it was my father—I won’t try to justify it but what you saw second year wasn’t indicative of how our elves are treated. You can inquire at the Ministry for their full report, if you wish.”

She didn’t react other than to nod in thought for a moment. “She said you don’t call her much.”

Draco nodded. Hoping that would be sufficient but knowing it wouldn’t be.

“Why is that?”

The fire was warm. A new door to unknown horror hadn’t appeared and clearly they needed to rest whenever the opportunity presented itself. So he reached down and pulled off his dragon leather boots, setting them to the side of the wingback chair. Then he threw his good posture out the window to bring one foot onto the cushion and rest his arm against his knee. Leaning even further back to take a few breaths.

“Because my flat would only upset her and then she’d start knitting things for me,” he said, tilting his head to watch her reaction. “I’m not really in the market for mittens.”

“I can’t believe she got you to make a bargain with her,” Granger said, laughing a little. “What’s so bad about your flat? Dodgy neighborhood?”

“Neighborhood’s pleasant enough. It’s just empty.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s more minimalist than even that word implies.”

“Can’t imagine Draco Malfoy sleeping on anything other than a luxurious four-poster with a dozen pillows,” she said. When was the last time she’d said his first name? Had she ever? Had he?

He looked at her a little too long and tore his gaze to the fire. “Of course I have a four-poster, Granger, I’m not a plebeian. I just don’t see the point in trying to make a home in a city I’ll never be welcome in.”

It was the wrong thing to say. The kind of thing he thought regularly but didn’t voice aloud, even to Theo.

“People will see you’re making an effort. I’m sure over time—”

“Don’t,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face. Pressing against his temples. “I already know you pity me by your eyes. If you add words to it—just don’t, Granger. Talk to me about Potter and his Weasley or something else I can endure.”

Something flashed across her face and then, to his surprise, she smiled. “Maybe I can tell you one thing. But only to improve your mood.”

He quirked a brow at her. “Now I’m intrigued. Out with it.”

“I suppose you don’t keep up with the gossip—”

“I’d rather not read whatever it is Skeeter writes about my family. I avoid her new rag.” It was a tabloid, exclusively filled with whatever sensationalist stories she came up with that week. After the first few months of it he lost count of how many things he was hiding from the public. That he was secretly part Veela. That he was broke. That he’d purchased a champagne vineyard and as soon as his probation was up he would leave Britain. That one was inspiring, at least.

“Well, she still writes about us—about Harry, quite a lot.”

“If you’re dragging this out for suspense you’re taking too long—”

“They’re not together anymore. Ginny sort of…left him,” she paused, and he almost chastised her again until she added, “for Cho Chang.”

“Oh?” His mood improved instantly. It was ironic, really, that the two girls Potter had shown interest in at school would find their way to each other. Perhaps on the quidditch pitch, like Theo’s grander fantasies from when they were in school. Before the youthful jokes and theories were replaced with whispered warnings and nods of understanding in seventh year. Back when fun was normal and laughter didn’t feel like a luxury.

“It was only a little bit awkward at the Burrow last Christmas.”

“They were both there? Can’t imagine having both of your exes holding hands in front of you. Maybe Potter really is a saint.”

“No, no it was just the family, me, and Harry. He’s surprisingly okay with it, actually. I think they grew up, grew apart,” she said, and he wondered if that applied to her, too. “There’s always been a lot of…pressure on both of us to join the Weasley family permanently. Harry’s in the clear now, at least.”

“What about you?”

She chuckled. “What about me?”

“Seems like you’re part of the family. With your own Weasley—”

“Ronald and I both more than moved on. It’s been over two years, surely you know that much. We had to make an announcement in the Prophet just to quell the gossip—”

“I meant the older one,” he said, and she merely stared at him. Like she had no idea what he was talking about. “You’re always together.” Flirting. Getting drinks. Standing in front of his desk.

Thinking for a moment she furrowed her brow. “Percy works at the Ministry and will occasionally stop by to say hello. Sometimes we’ll compare Arithmancy theories. And Charlie’s been assisting the Magical Creatures department with a dragon problem. I’ve seen him in passing, at work.”

“And at pubs,” Draco said under his breath.

“I’m not dating Charlie, if that’s what you’re implying.” It might have been the light or it might have been his imagination but she blushed. “Besides, he’s not really my type.”

Given her dating history he wondered what her type even was. All they had in common was quidditch, a subject she deemed unworthy of her attention. Charlie Weasley had a similar build as Krum, and obviously similar looks to his younger brother. More roguish, maybe. Hadn’t she briefly dated McLaggen in sixth year? Perhaps she liked being with someone intellectually beneath her, though he doubted it was exhilarating. He certainly grew bored of witches who couldn’t keep up. Not that he had many options.

“We should rest while we can. Maybe eat something,” Granger said, clearly done with the subject. He pushed it from his mind and took a clearing breath. Letting his thoughts filter back beneath the occlumency he’d been neglecting in her presence.

“Right. Shall we order?” He said, summoning the menu they were given in the kitchens. It was extensive, and other than their tea earlier he hadn’t eaten much of anything in the last day. He’d been anxious about the mission and instead occluded the night before, once he got back to his flat after another round of drinks with Theo.

He barely had a minute to decide on a starter when she snatched the parchment from his hands and began reading it over, muttering things as she went. 

“You of all people should know that the majority of these can be easily poisoned,” she said, pulling what looked to be a Muggle writing implement from her endless satchel. As she went on about the more dangerous options that should therefore be avoided she made little marks on the parchment. “Regardless of what the Guardian told us, I don’t trust anything in this house. And you shouldn’t either.”

Draco opened his potions kit and produced a vial. “I understand being careful but a drop of this can detect any poison. We should just order one of everything and have a feast. It’s obvious we’ll be here for a while, we may as well plan for it. Decide what’s worth eating.”

“But that’s wasteful!”

“You were just convinced all of the food is poisoned and that we should live off of whatever stale biscuits you have in that bag of yours and now you’re worried about wasting the food you refuse to eat,” he drawled. “Do you hear yourself?” Her lips pursed and she took the poison detector potion and held it to the light.

Watching her doubt his brewing abilities made him contemplate ordering a bottle of wine but he didn’t think she’d be the type to drink on the job and if he said it was for himself, well, he’d look like more of a lush than he was. Then again, even Granger imbibed after a long day of work, given her frequency at the Leaky Cauldron. He lamented that he didn’t think to add some Ogden’s to his potion kit. It would have at least helped to calm his nerves. Settle the anxious fluttering in his stomach. A potion in its own right.

“Fine,” she said at last, pressing the parchment against his chest until he took it. “Order us something and we’ll deal with it when it arrives. Just one meal, Malfoy. Until we know for sure.”

Then she examined the rest of his potions kit, trailing her fingers over the little labels he’d written. She’d had a point about certain foods being easier to poison — anything remotely liquid, obviously, but some poisons could be distilled and modified within a solvent and then transformed into a powder. In theory, all of their options had a level of risk. Any half decent potioneer could brew an odorless and tasteless potion. But they’d exhausted themselves physically and would need something hearty to eat. Much as he had a taste for the finer foods he remembered eating in this house when he was younger, reason won out. He cleared his throat and said, “A ploughman’s board and two shepherd’s pies. Please.” His mother raised him to be polite, after all.

With a pop, food began to appear on the large desk. The ploughman’s board, artfully arranged on a large platter, came first. Followed by a pile of raw vegetables, meat, a sack of flour, butter, and some other things he didn’t recognize. Draco stared at it. Then he looked at Granger, who laughed, a quick breath of a laugh that turned into an outright fit of giggles. “Sorry!” She said, though she continued to laugh to herself. Lips pulled into a grin. “It must just be the ingredients for everything because there are no elves to prepare it. Since they were freed.”

“Right,” he said, pushing his jaw tighter. “Hilarious.” He tested all of it using his potion. Then she performed a series of her own spells before deeming it safe.

Raw carrots would be fine but as for the rest, he’d never bothered with cooking. It was a Muggle skill and neither of his parents knew culinary magic to share with him. Most of his meals were from takeaway places in his neighborhood or near the Ministry. At least he’d had the sense to order the cheese board. Perhaps there was still time to ask for more. He could live on salads for however long they’d be here.

“I’m not the best with pastry,” she said, waving her wand and conjuring bowls and cutting boards and setting the ingredients to start peeling and chopping themselves. Then she quickly pulled her hair back at her nape. “Baking is so much harder than cooking isn’t it? All the precise measurements. You’d think my potion aptitude would come in handy with it but for some reason I’m just more comfortable brewing Polyjuice than making dough.”

He watched her chop and stir and set things into a cauldron over the fire with efficiency.

“You cook?” He asked.

“Molly — Mrs. Weasley, she taught me a few things. I tend to prioritize work over food so most of my meals are pretty rudimentary. I hope a stew’s okay,” she said, vanishing the flour and other baking ingredients.

He tried to memorize what she did while she cooked. It seemed similar to brewing a potion, though the cuts of the vegetables weren’t as precise as he would have done. She kept looking in the cauldron, assessing her concoction, before moving on to the next step. Adding spices and salt. Some sort of green herb.

Soon the study smelled savory and he’d started to pick at the cheese and bread, smearing chutney over each bite. Granger produced a flask from her bag and poured large glasses of water for them with an aguamenti spell.

When the meal was ready she served him a large bowl of stew, steam curling into the air. It burned his mouth but it was good. Like a deconstructed shepherd’s pie. It was slightly better than the food he’d get at the Scroll & Raven. They ate in silence for a few minutes until she broke it to ask about his poison detector potion. She questioned him on its make and method, eyes bright with questions.

“I don’t get to do much with potions anymore,” she said between bites. Though he’d conjured napkins for them, hers remained tight in her hand instead of on her lap. “It’s one of the subjects I’ve neglected most since Hogwarts.”

“Guess that makes sense. Cursed objects don’t often overlap with potions. Unless the vessel itself is cursed.”

“Yes, exactly. Mostly I get to translate runes and write equations. Lot of charm work, which keeps things interesting.”

Draco finished his bowl and got a second helping, his missed meals catching up to his stomach. “Cursebreakers travel a lot,” he said as he offered to get her another serving.

“A fair bit, but I’m still pretty green so most of my assignments are in Britain.”

“Do you wish you got to go anywhere more exciting?” He asked. “Like Egypt or Australia or Japan or something?”

The edge of her shoulders curved inward, and she took a measured drink of water. “Maybe one day,” she said. “For now I’m not really looking for that much adventure.”

“Right. Just trolls and spelled kitchens with a former Death Eater in a house that won’t let you leave. Walk in the park,” he said, smirking slightly. She returned it weakly, and he wondered what it was that he’d said to ruin her playful mood. While she stood and vanished the rest of the stew from the cauldron and cleaned it, he cleared the desk of the remnants of their meal.

Then she made tea and he moved the conversation back to potions. Granger seemed most interested in the modifications Draco had made to several of the standard recipes in his kit.

“The thing about Dreamless Sleep is it loses its efficacy if you take it too frequently at the recommended dose. Increasing the dose isn’t recommended for a lot of reasons — horrible longterm side effects. But if you suspend a few drops within a standard calming draught—”

“How do you stop them from mixing together in the vial? The viscosity—”

“They have to be added at room temperature. If the calming draught is still too warm from the flames it just sort of absorbs the Dreamless Sleep. And you can’t let a calming draught cool too much, or it separates,” he explained, talking with his hands more than he usually did. It wasn’t like he could discuss potions with any of his friends.

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you’ve experimented with potions. You had a perfect score on the N.E.W.T.—” Granger turned red and took a long drink of tea.

“How do you know that?” Scores were confidential. He hadn’t even shared his with his parents.

She didn’t answer, just went about her task of spreading out parchment on the surface of the desk and making marks on the map Theo drew them.

He prodded her from across the desk. “I asked you a question.”

“Yes, I heard you,” she replied, turning away from him. Organizing her notes. Shuffling them and putting them into piles. Stalling.

“How do you know my scores, Granger?”

She finished what she was writing and flicked her eyes to him then back to her paper. “Because I sponsored you.”

“Sponsored me? What does that mean? I never agreed to that.” Aurors already checked on him regularly and that was invasive enough.

She sighed and pulled the hem of her jumper, refusing to meet his eye. Speaking quicker. “It means that I knew you would do well so I agreed to sponsor your education and in the event that you...misbehaved before or during the exams I would have been responsible.”

“How could you be held responsible for my alleged bad behavior? On what grounds?”

There was a brief flicker of something in her brown eyes before she stepped further away, behind the desk, and said, “I made a deal with Kingsley.”

“What kind of a deal?”

“It doesn’t matter it was years ago.”

He pressed closer, crowding her. The desk chair between them. “What kind of a deal, Granger?”

First she glared at him, then she put her hands at her hips. “If you must know, if you didn’t pass I would have lost my clearance with the Department of Mysteries.”

It felt like being nailed in the stomach by a bludger. For someone like Granger, the Department of Mysteries was a playground. The witches and wizards who worked in it were the best mentors. Lots of complex magics and secrets to discover. For her to lose access to such a resource because of him made his fist curl at his side. “Why?”

“Because I had to offer something of value to get them to agree to your right to sit the exams.” She gripped the edge of the desk, fingertips tight against the wood.

“No, why did you do it?”

“Because you’re smart. You always were, beneath it all. I know your marks were just as high as mine. Sometimes higher, in potions but Professor Snape wasn’t…And you deserved to finish your schooling just like the rest of the students in our year.”

“Because I got good marks you decided to interfere in my life? I never asked—”

“No, I interfered because it was what was right. If you couldn’t take the exams you wouldn’t have been able to get a job or—”

“I can’t get a job even with the bloody N.E.W.T.s! My whole position is conditional.” He was louder now, not quite yelling but building up to it.

“Your bloody N.E.W.T.s are the reason you get to fulfill your probation requirements in the auror department to begin with, Malfoy! It’s why you hold that position.”

“So what, you recommended me to work some desk job right in the middle of Magical Law Enforcement? Perfect place for someone like me, yeah? If I got the itch to curse someone at least Potter would be there to arrest me, was that it?”

“Why are you acting like this?” She shouted, so he shouted back.

“I’m not acting like anything—”

“Yes you are!”

“It’s my life,” he said, returning to a normal volume and narrowing his eyes at her.

“And you would have wasted it if you didn’t have your N.E.W.T.s, you know it as well as I do.”

“It’s none of your business if I did,” he spat. How could she have been so reckless? Tying herself to someone like him.

“Well, it’s a little late for that, Malfoy, I guess you’ll have to get over it.”

“I’m just trying to understand your reasoning for risking your career for me when you never—” he abruptly closed his mouth and looked away. Before he said something stupid.

“But it didn’t feel like a risk,” she said softly. “Not really. I knew you’d score well and with your aptitude for dueling and charmwork it seemed like a good career fit for you. So I mentioned it to Harry and he talked to Robards. It wouldn’t have been fair — to expect you to have a life without finishing school.”

“And what about the other pitiful Slytherins? Did Longbottom agree to sponsor Parkinson so she could sit her exams? Did I miss Potter offering to sponsor Theo?”

“You were the only one to take the mark,” she said, and he flinched at her bluntness. “It wasn’t fair of the board of governors to exclude you for something you were forced into when you weren’t of age.”

His one saving grace. Being underage and coerced. How lucky.

“So because it was only fair? It’s all about what was right? That’s all?”

She exhaled through her nose and yanked a book from the shelf behind her, crossing quickly to the other end of the room. “Yes. That’s all.”

They were quiet for a time. Granger flipped through whatever title she’d pulled from the bookshelf. Draco again considered asking their enchanted menu for a firewhiskey. Instead he watched the flames and tried to tell what hour it was by squinting at the tapestry. He could just make out some moonlight but it was obscured by the trees.

“How do you know I had better marks in potions than you?” He asked, breaking the silence. She’d moved to the sofa, her legs curled beneath her as she read her book.

“I may have glanced at your essay on shrinking potions in fifth year. Professor Snape gave you top marks. I lost a point for going over length.”

“Looking over my shoulder to compare grades then?” He wasn’t ready to accept her explanation. It nagged at him. The possible reasons she wasn’t saying. The other things she might know about him but kept hidden.

He didn’t hear her reply. Couldn’t occlude effectively when things were this clouded. She must have only made a statement and not asked him something else because she returned to her book. It let him go back to trying to clear his head. For a while he was able to focus on the flames and his breaths, pushing his thoughts to the back of his mind.

Eventually they decided to try to sleep for a few hours. A new door had yet to appear and neither of them would be ready to face whatever came next without some decent sleep.

“You should take the sofa,” he said as he shrugged his jumper over his head and folded it on the desk. Then he untucked his shirt to be more comfortable.

“Oh, no you’re taller,” she said, standing awkwardly in front of it and looking away from him. “I can manage on one of the chairs. I’ve slept in far worse conditions, usually in my office.” Draco looked at her while she rambled, then flicked his wand and transfigured one of the chairs into a comfortable lounge. With a rather fluffy pillow, just to show off.

Granger extinguished the lights, leaving just the glowing embers in the fireplace. The Guardian hadn’t returned. They both settled themselves on their makeshift beds, cutting any semblance of a formal goodnight short. He thought about the vial of Dreamless Sleep in his kit. Of letting the potion rob him of consciousness and the last few hours of conversation.

For a while he stared at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the dying fire and waiting for her breaths to slow. When he glanced over at her she was curled against the back of the couch, arms wrapped around herself. Breath even and slow, a shiver on the exhale. With a bit of wandless magic he summoned his scarf from the coatrack she’d made them when they arrived. Then he transfigured it into a blanket and padded over to her side of the room. He let the blanket fall over her, gently unfolding the end and draping it over her shoulders. Curls tickling the back of his hand. The lounge was comfortable enough for his legs to stretch out to the end. He punched his pillow down. Covering his eyes with his ink-stained arm, he tried to stop the thoughts from racing behind them.

Chapter 7

She dreamt of the night letters were carved into her skin. Usually, when she had a nightmare, it was of the cruciatus. The pain shivering through her veins, drawing her up from below before slamming her back down in endless agony. But this time was different. This time she lay on the floor of a drawing room, watching the light reflected on the chandelier. Blood trickled from the cuts on her arm, warm rivulets that stung. And then she felt the cool rinse of dittany. It was a potion that, when applied, had a unique temperature and feeling on the skin. She watched the letters fade beneath long fingers, heard the whispered incantations, and as she blinked up at his pale face, the dream slipped away from her.

It was dark in Theodore Nott, Sr.’s study. The fire had long burnt out. Malfoy seemed to still be asleep on the lounge he’d transfigured himself. Forearm covering his face and long limbs stretched out on the velvet. Perfectly still. As she sat up a blanket pooled at her waist. It was softest cashmere, a beautiful dove grey. The exact shade of the scarf Malfoy had been wearing when they arrived. She folded it and draped it over the back of the sofa. Running her hand over it one last time before sorting through her bag.

There were things she thought she’d get to keep secret. From her Muggle neighbors, that she was a witch. Her use of the time turner in third year. And the fact that she’d risked her own career to convince the Minister for Magic and therefore the Hogwarts Board of Governors to allow Draco Malfoy to take the N.E.W.T.s.

The Sorting Hat sang many songs, and while none of them were dulcet they were lyrically memorable. Fifth year, in particular, with its call for unity among the Houses. The worry that sorting did more harm than good. Hermione herself had taken a long time to be sorted. And while she might have the courage of her own House, she had the sharp mind of a Ravenclaw, the loyalty of a Hufflepuff, and the ambition of a Slytherin, too. Being put in a box, labelled as solely one thing for the rest of one’s life, simply wasn’t fair.

He was never supposed to know. No one was. That was her arrangement with Kingsley when she’d gone to his office on a hot day in July three years ago. When she demanded his secretary find time for a meeting. The Minister had been surprised to see her so soon after the final battle but they’d always gotten along, and he welcomed her into his office with a warm smile and an almost fatherly squeeze of her shoulder.

“Hermione, to what do I owe the pleasure?” He’d asked, straightening his elaborate lilac robes as he sat behind the grand desk at the center of the large office. The windows showed the atrium of the Ministry but could be charmed to display pastoral fields for tranquility. Sheep grazing under fluffy clouds. It was a comfortable temperature from cooling charms and Kingsley had brought some of his style and culture to the decor.

She’d skipped the niceties and went straight to the root of her problem. Professor McGonagall had written her about taking her N.E.W.T.s. at the start of term. When she’d asked if their entire year would be at Hogwarts for the exams, McGonagall had confirmed that every student had been invited to sit for them except for Draco Malfoy. And that hadn’t felt right to Hermione.

So she’d done something about it. Signed a binding agreement with Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic. One that would take immediate effect should he step out of line.

Then she went on with her life. Comfortable in the thought that no one would speak of it again. Now she felt a tightness in her chest. Why had she interfered? It was clear that someone of her background meant little to Malfoy when they were children, but if war taught her anything it was that people can change — for good or ill. She’d watched him throughout sixth year, when he’d looked one sleepless night away from a breakdown. Saw his face in the Room of Requirement the night of the final battle, terror behind his usually cold eyes. It was that face she’d seen in her mind when she’d read McGonagall’s letter. The face of a frightened boy, forced into something he wasn’t ready for. And maybe didn’t want to be a part of.

The endless chasm that was her satchel was less organized than it had been when she’d left her flat the day before. Between being jostled throughout the kitchens and the dungeons and Malfoy’s exploration of her essentials when they’d first arrived, any semblance of order was gone. She set it on the floor and began to levitate its contents onto the desk, recreating her categories — potions, note taking, spare clothes, first aid. Most of it was shrunken, and though she’d been a practicing witch for a decade, she still felt her heart skip as she performed a spell to return everything to her satchel with a single motion.

Though she tried to be quiet, the sound must have woken him. With a near silent sigh he stretched his arms high above his head, popping his joints.

“Breakfast?” He said, rising from the lounge. Hair mussed from sleep. A mark on his face from where his sleeve had pressed against his cheek.

“I haven’t ordered anything yet,” she replied, flicking a tea cup towards him. Ignoring the way she blushed a little at his current state. “Tea or coffee?”

“Look at this lovely teacup you’ve created. Perfectly thin porcelain, well done.” He cradled it in his hand then lit the rest of the candles in the room and set a low fire. “Think I’ll need coffee after that,” he said with another stretch of his spine.

“Were you cold?” She asked, her eyes sweeping over the blanket he’d transfigured her.

“I cast warming charms whenever I woke up,” he said, snatching the enchanted menu from the desk. “Coffee, milk, sugar.” As he spoke, each of the items appeared on the desk. Whole coffee beans, which Hermione ground then set to brew in a French press she transfigured her tea pot into.

“We could have stoked the fire or slept in shifts—”

“There’s no need,” he said, contemplating what uncooked things he’d want delivered to the study. “I haven’t slept more than an hour or two at a time without a potion in years. I’m used to it.”

“You haven’t slept a full night in years?” She asked. After the war was over and she could finally breathe again she vacillated between sleeping over twelve hours or merely three. Some days she couldn’t seem to leave her bed until well into midday. Others she was awake until dawn, then wide eyed a few hours later. A side effect of grief.

“Maybe end of fourth year? Probably why I’ve experimented with Dreamless Sleep so much.”

“Even then? But you were always—”

“Tell me, Granger, could you sleep soundly with Death Eaters in your home and threats against your mother? Would your wand under your pillow be the only thing you needed to drift into slumber? No. So what should I ask this useless kitchen to send us for breakfast?”

That was the end of that conversation, she thought, chewing the inside of her cheek. He wouldn’t look at her. Instead he tossed the parchment towards her and began a valiant effort of pretending to read the titles of books on the shelf. Then she watched him take a deep breath through the nose, eyes closed. When he opened them he seemed more collected. Calmer. A sort of blankness in his eyes. And she wondered if it was occlumency. One magical area she hadn’t quite figured out yet, though she’d read a handful of books on the subject. It seemed to be something best learned from a good teacher. Harry was rubbish at it, so she hadn’t bothered lately.

“Eggs, bread, sausages,” she said as she scanned the menu. “Er, anything else you’d like?”

He muttered something under his breath and when he caught her stare he shook his head. “That’s fine.”

Within minutes she had the sausages simmering in a pan over the fire and the eggs frying in another. The coffee had brewed nicely, and she was grateful for the caffeine. They ate heartily, avoiding conversation in favor of watching the fire and the tapestry above it. Sometime during their meal a door appeared to the right.

Their stay at Nott manor was far from over. Malfoy sighed.

“It looks like the doors in the private wing. Reminds me of the door to Theo’s room,” he said. They both vanished the remains of their breakfast and she put the rest of her things away, slinging her satchel over her shoulder. The door was ornate, a beautifully carved dark wood with gold details.

“Knowing how his father felt about him I think it’s unlikely to be Theo’s room,” Hermione mused.

“No, and besides that, Theo cursed his door to scream violently if anyone else came near it.”

“Like a security alarm.”

Malfoy stared at her a moment. “Sure. We should prepare for it to be Senior’s room. Merlin knows what sort of things he kept in his bedchamber.”

They kept their wands at the ready. Hermione cast some of her detection spells, though she doubted their efficacy after the events of the previous day. A troll should have registered. Then she carved another rune into the door’s surface, Wunjo. Hoping that the rune’s joyous meaning might permeate the room they were about to face.

Malfoy opened the door to reveal a small sitting room. The colors were different from the study. Instead of the deep purples and dark wood, everything was soft like dusk. Mauve silk upholstered the settee and ottoman. The walls were pale blue, almost grey, with damask flowers reaching towards the ceiling. A white marble fireplace roared to life, and Hermione prepared for a chimera or some other beast to manifest in its flames but the logs snapped and the flames remained normal.

There was a second door across from them. Identical to the one they’d entered through. Above the fireplace was a portrait of the most beautiful woman Hermione had ever seen. The frame was gilded, and the brushstrokes so lifelike she almost thought it was a photograph. The woman had dark skin and sharp features, with hair that fell in a thick, silky curtain to her waist. She wore bright robes in shades of turquoise and delicate gold jewelry. On her lap was a small dragon. The Guardian. Looking like a cat, purring in its sleep as her hand smoothed its scales.

“That’s Theo’s mother,” Malfoy said, confirming her assumption. “We must be in her rooms.”

“Rooms, plural?”

“Yes, this is the sitting room. I’d venture that beyond that door there is her bedchamber, a washroom, and a wardrobe. The magic of the house must consider it all one room.”

The dark eyes of Theo’s mother settled over them, though they weren’t unkind.

“Hello, Zahra,” Malfoy said. She inclined her head in greeting, though she remained skeptical. “I’m—we’re friends with your son, Theo. He’s grown now.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. The portrait didn’t speak, but she did offer them a sad smile. “I don’t suppose you could help us?”

Zahra Nott shook her head and spoke, her voice deep and melodic. “I’m afraid my husband kept many things to himself. This is my only portrait, so I’m not privy to the rest of the house. Don’t touch anything in my jewelry box, just in case.”

“Right then,” Malfoy said, dragging a hand over his jaw. “This seems to be the receiving room for the real task. Shall we?”

Hermione nodded. “Thank you,” she said to the portrait, then crossed the room to the other door. Testing it briefly before swinging it open.

Inside was a lavish bedroom, decorated in the same style as the previous room. Everything seemed frozen in time. As if at any moment the witch herself would walk into the room in a silk dressing gown and chide them for invading her privacy. A large canopy bed took up most of the space, draped in bright purple silk embroidered with tropical birds and plants. Beside it was a photograph of a large family in a rainbow of robes. Their smiles brilliant as they laughed together in an endless loop of joy.

The wardrobe was full of colorful robes like the ones in the photograph, but all pushed to the back, as if they didn’t get much use. The rest of the clothing was more austere, like traditional wizarding robes. Nothing in the wardrobe seemed to hold any secrets. The bathroom was just a bathroom, a bit on the opulent side but still a bathroom. Without any warning bells thus far they continued combing the main space.

Small side tables held ornate floral bouquets in patterned vases. The petals as healthy as if they were just placed there that morning. The plush carpet beneath their feet was imported. There were a few paintings on the wall, mostly landscapes that were far too colorful to be of anywhere in Britain.

The room could have belonged to a wealthy Muggle, if not for a rather large, strange piece of furniture against the wall.

It was like a chest of drawers, only the tabletop was divided into compartments lined with lavender velvet and encased in smoked glass. The center of it stretched nearly as tall as Hermione, showing off a rather gaudy tiara in a gold-studded glass case. Some of the compartments held jewelry, others ancient relics. The wood was rotting in places, eaten away by dark curses. Parts of it crumbling before them. Something about it reminded her of a museum. Like this was an exhibit of a wealthy donor. If that donor had left a half dozen nasty curses for the curator.

“Is this her jewelry box?” Hermione asked aloud. It was far larger than she’d pictured — it was the largest piece of furniture in the room besides the bed. She cast a few basic detection charms over it, and they instantly lit several compartments with the glow of common curses. Things she could reverse in her sleep, really.

“She specifically said don’t touch anything, Granger.”

“I’m not touching I’m assessing. This is my job. You need to not touch anything. And stand a bit further back.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes at her. “I saw worse collections of cursed objects by the time I was fifteen.”

He looked away from her, likely remembering their earlier conversation. She didn’t want to pry, but she was tempted. The more he begrudgingly opened up to her the more curious she was. Maybe if she just asked—

“What sort of curses are we looking at here? The magical signatures are all dark, of course.” Malfoy stood a few feet away, eying the corner of the dresser, the spot where dark swirls of smoke dissipated.

Hermione approached the hulking piece of furniture and catalogued the compartments. Most of the contents were benign. She traced a diagnostic spell into the air, this time to test out the strength of each curse. It wasn’t foolproof but it would help her decide where to start. Some people preferred to start with the hardest problem before them. To spend hours on the most difficult thing. But she preferred to get the simple things out of the way first. The quick little nuisances that she could swat away like gnats. Leaving her with the time she needed to handle the larger problem. Like removing curses from half a dozen trinkets and bobbles.

First she summoned a bracelet from its spot inside a velvet compartment. It looked tarnished from a distance, but she recognized the oily film of a memory curse along its metal chain. If it made contact with skin, whoever had touched it would forget — what they were doing in that room, who they were, that they had magic. The potency of the curse would determine the level of forgetfulness. A weaker version of the curse was often used for security purposes. She encountered a lot of them on coin purses and more traditional jewelry boxes. This bracelet had a stronger curse to it.

There was a prickle at the back of her neck, bringing warmth up to her ears. With a quick glance over her shoulder she caught him watching her. It wasn’t like the stares she’d get on busier nights in Diagon Alley, from curious people craning their necks for a glimpse at one of the Golden Trio. Or the patient yet aggrieved way some of her colleagues would watch her puzzle out a curse that they failed to crack. Sometimes it was as though Malfoy was learning from her, mentally putting notes down while she cast a different spell or more complex bit of runic translation. Other times it was closer to observing, with a subtlety that didn’t quite escape her notice. She liked the way he looked at her. As if he was taking his time to absorb her features. As if he liked what he saw.

“What are you doing?” He asked, standing just beside her, but not too close to the bracelet she’d been trying to crack.

“I’m working,” she replied, whispering an incantation.

“I meant the runes — that’s not been in anything I’ve read about curses or curse breaking. Nor have I seen it when assisting your department with dark objects.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d admitted to further research and being interested in learning. She was intrigued, but kept her focus.

“Oh, well I don’t suppose you would have.”

“What’s that mean?” Malfoy asked, crossing his arms and tapping his wand against his sleeve. “I’ve read just about every modern curse breaking book.”

Hermione continued to pull runes from the curse, reading its magical signature to determine the curse’s root. “It means that it’s a technique I’ve developed, so it wouldn’t be in any book or journal you’ve read.”

“You made it up?”

She nodded, nearly finished with her initial assessment of the cursed piece of jewelry. “Runic magic is ancient — more ancient than most things we understand. But I’ve read a lot of theory. By finding the root of the curse and tracing the magical signature back to its origin point, I can determine what type of curse it is and what I’ll need to break it. Though this one is fairly obviously a memory curse. Anyway, most cursebreakers just start trying different methods and cast shield charms in between, in case something backfires. This helps move things along and saves me the trouble of additional work.”

With a final flourish she cleansed the stones in the silver setting, revealing a dainty yet lavish sapphire bracelet. It was her own birthstone, and perhaps Zahra Nott’s as well. As she moved on to the other side of the jewelry box, she turned back to see if Malfoy was following her. Instead he stood still, his chin in one hand, with his thumb pressed over his lips. Brows crumpled together.

“What?” She asked.

“Sorry, I’m just trying to understand how you’re not running the entire bloody curse breaking department if this is the sort of thing you develop on the job. Can’t believe your boss would see something like that and just let you languish at the bottom of the pyramid. Junior curse breaker,” he muttered, then ruffled his hair and circled the opposite way around the jewelry table.

“I’ve never shown it to anyone,” she said, tilting her head down slightly. When she glanced up his brows had climbed high up his forehead.

“Why not? Isn’t this just the sort of thing you would have fallen over yourself to show a professor? To prove yourself?”

Hermione swallowed, then cast a protection charm before opening the next compartment that held a cursed object — a silver letter opener. Probably cursed to cut whoever reached for it. Likely a wound that would refuse to close. Common enough, especially in a Death Eater’s house. “Because I don’t want the attention, if I’m being honest.”

While she worked she knew he was gaping at her, like so many others did during her long days at the Ministry. Though she tried to ignore it, she soon felt him inch closer to her, observing her wand movements and listening to her incantations.

In a softer tone he asked, “What do you mean by that?”

“That I don’t like attention?”

“It’s more than that, though,” he said. “You tolerate your celebrity. Why aren’t you pushing for more at your job? You always pushed. Before.”

No one had noticed that she kept to herself. She did good work, her superiors liked her. But he was right. She didn’t ask for more.

“The reason I don’t travel— the reason I’m still low level is because I like the quiet,” she said, admitting it aloud. “When it’s just me in a lab, trying to crack a curse, I get to make mistakes.”

“I find it hard to believe you make many.” He watched her return the cleansed letter opener to its place. Summoning another object.

“That’s just it, isn’t it? The Golden Girl isn’t allowed to make mistakes but Hermione, a junior curse breaker, can.”

“You’re under a lot of pressure,” Malfoy said. “I can understand that.”

“Sometimes I just want to be left alone with my work. Where no one’s waiting to see the Brightest Witch of Her Age. Everyone wants to know what it was like but they only want to hear the highlights,” she spoke rapidly, casting her spells nonverbally when she could. “It’s never about what it was like for me — for all of us. Living with the fear. To the rest of the world… it’s like we were invincible. But we’re not.” In the pause of her ministrations she let her fingers brush against her forearm. The scars beneath her sleeve. Then she shook herself out of it and returned to her work.

Malfoy stayed quiet. Watching her break the curse on a silver hairbrush, then an engraved compact, and finally, snuffing out the last of the lingering cloud of dark magic on the furniture. Leaving nothing but an old, dilapidated dresser in her wake. A treasure chest for a woman who had seemed trapped, like they were.

“We have at least one thing in common,” he said at last.

“And what’s that?”

“Everyone’s waiting for us to screw up.”

Hardly a day went by without an opinion piece in the Prophet about those who’d been given lenient sentencing after the war. How they should have gone to Azkaban instead. All the longterm effects of Voldemort’s regime. The names besmirched by actions. Like Theo, doomed to forever walk in the shadow of his father and carry his name.

“Well,” she said, offering him a smile, “I’d say we’re doing quite alright so far. Haven’t botched the mission yet.”

“Plenty of time for me to fuck up, though.” He didn’t smile back, not completely, but she was pleased to see the hard set of his mouth soften. Like the muscles were remembering just how it worked.

They determined that there was nothing else in the room. All of their detection charms were silent. They chanced opening the door to the bathroom again and found it clear, taking turns with the shower. Hermione’s muscles still ached a little from the encounter with the troll. It hadn’t been enough to take a pain potion. The heat from the water was soothing and she had to force herself out of it. When she came back to the main room, drying her hair with a spell, he gave her a slightly odd look before taking his turn.

While she stood watch she gave herself permission to be vain. The lavender shampoo Zahra had was nice but she missed her usual kind. A Muggle formula that smelled like sweet mint and was meant for her hair type. She worried about how her curls would look, briefly having flashbacks of her frizzy days at school, and quickly tended to them before he came back. In the years since the Yule Ball she’d learned a few tricks for taming her mane, though it remained mostly wild. And she liked it that way.

Malfoy emerged with a cloud of steam, hair damp against his scalp, almost like the slick style he’d worn it in when they were younger. He must have noticed her staring because he cast a drying charm and the strands settled into their newer, messy on purpose look. Shorter on the sides and longer on top.

“If we’re stuck here for a long time I’ll miss that shower,” he said, glancing back at it once more before they returned to the sitting room. Hermione nodded in agreement, lamenting that she left the tent at her flat. It had a private bathroom and a full kitchen.

Zahra’s portrait watched them carefully. The Guardian had moved from her lap to perch on her shoulder, looming high above them.

“Were you successful?” She asked. They looked to the left and saw the door that would lead back to the study.

“It would appear so,” Malfoy said.

“Are you Narcissa’s son? I see much of her in you, though your looks favor your father.”

“Draco,” he replied with a nod. “And this is Hermione Granger.”

She wondered if it felt strange for him to say her first name. If he ever had before. He didn’t stumble over all the syllables.

“I wish you luck on your quest. You’ll need it, if my husband was involved,” she said, twisting the large ring on her finger. Just before they reached the door she called out, “My son—” Malfoy stopped and turned back to face the portrait. “Theo. Is he alive? Is he happy?”

For a moment he looked at her, no doubt seeing the similarities in her features compared to his friend. And Hermione’s heart ached for her, to have never met her son. To not know what type of man he had become.

“He’s trying to be,” he replied. “Most of the time he is.”

Zahra smiled, and there was a sheen to her dark eyes, but she nodded and gathered the Guardian onto her lap once more.

Once they were back inside the study the door disappeared, leaving them to wait for the next task.

“I guess we were wrong about Senior’s game. The rooms must be random, considering the relative ease of the one we just left,” Malfoy said, taking a seat at the desk. The light in the tapestry was still dim, likely early morning.

Hermione said, “For the average wizard, even an experienced auror, it would have been more difficult to extract the curses from the room. They don’t teach your department about more obscure curses, just the violent ones. I’m not sure the curse of the hairbrush would have been have been a known fix.”

“Oh so you’re saying it wasn’t actually easy. Sounds like we’re fucked.”

“More like if you weren’t always researching on your own, you certainly would be,” she said, letting him know that she’d noticed his efforts.

“Good thing I was paired with such a swot, then,” he said, and this time he did smile. A little bit crooked, but a smile all the same.

Notes:

Posting a day early because it has been A Week(tm) here in the States. Thank you to everyone who has left kudos or a comment on this story. They really make my day and I love replying to them!

As a bit of a teaser for next week...Chapter 8 is one of my favorites. xx Lu

Chapter 8

“What do you think is in there?” Granger asked. She’d insisted they rest for half an hour. Brought out the kettle and various teas from her expanded satchel. Sugar cubes and the honey, too. He was starting to like tea service with her. All that was missing was a plate of chocolate biscuits.

They stared at an imposing double door. Rich, dark mahogany with delicate carvings. Little golden vines that curled into each other forming an endless ring along the edges. The handles were polished brass, the metal gleaming.

Draco sipped his Earl Grey, sweetened with a generous spoon of honey. “Theo said there’s a ballroom. Ours has doors about this size. Could be that.”

Granger smoothed the parchment of Theo’s map, tracing the rooms with her finger as they reviewed them. So far they’d only been able to accurately guess the dungeon, and that had been easy, given what the doorway looked like and the dark steps leading downward. Zahra’s rooms they’d at least deduced that it was a private chamber. Guessing seemed more for fun than anything else. If one could have fun at Nott Manor, which was unlikely.

“Sculpture room…What do you suppose that even is? Like the one at the Louvre?”

“Perhaps but not nearly as large,” he replied, noting the slight look of surprise on her face that he had been to the Muggle museum. “The Notts aren’t exactly art collectors but it’s probably where their more valuable paintings and sculptures are. Busts of long dead ancestors. Antiquities…”

“And do you have one of those too? A museum in your modest home?” Her tone was light. Teasing. She sipped her tea, hiding what looked like a smile.

“No, the Malfoy’s have always preferred to display art. Anything worth bragging about is where it can be seen,” he said, then added, “My mother scolded me from a young age about climbing the statue of Beedle the Bard in the library. But his robes had the perfect foot holds so I rarely listened.”

That particular anecdote earned a laugh, and he memorized it. The way her curls had shifted as her cheeks bloomed. The breathy trill at the end.

“Why were you climbing it in the first place?” She asked. “For the thrill?”

“So I could read from the top of the shelves without being bothered and see anyone else come in.” Like his father.

“Could it be the library?” She asked, her eyes bright in the way that only books would excite her. What would she think of the library at the Manor? Or the smaller one he’d set up in his flat, in what was meant to be a second bedroom?

With a last drink of his tea he stood and patted his pockets, finding everything where it should be. “Only one way to find out, Granger. Are you ready?”

She vanished their tea set and checked her satchel, slipping it over her shoulder. It would have been gentlemanly to offer to carry it for her, he lamented briefly. But he was afraid if he offered now she’d take it as an offense.

“Is it even worth casting detection spells anymore?” She said as she did just that. Tracing her wand over the door and whispering her litany of incantations.

Draco watched her, content to observe as he’d been doing all morning. Inventing her own techniques and keeping them to herself, almost shy about it when he’d asked her what she was doing. In his limited experience with a limited social circle and limited colleagues who would speak to him, once school was finished most magical folk didn’t bother to pursue knowledge. Unless it was necessary for their career, like the Auror aptitude tests. But even those didn’t look to things like potions or runes or arithmancy. New charms were always in fashion, touted about in the lifestyle pages of the Prophet and Witch Weekly and other periodicals. Yet Hermione Granger spent her free time creating her own curse breaking techniques just for herself. As if everything else in her life belonged to the wizarding world. And if the way her name was splashed across the pages of the papers were any indication, it did.

He could understand that. When every move was monitored it made it difficult to know what belonged only to you and not an audience. Brewing in his lab was about as close to privacy as he got, and even that had the occasional meddling from his mother. Or visit from Theo or Blaise, wondering when he was going to stop playing potions and come out and get drunk with them.

“Malfoy?” She said, and he hummed in acknowledgement. “I asked if you could cover me. I’ll need both hands to open the door and—”

“Of course,” he replied, and assumed a looser stance. Taking a calming breath to clear his thoughts.

Before them was a pristine hall of black and white marble tiles, lined with portraits and gilded murals on the ceilings. Magical beasts and beings floating far above their heads, tamed by witches and wizards in ethereal garb not unlike a Muggle cathedral. Austere portraits lined the walls. Little podiums held small vases and golden goblets and other antiques. Things no one had use for but that showed wealth and status.

The end of the short hall spilled into a large room full of towering sculptures. Their steps echoed and the air was still and cold. Skylights lit the room in soft midmorning light. Everything was clean. The sculptures creamy marble. The paintings rich colors. It might have been beautiful, if it was in any other house.

The portraits on the wall watched them intently. Turning from their seats in plush chairs or spurring their beasts around to get a glimpse at the intruders. On the far left was row after row of sculpted faces, thin like masks. And perhaps that’s all they were. But the look of terror on their visages churned Draco’s stomach. It made him think of Medusa, with a sort of morbid fear that those faces had once been living. Had once been Muggles — like Medusa, and we’ll end up stone. When he’d made that quip it was a lighthearted joke. Now it seemed plausible. He angled himself to keep them from Granger’s line of sight.

To the right were rows of busts of Nott lords and ladies, with matching portraits behind each of them. Likenesses of the head of the household and their bride, going back centuries. None of them looked much like Theo. He’d taken after his mother and her dark features and skin. The Nott line was pale, with mostly wet sand-colored hair, and small blue eyes. Theo’s eyes were an olive green, his skin dark as teak, his hair a wavy brown that was almost black. The only things he’d inherited from his father’s unremarkable looks were thick eyebrows and above average height.

One of the portraits, labelled William Theodore Nott, openly scoffed at them. He had a fanciful mustache and impractical robes. Eighteenth century prat. Muttering something about the defiling of the house with blood traitors and impure blood.

“Can you burn?” Draco hissed under his breath, close enough that the portrait heard but Granger didn’t. Her attention was elsewhere. Observing the stark marble and dark wooden blocks the statues stood on.

“I suppose calling it a sculpture room was appropriate,” she said. All throughout the room were famous pureblood witches and wizards. The occasional hound, carved from white stone. The Notts had once bred hunting dogs, trained to sniff out Muggles. It seemed that the favorites were commemorated in stone. There were dozens of eyes on them — painted and stone. Those of the portraits stared openly. The statues were still. Haunting little carved orbs on solid stone faces.

Draco looked for the Guardian, expecting to see a massive stone dragon at the center of the room. Amethyst eyes the size of a quaffle and wings spanning half the space. Mouth large enough to walk through. Instead it surveyed them from an enormous oil painting along the back wall. Its head rested on its claws. Watching them without blinking. A dusky sunset turned its black scales a rainbow of shades that rippled as it breathed.

Some of the statues carried stone wands. Others held swords or staffs. A few bore shields.

“Guardian,” Draco called out to the painted dragon. It blinked at him. After a few minutes without a response he tried again. “Guardian, what can you tell us about our task?”

The dragon blinked and turned its head away. “Fucking useless,” he said, and rolled his sleeves up to prepare for whatever madness would throw itself at them.

They slowly stepped around the perimeter of the room. The statues were all from different centuries so their sculpted clothing ranged from thick, pleated robes to the more modern wizarding robes of the last few decades. Nothing looked remotely Muggle. Some of the portions of the statues were exaggerated — the height of one wizard as if he was half giant, and no Nott would have allowed that sort of person in their home, even as art. Another was almost a miniature, and reminded Draco of the Bloody Baron, if he were corporeal. There were a few that looked as though they’d once graced the grounds, only to be moved inside when the dreary rain left pock marks and tear stains over the faces of the Three Strange Sisters. Or maybe the artist had intended for them to look that way. Eerie and haunted. Tinged green.

“I think…” Granger started, then swallowed her words, glancing around the room once more.

“Out with it.” The more they lingered the more uneasy he felt. They took tentative steps to the middle of the room. Pausing atop golden tiles laid out in the Nott family crest. He scuffed his foot over the center tile, leaving a mark from his dragon leather boot.

She took a steadying breath. “In first year, with the philosopher’s stone,” she said, pausing to examine a small pixie clinging to the stone skirt of a witch Draco didn’t recognize.

“The rumor mill had a few ideas about that. Some of the older Slytherins swore that Potter murdered Quirrell.”

“There’s no way they knew the half of it,” she said with a sigh. “This house—a lot of it reminds me of that. The professors put together their own lines of defense to protect the stone.”

“And clearly those worked well if three first years managed to get through, including Weasley.”

She rolled her eyes and continued. “Snape’s was potions and a riddle, very clever. But Professor McGonagall…”

He waited for her to continue, following her widening eyes as they took in the sculptures in front of them. The subtle shift from stillness to movement. Heads tilted in their direction. Hunters notched their bows. A giant statue of Salazar Slytherin gripped its wooden staff tightly. Angling its body towards them.

“Best tell me quickly, Granger,” he said between his teeth. Watching as every statue in the room faced them. Internally he ran through a long list of obscenities. They were fucked.

“McGonagall transfigured a giant chess set. We had to take the place of pieces and play our way out of the room.”

“Despite the checkered tile this doesn’t look like a chessboard to me,” he said.

“No but I have a feeling they won’t allow us to move around the room. Particularly to get to that,” she said, and pointed to a small table at the very back, tucked beneath the portrait of the Guardian. A box rested atop it. Lit by a single beam of light, like a bloody prophecy. There might as well have been a glowing sign above it, directing them to it.Take your prize if you dare.

Once his eyes snapped back, the first arrow flew. Granger’s silent shield charm encircled them and a volley of arrows soon clattered to the floor. A hunting party and their dogs hopped down from their pedestals and circled them, bows notched. The hounds snarling and snapping against their leads.

While Granger held the shield charm he went through some of the tactics he’d learned in training with the Aurors.

“We can’t let the bow and arrows pick us off,” he said, raising his wand and keeping her at his shoulder. “We need to come at them from both sides. I’ll get over there—”

“Shouldn’t we stay close?”

“Until we’ve taken care of this,” he said, as another round of arrows pierced her protego, “It doesn’t matter if we’re close. We’re easy targets. We need to keep moving. Keep their aim off.”

“Right. Okay. What do you want me to do, Malfoy? I can’t hold this forever!”

“You just need to hold it long enough for me to get over there. When they start to fall, blast through as many of them as you can but keep moving. I don’t trust the rest of them.”

The remaining statues were still only watching them, waiting for the first round of troops to finish their attack before leaving their posts. Draco held his wand at his side and skirted towards the outer wall, dashing through the pedestals in a serpentine path. An arrow grazed his upper arm. He threw a few quick hexes over his shoulder, knocking down some of the hunters.

Once he’d put his back to the wall he began to use the empty pedestals to his advantage by levitating them horizontally to the floor, sweeping them across the entire hunting party. They stumbled over each other and over their stone hounds, arrows missing their mark to clatter to the floor.

He rushed back over to Granger, who had begun shouting “Incarcerous!” at the remaining hunters, binding them together and leaving them in heaps on the tile. Before he could check in on her the remaining statues alighted. Some had staffs or swords, made of stone, but the largest statue in the hall, the towering Salazar Slytherin, held a staff made of carved wood and topped with a pale crystal.

The first strike came from a rather ugly old wizard, whose nose was thin and pointed like a rat’s. He held a broadsword in one hand and a shield in the other. With a powerful punch, he brought the sword inches from Draco’s gut. Granger pushed him out of the way and began to parry the attacks. The Three Strange Sisters approached, each holding one of their symbols: the thread of life, the silver shears, the book of fate.

They fought back to back, like they had in the kitchens, only now they were more used to the other’s style. When he was more logical, casting spells in a specific order, she was able to improvise with her quick thinking and ingenuity. Sometimes it was reversed, and she was the one to think in stages while he flailed about, hoping something would hit its mark.

The Sister with the thread of life wielded it like a whip, lassoing his ankle and yanking him to the ground. Before the others could advance on him he’d severed it, then blown the statue to pieces. He could feel the bruise on his ankle from the force of it, and the warm trickle of blood against his sock.

Granger tussled with Morgan le Fay, in elaborate robes. Her features beautiful yet terrifying. Both the stone carving and the witch fighting it had wild curly hair and focused expressions. Draco had to tear his gaze back to his own opponents. The remaining Strange Sisters.

A gasp of pain from behind him made him react quickly, pushing the two statues together with a shove. Their heads knocked and for a moment they were too dazed to fight back. It gave him time to shield Granger from the hunting dogs summoned by le Fay. She’d been hit at some point, he could see the cut at her brow. A thin line of blood creeping toward her hairline. That didn’t stop her from unleashing a flock of birds, conjured from the rubble, to circle them and chip away at the statues advancing towards them.

Their battle continued like that for a while, protecting each other where they could and taking hits when they couldn’t defend themselves quickly enough. They worked well together, Draco thought, as though they were complimentary.

Granger’s birds swooped around them, cursing the hounds and taking large chunks of the grander statues in the process. The Strange Sisters advanced on him, and he pressed closer to deal with them, keeping one eye on the statue of Slytherin. It hadn’t done anything but watch and take cautious steps around the room. Observing like some emperor at a gladiator match. And Draco wasn’t about to let them be the spectacle.

With a rush of his magic he upended the Sisters with levicorpus, and in a bit of inspiration from the false Mad-Eye Moody who’d tormented him in fourth year, he slammed them down to the floor then back to the ceiling until they collapsed in a pile of broken pieces. He turned to grin at Granger, pleased with himself, but she wasn’t behind him. The fight had brought him further from the center of the room, stepping around abandoned pilasters.

Where was she? He turned, looking across the room for her. When his eyes at last caught her the air in his chest tightened. She was still fighting the statue of Morgan le Fay, nearly pressed against the wall, eyes wide in terror as its stone arm held her tightly. Kicking her legs where they dangled above the ground. Holding onto the statue’s sleeve with both hands. She’d lost her wand.

He twisted and blasted the surrounding statues backward with an earthquake hex to the tile floor. Then he was running, pushing stone hunting dogs out of the way with his boots and rounding them up in the corner, creating a corral out of fallen statues. Keeping their snapping jaws at bay. He had to get to her. That was the only thing he could think, like a mantra over and over. Get to her, get to her now. Granger yelled and he moved quicker, shouting spells at the statue gripping her by her clothes, pulling back its arm to punch. He managed to break its arm off, and with the surprise from his spell as an advantage, Granger summoned her wand into her hand and blitzed through the center of the statue. Emerging triumphant and rushing to his side once more.

“Thanks,” she breathed, squeezing his forearm. Her fingers pressing against the tattoo there.

From high above them two harpies dove to the floor, landing beside the statue of Slytherin. It raised its arm, pointing towards them, and the harpies fluttered closer. They couldn’t make sound, but they looked as though they were screeching as they flapped their wings and circled them.

One of the stone creatures dove towards them, and Granger took out one of its wings with a blasting spell. Its twin zigzagged, making it harder to hit.

They fought to the back corner of the room, forced further away from the Guardian and his treasure. Draco facing off against the towering marble figure of Salazar Slytherin while Granger held her own against the harpy. The Hogwarts founder moved faster than something of its size should have been able to move, knocking debris to the side with its dark staff. The crystal at the top glowed faintly in the light from the ceiling. He could hear Granger’s attacks but she was out of his eye line.

None of his spells were landing and he knew his aim was near perfect — he’d had top marks in training for target accuracy. Something about its staff was more than transfiguration. It wasn’t just a weapon. There was magic in the wood.

He slung a few spells to slow the statue down but its marble seemed impervious to the impedimenta charm, too. With a grunt he pushed over one of the wooden stands, blocking its path. Granger ran through the rows of busts of Notts past, blasting through their ranks. Shattering their grim faces with her spells. Determination on her face. It took his focus, admiring her magic. And that brief moment cost him.

Slytherin’s statue swept its staff, knocking him off his feet. Draco hastily cast a protego, holding the spell with both hands while the statue pressed against it with his staff. The shield began to fracture, starting with a thin line at the center that grew outward, spiraling like a spider’s web. He held his wand tightly, forcing as much of his magic into it as he could, trying to push the statue back with a grunt. But it was no use. It brought its staff down again, shattering the shield and knocking his wand from his hands. Sending it clattering into a corner somewhere. He scooted back on the floor where he’d fallen, scrambling to get to his feet. Cutting his hands. The debris all around him made it harder, and he was backed against the wall, staring up at his impending doom.

“No!” Granger shouted, throwing a blasting spell at the statue. It parried it with its staff, sacrificing the wooden weapon in the process. Before Draco could react, a marble hand reached down and lifted him by the scruff of his neck, cutting off his air and dangling him several meters off the ground. There was too much pressure on his windpipe. He couldn’t breathe and his fingers raked across the stone hand, trying to prise it free. The rest of his air clicking in his throat. But it was no use. The statue held him too tightly and he was wasting the last of his energy trying to fight back.

His eyes slowly shifted to look at Granger, to try to convey to her in a single look that it would be okay. She could handle it without him. They’d taken down the majority of the army of statues. If she could just make it a little longer, use her brilliant mind to crush this last one of them, she’d make it out. She had the portkey. She could make it out. She was the brightest witch of their age.

The defiance and anger on her face reminded him of the moment when she hit him, back in third year. Refusing to back down against a bully. She ran towards the statue, throwing curse after curse against its impenetrable marble robes. Finally she shouted, “Reducto!” And Draco watched her spell sever the statue’s wrist, shattering it and releasing him to crash into a heap on the floor. Hitting his head in the process.

There were chunks of marble beneath him, pressing into his skin painfully where he landed. A numbness at his side from the impact. A cloudiness in his head from the lack of oxygen. Everything smelled of ash and the coppery tang of blood. His blood, probably. Granger was shouting something that sounded like his name, running and attacking Slytherin’s statue with spellwork that made him dizzy. As Draco started to rise, feeling every bruise as he pressed his way partly up with his forearm, she threw herself in front of him.

The protego she cast wasn’t the shimmering translucent shield they’d all learned as students. It was a wall of iron, wrapped in spikes. The force of it pushed the statue backwards, and then she yelled, “Bombarda!” The spell hit it square in the chest, breaking the once towering sculpture into a thousand pieces. The rubble rained over them but her shield deflected the debris. Clattering against it before tumbling to the ground.

Granger dismissed the shield and dropped to the floor, fingers hovering over him before gripping his arms at the shoulders in not quite an embrace. He raised a shaking hand and held the back of her head, smoothing her disheveled hair. It was softer than he expected it to be.

“Are you all right? Are you hurt?” She asked, eyes wide as she pulled back and ran her hands over his arms and shoulders, then reached to hold his face gently. Running her thumbs across his jaw, his cheeks, his throat. Concern in the lines of her pretty face. And maybe he’d hit his head harder than he thought, and was imagining it, her touching him this way. It could have been a dream. So he sat up on his elbow and gripped her arm, breathing shallow as he looked her over, too. Made sure she was okay beyond the cut at her brow and the scrapes at her knees. Felt her warm skin to confirm it was real.

“I’m fine,” he said between breaths, throat hoarse. “I’ll be fine.” He kept one hand at her shoulder and brought the other to circle her wrist then press flat against her hand, holding it to his cheek for an extra moment. Steadying himself. Everything seemed suspended — like an immobulos charm had been cast over them and they were floating somewhere. She closed her eyes and he watched a teardrop escape the corner. A tiny thing that slid down her cheek and onto his thumb. Warm and delicate. When she opened her eyes, he drank in the relief reflected in them, then leaned forward and kissed her.

They sat amid the rubble, still except where their lips pressed softy together. Then she moved one of her hands from his face, lightly touching the back of his head and the hair at his nape. It felt like lighting a fire under a cauldron. It felt like permission. He pulled her closer and sighed against her mouth, kissing her harder as he leaned back against the cracked stones. Letting them dig into his spine. The hand at her shoulder moved behind her to bring her closer still. Everything felt lighter when her body pressed against his. Like the contents of his skull had cleared away. It was dizzying. They pulled apart just enough for him to look into her depthless brown eyes.

And then he collapsed.

Chapter 9

Notes:

There's a new tag for hurt/comfort and a mild content warning for this chapter. Please see the end notes.

Adrenaline was a hell of a drug, Hermione thought as she held an unconscious Draco Malfoy in her arms. The fact that he’d lost consciousness when he did was perhaps even more shocking than the events that preceded it. Luckily, her hands had been positioned in such a way that she caught him before he could hit his head on the marble floor again and cause more potential brain damage. He had a concussion at the very least.

Gently, she laid him down and ran a diagnostic spell. While the magic scanned his body for injuries, she pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. He was warm — still breathing though it was shallow.

“Malfoy,” she whispered, tapping his cheek in a light slap turned caress. “Draco, can you hear me?”

He was still.   

She checked the diagnostic spell. It lit up different parts of his body in various colors, each corresponding to a type of injury or magical malady. A rudimentary healing spell that was useful. Several bruised ribs, one broken rib that collapsed his right lung, some internal bleeding, a bruised esophagus, and a concussion. Most of it she could handle but it was enough to worry her. Make her fingers itch for the emergency portkey in her satchel. But he would likely have been angry with her if she used it.

Come on, Granger, I’ve had worse, she could hear him saying, Remember when Potter nearly killed me on a bathroom floor? So she transfigured one of the wooden podiums from a fallen statue into a cot and levitated him onto it to keep him stable. His head lolled to one side, hair falling over his eyes. She took her dusty jumper off and cast a quick cleansing spell before folding it beneath his head as a pillow. Then she charmed the cot to float beside her as she searched for the way out of the room.

Crumbled remains of sculptures covered the floor and she swept them aside with her wand. Half of the statues creeped her out — the Three Fates had reminded her of crying angel figures popular in Muggle cemeteries, weather-stained and hooded. Then there were the death masks that Draco had tried to keep her from noticing when they’d entered the room. Anguished faces that she knew in her heart were Muggle victims.

As she walked through the room she came upon a broken shard from Slytherin’s mighty staff, the fragments of its crystal top a scattering of sand beneath it. She picked up the wood, careful to avoid a splinter. It was about as thick as a broomstick and the length of her forearm. The staff had been made of a strange wood, with a wavy grain. Hermione wondered if it was wand wood, since the statue had wielded it as a weapon in a different way than the other sculptures. Although it didn’t have a core and wasn’t wielded by a wizard, so it wouldn’t be able to perform real magic. Perhaps due to the magical properties of the wood and the strength of the transfiguration on the statue it was more impervious to magic. Maybe that’s why it had seemed unbeatable. She tucked it into her satchel, eager to do some more research once she was back at the Ministry. Perhaps write to Mr. Ollivander.

There was a sharp pain at her shoulder from where a stone arrow had grazed her. More bruises and scrapes were likely, but she felt reasonably well, all things considered. Draco was her concern. There was a grey tinge to his skin, as if the color had been drained, and it made the purple bruising even more stark. The dark circles beneath his light eyes more prominent. She traced a finger over his cold hand, across the knuckles, before resting it on his wrist. Feeling his stuttering pulse as she walked through the gallery to the portrait of the Guardian.

Some of the busts sneered at her, the portraits of old and now long dead Notts called her mudblood but she ignored them, focusing on the large dragon before her. He was always the one to address the Guardian first. With that subtle bit of superiority that came with being a Malfoy. She hoped the vial around her neck would somehow give her the pureblood confidence to speak to it without her voice cracking. The pulse beneath her fingers was too slow and her own was far too fast.

“Guardian,” she called out from before the large painting. It took up nearly the entire wall, and the dragon seemed to be painted to scale. “We’ve completed our task but no door has appeared.”

“And why should this is be my problem? Seems like your own.”

Hermione’s face heated. “Yes it is your problem. If you don’t help us I know a number of spells to alter your brushstrokes.”

The dragon laughed, a deep rumble of boulders down a mountain. “Oh, you’re not at all how I expected a mudblood to be.”

The scar on her forearm prickled. She leveled her wand higher, trailing it over the length of the dragon. “I suppose I could start with your pretty scales,” she said, then traced over its wings. The Guardian stiffened. “Or perhaps your cold-blooded nature is in need of warming?” She lit the tip of her wand with a small flame, just enough that the purple-eyed creature widened its gaze.

With an exaggerated sigh it stood and faced forward. “I thought you’d at least want to have a bit of fun. There’s no need to threaten my fine craftsmanship. Have you no respect for art? Are you that uncultured?”

Know your opponent, she thought.

“Perhaps if you were nicer I would compliment the way the light filters through your wings.”

The Guardian relaxed slightly. “So good of you to notice,” it said, flaring them out to show off.

“Please help us,” Hermione said. “He’s hurt, and you wouldn’t want to be the cause of another pureblood line ending, would you?”

“Oh, that would be dreadful,” the Guardian replied. When it didn’t offer anything else Hermione’s throat tightened. There wasn’t time for this.

“He’s named for a dragon, you know,” she tried, and the Guardian perked up. “The constellation, Draco. With the night sky as its canvas it’s almost as if that dragon has black scales, too.”

The Guardian pouted a bit. “But which of these two dragons is the best looking?”

Hermione glanced down at where she still held the wrist of an unconscious Draco. Then she twisted the vial across its chain, feeling the etchings on the glass. “I don’t think you can compare a painting as grand as yours to anything else.”

The dragon preened, stretching its long neck and giving her what might have been a smile. “You’re desperate to leave and yet you have not claimed your prize. Would be a shame to leave without it.”

She thought about his words, looking around the room behind her for something different. It was all destruction and dust. Then she remembered the small table they’d seen when they arrived. The one perfectly lit by a skylight. It was untouched. When she looked up a simple door had appeared beside the Guardian’s painting.

With one last brush against his wrist she let go of Draco and stepped towards the little table. It was warm from the sun. Its tabletop was a square of thin marble. Its stand dark wood. The feet were iron dragon claws. The box was carved mother of pearl, about the size of a thick book. Shimmering iridescent in the sunlight. She opened it with a wave of her wand, weary of touching its surface without casting a detection spell. Inside was a golden key, with a beautiful scrolled top and a silk tassel hanging from it like a keychain. The dark purple of the House of Nott.

The Guardian had curled up on itself, lightly snoring. She rolled her eyes at the lazy creature. The door that had appeared didn’t have a lock, so she tucked the key into her satchel and levitated the cot towards her. Focusing on the things she would need to summon from the depths of her bag once they were back in the study. A voice echoed through her thoughts. Her own voice. When you’re bleeding on the floor it will be my honor to step around you and leave you there.

She slashed her wand through the air and the door flew open, banging against the wall beside it. The Guardian woke up and let out an overdramatic sigh. She smiled to herself as she brought Draco through the door. Once back in the study she began running more diagnostics and rummaging through her bag for supplies. Summoning a few things. The potions kit he carried with him was a bit more extensive, and certainly better quality brews than the ones she had. He’d slipped it into his trousers pocket at some point, and she carefully extracted it with an accio.

Each glass vial was labelled in his infuriatingly perfect hand. There were a few titles she didn’t recognize, and she wondered if they were things he’d experimented with. Golden Sleep must have been what he told her about earlier. The suspension of dreamless sleep and a calming draught. She thought about giving him some but she didn’t know the proper dose, and couldn’t risk him being out for more than half a day. There were a few vials of essence of dittany and more pain potions than she’d brought with her.

For a few brief months she’d thought about becoming a healer, so she knew rudimentary healing magic from her personal studies and got to work. First she gave him a generous dose of pain potion, tipping it down his throat. Mending broken bones was painful enough without the list of other injuries he was sporting. She lined all of her supplies along the desk and faced him. Clearing the grime of battle from his skin and clothes before she began.

“Brakium emendo,” she said, pressing the tip of her wand to his side, instantly fixing the broken rib. Then she healed his other ribs of small fractures. Fed him a blood-replenishing potion. Another dose of pain potion. The pierced lung was trickier, but soon his breathing improved and she knew she’d performed the spell correctly. Having only read about it before, it was a risk. There wasn’t much to do for the concussion but let him rest it off. The pain potions would sort it out in time.

Once she was satisfied with his condition she levitated him to the sofa, transfiguring it a bit to be wider, in case he turned in his sleep. Then she draped the grey blanket over him. While he slept she cast a diagnostic spell on herself and confirmed she was just bruised. She had a small jar of bruise paste from Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes to take care of them. A few dabs of dittany on her cuts. The deeper cut on her shoulder she healed using the spell she’d learned from Draco, glad to reduce the chance of a scar. She had enough of those.

A sharp, rattling exhale tugged her attention. He stirred, breathing heavier than before. The internal injuries were healing themselves with the potions she’d given him. The pain must have caused some distress — spine of lion fish was known to induce lucid dreaming. His eyelashes were fluttering, his eyes moving quickly beneath their lids, as if scanning something. Sweat clung to his pale skin. She cleaned him up with a few spells, tucking the blanket up over his arms.

When she brushed his hair back from his forehead she lingered. Gone were the more pointed features of his youth, refined into an elegant bone structure. Beautiful, even. His temperature was stabilizing, which was a good sign. It helped that he was in shape. For the healing. She shook the image of his perfectly tailored work robes from her thoughts. How she’d hear people whisper about how fit he was. For a Death Eater. Always qualified, regardless of the compliment. He was an asset to the Auror department. For a Death Eater. He made generous financial donations. For a Death Eater. She wondered if he heard them say it. The streets of Diagon Alley were less quiet than the halls of the Ministry. If she heard the whispers, surely they echoed.

She’d just begun to peruse the bookshelves when a loud gasp sounded behind her. His eyes fluttered open, the grey of his irises dark and thunderous. Looking for her as he lurched up on the sofa, a touch of fear in his features when he locked his eyes on her before falling back against the cushions. Gritting his teeth.

“It’s all right,” she said, taking a few steps toward him. With a gentle hand she stilled him, setting her book down on the cushion. Pressing her hand against his forehead. “You’re healing from a few injuries. It’s best if you lie down until the potions work their way through your system.”

“Granger?” His voice was like gravel from all the different healing tonics and the damage to his windpipe from the statue.

“You shouldn’t talk,” she said quietly. When he tried to push himself up again she pressed him back down gently but firm. “And you need to rest or you won’t heal properly. I’ll put a sticking charm on you if you don’t stay still.”

He seemed confused, like he wanted to ask her questions but it was too difficult to form the words. Likely because his vocal chords were still healing.

“We’re back in the study,” she said, trying to keep her voice neutral and calm. Soothing, like the doctors in Muggle medical shows. “You were hurt but I finished it — the sculptures. There was a key in the box. A door appeared near the Guardian.”

His eyelids drooped, fighting to stay awake.

“Are you in pain?” She asked. “Just nod your head don’t speak.”

He nodded, blinking his eyes rapidly to keep them from closing shut again.

She tipped more pain potion into his mouth, wiping a drop from his lip with her thumb. One of his hands reached up and clasped her wrist. She inhaled sharply.

“Is…That all?” He whispered, his grip slipped and his hand cradled onto his chest. Eyes closing.

She thought about the way he’d held her hand against his face before their kiss. So fleeting in the moment but consuming nonetheless. It was probably just the adrenaline. He’d almost died, after all. Looked at her from high above as if to say goodbye. He hit his head. Probably confused. It wasn’t like he’d do it again. As she watched him drift off to sleep once more she whispered, “That’s all.”

Of all the things she’d imagined happening to her when left alone in a cursed house with Draco Malfoy, a kiss wasn’t on the list. When she was young the common refrain when a boy was mean to her was, “It’s because he likes you.” But then she went to a magical school with a boy who looked ethereal but spoke like the most wicked of serpents. It taught her that if someone didn’t like you, they let it be known. Loudly, across the corridor. Quietly, in a sneer. Because no one who cared about you would treat you that way.

It was part of what she always hated about her relationship with Ron. He was never hurtful intentionally, but he treated the things she cared about as secondary. Whether it was her exams before they completed their schooling or when she decided to decline the opportunity to become an Auror with him and Harry or her continued interest in the rights of beasts and beings. Like they were a nuisance meant to be put up with in their relationship instead of parts of her. Things she was excited about with her work were met with, “That’s great, Hermione.” Dismissed. If she was reading something engrossing he would nod, but never ask questions when she shared her thoughts. He chastised her for reading too much. For studying even though they were no longer in school. They were comfortable together to the point where it made her uncomfortable. Complacency felt like a boggart in a wardrobe.

The more they grew up the less they had to talk about besides the past. And Hermione began to hate lingering in bygone years. When they finally broke up after a year of dating it was simple. Like they’d merely had an argument and moved on. They went back to being friends whose only real commonality was sharing custody of Harry Potter. That was well over two years ago. They’d both dated casually since then. And they were both happier.

The Malfoy in front of her was different from their schooldays. Not just because his hair was longer and his shoulders broader, though she had noticed both. He’d researched things that would only matter for her blood status, that would keep her safe. Took careful notes during their planning sessions. Asked her questions about her work. Sent his house elf to relocate a forest troll. Teased her instead of taunted her. Challenged her. Kissed her.

When she pressed the back of her hand against his forehead once more he was starting to get overheated. Healing magic often caused fevers. She propped him against her side and struggled to remove his jumper without jostling him awake. Limbs like dead weight as she pulled them through the sleeves. He mumbled something nonsensical as she yanked the woolen fabric over his head, leaving his damp hair standing on end. It was oddly endearing, to see him so rumpled. Then she unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt to help his breathing. Realizing too late that she could have just used a severing charm to remove the jumper and repaired it afterwards. Some things didn’t occur to her in the moment — the Muggle way was a part of her.

It would take a few hours for most of the potions to take effect. Pain potions were instant, but healing fractured bones and replenishing blood was slower. Still quicker than Muggle healing but not as quick as Hermione would have liked. They’d already been at Nott Manor for over twenty-four hours and weren’t any closer than where they started, literally and figuratively. A new door had yet to appear and it would be asking too much that it lead straight to the potions laboratory once it did.

The light in the Guardian’s tapestry showed it was getting later, somewhere in the early afternoon. It seemed like he’d drifted back into a deeper sleep, so she pulled a few books from the shelves, creating a small stack on the desk. Made a pot of tea, sipping from the transfigured teacup he favored. She ordered fruit, bread, and cheese to snack on and some ingredients to make soup for when he woke up. 

Nott’s book collection was interesting. Many of the titles were rudimentary magical texts, things that any student of Hogwarts would have used to write essays. But nestled among the old standbys were a few obscure titles. She spent some time reading through the diary of a potioneer, Arsenius Jigger, hoping to find any information within the pages that might help them with the mysterious potion Nott Senior had brewed. There were several diaries and biographies of potioneers, some she’d read before. She wondered if Draco had.

For a few hours she alternated between reading and thinking and wandering the room, casting diagnostic spells to see how the healing was going. Making plans for some of the other rooms Theo had listed on his map, though it was hard to plan for anything in this house. Looking through more books and taking notes. Fixing a simple vegetable soup that was her mother’s recipe and letting it simmer over the fire. Anything to keep as busy as possible while she waited for him to wake up.

At first she sat in one of the armchairs, then moved to the one closer to the sofa. Eventually she grew tired of getting up every quarter hour to go check on him and perched on the edge of the couch, leaning against the arm rest by his head. The sun began to set in the tapestry so she stoked the fire and ate some soup. There was still no new door, and even though she was eager to find out what was left for them in the house she was grateful for the time to recover. On average it took at least ten hours for most of the injuries Draco had sustained to heal properly. She estimated it had been perhaps half that.

He had turned onto his side, breathing even and temperature normal. All good signs. His hand twitched in his sleep, the tips of his fingers grazing her own where it rested at her side. They moved over her knuckles, curling around two of her fingers. A sigh escaped his lips on an exhale and she brushed the back of his hand with her thumb. Wondering if he was awake. But he continued to doze until eventually his hand drifted away from her. And she felt cold.

There was nothing else she could do but wait. For him to wake up and the door to appear. So she gave in to the heaviness in her eyes and decided she would rest. At least for a little while. She didn’t want to go far from him, so that she could continue to monitor the progress of his internal injuries with diagnostic spells. That was what a good healer would do. It was easy to extend the sofa to be wide enough to lie beside him. She’d always been a light sleeper, and she needed to make sure he was all right, she told herself. It would be better for her to be next to him rather than in one of the chairs. Not to mention more comfortable. Especially for what would essentially be a nap. The blanket he transfigured for her covered them both. The warmth of his body heat enveloping her within the wool. The sounds from the fire were soothing. She set an alarm on her wand for five hours and faced away from him, her hands folded beside her. Falling fast asleep.

 

---

                                                                                   

When he woke it was warm in the study. He could hear a low fire burning in the grate. The last logs snapping into embers. As he blinked, confused to be on some sort of bed, he felt a tickle from curly hair just beneath his chin. She’d been using his left arm as a pillow. The right was curled around her waist, and she clutched his hand with both of hers, tucked under her jaw. A few of her fingers entwined with his. Her soft breath whispering across his skin. A sliver of her lower lip brushing his knuckles on each measured exhale. He wanted to feel its softness beneath his touch, see if it felt like he remembered it feeling against his lips. One of his legs was snaked between hers. He didn’t dare move.

Had he curled around her in the night? Or had she nestled against him? He’d never shared a bed with anyone beyond a scant half hour, before gathering his clothes and heading for a fireplace. There was something nice about the way their limbs settled together. The way her ribs expanded beneath his arm, pressing against his chest. Encouraging him to breathe in tandem. The feel of her curves. The faint notes of peppermint and shortbread and rose hidden beneath a lavender shampoo.

If he turned, he risked waking her. And he was loathe to leave her touch. Better for her to wake and extract herself, he decided. Let her react while he pretended to sleep. There was a dull throb at the base of his skull from when he was thrown to the floor. The potions had helped his throat, and he didn’t feel pain at his ribs anymore. He closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of her hair. Steadied his breaths to match hers. The fingers laced with his flexed and she made a sound of concern. He wondered if she, too, spent more time in nightmares than dreams.

When she woke she would pretend it hadn’t happened, that they’d merely laid side by side. Shoulder to shoulder. Healer and patient. Professional. Not a denial, not outright, because she’d never acknowledge that she’d held him. Like when he’d kissed her, amid the smoke and the rubble. And he would go along with it. Because there was no world in which he could admit what he felt for the witch beside him. For longer than he knew. No matter how many tests he scored high on or charities he threw galleons at. No matter how many years went by. In their world he would always be a Death Eater and she was forever the Golden Girl.

So he pressed closer, breathing in the content sigh she released in sleep. Comforted and consumed by something that could never be his.

Notes:

CW: brief discussion of injuries and healing, nothing too graphic. If you would like to avoid any of this, you may skip two paragraphs without missing key story details. Skip the one that starts She checked the diagnostic spell. as well as the one that starts “Brakium emendo,” she said.

Thank you for reading and for the response to the last chapter! I also want to express my enduring love and gratitude for iconicnovel, my self-dubbed "vibe beta" and dear friend who encourages me and approves all of my Twitter/Tumblr cover images for every single chapter. She also leaves notes in my drafts that are rewritten Phoebe Bridgers lyrics.

Also the chapter count went up oops oh no... xx Lu

Chapter 10

The Nott family library wasn’t as vast as the one at the Manor but it still left Granger speechless. From the moment the doors opened and she saw the shelves. Awed at how the light filtered in from the floor to ceiling windows to illuminate thousands upon thousands of rare volumes. Her doe-like eyes were wider than he’d ever seen them, and yet she still stood an extra step away from him. Gripping her wand and avoiding his eye.

When he woke up he felt back to normal. Did a series of stretches to confirm it. He’d slept through her own awakening, somehow. Blamed the large amounts of pain potions flowing through his veins for robbing him of the moment when she slipped through his arms. He finally looked at her, instantly noting the stiffness in her shoulders. The tense way she made tea, methodically moving through the steps while speaking to him over her shoulder. Told him he needed to eat and sent a bowl of soup floating over to him followed by some bread. Asked if he needed a pain potion, which he declined. He ate his full while she puttered around. Pulling things from her expanded satchel. Putting them back in. Returning books from a small stack to their places on the bookshelves. Busying herself so that she didn’t have to look at him.

The decision to end her agony felt like picking up one of the coals from the fire with his bare hands. Reaching for it slowly, then snatching it up to get it over with.

“Granger, what happened?” He asked, taking small bites of vegetable soup. It was thin — mostly broth. She’d given him some sort of herbal tea with a little bit of honey. Like she didn’t trust him with caffeine or too much sweetener. Like a child. At first he watched her elbows tighten, pressing closer to her body. Then he continued. “I think I must have blacked out once I hit the ground. Can’t really remember anything. A lot of strange dreams.”

The relief that passed over her face splintered through his gut. The scrunched line of her shoulders gave way a little as she went through what happened. A play-by-play of their fight with Slytherin’s statue. Like an announcer at a quidditch match but without the added dramatics. She’d been able to destroy it once his staff was broken. Draco had lost consciousness due to his many injuries but she’d conjured a cot for him. She even smiled at him when she described levitating him through the sculpture room. Something about Slytherin’s staff had her excited, talking about conducting further research, her eyes lighting up at the thought of being back in her fucking laboratory at the end of the mission. Eager to no longer be paired with him.

The more she spoke the hotter his insides churned. He stopped hearing her, only catching a few words here and there about the Guardian and the door. She seemed glad that he didn’t remember. That she could make her own version of what happened. One without a kiss on the floor or sleeping tangled together.

Just as he knew she would. He’d tried to imagine it while faking sleep to count her breaths. The way she would rewrite the events. But actually seeing her deny it — deny him — he couldn’t have prepared for it. The dull ache that pulsed through his insides, taking up residence. She wants to forget you, it said with every twist of her words. Because how ever much he’d thought about her, she never thought of him.

“I ran some diagnostics this morning while you slept,” she went on, and he nodded his head when he needed to. Let her go over all the healing spells and potions she’d used. Sipped at his weak tea. Cracked a knuckle beneath his thumb.

While she talked through all of her amateur healer steps he tried to occlude. To push everything away, like he used to. Like he was always able to before the mere sight of her pushed back. Ruining years of practice and expertise. The echo of his aunt’s disgust and Severus’s disappointment and his mother’s concern.

Pity. It was always pity from her. In those big brown eyes and they way they blinked up at him. The way they trailed over his left forearm. The constant need to meddle in his life. To help the poor, misguided Malfoy. What a pity he’d taken the mark and fucked up his entire life.

The door appeared. She wanted to run more tests, to let him rest before they began. But he didn’t want to wait. Didn’t want to keep her here any longer than was necessary. So he’d said all of the things he needed to to convince her that he was fine. That he was ready. Let her cast a final diagnostic test to prove that he wasn’t as broken as she thought. He yanked his jumper over his head and took her satchel, slinging it over his shoulder to slap against his hip. The door was similar to the last one, and without waiting for her to carve one of her precious runes into it he pulled it open and stepped inside, leaving her to follow.

Waves lapping at the shore. Other Occlumens used walls or shelves, like a library. Or compartments and boxes all labelled in the mind. Those were strong techniques that he’d used throughout seventh year and for the first year or so after the war. But lately he let things move away from him on a gentle wave, taking only what he needed when the tide returned. Focusing on the lapping of the water. It had been peaceful. But now, with the emotions swirling through him, his once gentle waves had turned into a violent storm, ready to crash into the land. And ruin everything he’d built there.

Granger was going on about her detection spells or how many books she thought their were or some other asinine attempt at burying him. Every word buzzing around him like lacewing flies.

“Are you done then?” He snapped. Arms crossed while he tapped his wand against his thigh.

She had the audacity to look surprised. “Am I done with what?”

“Whatever it is you’re going on about. Thought you wanted to finish this quickly.”

For the first time all morning she turned to look at him, her brows squinting. Probably wondering if he’d needed another round of potions. Or more unnecessary diagnostics. Poor Malfoy, tossed around by the founder of his own house. Must be about time to save him. Again.

“Sorry for wondering aloud what we might be about to face. Here I thought we were a team and could problem solve together but if you’re going to just ignore me then perhaps you should step aside and—”

“You don’t know everything, has anyone ever told you that?” He glared at her and she glared back. The need to put her hands on her hips clearly growing. Just a few more and she’d assume the stance.

“I think I know a fair lot more than you do.”

Perfect, he thought, brave little Gryffindor ready for a fight.  “Oh sure, you have all the answers—”

“Obviously I don’t since I’m trying to puzzle this out with you!”

“—and know all the ways to fix things well guess what? Some of us don’t want you to try to fix everything!” He talked over her and around her, examining the shelves. They matched the ones in the study, and the room before them was large. The shelves tall and spanning to both ends, left to meet the windows and right to meet the wall. In front of them they split into two paths. One full of magical theory, the other family records and diaries. Maybe he would burn his way through them. A nice incendio through the parchment and leather and ink.

“Dra—Malfoy,” she stuttered, as if his first name was bitter, “stop moving for a second. You’re acting different. The room must be—”

“Different from what? This is who I am, Granger. Always has been.” He heard her cast her bloody diagnostics spells and he sliced his arm through them, feeling the magic disperse. “You don’t get to make me another one of your charity projects. I’m not interested.”

“What are you—”

“I don’t need anyone’s pity least of all yours,” he said, mentally weighing the options of which direction to move through the room. To whatever disaster awaited them. Maybe something he could throw defensive spells at. A fight could be—

“That’s what you think?” She chased after him. “That I pity you?”

“I don’t think. I know.” He swept back to the other end of the shelf to look at that path, listening to her quickened steps.

“I don’t pity you,” she said, but her voice hitched. “Do I feel a bit…sad for you? About how you choose to ostracize yourself and never make an effort to know people? Yes, I do. There’s more to you than—”

“Do you ever just shut the fuck up?”

Now he’d done it. He chewed on his cheek and faced down her glare. The hands on her hips, accentuating the way they flared out from her waist. “No, I don’t and you of all people should know that by now. If I wanted to pity you I would but don’t stand there with your superiority complex and tell me how I feel. I’m perfectly capable—”

“I’m not a lost forest troll in a dungeon, I’m a bloody person,” he said, hating the way she looked at him. The gentle steps she took closer. Like he was an injured unicorn in the Forbidden Forest, and if she just held out her hand he wouldn’t run.

“You don’t get to fix me,” he said, taking a step back. Then he started to say something he shouldn’t. “That’s not what I want us to be—”

“When did I ever say you need fixing?”

He’d never been more grateful for her gigantic mouth or constant need to interrupt and talk over him. “You didn’t have to. Volunteer to babysit the death eater and add another tally to your good person chart. Make sure you meet your quota for the year. Inform the Minister.”

“I don’t do things just to—you know what, I’m not having this stupid argument. Whatever you think about me you’re wrong.”

“I think I’ve always known what to think about you,” he sneered at her, like he used to. It felt wrong even though he remembered how to do it.

“And what’s that? That I’m just a—”

He cut her off before she said something that wasn’t true. “You deny things. Can never actually admit to what you want,” he said, and every time she opened her mouth to argue he kept going. “Always settling for things like your low-level job and whatever pathetic union you had with Weasley. You’re smarter than that and everyone knows it. Brightest Witch of her fucking Age but the minute the war is over you no longer want a challenge. What are you even doing with your life, Granger? Huh?” There was a line of silver in her eyes, her lip gnawed between her teeth. “Always wanting to prove yourself. Doesn’t it get tiring carrying everyone else’s burdens? Don’t you have enough of your own?”

A small gasp. He met her eyes. “Or maybe it’s all just for show.”

Fuck, he thought the moment the words left his lips. Fuck. His eyes closed. When he opened them and reached for her she recoiled and took a few steps back. “Granger, I didn’t,” he said with a grimace, taking a step closer. She stepped back in tandem, then she ran. Sending books behind her to block his path.

She turned left, through the shelves and around the corner at a clipped pace. With a gruff exhale he squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. Fuck. He may have said it aloud. Then he took a breath and ran to follow after her, flicking the books out of his way. Instead of the passage she’d left through there was another wall of books. The shelves had shifted silently. In the brief moment he’d shut his eyes.

“Granger!” He yelled, turning to look for her, for a new entry point, for something. The thump of his heart quickened and he could feel it in his throat. “Reducto!” He threw the spell at the thick spines but they didn’t so much as quiver. No blasting spell or fire or earthquake moved them. Calling her name proved useless, turning his throat scratchy. The only path was behind—in the opposite direction. He spun through the corridor of books, bracing himself for another attack, like the plates and knives in the kitchen. But they remained on their shelves. The first fork in the metaphorical road greeted him and he stopped. Needed to think. Left would presumably take him closer to where Granger had run off, but the rules of Nott Manor weren’t built by logic. They were built by a need for cruelty. By a cunning Slytherin.

The more he tried to find Granger, the more the room would actively work to keep them apart. It seemed the most twisted version of logic. So he went in the opposite direction, trying to focus his thoughts on getting through the maze and not on the way her eyes were wet when she turned away from him.

The library was a labyrinth. Its paths were endless, as if an expansion charm had been cast on the room. There was a spell he’d read about but never had a reason to use until now. It turned one’s wand into a four-point compass directional. He tried to take the paths that would lead him north. It seemed the most logical, despite the lack of logic in the house.

Everything he’d said ricocheted through his mind. Tasted sour on his tongue. How wrong it all was. Maybe she did pity him a little, but he felt sorry for her, too. What was wrong with that? Empathy had taken a while for him to learn — years, really. He shouldn’t have been so ashamed of it now. Because he liked her tenacity. Liked that she fought for those who couldn’t fight for themselves. Liked all of the things that she was and he was not.

The room wanted them to be separated so it let them be separated. Maybe she was right and just being in the library had made him say all of the things he knew would sting. Or maybe he was just that much of an idiot. He couldn’t move the shelves or the books because he wanted to get back to her. The room wanted them apart so she was able to block his path to get away from him. If he were to reunite with her, he’d have to push her from his mind. To keep her safe.

It took longer than it should have, but he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, silently exhaling and picturing a small sea. Turquoise waters and soft sand. A near cloudless sky. Warmth and tranquility. Someplace beautiful, where he could put her on a boat and gently send her away from the shore. Until she crossed the horizon of his mind. Leaving him alone on a white beach.

When he opened his eyes his purpose was clear. He worked his way through, moving as quickly as he could between the endless rows. The maze was disorienting. Regardless of his compass directional spell he seemed to move in circles. But instead of a tight spiral he remained close to the edges.

Finally, he turned a corner and reached a dead end. There was a rather large, ornate vase against the wall. Porcelain with purple, hand-painted designs. Sweet cherry blossom trees and little brush strokes of grass. And a large Hebridean Black.

He looked at the Guardian. Looked around the shelves behind him. The path he’d taken had vanished, leaving him essentially in a room made of three walls of bookshelves.

“Guardian,” he said, squaring his shoulders, addressing it as an equal. “I’ve completed your maze. The room should return to normal now.”

“Oh, indeed?” It said, tilting its serpentine head as it assessed him. The trees beside it yawning on a breeze.

“Set it to rights so I can find—my partner. I won’t leave without her.”

“Well, it seems to me you shouldn’t have separated in the first place. That was a poor decision, Master Malfoy.”

A poor decision was a fucking understatement. He felt the panic creep its way back from the sea. What if she was hurt? Or lost so deep that he couldn’t find her? He couldn’t leave without her for so many reasons. Perhaps he could call one of the elves to retrieve her but he worried about how the magic of the room worked. Maybe he could send Tippy to find her, but she’d only be able to apparate them out. And that would leave him here alone. He had the portkey but it was spelled to transport two. Surely if only one of them used it, Robards would know. He’d be responsible for her.

The night she met Theo pushed its way to the front of his thoughts. They’d been waiting for her outside the Leaky Cauldron. Theo was having a smoke, though he promised he was going to quit someday soon. Just like Draco had promised he would drink less. They’d talked around her for a few minutes, focusing on the latest gossip from their House, when Theo did what he did best. He started to pry.

“Why’d they pair you together?”

Draco had taken a moment to realize Theo didn’t mean the brief yet ill-advised betrothal discussions between him and the younger Greengrass sister. A perfectly fine pureblood girl with all of the grace and social skills required to run a large home. And none of the wit or passion to keep him interested beyond the rather dull luncheon with both of their mothers a few weeks before.

“They didn’t—she volunteered,” he’d said, watching the puff of smoke leave Theo’s lips, trailing upwards in a spout.

“Did she?” Theo’s eyes were wide and he tilted his head, sucking in another long drag. “Maybe she likes looking at you almost as much as you like looking at her.”

He’d sputtered, caught off guard. “That’s not—I don’t—She’s just doing it because no one else will. Can’t resist another moment to be a hero. Work with the ex-Death Eater to get a promotion or whatever.”

“So you do then?”

“Do what?”

“Like looking at her,” Theo had said, grinning broadly as he lit a fresh cigarette between his teeth. Vanishing the stub of his last one with a casual flick.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you’ve always noticed her, even if you deny it. How many times did you ask me about something she did in sixth year?”

Draco stared at him. “If I mentioned her it was in passing. We had half our classes with the Gryffindors and she was always interrupting—”

“And then there’s all the times we just happen to walk by this pub and you crane your neck looking for her.”

“I do not—”

“And then there’s that time you hid in the corner of Flourish and Blotts, watching her pick out books. Just admit—”

“There’s nothing to admit, Theo, stop running your mouth.”

For a moment, he did. For a moment, he merely smoked his cigarette and cast his eyes over Draco with a strange expression. All while Draco seethed with his hand in a tight fist at his side. “She fascinates you. And that’s what scares you.”

Before he could deny it, Granger had shown up. Setting the last few days in motion. Marching into his life and his job and under his skin.

The Guardian was his way out. His way back to her. “You are the protector of this house, for hundreds of years. For generations you’ve served the family and that includes Theodore Nott, Jr. correct?”

The Guardian merely stared at him. Blinking its amethyst eyes. Swishing its spiked tail across the vase. Through the dainty decorations.

“Theodore—Theo is with her, at least in spirit. Let her go. Open the library to me. Let me go to her.” With one last hope he added, “Please.”

The dragon settled its luminous gaze on him. And smiled. “What would you give to me to be with her once more?”

Anything.

“What is it that you want?”

In its ancient voice, it spoke another riddle. One he knew the answer to. “Something that is only yours, until you give it away.”

                                                                                                    

---

 

Hermione ran for maybe five seconds before skidding to a stop and stumbling over her boots. With her eyes squeezed shut she took a deep breath. When she’d first turned the corner into the stacks she’d heard him call her name. Had thought he would follow her. But now it was oddly quiet. The only sound her own tense breathing. She steeled herself and turned, ready to take the few steps back to him.

There was a wall of shelves where her path had been.

“Draco?” She called, turning around, looking for where he could have gone. It echoed through the library, tingling across her skin.

At first she had been seething, desperate to get away from him and glad to have left him. Glad for the pained expression on his face before she’d turned away. But it only took a moment for her to remember the way he clung to her in the early hours of the morning. And how his entire demeanor changed when he woke up. He was the one who denied. Always keeping to himself at the Ministry and clearing his desk at the end of the day. Never attending events, though she knew he’d been invited. Living like a ghost.

Panic crept through her. The shelves were twisting, pushing her deeper into the library. Rolling towards her. “Diffindo!” She yelled, followed by a more powerful Reducto. Nothing. Bombarda. No change. Even an Incendio, though it pained her a little to think about this many books burning, winked out as soon as it hit the shelves. She called his name over and over until her throat was sore. It didn’t so much as echo. She knew they shouldn’t separate. She’d known it before she’d made the decision to run but she did it anyway. The portkey was in her satchel. Maybe he would use it and leave her there. Come back with a team of Aurors to dismantle the house. Or maybe he would call for Tippy.

The only thing she could do was move through the halls of books. It wasn’t like a maze — there was only one path, with a shelf that crept behind her and urged her forward. The further she went, the smaller the room seemed, somehow. Like it was folding in on itself, like a letter. She kept her wand ready, and occasionally cast detection spells that didn’t reveal anything. It was just a library. It should have been a dream. Thousands upon thousands of books around her. The perfect diffused sunlight to read by. Absolute quiet.

But she didn’t so much as read the titles. Couldn’t imagine pulling one from the shelves. The only thing in her mind was a desperate need to get back to him. She repeated his name like a mantra, whispering it in her thoughts. Hoping that the shelves were pushing them back together.

The bookshelf in front of her remained in place. She waited for it to move, to lead her further. Instead she was surrounded by shelves. Her own little room of books. He liked to lead me into different rooms and trap me there until I could find my way out, she heard Theo say in her memories. Sometimes it was the library, if I was looking for a book for school. The shelves would move and I’d be in a cage.

The pounding in her ribs increased. She needed to think. Needed to figure this out. If she kept panicking she’d never get out. Never get back to him. Right. First, observe the surroundings. There were hundreds of books, of course, but she didn’t want to risk touching them. Even with her detection spells, she ran the risk of being sucked into one or releasing a ghoul or something equally terrible. The shelves were tall. She began to transfigure them into a sort of ladder.

As she hoisted herself up, climbing higher, the shelves seemed to stretch. She would be one rung from the top and then suddenly there would be three more. When she looked down, she was still only halfway up the shelf. A looping spell. There would be no way to reach the top. She’d hoped to have the advantage of seeing the room from above. To perhaps run across the tops screaming his name. Searching for that distinct shade of blond.

With a sinking feeling in her stomach she descended. Landing on the marble floor with a thump. Nothing had changed inside her room of books.

At her eye level was a small glass Guardian. Crystal clear except for the eyes. Like the little figurines her grandmother collected. She had an entire menagerie in a curio cabinet in the dining room. When she died, Hermione’s mum let her choose one to keep. She’d picked a pink cat that shattered across her bedroom floor only a few years later.

“Please,” she said, twirling her wand between her fingers. “Please, Guardian, open the path.”

“I could do that,” the Guardian said. Its voice was softer than the others, though still held the same eerie timelessness. “But what would you give me?”

“What would I give you?” She parroted, wondering what a small glass knickknack could possibly want or have use for.

“Yes. What would you give me to get to leave. What could you exchange for that privilege?”

Hermione had nothing to give. She had her wand, which she’d sooner die than lose. There was the pendant around her neck. It didn’t belong to her, not really. It wasn’t hers to give away. She slid it across the chain, comforted by the etched stars beneath her fingers. Draco had her satchel. There was nothing in her pockets. Not even a scrap of parchment. I usually had to sacrifice something I cared about, Theo had said.

“What is it that you want,” she asked the Guardian. It smiled at her.

She worried that this was all part of the game. That she’d been lured into a false sense of security. That just by giving in to what the Guardian asked, she would be thrown into the maze in earnest. Facing bogarts and riddles and sinking floors. The ghost of Mad-Eye Moody telling her to stay vigilant. A portkey on a pedestal, transporting her someplace dangerous. Her own third task.

“I want to know something you keep secret. It’s more than fair, don’t you think?” The Guardian said

“A secret? I suppose I could share one. But what kind of—”

“I want to know why you run.”

“Why does anyone run?” She replied, keeping her voice as level as she could despite the sinking feeling in her stomach. “To get away from something.”

“But you don’t run away from things, do you?” The Guardian said. “Fear isn’t something you give in to. Answer my question. It’s really quite simple. Why do you run, Hermione Granger?”

The walls of shelves shifted closer. Leaning in to hear her secrets. Tightening the room. The crystal of the Guardian glinting in the light. Drawing her in like a moth to a candle. There was something beautiful beneath its surface. And like the numbing release of veritaserum, she found herself speaking.

“I’m afraid of what it means if I don’t run,” she said, peering at the little chips of amethyst.  “I’m afraid of what it means that I relate to someone who always shunned me. And to not be afraid of him, but to instead want to be near him. Because he understands me, somehow. And it’s—thrilling. I think I missed things being…a challenge. So I’m afraid. I run because I’m afraid of the truth.”

“There. That doesn’t sound so frightening to me. Perhaps you’re just in need of rest. It will help you think more clearly,” the dragon said, demonstrating its preferred napping position.

Suddenly she was tired. The floor was cold and hard but she curled up on herself, like the Guardian had done. Hugging her knees to her chest. Afraid of closing her eyes, she lay there for minutes or hours, watching the light refracting on the crystal scales of the Guardian. Thinking about all the things she tried desperately not to think about. A haunted face, reading piles of books at the table across from her in the Hogwarts library. Grey eyes and clever magic. How she clutched his arm in sleep like it was her childhood teddy bear. The steady way their breaths matched. Warmth and safety and the electric current of touch. That he was right. It was easier for her to fix things and deny herself. She needed to feel like she was helping, always, even if it meant keeping herself back.

When she woke she’d cast an immobilizing spell on him so that he wouldn’t wake when she slid away from him. While he slept for another hour she hoped that he slept deeply enough not to have noticed that she cuddled with him in her sleep. Returning a concussed kiss was one thing but she doubted he would have wanted her to spoon him. Especially when she was supposed to be taking care of him.

But he didn’t want her to take care of him. Just like she’d lashed out at Harry and her other friends when they’d meddled. Well-meaning attempts to get her to switch departments or move closer to Grimmauld Place. To speak with a memory charm expert about her parents. Pushing her in ways she wasn’t ready to be pushed. Pitying her. Poor Hermione, she’s all alone.

The walls shifted, creaking and groaning as the shelves broke apart. She stood quickly and aimed her wand at the opening, ready for whatever the house threw her way.

Draco stumbled around the corner, gasping for air. Calling out to her. When his eyes locked on hers he started to apologize.

“Stay back!” She shouted, pointing her wand at his chest.

“Granger, what—”

“Don’t come any closer!” She slashed her wand through the air, sending sparks as a warning.

“Alright,” he said, hands held in front of him. “It’s alright.” He took a tentative step closer.

“I said don’t!” More sparks.

“Merlin, what is it?” He made a show of putting his wand in his pocket and keeping his palms facing her.

She took a few breaths, focusing. “How do I know it’s really you?”

“What?” His brows furrowed, and there was a bead of perspiration at his temple, beneath the sleep-mussed hair he hadn’t bothered to style.

“Theo said—and we know the house plays tricks. How do I know this isn’t a trap? How do I know it’s you?” She whispered, the hand at her side dug her nails into her palm. The one holding her wand shook, and she raised it higher.

“Because I got through the maze and found the Guardian—”

“Well I found a Guardian too!” She jerked her head towards where it sat on the shelf. He glanced at it and rolled his eyes. She could have hexed him. Even if he was an illusion it would have felt good. But he seemed fully corporeal, at least. Maybe a hallucination, then.

“It’s really me. You can do whatever detection spells you need to do to feel better about it.”

“First year we had detention together. What was it?” She asked, thinking of the Order and how everyone had to be able to answer personal things to prove they weren’t polyjuiced or imperiused or otherwise befuddled.

“Seriously?” He huffed a breath.

“Answer the question before I jinx you something foul.”

“If you jinx me something foul how will I ever answer your question?”

“Draco!” She sent a stinging hex just beside his feet.

“Fuck’s sake, you nearly hit my shoe!” He caught her glare. “Fine—fine. We were sent to the Forbidden Forest to find an injured unicorn, which is about the most dangerous thing to have a couple eleven-year-olds do—”

“I was twelve.”

He laughed, low and under his breath. “Thanks for correcting me, Granger I know how much you love that.”

She laughed but it was more of a hiccup and kept her wand on him. Softly, she said, “What if I’m wrong?”

“I don’t think you’ve ever been wrong in your life,” he answered just as quiet.

Another whisper. “But what if I have? This house…”

The look he settled over her made her shiver. It was that intense way he had of looking at her, like no one else did.

“We rode the lift together last month,” he said, stepping closer. “You were wearing blue robes with a coffee stain on one sleeve. In fourth year you very rudely took a book I was using from my table at the library and didn’t bring it back ‘in just a minute’ like you said you would. I had to write to my mother for the Manor’s copy. Shall I keep going or do you believe me now?”

Before he could finish she ran to close the distance between them, throwing her arms around his neck. Clinging to him. Holding him in a tight embrace. After a second he folded his arms around her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, voice muffled against his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Apologizing over and over and never enough.

“I’m sorry too,” he whispered, the line of his nose grazing her ear.

Chapter 11

Affection was for closed doors and special days. Like a birthday or Christmas morning. His parents would give one another a peck on the cheek or, more rarely, the lips, but only on a momentous day. They showed their affection in different ways. His mother had a smile that she reserved for him, for when he’d done something to make her proud. A nod from Lucius, with two tilts of his strong chin, was about as much as he’d ever get from his father. The occasional hand on his shoulder, just enough pressure to convey superiority above all else.

The last time he’d hugged his mother had been when they were reunited at the Battle of Hogwarts. It was short. Nothing like the embraces around him, multiplying through the Great Hall as friends and family members reunited and mourned. Loud and affectionate and nothing like his stiff, almost formal exchange.

Before that, Pansy had held onto him but they never held each other. Not in the way that he’d watched the Golden Trio hold each other. The touches they shared were born of her desperation not affection.

But now, in the library of Theo’s torture chamber of a house, Draco found himself held tightly. Because Hermione Granger had reached for him in the same way she’d always thrown herself at Potter and Weasley. Stretched up on the tips of her toes, pulling his neck so that he was nearer her height. With their faces close. The riot of curls on her head tucked beneath his chin, jaw resting against her temple. If he’d moved a millimeter he could feel her cheek against his lips. Not quite a peck, not quite a kiss. But a brushstroke. Instead he took something else. Flexed his fingers against the small of her back, where her jumper had ridden upward. A sliver of skin beneath the tip of his little finger.

She’d disentangled herself after a moment and let him lead her through the now straight path to the door by the Guardian’s vase. Guiding her arm with his hand hovering just behind it, not quite touching. Walking quickly. They were silent until the door clicked shut behind them and they could breathe in the safety of the study once more.

Only it wasn’t safer there. Because now he wanted to hold her again. Not in sleep but with his eyes open. Because once he’d felt what it was like, he craved it. An addict looking for a fix. Just one more taste. One more moment of skin on skin and he’d be free to ignore the conversation he knew they would have now that the metaphorical dust had settled.

“How did you find me?” She asked. The kindness in her eyes so different from the anguish when she’d turned away from him. Running.

“The Guardian opened a path but—”

“How did you get through the maze? The more I tried to get back to you the more trapped I became until…” She looked at her hands, twirling her wand over and over. The vine wood smooth and carved with tiny leaves.

“That was its goal, I think. To keep us apart. I took a guess that if I focused on getting out of the room instead of getting back to you, it would let me.” He didn’t want to meet her eye as he said it. Admitted that he had to act like he was going to just leave her there. Occluded hard to push her from his thoughts. “Once I made it to the Guardian I asked it to set the room to rights. Predictably it would do so only after I gave it something.”

Granger nodded. “That makes sense, I suppose. Getting back to you was all I could think about.” He looked up at her, and she held his gaze before looking away. “I had to give it something too. What did it ask of you?”

“For a secret, of course,” he said. “Is that what you had to give as well?”

“Yes. We don’t have to…tell each other.”

He scoffed, but it was more of a laugh than anything. “Absolutely not. Taking that to my grave.”

With the first bit of uncomfortable topics behind them, he pushed through to the next one. Wanting to be honest with her. Hoping that in doing so, she would understand. “I had to occlude,” he said, and she gave him a puzzled look. “To get through the labyrinth I had to clear everything else away. It was the only way— I wouldn’t have left without you. If it didn’t work I would have found you another way, Granger, I promise you.”

Her eyes widened and she blinked it away. “I know you would have.”

The tapestry above the fireplace was dark, and once he’d thought it seemed like early evening he felt inexplicably starving. They’d only been in the library for perhaps an hour, and they’d had a hearty breakfast before that.

“I think—we must have been lost for longer than we thought,” she said, taking the words from his thoughts. “Time doesn’t make much sense here but there was something especially strange in that room. It felt like hours lying on the floor.” Her face bloomed at the admission.

Draco thought for a moment. When he’d been winding through the maze it had felt like minutes, maybe. And talking with the Guardian seemed to be fairly short — a brief hello and sharing his deepest secret, nothing major. But things were always fuzzy when he occluded as extensively as he’d needed to to save her. Like everything around him was a sea-salt breeze and the rush and roar of the tide.

“Another day lost, then,” he said, removing her satchel and setting it on one of the armchairs. “Would you want to discuss our supper options? I think what I’d like most in this world is an exceptionally old bottle of Ogden’s.”

As soon as he’d said it, a dusty old bottle popped into existence on the desk. One of the more rare vintages, likely from Senior’s wine cellar.

“Well, that was a pleasant surprise,” he said, noting the way her eyebrows creeped up her forehead. “Come on, Granger, have a drink with me.”

A crystal decanter and four glasses on a silver tray were tucked into the corner of one of the shelves near the desk. He levitated it closer and transferred the whiskey from its bottle to the decanter. Then, because he knew she’d ask, he pulled his potions kit from his pocket and went about testing the liquor for poison. Adding a cooling charm to the decanter in lieu of ice.

“I guess it’s been…a bit of a day,” she said as she took a few steps closer, until they stood side by side in front of the desk that was their work table, dining table, and occasionally an actual desk. Draco poured two fingers of whiskey and slid the glass in front of her before giving himself a more generous pour.

“Everything this morning was—well, I forgot to show you what the Guardian gave us. In the gallery.” Granger summoned her satchel and pulled from its depths a large key, handing it to him.

It was old and ornate, like most of the things in the estate.

“Not exactly a door we could test it on,” he said, turning it over in his hands. There were no etchings. Nothing that hinted of what it opened. “If only it would get us to Zahra’s bathroom. I could use another shower.” And he hated the Potty Notty Toffees, too. Convenient, but horrid. And made by a Weasley.

She laughed, “If only.”

“Ask and you shall receive,” came the voice of the Guardian. They both snapped their heads to the mantle. The Hebridean Black stalked across the tapestry, eying them with an amused smile. Then, in its preferred flair for dramatics, it shot straight into the air with a mighty flap of its wings. Climbing higher and higher into the dark sky until it was no more.

There, along the wall in between the shelves, a door materialized. Identical to the one in Zahra’s suite. This time, it had a keyhole. The same size as the key Draco held in his hand.

With a quick look to Granger, he readied his wand and tried it in the lock. With a soft click, the door opened, and there before them was the lavish bathing room.

“Well, fuck,” he said, huffing a laugh. “It seems its a skeleton key.”

She’d already performed her detection spells over his shoulder. “Are we going to have to flip a coin to see who gets to go first?”

“Granger whatever Muggle nonsense that is don’t trouble yourself. I’m a gentleman, you’re a lady. Isn’t the saying ladies first?”

With a roll of her eyes she pushed her way past him and into the room, shutting the door behind her. For a brief moment he worried the door wouldn’t open again. How long until it was reasonable to panic, he thought. Perhaps thirty minutes. Maybe an hour.

The glasses of whiskey dripped condensation onto the wooden desk. It had been a few days since his last drink — not that he drank every day but it was leaning more towards most days, recently. With the increasing opinion pieces in the Prophet and the unfortunate run-in with the elder Weasley weighing on him.

Draco took a sip of the Ogden’s. It was smoother than the bottle he usually went with. A net positive for something old and expensive. With the added delight of belonging to a man he hated. As he continued to drink, letting the spice and heat of it coat his throat, he toasted to Theo. Of all the things he hoped his friend would do with the Nott family fortune once the final legal hiccups were resolved.

He spent a few minutes looking at the titles of the books closest to the desk. Things that Nott Senior felt the need to access quickly and have displayed for his associates. Magick Moste Evile and all that rot. Titles his own father inherited from his father and so on. A few family diaries and pureblood lineage books rounded out the shelves. Things he’d seen before, making a game of finding the worst of the incest before he was old enough to fear being married off to a second cousin.

Another glass of whiskey while he thumbed through a few potions texts he’d read before. There weren’t many he hadn’t sought out over the last few years, and nothing in the bookshelves before him was new or notable. Senior had a massive potion’s lab and likely kept the more interesting and important texts there for easy reference. If the house ever showed them that door he’d planned on rooting through them and taking what he wanted.

Granger returned, her presence announced by a pleasant smell he could describe from memory. Half-bloomed roses, right around the spring equinox. A light, almost sweet scent that caught on the wind and made its way through his open window at the Manor. Just a week before his mother would exclaim, “The roses have truly outdone themselves this year,” over breakfast. Like she did every year. Not that she did much in the way of gardening.

“Did you find a different soap?” He asked, mentally berating himself.

She finished drying her hair, twirling a few curls around her wand in a way that made him envious of the wood. How he longed to wrap a tendril around his finger then watch it twist itself away. “I tried asking for different things to see if the rules of this room applied to the bathing room. It seems that if something exists within the house in one room, it can be summoned to another.” When he perked up at that she went on, “Except for the potion. I did try but nothing.” She paused to laugh. “Theo’s hair — I had a feeling he must use something special for his waves. I’ll have to thank him later.”

To thank Theo for the way she looked right now or to curse him for it, because it was hard to ignore the way she glowed. Like a skin polishing charm, only he knew that wasn’t the cause. Had seen Pansy apply them enough times to understand the glamour. This was different. Draco tried a complimentary smile but suspected it looked more like a grimace, then he downed the rest of his drink and took his turn with the shower. Zahra Nott may have preferred lavender and other florals for her shampoo and soaps but he didn’t fancy smelling like an herb garden mixed with whatever clung to his skin and hair from the trials of the house. Not to mention the medicinal potion scents from Granger’s healing. So he called for all of Theo’s soaps and shampoo and a shaving kit. Even the expensive moisturizer he knew his friend ordered from a specialty shop.

While the steam and hot water rid him of the lingering dirt and ash his thoughts weren’t as easily cleansed. They’d both apologized, but he knew it wasn’t enough to just say the words. He’d said them so rarely in his life he knew that forgiveness was not instant. He’d known that intimately. How could an I’m sorry do anything for him when he’d done so much to warrant feeling sorry? Especially when it came to Hermione Granger.

The razor took care of the faint stubble on his jaw. Not that he could grow an impressive beard if he tried. Once he’d dressed again, after pressing his clothes and casting more freshening charms, he tousled his hair and went to face her.

Ingredients and cooking pots floated around her. A fresh glass in her hand and a fresh pour in his once she saw him. This time, he helped with the chopping. More than a little pleased with himself when she complimented the evenness of his cuts. Helping her make something called a stir fry.

Throughout their dinner he felt the words forming on his tongue but they evaporated before he could release them. Instead they talked of all manner of things — potions, Muggle healing methods — but always at the surface. He drank to keep the easy calm they’d fallen into. Not enough to send him into a fog but just enough to hold onto the pleasantness of her company. Before he ruined it by opening his mouth.

“Granger, what I said before—”

“It’s alright. The room and…well, we’ve been through quite a lot,” she said, nursing her drink. They’d gone through about half the bottle over the course of the evening. The kind of slow imbibing that took hours and left you warm and sated. “You were hurt and I gave you quite a lot of pain potions and—”

“Would you just let me apologize in earnest? While I have the liquid courage, at least.”

“That’s a Muggle saying,” she said, not an accusation so much as a statement.

He closed his eyes and inhaled sharply through his nose, letting it out silently. Waves lapping at the shore. When he looked back at her, ready to talk, she interrupted.

“Is that occlumency?”

“A bit…yeah,” he replied, feeling somewhat ashamed.

“Do you do that a lot?” She asked. “It’s just…Sometimes you get this look and I wondered.”

“It makes it easier.”

“Makes what easier?”

Another deep breath but without the tide to carry it out. Without the assistance with his emotions. Only the truth. “Being a former Death Eater. Settling for what society has decided I’m allowed. Putting on the show.”

It was what he knew how to do best. His father had shown him from an early age. This is how you get what you want, Draco. With fine robes and sleek hair and heirloom jewelry. Rigid posture and sneers and a voice of haughty authority. Demanding. Calculating. But it had always felt like pretend. Letting the facade slip away in sixth year was almost liberating, even though it was replaced with guilt eating away at him. Fear burning him from a brand on his arm. Exhaustion that never seemed to leave him. Dragon Pox patients had looked better than he did at sixteen, Theo told him.

“But you’re not always,” she said, drawing him from his thoughts. She held her glass with both hands. Cradling it.

“You’re right, sometimes I’m rubbish at it,” he said with a laugh, a single note that he scrubbed away with a rough hand on his jaw. “Actually I was always rubbish at it.”

“At pretending?”

“That. Being a Death Eater. Making my father proud. They’re all the same thing, aren’t they?” His hands flexed, one against his empty glass and the other from where it rested on the back of the sofa. Wanting the warm security of another fire whiskey. The thing he reached for when his occlumency failed him. And it was failing him now, while he made pathetic confessions to Hermione Granger’s warm eyes and smooth skin.

“You’re a skilled wizard. That should make your father proud.” He smiled at her positivity. At how wrong she was. “And you weren’t really a Death Eater—”

With a wave he sent his glass to the side table, the magic surprising her. Lower lip tugged between her teeth, draining it of color before it deepened to a darker pink on release. He yanked his jumper off and tossed it onto one of the chairs, not bothering to fold it. Then he methodically unbuttoned his cuffs, rolling his sleeves to the elbows. First the right arm, then the left. Where the faded tattoo of a skull and snake rested against his skin.

“I was a Death Eater, Granger. This says it clearly. For all to see.”

“It’s just…Don’t be angry with me,” she said, worrying her lip once more. He squinted at her then relaxed back in his seat. “I read your file.”

He sat back up.

“So don’t try to pretend with me about what you did. I already know.”

Sighing, he summoned his glass and the decanter. Pouring another few fingers worth of liquor. She held her glass in front of him and gave him a challenging look when he hesitated to pour.

“Right. Of course you did. My sponsor and all.” He knocked half of it back and regretted it. The way it sizzled down his throat. Curling into his belly. Right around the words he still hadn’t said.

“I didn’t mean to bring it up. We should talk about something else—”

“I’m sorry for it all,” he sputtered, speaking quickly so that she couldn’t interrupt him again. “Everything. School — calling you a — and the things I was taught. Being…the way I was. What I did. I’m sorry.”

It was a shit apology. And now he’d ruined it. He’d never be able to do it better. For a moment they sat in silence. She looked at her drink and sipped it while he held his, afraid to take another gulp, afraid to look away from her face. When she met his eye she gave him what could have been a half smile, though it was laced with something sad.

“I know you are,” she said softly. “But thank you for saying it.”

“I didn’t say it very well.” Bloody understatement.

“But you meant it. More than that you’ve shown it. To me and others.”

The slur on her arm was partly covered by her sleeve but he could make out the last few letters. “How did I show it to you? By standing to the side while my aunt…” he reached towards her arm, hovering above it. Letting his fingers trace the shape of the letters before pulling back.

“That’s not your fault,” she said, tugging her sleeve down. The silence was heavy against his chest. Pressing down against his lungs until he couldn’t keep it there any longer.

“Sometimes I ask myself which is worse, watching someone being tortured and doing nothing or torturing someone else, just to save your own skin.” He swallowed. “I’ve done both and I can’t say I know the answer.”

“I don’t blame you for it. What were you to do? Attack a deranged Death Eater? Your own aunt, in front of your parents—”

“Granger, let me feel sorry for being a piece of shit. If not for that night then for all the years preceding it.”

“Draco, we were children,” she said simply.

“I’m not sure that’s an excuse for me. You were off teaching defensive spells in secret with Potter and I was getting indoctrinated and joining a bloody cult—”

“Voldemort didn’t exactly allow the word ‘no,’ I imagine. And he sort of commandeered your home. Not much you can do as a fifteen-year-old but obey.”

“True. Obedience and self-preservation is the Malfoy way.”

“I don’t think that’s all of it.”

“Cowardice, too,” he said with a scoff. “Can’t forget that.”

“I think it takes a certain type of bravery to do what you did to protect your family. Maybe the means weren’t the best but in the end—”

“But I didn’t protect them, did I? My father’s half mad in Azkaban and my mother…”

I’m fine, Draco. You really mustn’t worry, darling.

“What about your mother?” She pressed, reaching for the whiskey. They were both long past the ability to cast a summoning charm let alone pour a drink with magic.

“She deserves better than the life she has now. Alone in a big house, without friends or much purpose. The events calendar isn’t exactly full for someone with our surname. And she’s developed a bit of a social anxiety. It’s hard for her to leave the house.” An understatement. Where Narcissa Malfoy once paraded around Diagon Alley in her finest robes, jewels on display and hair coifed, she now nearly exclusively wore dressing gowns and spent most of her days watching the peacocks roam the grounds. Sending letters to Azkaban that were largely unanswered. Brushing off her melancholy with it’s just a headache, I’ll be be fine, darling.

“Perhaps she just needs some time to adjust.” Granger set her glass on the table. “It took me a while to feel comfortable around large groups of people. I still don’t really like crowds. Weekends I’m usually just alone at my flat.”

“Can’t say I enjoy being around people either,” he admitted. “And what do your parents make of everything?”

Being Muggles, he wondered how much they even knew of the war or the rebuilding. If she’d told them about him. What side he was on. What they’d think now, when he couldn’t stop looking at her.

“They don’t know about it.”

“I wondered if you’d burden them with it. Makes sense to tell them as little as possible,” he replied.

“It’s worse than that,” she said, gazing over her shoulder at the fire. Getting lost in the flames. “I obliviated them. A week after term ended sixth year.”

The air was tight. Ringing in his ears. “You made them forget you’re a witch?”

“No,” she said, facing him. Letting the weight of her gaze and the sadness along the edges settle over him. “I made them forget me.”

“But that’s…”

“I know,” she turned away again, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. When she opened them she took a breath and cricked her neck. “It was the only way to keep them safe. I spent two week leading up to it preparing new documentation for them and putting their house for sale. They’d always talked about visiting Australia and I thought…well, that was the furthest place I could think of. So they became the Wilkins’. No children. Just a happy couple moving to the Gold Coast to start a new chapter. Everything else was settled and I left.”

He’d always known she never did anything by halves. If anyone was to protect her parents, she was the one to do it. A safe house wouldn’t be enough. Not for the most famous Muggleborn in generations. Not for one who’d caught the notice of the Dark Lord.

“I’m sorry you had to do that,” he said, wanting to comfort her somehow. With a hand on her shoulder or an arm around her, holding her again. But he didn’t know how to do that. “Memory charms are hard to reverse but not irreparable. There are potions—Have you seen them? Have you tried?”

She sighed, not the kind of sigh that said you’re an idiot, but the kind that said so much more. “Not yet. I’m not sure that I should. What if they’re happier now? How could I take that away from them after I took everything else? It just…How is that fair? It doesn’t seem right. I already betrayed them once.”

What he wouldn’t give for the ease others had with touch. To be able to just reach out and do anything to smooth the pain from her brow. The tightness of her fist in her lap. He wanted to tell her that she was brave. That she was beautiful and stronger than she thought she was. And oh, how desperately he wanted to kiss her.

“It’s your decision to make,” he tried, hoping it was close to the right thing to say.

“There’s no one in my life I can talk to about them. No one who knew them. It’s been four years — longer if you count the time away at Hogwarts and summers with the Order. When I did it we weren’t as close, not that it made it easier but…It feels as though my own memories of them are slipping away.” A long pause. “What will I be left with then?”

He tapped his thumb on the rim of his glass, watching as the dregs of his drink tilted from side to side, rather than meet her eye. “You can talk to me about them. If you want. I know it’s not the same because I didn’t know them but if you’re trying to hold onto a memory, mine is pretty decent.”

“You can too, you know.” When he looked up she smiled. “Us not quite orphans might have more in common than people think.”

Draco finished his drink and vanished the glass, pleased that he’d managed the simple magic. “The majority of the wizarding world are quite vocal about what they think of me. Think twice before lumping yourself in with me, Granger.”

She stared at him long enough that he raised his eyes to look at her. Planning on quirking a brow and making some stupid comment in the hope of making her laugh. Instead she seemed deep in thought, and he realized that at some point they’d shifted closer together. With her knee curled up on the sofa, resting against his thigh. When she tilted her head, resting it on her fist, the abundance of curls spilled over her arm and onto the back of the couch, covering his knuckles.

When she spoke she looked from his eyes to his mouth and back, looking away for a second then back again. Voice lower than usual, like speaking a secret out loud. “I don’t have to think twice about things. Especially when I know that I’m right.”

He tilted his head towards her, looking at her lips then back to her brown eyes, amber in the firelight. The hitch of her breath made his heart pound. With a careful finger he traced her jaw, then ghosted the line of her lower lip. One of her hands grazed his chest, bunching the fabric of his shirt. Holding him.

“What are you doing?” She breathed, the warm air caressing his hand.

“I don’t know,” Draco answered, pulling her chin towards his. Whispering against her lips. “I don’t know.” And he didn’t, not really. He knew it wasn’t the time. It wasn’t the place. And he wasn’t the one to do it. But he did it anyway. Took the last little bit of space between them and smothered it. Until there was only her lips and his lips and the way they came together. The warmth of her mouth and the feel of her skin under his touch.

He kissed her soft as fresh snow. Delicate as a faerie’s wings. Fiery as the breath of the dragon that followed them from room to room.

The hand on his shirt skirted upwards and the other reached for him as he reached for her. Their bodies connected where they could — her arms wound around his neck, elbows pressing his shoulder blades so that their chests were closer. They twisted to face each other and leaned into gravity. He swept her hair from her neck and held her against him, one hand firm at the small of her back. The other cradling her jaw, feeling the thrum of her pulse beneath his fingers where they trailed down her throat. How it raced. The most delectable staccato.

Kissing her was like breaking into his father’s finest whiskeys. The risk worth the reward. Everything about it tasted sweeter than he’d imagined. The last time he kissed her he’d been half conscious. This time he reveled in it. Pouring the want from his blackened soul into every movement. In the desperate way they clung to each other. The slide of her tongue against his. Nourished by the sounds she made when he tugged at her plush lower lip with his teeth.

Hands pressed against his chest, pushing him back against the sofa. Before he could wonder why she bracketed his hips with her thighs, kissing him thoroughly with her hands at his jaw. He savored the sweet little moan she made when she rubbed against him. One of his hands moved to her hip, the lush curve he’d longed to touch, dragging her right where he sought friction. She melted against him and he drank her down. Heady and consumed with her. Drunk on a daydream come to life, the taste—

A loud crack like apparition jolted them apart. Wands summoned instantly. She breathed heavily and clenched her jaw. They swept the room, back to back, with his hand still lightly pressed against her hip. Keeping her close. It was a new door. Of fucking course. The brief moment of fear had helped the increasing situation in his trunks but he made himself think about complicated potion formulas and his great aunt Gemini’s porcelain doll collection until it calmed down. Like a horny third year. The top few buttons of his shirt were undone by clever fingers. He closed them before she could see his scars.

This time it wasn’t a true door, not really. It looked more like a gate, with plants curling around it and into the room. Tangling vines and dark green leaves. The scattering sounds of animals. With cold air seeping into their warm study. Snuffing out the lights.

Notes:

Cockblocked by a door 🚬💀 the audacity of this house.

Chapter 12

Notes:

There is a mild content warning for this chapter. Please see the end notes.

The study was dark — only thin wisps of smoke from the extinguished candles were visible against the faint bit of light from the enchanted window. Hermione gripped her wand. She’d had a fair amount to drink but cast lumos with ease. The door that had appeared was an iron gate, covered in vines that seemed to weave through the bars, creeping along the floor closer to their feet. Alive.

“Here,” Draco said, extending a small vial to her. “A sort of Pepper-Up Potion. It’s fairly concentrated so just a drop should do it.”

She nodded and did as he said, the minty taste far more pleasant than the standard variety that caused steam to press through one’s ears. Another of his brews that she wanted to question him about.

“The plants are moving,” she said instead. They’d started to reach for the bookshelves on either side of the gate, stretching their stems higher. “I don’t think this room will let us wait.”

Draco shrunk and pocketed his potions kit then hastily put his jumper back on. An extra button of his shirt was undone and there was a hint of pink blush on his neck. She followed it up to his disheveled hair — she’d done that to him, the buttons and his hair and the heat — and blushed. Running her fingers through her tangle of curls before tugging her own jumper back down over her jeans. He grabbed her satchel from the armchair and cast a warming charm over each of them.

“So we don’t have to fuss with coats and scarves,” he said. It was courteous — the fine manners of his upbringing on display. For someone he’d once thought beneath him. But that was before. She knew that now. Knew that he’d left a lot of things in the past and so did she.

With a quick clearing of his throat he cast his own illumination spell and they approached the door. None of her detection spells did a thing in this house but she cast them anyway, hoping that something would give them any sign of what was to come. It didn’t. She no longer marked the doors with runes. There didn’t seem to be a point, especially now that they had a skeleton key. They took careful steps from the plush carpet of the study to the dirt floor beyond the gate.

As soon as they’d passed the threshold, the vines knit themselves together, over and under and back again until there was no door. Only endless darkness and trees that extended acres behind them. As if they’d been deposited in the middle, not the start. They stood in a vast forest, on a meandering path. The eerie silence of the earth was heavy between the sounds of creatures echoing around them.

Hermione’s wand light was dim, so she cast a more powerful lumos. The light flickered and faded. She looked at Draco just as his own wand went dark. A guttural, clicking sound like claws to the right. A rustle to the left. A gurgle behind them.

“It’s a darkness curse,” she whispered. “I don’t think we can find its source in a place this big.”

As her eyes adjusted, she could see more of their surroundings. Tall trees and lush bushes, moss on the earth beneath their feet. Little luminescent mushrooms that glowed purple in the pale moonlight from above the canopy. Patches of puddles beneath dripping branches.

“Right, so any attempt illumination is worthless. We can use the moon and some of the plants to stay on the path, at least. Until whatever beast is lurking in the jungle makes itself known,” Draco said, and she couldn’t decide if it was his usual deadpan humor showing or if he was making a statement about their predicament.

“I actually have a bit of a workaround,” she said. “Will you open my bag?”

He removed it and held the sides so that the (not strictly legal) expansion charm was open to her. The little glass orbs of bluebottle flames flew into her hand with her summoning charm. Then she levitated the lights to hover in front of them, like a torch.  Because she hadn’t created the flames within the darkness curse, they stayed bright.

When she stepped forward his long fingers clasped her wrist. “We should stay together this time,” he said, jaw tight. “Just in case.”

She turned her hand and his grip loosened. Before he could pull away she looped her thumb around his and gave his palm a squeeze. Their fingers brushed, skating over knuckles until their fingers laced. The silver of his signet ring was cold but his skin was warm. When she pressed against his hand he pressed back.

Hermione had loved Ron, yes, but it was a young love. What was expected of them. Fueled by fondness and naivety. History, more than anything. It was a coupling without desire or passion. Something that had seemed inevitable but hadn’t really grown beyond the fondness and the history.

She knew desire. Had known it since sixth year, when she quite literally collided with it outside the library. Slamming straight into Draco Malfoy as he skulked about the castle. As he’d been doing all year, in his dark clothes with dark circles under his distinctive grey eyes. She’d muttered an apology and he merely glared at her, something vicious curling with his lip and behind his tired eyes. It wasn’t the fact that she had run into him that did it. No, that had felt like hitting a particularly rigid wall. It was the overwhelming memory that washed over her. Of her amortentia from two months prior. The wafted steam from the potion was distinct to each person who stood over it. A powerful love potion, Amortentia mimics that which attracts us. Not always in the literal sense, mind you Professor Slughorn had said, My own often smells of Madame Glossy’s Silver Polish! Fitting, for a man who collected people like trophies.

During class it had seemed easy enough to decipher her own scent. What she’d thought was freshly mown grass, smelled on the quidditch pitch during Gryffindor tryouts. Mixed with a touch of something woodsy she’d thought she’d smelled in Ronald’s cologne. And mint — like the toothpaste he’d once bashfully pointed to on her lip. It all made sense. She’d liked him for years. Of course her amortentia smelled like him.

But crashing into Draco that day outside the library was like slipping into the pink potion. Until it was up to her chin. New parchment and earthy sandalwood and peppermint. Not the spearmint of Ginny’s toothpaste that she’d borrowed. A little bit sweeter, like the soft peppermint candies her parents used to give her on her birthday. Fresh grass and new bottles of ink and crisp, autumn air. She spent years denying that she thought him handsome, beneath the sneers. Not even confessing it to Ginny during a particularly vulnerable evening before term, when they’d wanted to talk of anything but the Order. And that denial ran right into her — turning left before she could investigate further.

It was years later, when she confirmed it. Knew without a doubt.

She learned of desire that day outside the library and it manifested the second he kissed her. Far too brief and brought on by concussed delirium but like a spark that she held onto. Cradled against her chest. When he kissed her a second time she knew passion. A burning, insatiable demand for more more more. Something she never had with another. She’d felt pleasure — required it, however difficult to reach with previous partners or on her own when sleep eluded her or she had the urge. But passion — that was like casting a patronus. It seemed impossible until it wasn’t. Until it was as easy as breathing. As easy as kissing him back. Taking what she desperately wanted. Even if it had been spurred on by fire whiskey and the need to smother the pain of loss that they both felt. It was easy to lose herself in the memory of his mouth on hers, barely an hour ago.

The forest floor sloped downward, and the path veered right, near a patch of nightshade with its dark leaves rustling. With her bottled flames lighting their way, the trees around them were more detailed. But instead of brown trunks and green leaves everything was shades of dishwater grey and blue. Rotting. The bark chipping off in jagged pieces. Flakes in the air that moved like snow but looked like bits of some kind of ash. Getting trapped in spiderwebs.

There were beautiful things, too.

“That’s aconite,” Draco said, halting their steps to crane his neck nearer the delicate purple flowers. The leaves were poisonous but the roots were a valuable potion ingredient, particularly for wolfsbane. It was a rare plant. “I think we’re in the conservatory, technically.”

“Can’t even see any walls or a ceiling or anything. It’s like being in the middle of the woods.”

“Do you see that?” He said, squinting in the dark. She followed his line of sight to a shimmering spot by the base of a tree.

Hermione gasped. “It’s fur from a demiguise,” she said, “look at the way the leaves disappear behind it.”

A demiguise was a class XXXX creature. Extremely difficult to catch. She’d read enough about them to feel confident about what they found. To see a demiguise in person was incredibly rare, especially in this part of the world. They weren’t native to Britain or even Europe. She was tempted to go and collect the small pile of fur. It would be interesting to experiment with, and it wasn’t like the creature was here — it had probably scratched itself against the bark, leaving behind nearly invisible hairs. It must have been recently, too — as time went on, the hairs became opaque. That was why an invisibility cloak lost its power over time. Except for Harry’s, of course.

“Theo’s father used to talk about imports…I wonder if magical creatures were part of that,” Draco said, tugging her forward along the path and away from her discovery. The vegetation behind them curled in on itself, the leaves decaying and the flowers shriveling into nothing as they stepped further.

“Do you think we’re meant to be tempted?” Hermione said, leaning against his arm. Brushing his shoulder slightly with her cheek as she spoke. Stealing his warmth.

Draco blinked a few times, quick and then a longer blink. Occlumency.

“I just mean there’s a lot of rare magical plants and fungi. And then the demiguise. It’s all forbidden fruit. Maybe that’s what the room is? And we’re Hansel and Gretel.”

He still held her hand, fingers flexing slightly. Putting light pressure on her knuckles. He was good at that — the sort of touches that felt almost purposeful. She’d never given much thought about another person’s hands before. But she knew that Draco was left-handed. That the skin on his fingertips was calloused, with burn scars and long-healed scrapes and cuts across the knuckles. The hands of a potioneer. Of someone who’d been hit with curses.

“If the room really wanted us to be tempted to leave the path it would bring us tables full of pastries and the door to the laboratory,” Draco said. With long strides he quickened their pace, leading her over tree roots and around clusters of mouldering mushrooms. She decided now wasn’t the time to tell him of houses made of sweets in Muggle fairy tales.

A twig snapped behind them. With their wands aimed they turned, releasing their grips on each other’s hands. He shifted so that she was angled behind him, reaching back with a hand to keep her there, grazing her hip bone. She stepped around it until they were shoulder to shoulder. Equals.

A few meters away, just at the edge of the forest, was a rather thin-looking dog. Like the hunting hounds immortalized in stone in the sculpture room. It crept towards them, its ears pressed flat against its head and tail between its legs. Letting out a slow whine.

“Poor thing,” Hermione said. “Can see its ribs. Do you think it’s been stuck in here for the last few years? Like the troll?”

It slinked into the trees and out of sight before winding its way back onto the path, closer. Keeping its head down. The bottled lights were behind them now, so it was harder to see in the dark.

“Granger, we should keep moving. Leave it be,” Draco said, then turned, gently guiding her to do the same. A hand warm on her shoulder. The dog slowed and watched until she faced forward. The shiver beneath her skin trailed from her shoulder across her upper back, following the journey his fingers took down the length of her arm before twining with hers once more. Giving a squeeze.

It was a relief to feel his hand in hers. One that made her smile despite the cold air and the darkness. The sounds of cicadas and worse living in the trees beside them. Something brushed against her leg — it was the dog, keeping pace.

She held her wand between two fingers, and with a hesitation she reached down to pat its head. It was cold as ice and its fur was damp. When it turned to look up at her, she saw it was missing an eye and half of its face was green. Bits of fur rotted off of its flesh. Hermione gasped and stumbled back into Draco, who pulled her away from the creature. A crow cawed from above, swooping through the air in front of them. Wings flapping and swooshing as it landed on a branch, then clicked its beak before shooting back into the sky. Circling them.

The dog trailed them, too. And when she caught the bird in the light for a brief moment, she could tell that it, too, was no longer living.

“It’s a reanimation spell,” Draco whispered, practically dragging her through the muddy path, almost at a jog. “There were a few Death Eaters who liked to experiment with it at the Manor. Taunting my father with his favorite peacock after it died was a game to them. It’s similar to an inferi.”

“They hate fire but the darkness curse will cancel out any spell to summon flame. Just keep going,” she said. With a sharp flick of her wand she set the bottled flames to circle them, acting almost as a shield. It kept their undead companions from getting too close again.

The air felt thick, and wet with precipitation. The sort of misty rain that didn’t drop so much as hovered, leaving a thin layer of damp over everything. The ground was slick beneath her boots and between the mud and the bumpy roots bisecting the path she was grateful for their tread.

“It’s beginning to feel like that first year detention all over again,” Draco said. “Half expecting a hooded figure to appear and demand blood.”

Hermione had never seen so many death-cap mushrooms in one place before. Even dried ones at an apothecary. Hazy little clouds of lacewing flies clustered together over plants that smelled like rotten fish. A blue bird that may well have been a Jobberknoll perched on a branch high above her head. Fluxweed and knotgrass, valerian and lavender, all sorts of magical and Muggle plants surrounded them. It was a potion master’s dream.

“Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if that happened,” she said.

The mist began to thicken and the ground sloped downward. They halted their steps, facing a fork in the road. Like a poem she’d read as a girl. Two roads diverged in a haunted wood. On one path, the mist continued. Wisps of water and cold air. A darker path. On the other, it was dry. With what looked like sunlight ahead. Color and warmer air. A little too perfect.

“Think we’re meant to take the nicer looking one?” Draco said, giving her hand a light squeeze.

“It’s meant to take us deeper, I think. Lead us into a false sense of security. We should stick with the one we’re on.”

“Further into the wet it is, then,” he sighed, casting an umbrella charm that didn’t help much, followed by another warming spell that did.

Or maybe it was the constant of his hand in hers that kept her from shivering. The little flexes against her knuckles, fingertips pressing against the fine bones at the back of her hand. Holding hands with Ron was a rare occurrence, and never one either of them enjoyed. He said that her grip was too tight. His own was clammy, even in winter. Weasleys run hot, he’d say. It was an intimate activity, Hermione thought. She’d sooner kiss someone at a pub before holding hands with them. And wasn’t that an odd thing? Of all the dates she’d been on, and admittedly it wasn’t that many, none of them ended walking hand in hand through the park. Yet she held hands with Draco as if it were the most natural thing.

The further into the mist the more miserable their steps. Squelching mud, reanimated rats skirting around them and crows flying above them, and an endless feeling of foreboding. They talked to keep focused on moving forward.

“The shield you produced,” Draco began, taking care to raise a low branch out of their way, disturbing some flakes of lichen in the process. “The one in the gallery. It looked like—How did you do that?”

“Oh, well, it just sort of…happened. In the moment,” she replied.

“You mean you didn’t cast some new spell you invented?”

“No I cast a protego but I was pretty focused on the best way to keep you safe,” she blushed, “in that moment. And I was angry, more than anything. I think my magic must have held onto that and pulled from the wreckage to create a stronger shield.”

He was thoughtful for a moment. “I read once that magic reacts differently depending on our emotions. Anger often leads to powerful outbursts. That’s usually the earliest magic a witch or wizard experiences. Something brought on by intense emotion.”

Hermione chuckled, low so as not to disturb anything that might have lurked in the shadows. She thought she saw a pair of glowing yellow eyes staring at them from a shrub at one point, but everything about this forest made her paranoid. A butterfly would make her jump out of her skin if it landed on her. “When I was young, my mother wouldn’t let me read at the dinner table. It wasn’t polite.”

“I’m sure that didn’t stop you.”

“Of course not. Especially when I only had a few chapters left. So I would hide my book in my lap. We had a bit of a row over it one night and— you’ll laugh at me, I don’t know if I should tell you.”

“What? You can’t just—Granger, I promise if I laugh it is an incontrollable response.”

“Well, I just wanted to read without anyone bothering me and so my magic chose that moment to manifest and…the tablecloth sort of created a tent for me. And my parents couldn’t get inside. They were yelling my name for a few minutes until I realized something was wrong. They tossed it up to my being stubborn. A week later I learned what Hogwarts was.”

“And that you were a witch,” he said.

She nodded. “Yes, that too.”

“One who made private reading rooms at the dinner table. And here I thought this story was supposed to be funny, not relatable.”

Hermione blushed again, remembering that he’d liked to climb atop bookshelves as a boy. Relatable indeed.

A patch of white flowers caught her eye. Galanthus Nivalis — snowdrops. A pretty little flower she’d always loved. An ingredient in a number of potions. Like Jobberknoll feathers. And sage, dried and turned into a powder. And stewed mandrake. Things that came together to create a memory potion. She’d considered it before as a means to help her parents. There was some research about its effectiveness in retrieving obliviated memories but she’d wanted to push the theory more. Only she didn’t have her own potions laboratory. Her apartment was in a Muggle building and terribly small. Renting a lab at the Ministry was an option, but she worried it would raise questions. And she hated questions these days. Unless she was the one asking.

She didn’t realize she’d wandered from the path until she felt a tug, then a more urgent pull at her hand.

“Where were you going?” Draco asked, using the hand not holding hers to square her shoulders, turning her fully away from the flowers.

“I wasn’t—”

“You were wandering off. Again.” He sounded upset with her and she let her shoulders drop, losing the touch of his hand in the process.

“I didn’t mean to,” she said. “The snow drops…”

“Promise me you won’t do it again.”

“I wasn’t—” They started moving, a clipped pace that she kept up with, eyes on the forest floor while he tugged her along. On the dried leaves beneath her feet, speckled with something that looked suspiciously like blood.

“Promise me,” he said again, his grip tightening.

“I was just thinking about the different potions we could make and—”

“That’s what the room wants you to do. To leave the path and get lost, just like you did in the library.” He let out an exasperated noise, one that was echoed by the birds perched in the canopy. “I can’t do that again, Granger. You can’t just leave. However easy it might be for you to…nevermind. Just keep up, I’m not doing this again.”

She stayed quiet after that. Focusing entirely on lengthening her strides. It made her lament the days of being in the wild, hiding from snatchers and hunting horcruxes, if only for the way it taught her how to run without looking back. Without getting lost in the hope that lay off the path.

The trees began to thin, and their undead companions fell behind. Back into the shadows and the leaves. The stillness returned but the unease began to lighten as the mist dissipated. Leaving only soft moonlight and finally, the way out.

At the end of the path was a large gardening table, not unlike the work tables in the greenhouses at Hogwarts. Trowels and long dead sprouts in tiny pots across its surface. There was a wooden Guardian, too. Crudely carved of oak. And covered in grime. Behind the table was a wall made of paneled glass — cloudy greens and blues. Some of it cracked by vines.

“Guardian,” Draco called, his warm hand still steadily entwined with hers. “Have we completed this room?”

The wooden carving blinked, and they took that as a yes. To the left a thin door peered through the vines. There would be no prize for them here but relief.

Beyond the door was a lengthy hallway, one side the same paneled glass and the other the stone of the estate’s exterior. Through the colored glass Hermione could still see the trailing vines and overgrown plants of the conservatory. And she wondered if there really was a demiguise wandering around in the forest. Unseen. Left alone.

“You alright, Granger?” Draco asked. She looked up at him and nodded.

“I think so. Just tired,” she said. It had been a long day. Or perhaps it had been days. Certainly days since she’d slept soundly. Though the memory of being curled up on the sofa, stealing warmth and comfort from him, begged to differ.

They moved through the hall, clearing cobwebs and sticks and broken glass as they went. When at last they reached the study door Hermione took a deep breath. It was only after the door shut behind them that she felt less steady. He’d let go of her hand.

They were mostly quiet as they took their turns with the bath. She ordered some basic foods to snack on and poured glasses of water. Too exhausted to cook, even with magic. They talked a little about what they’d seen but nothing about what they’d done before being sent through the misty path of the conservatory. Perhaps that was for the best. Perhaps it had been a fleeting moment.

“Shouldn’t we at least have tried to take something from the greenhouse?” She asked. “I know leaving the path was a risk but maybe now that we’re back here, we can use the key and—”

“No,” he said, the syllable sharp. “We’re not going back there, Granger.”

“But—”

“Let it go.” He stoked the fired and she cleared their meal. A quiet, tandem domesticity to their movements. She snuck glances at him when she could risk it. There was something in his eyes — the lack of warmth she had begun to recognize as occlumency. And she wondered what it was he had to keep locked away in his mind.

“Who taught you?”

“Taught what?”

“Occlumency. It’s not really something you can learn from a book.” The burn of shame crept down her neck. She watched him sink further into it, answering in a toneless voice that pressed against her ribs.

“My aunt, at first. To help with the Dark Lord’s assignment. Then Professor Snape, when he interfered. After that my mother.”

Hermione thought about the advice she’d read in the few books she’d read on the subject. “Aren’t there different methods? Wouldn’t having more than one teacher make things difficult?”

“Yes and no. Sometimes different methods work better for the situation.”

“Whose method are you—”

“Granger, if you can tell when I’m occluding then it would stand to reason that I don’t wish to talk. Just because you know most things doesn’t mean you’re allowed to know everything.” The words were sharper than his tone. The emotion didn’t match their meaning.

“I—you’re right. Of course. Sorry.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Her curiosity and thirst for knowledge was something that others praised her for. But it was also the thing that got her into trouble. The thing that drove a wedge between her and her peers, labelling her a swot at best and a know-it-all at worst. It was a lonely start to her schooling at Hogwarts, and at times, even with Harry and Ron by her side, it was easy to slip back into those feelings. Neither of them wanted to talk about school or different magical theories. She was often adrift in the Gryffindor common room, where talk of quidditch and games of exploding snap ruled. And she was alone with her books and her cleverness.

“I think we’re both tired,” he said at last. “We could use a good rest before the next task.”

She wondered if they’d sleep side by side, like when he was injured. If she would be able to press her back against his chest. Breath in the scent of him until sleep took her.

Instead he transfigured his lounge, said goodnight, and lay with his back to her. Breathing far too even to truly be asleep. He’d told her he rarely slept well. Had made his own special sleeping draught.

“Draco?” She whispered, staring at the ceiling above her.

It took a long time for his reply. “What is it?”

“I promise I won’t leave you.”

Another several minutes passed, and she wondered if she should say it again. Say it as many times as she needed to until he believed her.

“Just get some sleep, Granger,” he breathed.

The sofa was stiff. The velvet cold beneath her. And she lay awake for a very long time, clutching a soft grey blanket tightly around her.

Notes:

CW: A brief description of undead animals, so if that's not your vibe then skip the paragraph that starts "She held her wand..."

Chapter 13

Taxidermy beasts glared down from the walls of Theodore Nott, Sr.’s trophy room. Polished wooden cases with glass fronts housed goblin wrought daggers and gilded goblets encrusted with emeralds. It was the most ostentatious room by far, with sparkling marble floors and carved columns. A grand staircase spiraling down to a second floor. A glass dome above it all.

Hermione observed the stairs beside a quiet Draco. They’d had a somewhat strained morning tea with a quick fry up before the ornate door appeared. Once again the task seemed to involve curing the treasures within of dark magic.

“Would you—do you want me to teach you?” She had asked, after she cast her first runic detection spell. Pulling the symbols from a particularly nasty looking scepter.

“Your runes?”

She nodded, isolating the forgetfulness curse on the massive sapphire at the top from the stinging curse along the golden rod. It took her a few minutes but it was one of the easier curses she’d detected on the top floor. And that was how she taught Draco Malfoy her complicated bit of runic magic for determining the root of a curse. They’d both taken Ancient Runes, though Gryffindors were paired with Hufflepuffs so they hadn’t been in the same class. He’d scored highly on his N.E.W.T., so she knew he’d get the hang of it.

“Thought it was a Granger secret,” he said. And he wasn’t wrong. She’d never so much as performed the magic in front of anyone else in her department. When she was developing it she’d tried to talk to Ron about it but he was always agitated by runes. Why would I want to learn a dead language? He’d say, and They all look like scribbles to me, Hermione. I’m proud of you and everything but I don’t understand it. He never did.

“You’ll have to promise not to share it with anyone.”

“Don’t worry, Granger, none of my friends hold much interest in your line of work. Theo prefers protection spells and wards. Blaise prefers his vineyards and Pansy prefers telling me to shut up.”

“There’s a name I haven’t heard in years,” she said. “Though I occasionally read her articles in the Prophet. Quite scathing reviews of the latest Celestina Warbeck album.”

“Yes, there isn’t an opinion Pansy won’t share. She’s well-suited to the job. Took quite a while for them to bring her on staff. Given everything her father did during the war.”

She knew his words were tinged with bitterness, that his friend had to work twice as hard to be hired just because of her father. Theo didn’t work, as far as she knew. And Draco’s position was not entirely due to her own interference. Wizarding Britain held onto its grudges. Even after Harry Potter himself publicly advocated for second chances.

“Right. Let’s get on with your lesson then,” she said, adopting a tone reminiscent of their former Transfiguration teacher. “So the basics of a dark detection spell—”

“Granger, I do work for the auror department. I know the detection spells you use and the theory behind them. Skip ahead.”

For the first time in what felt like days he gave her a half smile. The wry turn of his lips, just the tiniest bit, was enough to make her blush. Without whatever hair potions he normally used his hair was somewhat wavy, and she knew it felt like silk between her fingers. Between that and the way he’d seemed warmer now, she was easily distracted.

“Yes. Right. It’s easier than it seems, I think. First you add to the incantation. Obscuras ostento. That accounts for what the runic spell will ultimately do for us, locating the root of the dark magic. And then instead of the basic wand movement you want to do a sort of…” She demonstrated, feeling foolish, but he watched her intently. Sharp grey eyes absorbing her movements. “Almost like a conductor. It’s a pulling motion and then a sort of…swoosh? It might feel silly—”

He copied her movements with precision, trailing his wand just so. The light wood a contrast to the mahogany around them.

“Is that a new wand?”

Draco hummed, turning to her. She liked when he did that. Caught up in his thoughts until she repeated herself. Not because he wasn’t paying attention to her, as was so often the case with her friends, but because he was focused.

“It was my grandfather’s,” he said. Twirling it between his fingers. “Works well enough but I do miss the one Potter took. The one that chose me.”

“He didn’t give it back? I thought after he fixed his own wand that he would.”

“It was lost in the battle,” he said, shaking his head. “He told me after. Apologized for it and gave me the splintered handle. I didn’t think Mr. Ollivander would sell me a new one so I nipped this from our vault.”

“But he can’t deny your business. That wouldn’t be right.”

“He wouldn’t be the first. And after what he went through at my…I’m not really looking to find out just yet. This wand is fine.”

There was a slight sag to his stiff posture, and he’d resumed practicing the wand movements. Ready to move on. Hermione dropped the subject. She spent a little time on the theory behind her invented spell, and he asked the occasional question. Particularly interested in how she developed the combination of incantation and wand movement, which, of course, was after extensive reading.

The practical exam was for a spyglass with a temporary blindness curse. He pulled the runes from it with ease, isolating the root, then cleansing the dark magic from the brass object. Next she coached him through a forgetfulness charm on a chess set, the pieces carved of jade and red coral. After three more simple curses she let him assist with a complex series applied to a pair of ornamental swords on the wall. They’d leapt from their holders and began fighting one another until Hermione huffed in exasperation and put a stop to it. There was a sticking charm on the hilts, and a slicing hex on the blades. A cut from one of the swords would reopen once healed. But he was able to counter both spells, leaving Muggle weapons behind.

Having another competent curse breaker working beside her made the top floor go rather quickly. It was essentially a mezzanine, looking over the larger, more prized objects of the collection. The spiral stairs were impressive in their own right. Dark, carved bannisters and wide steps. A way to make a grand entrance, certainly. For parties to show off one’s collection.

At the bottom of the stairs, waiting to greet them, was a massive skull. The bones were obsidian, gleaming in the sunlight from the large glass dome high above. Some of the dragon’s teeth were nearly the length of her forearm and sharp as the swords they’d just cured. Nestled in the sockets were jeweled replicas of eyes, made of thousands of perfectly cut gems. Amethysts ranging from pale lavender to aubergine so dark it was nearly as black as the bones. It was beautiful and arresting, like so many things in Nott Manor.

There were hundreds of objects the Ministry would be interested in recovering once the house was set back to rights. Hermione made mental notes of the most useful things, like the collection of illegally made portkeys they’d found in a cabinet. And the mounted manticore stinger, of course. Nearly all of the things in Zahra Nott’s dresser would warrant a second look. The library, of course. And all of the different Guardians. Similar and yet so different. Clever, ancient magic.

“What does that runic sequence tell you?” Draco asked from somewhere above her shoulder. She’d been grappling with a cursed tiara for nearly half an hour. It was one of the last objects in the room that held a dark curse. One that she’d seen more than a few times in her work.

Hermione sighed. “It’s a blood curse. There’s usually a way around activating the curse in order to cleanse the object but this one has been modified. It can only be removed after. I’m trying to determine the extent of it before I activate it.”

“Before you what?”

“This is why I don’t tell you about every curse I encounter. There’s no reason to conflate things. I encounter blood curses all the time. They’re common. And you’re here to help if it’s worse than I think it will be once I do activate it.”

There was a split second when she saw his wand from the corner of her eye and she should have elbowed him, at the very least. Because he did something very, very stupid.

The tiara jerked from her levitation spell and flew into his hand like a snitch. The silver setting immediately cut into his palms, sinking in like teeth. She tried to summon it back, to free him from its bite, but he waved her off. In mere moments, he’d disarmed it, pulled its curse, and tossed it to the floor with an echoing clang. Droplets of blood fell from his hand to the marble tiles.

“Since when are you an irrational git?” She said, nearing a screech as she snatched his hand and held it up to the light.

“It’s fine,” he said, and she could hear him roll his eyes at her.

“Get the dittany from my bag and hold still.” She checked for any traces of the blood curse. Once bitten, or stabbed or cut by an object housing a blood curse, the curse was likely to transfer to one’s blood. But her diagnostic readings were clear. While she focused on cleaning and healing each of the dozens of cuts, his steady breath helped calm her nerves. The pricking at the corner of her eyes.

“It was specifically a curse on non-magical blood,” he said, the words low. She added a drop of dittany, watching the essence absorb into his skin. “That’s what the combination of Othala and Mannaz typical signify. It’s something the more scholarly Death Eaters used a lot. I’ve seen them before.”

Othala, a rune she saw frequently in seized items from pureblood houses. For heritage and ancestry. Mannaz, for social order. A blood curse for those beneath the ancestral hierarchy. How fitting.

“Still. You shouldn’t have done that,” she said. “It was reckless and you could have lost a lot of blood or worse.” The dittany from his kit worked too efficiently and soon she would have to release his hand. Instead she fussed, just to give herself a few more moments to trace the lines on his palm. Not to look for his future but to feel his present. “You could have been really hurt.”

“If I hadn’t, what would you have done? Pricked your finger on it? Taken on a curse that could harm you? Perhaps irreparably? It was specifically designed for Muggleborns, Granger. By the very people who wanted you eradicated.”

She didn’t have an answer. The look in his eyes told her he knew what she would have done. She ran her thumb over his skin, unmarked thanks to the healing spell he taught her and the dittany, and finally pulled away. Letting her fingers graze his as she did.

“I knew I’d be fine,” he said, but she didn’t believe him. The gentleness in his tone gave it away.

She focused on the final curse in the room — a complicated combination of forgetfulness and a sensory charm that would paint visions of a different location in the eyes of the cursed — on an ornamental helmet. While she waited on her runic roots, wondering which of the levels of the curse would need to be removed first, she asked about his potions.

“The pepper-up drops from earlier seemed to be another of your innovations.”

“Yes. More concentrated, so that when you don’t need a full dose it’s easier to go about your day. I added a few things to eliminate some of the side effects as well,” he replied.

“What made you experiment with it? Pepper-up is easier to buy than brew yourself so I’m curious.”

“I told you I don’t sleep much, so at first it was a way to give myself a boost in the mornings but I hated the steam coming out of my ears. And sometimes I drink a little too much and don’t fancy the hangover.” He chuckled darkly at that. “Figured I’d just test a few versions out and see what worked for what I needed. A more standard brew is still best for an overindulgence of fire whiskey but I’ve managed to remove the steam from that as well. Took a while. Once I had steam out the ears for an entire weekend. Bloody miserable. Nearly went to St. Mungo’s before it finally went away.”

She was impressed by his determination and, she hated to admit, his recklessness. It wasn’t unlike her own. He watched her work, tugging the forgetfulness curse from the helmet’s metal. The sensory charm would take a little longer, and she concentrated on each of the five senses as she worked through the counter curse. A rudimentary sensory charm painted a false picture of one’s environment. A more advanced version incorporated sound and smell, too. The feeling of wind or rain. She didn’t want to take any chances and accounted for all of the senses until what remained was a battle helm, likely stolen from another wizard’s collection.

“Well,” she said, brushing her hands against her jeans. “It’s certainly impressive what you’ve been able to accomplish. Have you thought about submitting your creations for review?”

Draco blinked at her. “I’m the impressive one? After you just dismantled another room full of cursed trinkets in what, two hours? Right.”

They turned back towards the center of the room, beneath the bright morning sun.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

The Hebredian skull whispered, “Get out,” which Draco loudly proclaimed was rather rude, and a double door appeared to send them back to the study. No sooner had that set of doors disappeared then another one replaced it. It was made of frosted glass with silver gilding and a black handle shaped like a dragon’s wing. Carved obsidian, not unlike the skull from the trophy room.

“I like to tinker with things when I’m bored and I don’t really see the point in submitting my work just to have it rejected. I couldn’t find a potion master on the entire continent to take me on as an apprentice, why would any of them want to review my work?” Draco said. With his long arms raised to the ceiling he stretched, cricking his neck with a groan.

“Are you still sore from your injuries? From the statues?” She asked, suddenly concerned that she’d missed something. Itching to cast a diagnostic.

“From that chaise, mainly. Should have considered the thickness of the cushions last night. What do you reckon? Should we get this next one over with?”

Hermione agreed and after rolling her own joints for a moment she squared her shoulders and followed him through the glass door.

                                                                                                   

---

 

In the courtyard of the Nott estate was a serene oasis from the harsh and traditional lines of the house. It was hidden, tucked into an alcove beneath the upper floors, but open to the air and greenery of the central garden to one side. It was a large, tiled room — beautiful and so different in style from the rest of the house. Draco imagined it was something that Zahra had renovated during her time as Mistress of the manor, especially now that they’d seen her own colorful chambers. Felt the remnants of warmth from her decorative touch in fabrics and photographs. Some of the plants in this area looked like the more tropical greenery she favored. Growing in ceramic pots the color of jewels.

When they were kids, Draco and Theo would play exploding snap on the cool blue tiles. Theo’s father never went in the courtyard. He’d sometimes look out at it from his chambers, but this part of it couldn’t be seen from that side of the house. It was why Theo liked to spend time there, during the rare occasions Draco and his father would visit. His mother never went with them. Narcissa wasn’t exactly fond of Theo’s father, and Draco imagined it was hard to be in the house her friend had died in. And now Draco wondered if it had felt more like a cage to Lady Zahra than a home.

He’d been to a magizoo as a child, winding through the paths of artificial environments to gaze upon beasts in their cages. It had unsettled him, seeing things he’d read about in books and feared held captive like that. Surrounded by forests that weren’t entirely real. In the conservatory he’d thought of it. Of their endless swaths of trees and shrubbery and magical flora. It was all a massive cage, this house. Built to keep them inside. When Granger had pulled from him, seeking something off the path, he’d never been more frightened. Not of something dangerous, like a manticore stalking them from the trees, just out of sight. But of losing her again, like he’d lost her in the library. If she stepped off the path, if she let her fingers slip through his he would lose her. It had hurt just to even think of it for a moment. So he’d curled in upon himself, using occlumency to stop himself from clinging to her tighter. From holding her in his grasp, possessive and giving in to behavior typical of his namesake. Stealing the maiden away and hiding her in his cave. The finest prize only for him. But she wasn’t something to hoard and protect. She was a witch, powerful and capable of handling herself. So he’d pushed her away before she could do the same. And woke regretting ever letting go of her hand.

The Guardian was a mosaic on the wall behind a low reflecting pool. It was a fanciful interpretation — with broken pieces of rainbow-colored tiles as its scales instead of the usual black, but somehow they all shifted and reflected in such a way that it looked realistic. The eyes, of course, were purple. Its tiles cascaded down the wall and into the reflecting pool, where they matched the cool blues and sea foam greens of the floor that Draco stood on beside Granger. The water wasn’t deep and it had unnatural stillness. The surface almost a mirror image of the mosaic dragon above it. The pool came up to his knees. A perfect height to sit and trail your hand through the water, creating whirlpools.

The air was warmer, too, despite being outdoors in November. It felt like a spring day. The scent of roses and freshly mown grass on the breeze. Topiaries and a bubbling fountain took up the courtyard. Each tree trimmed pristine. Every blade of grass perfectly even. The rock paths undisturbed. It was calm, and because of its calmness he was anything but.

“Greetings cherished guests,” the Guardian said. As it spoke its scales rippled, changing color. “You have begun to feel at home and for that your host is grateful. Should you wish to continue your journey you must first take a rest here.” Its voice was hypnotic. Soothing. “Look into the depths of my clear waters for one whole minute. That is all I ask of you. It is quite simple. The easiest task presented to you. If you look, you will be on your way. If you do not, you shall find yourself here for eternity.”

Draco wondered what sort of evil could hide in the water. If it really was as simple as looking. Granger went through numerous detection spells before squaring her shoulders and stepping closer to the water. Wearing her determined face.

“Wait—I should go first,” he said, blocking her path. “In case. I’m the disposable one here, remember.” He took off the satchel and tried to hand it to her but she waved him off.

“Malfoy, it’s fine. Just time me. And maybe keep the portkey in hand, just in case.” Before he could physically restrain the stubborn witch she’d stepped onto the tile directly across from the Guardian. Then, she tilted her face, looking down into the water at her own reflection without hesitating.

He cast a timing spelling and slipped the teaspoon from Robards into his pocket, shouldering the bag once more. With each second that passed he felt himself tense. Shoulder blades tight under the weight. While she watched her reflection, completely still, he watched her.

There was fear in her eyes, though her face remained mostly neutral. A slight twitch in her jaw. Forty seconds. Draco’s grip on his wand tightened. Hating the yew wood. It was too light in color. Too rigid. Too similar to another wand he’d seen deal in death. Thirty seconds. A tear slipped down her cheek. Then another. Fifteen seconds. A near silent whimper behind her lips. Ten seconds. He watched her face. Seven seconds. The agony in her creased brow. Five seconds. He stepped closer. Three seconds.

Her hand reached out to touch the surface the moment she collapsed to the ground.

“Granger!” He called, pulling her back before she could reach the water. There was something wrong with her. She kept looking at the water, twisting against him. Keeping her eyes on whatever it was she saw there.

“Look at me,” he said, more calmly. “Don’t look there — look at me. Granger.”

He tried shaking her, then he wound his hand around her head, turning her face towards him, though her eyes remained fixed on their reflection. “Look at me,” he said again, cupping her cheek. Brushing the tracks of tears aside. “Hermione.”

At last she trailed her eyes from the water to his face and he felt himself sag with relief. Smoothing her hair behind her ear.

“Are you alright? Are you hurt?” He cast a diagnostic spell but nothing was amiss. She turned out of his grasp and crossed her arms over her middle. “Can you speak?”

She was quiet for a moment and nodded. “I’m fine.”

“Granger, you were lost—”

“It’s fine,” she said, hiding behind a watery smile. Wiping her tears away. “You should probably prepare yourself. With occlumency. Whatever kind you had to do for— for the worst things. You should…just prepare yourself.”

“Granger, what did you see?”

“Memories, mainly. The things I have nightmares about. It’s—I’m fine,” she repeated and rubbed her arms, almost hugging herself. Holding herself together.

“You don’t seem fine to me,” he said quietly. He handed her the satchel and she held it against her chest, like a cherished book. Then he pulled the teaspoon from his pocket and gave that to her as well.

“Draco, just take your turn so that we can leave. It’s not—you’re not—I need a minute, is all.”

He didn’t believe her. There was a haunted look to her that wasn’t there before. But he knew not to pry, not now. So he closed his eyes and reached for a different method of occlumency. One that he hadn’t practiced in a while. Not his mother’s soothing waters. But the walls that his aunt insisted he build and reinforce. Until everything was an impenetrable fortress. He wasn’t as good at it as he was with Severus’s meditating and his mother’s peaceful approach to the art of guarding the treasures of one’s mind. But when he needed to, he could call on the bricks and mortar. He’d had enough practice.

She’d been a punishing teacher with limited patience and a penchant for stinging hexes if he made the smallest mistakes. In occlumency and his other, less savory lessons. The ones that he dreaded but the Dark Lord demanded. That his father demanded and his mother pretended not to know about. Tucked away in the darker parts of the guest wing. The occlumency was supposed to protect him from his teachers. It mainly protected him from his family and their distinguished guests.

Bellatrix wielded her wand like a whip, snapping hexes from across rooms. Legilimency was a specialty of hers, learned from the Dark Lord himself. The feeling of it like little shocks to his synapses whenever she needled her way into his mind. Searching for what would hurt the most. Certain things had to be kept away from her. But certain things would slip through, and then she would have fuel for her curses and cruelty. So he’d build stronger walls. Create larger waves to wash the rest away. Focusing his mind until it was a blank slate. Committed to the Dark Lord’s cause. Even if it was just for show.

When he opened his eyes he was in a tiled half room, open to the air yet covered. In front of him was a reflecting pool and colorful tiles. A young woman with curly hair stood beside him, but he ignored her stare. The pool called to him. It was his task. That was what he needed to do. Look into the water. For sixty seconds. And then he would be done. He stood in front of the mosaic dragon and looked down at the water. Into his own grey eyes mirrored back at him.

A girl on a polished wood floor, screaming. Writhing and screaming. His aunt’s face, contorted in glee. One of the manor’s peacocks nipping at his toddler heels. Nine years old and his grandfather dying, coughing up phlegm and bile from his bed. The smell overwhelming. Falling off his broom in a quidditch match. A hippogriff scratching his arm. Learning that Katie Bell had been cursed. Running from the Great Hall. Laying on the floor of a bathroom, surrounded by his own blood. Dumbledore, frail but not dead, offering him safe haven. Death Eaters entering the school, his school, with wands drawn. Running from his failure. Mr. Ollivander, skin and bones in the dungeons of the Manor. A werewolf’s howl at the full moon from deep in the guest wing. Luna Lovegood’s dreamy expression beneath a blackened eye. A Death Eater, swearing from the floor as the cruciatus cracked his bones. The curse coming from his own mouth. Running from his cowardice.

A girl on a polished wood floor, screaming. Writhing and screaming. Blood trickling from carved letters on her arm. Screaming in his drawing room. While his aunt grinned at him. Hogwarts in flames. A battle surrounding him. A damp holding cell in Azkaban. A spiked defendant’s stand during a lengthy trial. Taunts on street corners and in the atrium at the Ministry. Trapped in a house. More screams. A forest troll towering over her. A giant statue, holding him by the throat. Running through a library maze. Looking for someone. A twisted path through rotting trees. Losing someone.

A girl on a polished wood floor, screaming. Writhing and screaming. His aunt’s expression as she pressed the knife into the girl’s skin. A word he didn’t use anymore forever marking her. The look in her eyes before the next crucio hit her. Hermione’s screams echoed through the weak spots in the masonry over and over and over. Until they crumbled and all that was left was him.

Granger called his name and he looked away from the water. Keeping his eyes on the pale blue tiles beneath his feet. One of her hands reached for him then fell to her side. He dragged his hands over his face. Pressing against his occipital bones with the heel of his hands. Took a few breaths through his nose and let the crumbled walls in his mind wash away on a gentle wave. Until he couldn’t see the look on his aunt’s face any longer. The screams would always be there, no matter how hard he tried to forget them.

When at last he picked up his head, she was watching him. And he saw himself reflected in her hollow brown eyes. They looked at each other in silence. He wished she would throw herself into his arms again. Wrap herself so completely around him that he could bury his face in the crook of her neck, nestled against her hair. Holding her tightly against his chest. Breathing in the relief of her touch.

Instead she opened the door that reappeared and went back to the study. Without a word.

His wand lay on the floor and as he bent to pick it up he skimmed his hand over the surface of the water, not touching it, but tempted to.

Notes:

A big burst of gratitude to inky_pens for her Latin expertise and helping me create the incantation for the spell Hermione invented.

A note on runes — the runes referenced throughout this story are the Elder Futhark runes.

Chapter 14

Draco pulled his potions kit from his pocket and enlarged it, plucking a few vials out. Then he added a drop of calming draught to their tea cups along with a drop of his pepper-up variant. “It will help us to settle after that last room. Keep us focused and alert,” he’d said. Not the easiest thing after having to relive their worst moments. Even if it was only for a minute.

But it had felt like much longer, as it was happening. Like she was back on the floor beneath Bellatrix Lestrange’s wand. With a dagger pressing into the soft flesh of her forearm. And then she was at the house on Gloucester Lane, training her own wand on her mother. Stealing every memory of herself from the woman who raised her and wiped her tears when she was sad while her horrified father begged her to stop. And then she did the same to him. The anguish on his face worse than anything she’d seen, and she’d seen death by then. It felt endless, moving from the fearful moments of childhood, when she’d shown magic but didn’t understand it and felt all alone. Through the dangers of her time at Hogwarts, with basilisks and dementors. Hunting horcruxes. And Draco thrown to the floor, bleeding in the rubble. Being lost in the Nott library, with its walls closing in. And so many other memories she couldn’t recall them all.

They’d needed to rest afterwards. To collect their thoughts and emotions. Another time she longed for the occluding magic that escaped her skill. Instead she could make a pot of tea and try to focus. Like she’d always been able to with her studies, or with a particularly difficult task at work. She stirred her cup again, sipping the peppermint tea and letting the potions start to take effect. It was hard for her to know what to do or say. Everything sounded trite in her head. Echoes of things people had said to her when she was hurting. It will be okay and You’ll get through it and If you ever need to talk. She certainly didn’t want to share what she’d seen so why would he?

There was a slope to his shoulders now, relaxed into the sofa as he was. An ankle over a knee. But his eyes no longer held the coldness of occlumency. They were far away, somewhere she’d never been and perhaps would never go. But she felt as though she understood it anyway.

“Do you have any theories,” he asked, breaking the silence, “about Nott’s potion?”

Hermione chewed the corner of her lip and shook her head. “Not really. Robards and the auror department have spent the last few years tracking down every Death Eater and sympathizer. They’ve missed someone, clearly. At least that’s what Harry thinks.”

Draco steepled his fingers, resting the tips against his lips. Staring hard at the fire. “It would have to be someone with connections. Means of distribution.”

“So someone wealthy, then.”

“Galleons always help but I meant more that it’s someone calculating. Someone who avoided suspicion after the war. Someone smart.”

No one came to mind, not that she knew much about the larger network Voldemort operated with. Most of what she knew was from reports in the Prophet or from talking with Harry and Ron. The latter had a lot of opinions on their green and silver classmates. “Is it a legacy thing, do you think?” She asked. “Someone trying to finish what their parents started?”

The skin beneath his eye quivered, wincing, but he blinked it away. “Perhaps. Or perhaps it’s multiple persons working together.”

“Who are some of the…inheriting heirs?”

“Other than me and Theo?” He asked, and she nodded. “Not many. Having a family wasn’t a priority for most. There’s Goyle, but we both know he isn’t smart enough. Death Eater adjacent there’s Pansy, but she hates her parents.”

Hermione thought harder, going back through the files Harry had allowed her to search through when she’d started at the Ministry. “What about someone older than us but still younger and out for glory? Who was your quidditch captain, the one with the…”

“Horrid teeth? That was Marcus Flint.” Draco vanished his teacup. “Brilliant at potions but I expect he had a hard time finding an apprenticeship with his low marks. Last I heard he works for some stationery supplier, bottling inks or something.”

“Adrian Pucey? One of the Greengrass girls?”

He shook his head. “Adrian married a Ravenclaw half-blood and they moved to the States. The Greengrasses are hoping to salvage their family reputation and secure advantageous marriages. Mass distribution of poison would negate that.”

Hermione huffed a laugh. The Greengrass girls were beautiful, to be sure, but other than sharing a few classes with Daphne, who was quiet and close with Pansy, she didn’t know much about them. It seemed he did. “You know, I would have never pegged you for a gossip. How do you know all of this?”

“Well, Granger, Goyle was essentially my bodyguard for years—”

“Not him. The others.”

“Pansy and I are friends still. I ran into Flint at an apothecary a few months ago, we were both buying valerian root. I read the announcement for Pucey in the Prophet. You’re good at research, I’m surprised you don’t keep tabs on the Slytherins.”

She felt the potions start to take effect. Warming her. And perhaps they helped lower her inhibitions, too, because she said, “No, just you.”

And his eyes gleamed a little when he said, “Quite a lot of work, I imagine.”

“I didn’t realize you were friends with Daphne Greengrass,” Hermione said, keeping them on track.

“Not particularly, no. But before the war her father and my father had discussed a betrothal with her sister, Astoria, so I had a lunch with her and our mothers just a few weeks ago.”

The warmth she’d felt turned cold and she wished she’d controlled herself before snapping her eyes to his. “A betrothal? Does that—are you marrying this girl?”

And he laughed, a hand over his stomach. “Merlin, no. Someone like me doesn’t help a reputation, first of all, and second…I don’t much see the point in marrying for anything other than love.” He cleared his throat. “If it exists for someone like me. Marriage has always been to fulfill my duty as heir or however my father puts it. That’s not really enough for me. Even with all the pressure on my and my ancestral bloodlines and all that rot. My father resents our current social standing but if I’m being honest there’s relief. In this one area, at least.”

The faint bit of fear that settled over her at the thought of him being engaged dissipated while he talked quickly, sharing things she hadn’t thought he would. She finished her tea, feeling as comfortable as if she’d taken a long nap. Better than that, her mind felt clearer. The memories had settled back into their corners. Never gone for good, but just out of reach. Where she preferred to keep them. And where she now tucked the knowledge that he’d shared. Ancestral lines weren’t important to him anymore.

“So this potion…poison, I suppose we should call it, only affects Muggleborns. Causes a sort of magical paralysis, I believe Robards said.”

“The few patients at Saint Mungo’s were unconscious. There was also a draining of the magical signature which is making it difficult for the healers to wake them. That’s the last update they told me before we came here,” Draco said.

As they discussed theories on the contents of the potion, and which ingredients caused paralysis and comas, a creaking noise announced the next door.

“Beginning to think this house listens to us,” she said.

“Watches us, too,” he murmured, trailing his hand over the back of the sofa while Hermione blushed at the memory of climbing onto his lap to kiss him more just a day ago. Then he stood in an elegant motion and peered at the wall.

The door was similar to some of the others they’d encountered. Dark wood, with a red undertone. Golden details. An ornate handle.

Soft music floated out of the bottom of the door, an enticing melody that had them moving towards it. The day had been long, but it stood to reason that they might as well get this next room over with. It took little convincing for either of them to ready their wands.

“Wait,” Hermione said, putting out a hand to stall Draco’s steps. “I don’t trust the music.”

“We can’t trust anything in this house, Granger. That’s known.”

She rolled her eyes. “I meant that it is probably a pied piper curse. If we follow the sound, it will only permeate through our minds and place us in a sort of fugue state or hundred year sleep or something just as horrid. The entire room is likely cursed.”

Draco opened her satchel and began rummaging, ruining her careful organization. Again. “Right. Have you got ear muffs in here?”

“No but I do have an idea.” She summoned a fat beeswax candle, another gift from Neville. After lighting it with the tip of her wand she began to collect thick drops of melting wax and roll them into spheres.

“Candlestick maker? That’s a Muggle thing isn’t it?”

“What? Yes, I suppose but that’s not what I’m doing,” she replied. When she had four spheres of wax she blew out the candle, holding her hair back from the flame. “Here — take two of these. You can mold them to fit in your ear. Like ear plugs.”

She fashioned her own, pleased at how well they blocked sound. Draco frowned, his brows pinched together as he looked from the wax spheres in his hands to her ears and back before figuring it out. Another Muggle thing, apparently.

They couldn’t hear each other so they communicated with raised eye brows and other gestures, like playful smirks. While he opened the door, Hermione kept her wand ready for defensive spells. But the only thing that greeted them on the other side was a music room, full of instruments and some settees and chairs. Everything was covered in a layer of dust and cobwebs. The upholstery moth-eaten. The air stale.

And there, in front of a tall window, was a gilded harp. Its strings moved on their own. The source of the music they’d heard before.

Hermione pointed at it and Draco extended a hand, after you, he mouthed. First she cast a few detection spells throughout the space and then used her runic curse detection on the harp. She’d been right. It contained a powerful sleeping curse woven into the lure of the pied piper curse. It was one that would take her a while to work through. She sighed and rolled up her sleeves.

While she worked on pulling the sleeping curse from each of the harp’s forty-seven strings, she saw Draco casting her detection spell throughout the room. In between her own task she recognized the runic symbols for some minor curses. More of the same that they’d encountered throughout the manor. Forgetfulness curses and sensory curses. Things he could handle without her, so he did. Until he had nothing left to do but wait.

She could feel him standing just beside her. Watching as she removed the last bit of the curse from the harp’s frame.

“Okay then. What next?” Hermione said, before remembering her ear plugs. As one final precaution she placed the harp under a stasis charm before removing them. Everything was quiet. Draco removed his own ear plugs. She repeated her question.

“I think that was all of it. Nothing else lit up the detection spells.”

A rattle shook an old cabinet. Hermione trained her wand at it and after a nod from Draco opened it. The swirls of a boggart escaped from its depths. The viscous trails of ether hiding its true form. Perhaps it was on instinct that Draco pushed her behind him, and while she was a little offended by the assumption that she couldn’t handle something as simple as a boggart she was also touched by the gallantry.

It had been years since she’d seen one. And it was safe to assume its form would no longer be a stern transfiguration professor announcing that she’d failed all of her classes and brought shame to her House and Muggleborns everywhere. She had worse things to fear.

The boggart faced him, swirling in its wisps until taking corporeal form. Black, wiry curls piled atop a pale face with dark eyes and a cruel twist of a mouth. Garish black robes that ironically reminded Hermione of Muggle costumes for evil witches. A wand she’d never forgotten, hooked like a talon and sharp at the end. It had left a tiny fleck of a scar beneath her chin when she’d been threatened with it. Before she’d been tortured. Her heart rate increased as the boggart Bellatrix Lestrange advanced slowly.

“The Dark Lord is displeased, Draco,” it said, imitating her raspy voice. “Dumbledore is nearly as good an Occlumens as he is. Your progress is too slow, especially for a wizard with Black blood. You cannot return to that school until you succeed.”

The boggart was taunting him about his occlumency lessons. Hermione stood beside Draco, turning to see him holding his wand level, eyes hard as they focused on the false Bellatrix. Jaw tight.

“I’ve seen the depths of your weak mind. Watched you fail to cast the cruciatus too many times,” it went on. “Pathetic, really. I’ve told my sister she raised you to be soft. Maybe you just need the right leverage.”

He hadn’t moved, hadn’t begun to cast the banishing spell they’d learned in third year to disperse the creature. “Draco,” Hermione said. He flicked his eyes to her and back to the boggart, angling her behind him. As if he knew she was seconds away from stepping in front of him. Of taking the boggart for herself. Even if she worried that its form wouldn’t change, at least the things it said might.

“Perhaps it’s time I found your precious Mudblood,” the boggart Bellatrix said, grinning. “How she would scream so pretty for me when I—”

“Riddikulus!” Draco shouted, slashing his wand at the boggart. The magic cracked and the wiry black hair turned into an overturned plate of spaghetti bolognese. The garish clothes lengthened, tripping it until it tumbled to the ground.

Laughter sped up the process of defeating a boggart but it was hard for Hermione to think of anything but what it had said. The way he’d instantly surged forward to stop its talking.

Draco repeated the spell, chasing the creature to the corner of the room with a forced chuckle of laughter until it disappeared in a puff of smoke. Boggarts couldn’t tell the difference between real laughter and a facade.

The dust in the room settled back into the crevices and everything was quiet.

Instead of looking at her, Draco moved around the room, waiting for something else to emerge. She poked around, checking the mangled drapes for doxies but nothing else came. All of the instruments were clean of curses and dark magic. But the way out hadn’t appeared to them and neither had the Guardian. There was a large landscape painting over the piano, big enough for a dragon’s wings.

“Who did she mean?” Hermione said softly.

He took a deep breath and exhaled on a sigh. “You know exactly who she meant.”

“But…why?”

“Because she could see. The Dark Lord himself trained her in legilimency and I wasn’t strong enough to keep her out of my mind when she first arrived from Azkaban. After fifth year.”

“But,” she started, pulling her lip between her teeth, “but that would mean you thought of me and—”

“Of course I thought of you, Granger, you were everything I was taught to hate. And yet you had the best marks and the respect of your peers. Bloody international quidditch star on your arm and a Ministry job waiting for you. And you were—” He paused and ground his teeth. “And then you were missing for an entire year and top of the Dark Lord’s wanted list. Do you know how many girls Snatchers brought in, hoping it was Potter’s...friend? I had to see them all. None of them were you. Until one day it was.”

Draco sat at the piano and opened the hatch.

“And they didn’t need me to say who it was because she knew you.”

The instrument was a little out of tune. The keys chipped and cracked in places. He began playing a few notes before settling into a soft sonata.

“My face was in the papers all the time,” Hermione said. “Most wanted Muggleborn.”

Watching him play was intoxicating, and she found herself tiptoeing closer to the instrument.

“This was before that. She knew who you were because of me. She saw you in my thoughts. Before I could keep them all out.”

At first she rested her hand at the top, looking down at the keys. The way his long fingers moved elegantly across them. Of course he could play piano. It was exactly the sort of high class activity befitting the heir of a noble house. He’d probably learned from a young age, something to trot out at parties. Yes, our son is quite skilled at the piano forte. She wondered when he’d last played. There was no hesitancy to his movements, but he scrunched his brow a lot, as if he had to dig deep in his memories to find the scraps of melodies.

“Draco, I don’t blame you for what happened to me. You have to know that.”

When he didn’t answer she drifted around the piano, hovering by the bench. There was barely room for her to sit, so instead she rested a knee there. Without removing his hands from the keys he shifted just enough to make room for her. An offer. So she slid onto the seat. Their thighs touched, resting against one another on the wooden bench. Her hands clasped on her lap, keeping her elbows out of the way as he played. Sleeves brushing closer to her then trailing away across the keys. He removed his left hand, his wand arm, and held it in a fist on his thigh. Trilling the notes of a familiar tune with his right.

She’d had lessons as a girl. Before Hogwarts. They weren’t really worth the money, in the end. She never learned to play by ear and she’d never mastered pitch. But she did remember a few notes. With her right hand she touched the keys, adding the low notes. Draco turned to look at her then, hair falling into his eyes with the motion.

“Full of surprises, aren’t you?” The corner of his lip twitched.

Hermione felt herself smile. “I’m not surprised you play. You’re too posh not to. This is about all I remember. It’s been a while since I’ve even seen a piano.”

There was snow outside the enchanted windows, fat flakes twisting on the wind. She wondered why the weather in this room had turned so abruptly to winter. To something cold when she only felt warmth beside her. Another mystery of the magic at Nott Manor. Just that morning the window in the study showed the same blue sky and indirect light it always did.

“It’s been years since I last played,” he said, moving a step down the keyboard, so she shifted as well. “Guess we don’t always forget things we learn when we’re young.”

One of the keys slipped beneath his finger, the sound abrupt. But he kept playing, and she noticed that his jaw was tense. The skin around his eyes tight with focus.

“We unlearn what we don’t need anymore,” she said, “and we keep the things that matter”

He dipped his chin in a nod, but the line of tension remained. After she hit a final note she moved her hand back to her lap. When he began to play a different song she wanted to ease the harshness in his features. Turn it back into the soft smiles and teasing smirks and glances that made the hair at the back of her neck stand up. She placed her hand on his forearm, just above the mark that took so much from them both. The notes stalled and began again, taking her with them.

“You don’t have to punish yourself, Draco. Not for me.” She pressed her fingers against his sleeve, wishing it was skin on skin. Wishing that she could erase the ink with just a touch. Remove everything that it represented. Instead she lifted her hand. “I already forgave you. Maybe it’s time to forgive yourself.”

The notes stopped. He looked at her for a beat too long, like he had been for days. With a kind of yearning. Long enough that she looked away. The exhale wasn’t sharp, exactly. More like a resigned sigh at the end of a long day. He extracted himself from the piano bench, running a hand over his face.

“I can’t keep kissing you, Granger,” he said, stepping around her and into the center of the small room.

“What do you mean?” Hermione replied, twisting in her seat to face him. The mere mention of it set her heart stuttering.

Draco took one step closer, but maintained his careful distance. “I mean that I can’t keep kissing you, I’ve done it twice now and both times you’ve made it clear you wanted to forget it ever happened.”

“What?”

“You wouldn’t even look at me after.”

She wanted to forget? Where did he think that came from when he was the one relieved to wake up alone after the gallery? He was the one hiding behind coldness and occlumency and anger when they walked through the forest of the conservatory. And after, in the study. While she awkwardly endured it. Put on her best I’m fine face. The one she reserved for acquaintances and reporters. “That’s not true,” she said.

“It sure feels true—”

“It’s not.”

He shook his head, a huff pushing through his teeth. They stared at each other, her chest heaving and almost painful from the way her pulse increased and her lungs took quick inhales and exhales. “That’s because you’re always so—and I don’t know how—what do you want me to say? I never say the right thing with you. Tell me what I’m supposed to say. I’m not a bloody legilimens, Draco, I can’t read your mind.”

She swung her legs over the bench and stood. They circled each other from a meter apart. The shadowed room growing smaller with every turn.

“I would have thought you Gryffindors value action,” he said, stopping his steps and ending her own momentum. The rug beneath her feet caught on the tread of her boots and she nearly stumbled. “Thought you were smart…Brightest Witch of our Age my arse,” he muttered under his breath.

“You hit your head the first time—”

“So you do remember that.”

“And the second we were drinking so I just thought that—”

“I wasn’t drunk and neither were you,” he said quietly. “All I could think about was kissing you, so I did.”

The air was heavy with words spoken. With the lingering magic from the harp and curses and the boggart. The echoes of music plucked on piano keys. Hermione couldn’t keep herself from looking at him. Observing in the way he so often observed her. Taking in all the details. Like the rumpled appearance, from days spent battling with a manor that wanted to devour them. The way his hair had a slight wave to it. The straight slope of his nose. His eyes, a grey with the faint overcast of blue, until they’d darkened like storm clouds. Not the ones that held destruction and ruin. The ones you saw in the height of summer, when thunder and rain brought a respite from the heat.

She’d looked too long, and the want that coiled inside of her, like a sleeping dragon, was surely written on her face.

“You can be impulsive, I get it. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if you felt anything like what I’m feeling,” he said, voice low and tinged with something like regret. One of his hands tugged at his hair, leaving it in further disarray. “Let’s just…go.”

He turned and took the first steps away from her, towards the door that had materialized.

And she couldn’t bear it.

“Draco,” she whispered, and reached for his hand. Holding a few of his fingers in her own, pulling herself closer. He watched where their hands connected then looked up, the grey thunderous. Like a summer storm. She hesitated for less than a second, then stepped into him and pressed her lips to his. Pouring the want into her kiss, cradling his jaw in her hand as delicate as the threads between them. In the tapestry woven together between haunted kitchens and labyrinthine libraries and stolen kisses.

Though she could have kissed him for hours she settled for one consuming moment of shared breath. When she pulled away he looked at her, half stunned, with ripened lips and a faint blush to his sharp features.

“You’re right,” she said, keeping a steady grip on his hand. Lacing their fingers. “We should get going.”

Chapter 15

Granger pulled him along, tugging his hand until they were through the door and back in the study. At last. Draco let the door shut behind them and yanked her into his arms, stealing another kiss. He felt her smile against him and when she curled her hand around his neck, scratching her nails over his scalp, he increased the pressure. Taking just a little more as he kissed her again against the bookshelves. Placing one of his hands on the wood behind her head so that it didn’t hurt her. 

But he knew that she wasn’t breakable. No matter how delicate he once thought she might be. Hermione Granger was made of tougher things than glass. She was resilient. She was magnificent. And she was kissing along his jaw, so gently his eyelashes fluttered. He flexed his hand against her hip, encouraging her to step onto the bottom shelf. The added height let him slide his thigh between hers. To feel the heat there and the light friction from her jeans.

With a groan he dragged her mouth back to his, lightly sucking her lower lip. Opening them to slip his tongue against hers. He could have the oldest bottle of Ogden’s and still prefer the taste of her. Imbibing in excess and often and still not enough. A lifetime of her sweet mouth wouldn’t sate his thirst.

Now that she’d been the one to initiate, he couldn’t deny himself any longer. Perhaps it was because he’d been a spoiled child who always got what he wanted. Or perhaps it was because he’d gone without for so long. Years of only taking what little was offered to him. He’d endured it because he wanted little. And now the thing he’d wanted most had offered herself to him. Once he had permission, it was all over for them. At least, for one of them.

The satchel slid off his shoulder and he kicked it behind him. His jumper tossed somewhere before she claimed his mouth with a needy sound that made his knees weak. If he came up for air he would be gasping. Because where once he’d needed oxygen now he only needed to share her breath. Without it his lungs would seize. The tips of his fingers found her hemline, and they took tentative steps until the fabric shifted over them and he could feel her skin beneath them.

The need to taste the column of her throat consumed him, and he found the spot just beneath her ear tasted like shortbread. She twisted in his arms, pulling away only long enough to remove her own jumper. Leaving more trails of skin begging to be traced by his mouth and hands. Muggles called it a t-shirt, and hers was sheer and white and just beneath it—

“Fuck,” he whispered, the moment his thumb grazed the lace. Trailing higher but hovering.

Her nose ran along his cheekbone and she chuckled, “You can touch me,”  she said, pressing closer. “Draco—”

He didn’t need her to continue. Once he had permission, it was all over for them. The hand that  stayed along her waistband trickled over to the front of her jeans and flipped the button open. Pulling the zipper down swiftly before brushing his knuckles against the lace of her knickers. Lace. The fabric delicate against his skin. If he could touch her, he would never stop. The house would take them. And everything outside of them would no longer matter. Not his job not his friends not his family not even his very name. Only her. The exquisite perfection of his hand slipping beneath lace and past the thatch of curls to feel her desire. To let it coat his fingers while her tongue traced the shell of his ear.

“May I?” He asked, giving her one last chance to deny him. To use the last bit of logic and bravery in her arsenal to tell him to stop. To nudge his hand away and straighten her clothes and make a pot of tea or something else to occupy her hands. Instead she held him tighter, pressing her leg around him to lock him into place against her. One hand in her knickers and the other tangled in her hair.

Her laugh was like cinders, catching the flickering flames that emanated from his very skin. From his bones. From somewhere deep within him, a place he’d keep behind walls and pushed out to sea. Hidden behind layers and layers until it was dormant. But a sleeping dragon doesn’t rest forever. All it takes is a touch—a breath—a kiss. Because once he had permission, it was over for both of them.

“I already said you could,” she replied. So he did.

The gasp against his ear was the sweetest sound. Skin like velvet, gliding under his touch. In circles and figure-eights to find what she responded to. The pulse of her cunt around his fingers as he pushed them in deep and withdrew them was enough to make him groan. And then she’d turned her gasps into breathy moans. Held onto his wrist with one hand, guiding him to a rhythm she liked. One he was all too happy to give her if it meant she’d keep whispering in his ear — little things that were probably meant to be silent. Mouthed against him, her lips brushing his cheek as she said over and over, please and yes. He’d never forget the way she drew out each syllable in fuck—stretching it into three separate sounds as he worked her higher and higher. A string pulled taut until it snapped.

When she came against his hand he nearly joined her, spurred by the friction of her hips meeting his, against the fucking bookshelves. Like every fantasy he’d ever had about a library. How he’d tell her to be quiet, Granger. This is a library as he thrust into her. How she’d moan and make him cover her mouth with his hand. Dipping a finger inside just to feel her tongue suck on the digit. Fantasies blurred with reality, with her pleasured gasp that clicked at the end, catching on shared air before he kissed her again. Slow and meticulous. Memorizing every shape and color and fucking sound. Only stopping to remove his hand and lick his fingers clean.

She watched him with glazed eyes. Head lolling back against the wooden shelves and hundred year old potion journals and theoretical magic texts. He felt intoxicated and he never wanted to be sober again. When he kissed her he continued to take his time. Savoring it like he hadn’t been able to until now. Until he had permission and her hands in his hair and at his belt. Pulling the leather from the silver buckle.

The wall collapsed behind her and they stumbled, his hands catching her before she fell to the floor. Holding her against his chest. Breathing heavily, he kept her close and pulled his wand from his pocket. Candles slowly flickered to life. A door had materialized beneath them, spitting them out into some kind of receiving room. There was a dark, wooden table at the center. With a Guardian in the middle of it, similar to the one in the foyer of the house when they’d first arrived. It was a sort of sculpture that prowled the table. Behind it was a warm fire but there was no furniture, save for an armchair tucked back against the wall they’d fallen through. The door that so rudely interrupted him was gone. Had it still been there, he would have set it on fire.

Granger held tightly to his side, her own wand in hand and her jeans sadly rebuttoned. If Draco ever saw Nott Senior again he would curse him into the next century for taking this moment away from him.

“Greetings, honored guests. The time has come for you to rid yourselves of these strange clothes and join the rest of our revelers. Young Master Malfoy, you’ll find everything you need through this door,” it shimmered into existence, a nice, ornate door with his initials on it — DLM. “And Miss Granger, you shall be taken care of through this door.” An identical door with her initials, HJG.

He gripped her tighter, fingertips digging into the flesh of her hip. “This fucking house. If you think we’re—”

“If you wish to leave the Noble House of Nott you must go through these doors. They will only open for the one whose name is upon it.”

Hermione turned to him and held tight to his shirt. “Draco—”

“The portkey, is it still in your pocket?” He asked, taking her hand from where it fisted in his shirt and holding it in his. Heart racing, had been racing for days.

“What? Yes, I still have it but—”

“If anything happens, even if it’s the smallest thing, you use that portkey, Granger.”

“No,” she said, and her fingers tightened. The bones tight against his own. “No, I promised I wouldn’t leave you. I won’t.”

“Should there come a time when you have no choice, you need to take it and get out of this house. I’ll be fine, I can call Tippy. You needn’t worry—”

“But why can’t you call Tippy to bring us back together? Why do we have to separate?”

He touched the pendant around her neck, smoothing the chain and grazing one of the larger engravings. Alrakis, a binary star. “We have to play by the house’s rules. I’ll be fine. You’ll be fine,” he said, not sure which of them he was trying to convince.

“Guardian,” she said, turning to it with her full Gryffindor fury, “why do we have to go alone? Why can’t we both go through one door and then the next?”

Ever practical and stubborn. And championing for him in a way he’d seen her fight for countless others.

The Guardian flared its wings, then flapped them twice before settling once more. “My dear girl, it would be improper! A young lady and a gentleman simply cannot be alone in a room together unchaperoned. It would be a scandal.”

“I don’t bloody care about a scandal, my entire life is a scandal,” Draco couldn’t help but droll.

“If you wish to leave this house you must go through these doors. They will only open for the one whose name is on it,” the Guardian repeated. “I cannot be more clear.”

Draco pulled Hermione in for one last kiss. Turning her hardened expression soft with a stroke across her cheek before pressing his lips to hers. It was the kind of kiss where you gave more of yourself than you took. Wanting to remember the shape of her. The feel of her in his arms. That whatever happened next, he would still have this. One perfect memory. Then he pushed her back and stepped to his door, watching their hands slip apart.

“Go,” he said as he walked to his door. She started to protest, wanting to consider the options that they didn’t have. “It’ll be alright.”

Reaching for the handle he turned back to look at her, the mess of curls and darkened lips and eyes that saw right through him. When she stepped back towards him he almost let her.

“Granger, go.” He said firmly, then turned the knob and stepped inside.

The door immediately vanished, and he could feel the loss of her behind the purple damask wallpaper. Wand at the ready, he looked around the room. Silently casting the detection spells that barely served their purpose in this house.

He was in a dressing room, not unlike the ones at Madam Malkin’s. A small raised dias in the middle, a few racks of clothing, and an embroidered Guardian on the cushions against a low settee. Motionless. A grander version prowled a painting along the wall, glaring at him with its amethyst eyes.

“Come, we haven’t got all day,” it said, swishing its tail. “You’ll need to be fitted.”

“Fitted for what? My funeral robes?”

Soft string music sounded from another room. “For the esteemed Lord and Lady Nott’s solstice ball, of course.”

“Solstice?”

“Step on the platform, please. Yes, the winter solstice. Do keep up.”

If it were truly winter solstice, that would mean they had been inside the manor for over a month. How many nights had they slept? Three or was it four? And yet, how many weeks had passed? Trying to make sense of it gave Draco more of a headache than he already had. The base of his skull throbbed with a dull ache he knew would only ease when he knew Granger was okay.

A measuring tape took his sizes while the Guardian asked him about colors.

“If you want to save time I only wear black or grey,” Draco insisted. “A white dress shirt beneath the robes is fine.”

“Dear me, you really do wish to dress for a funeral. With your coloring and taking the lady’s preference into account, perhaps a rich navy, like midnight sky. Would that be dark enough for you?”

“I suppose if it’s nearly black, it might do.”

It felt like shopping with his mother. Purchasing various dress robes for all the social events he would accompany his parents to over summers and Christmas break. Important galas and dinners for his father. Places where he would have to make an impression. And be the esteemed Malfoy heir for all to see. It had been years since he’d attended anything that could qualify as an event. Years since he’d played the role he once knew so well.

He avoided looking in the mirror as different options were floated in front of him to choose. They were all a bit stuffy for his tastes, much more dated than anything he’d choose for himself. Too much gold embroidery on most. Fussy collars and long, trailing fabric he’d surely trip over.  At last there was one set of dress robes he rather liked, with fine threads of silver and a clasp made of stars. More simple than the others. Once he’d made the decision the rest of the clothes vanished, leaving a mannequin with his outfit. The robes, a waistcoat, a shirt, cravat, trousers, and pointed shoes. Like a bloody aristocrat.

A floating hanger took his shirt once he’d unbuttoned it and shook it from his shoulders. There were no freckles or moles on his pale skin, but it wasn’t unmarked. Flecks of scars painted his forearms. Deeper lines curved over his knuckles and palms from brewing. From accidents. Some were from curses and hexes. From punishments. Then there was the crackling, jagged slash across his torso. The scar tissue healed to a pale mauve, puffy and stretched tight. Little branches reaching across his chest and over his stomach. It had taken dozens of foul potions and hours of healing spells to seal the wound from Potter’s curse. Snape and Madam Pomfrey had done the best they could, with what they had. Though his mother wanted to remove the scar, another lengthy and unpleasant process, he’d decided to keep it. A grim reminder that, despite what he was raised to believe, he could bleed just like anyone else. Die just as easily. For a cause he knew, deep down, deeper than that curse could hit him, was wrong.

It was part of what inspired him to research healing spells and potions over the last few years. To learn everything he could to minimize damage. At the time, it was to be prepared should someone strike him in the back on his way to work one day. But then, once he’d really started to look into things, he thought about the cursed mark on his arm and how he wished he could remove it. Someday maybe he would. But now he could only think of a hateful word carved into beautiful skin. And how much he wished he could take the pain of it away. The reminder of it. How he wished he could do that for her. To apologize over and over again.

Draco finished getting dressed, thinking he looked like a portrait of one his ancestors from 200 years ago that he couldn’t name. His own clothes vanished, and he hoped he would get them back. Chasing their mission around this house wouldn’t be any easier in these layers. Or these shoes. Transfiguring clothes wasn’t exactly his forte.

The Guardian seemed pleased with his appearance, at least. “Much more appropriate. Do enjoy the solstice ball, Master Malfoy.” It said. “I expect you’ll be dancing until the clock chimes.”

“Where’s Hermione?” He asked.

“You’ll have to wait for her by the grandfather clock. A lady requires more time to prepare, after all,” the Guardian said.

A door hidden in the panels of the wall opened to reveal the ballroom. Draco walked through the doorway, grateful for the warmth of his clothes as he stepped over the threshold — it was briefly freezing before the temperature settled. The ballroom was smaller than the one at Malfoy Manor, and it felt like he’d used a time turner. Nothing was modern and there was a certain haze in the air that made everything look like stepping into the past. Maybe a time turner wasn’t right — it was like walking into a memory. Dipping into the wisps swirling in a pensieve, from hundreds of years before. Candles floated above his head, bathing the room in soft golden light. And all around him were specters — they weren’t ghosts, not really, but they weren’t fully corporeal either. Some faces he recognized from the sculpture room. From portraits and busts, before they’d turned them to dust and rubble.

The floors were polished and though they were wood, he couldn’t hear the steps of the other guests. Their gowns and robes were lavish yet muted, and their faces — it was as if their features had been smudged. Like looking through a window on a foggy day.

The clock was a few feet away, twice as tall as he was and beautifully carved of dark wood, gleaming in a way the rest of the room did not. The clock face was a spiral — one through twelve counting down and down in smaller and smaller golden numbers against a pearlescent background. Flecks of gold cast across it like scattered leaves on the wind. Floating to the edge before disappearing and starting over again.

It was nearly eight o’clock. The second hand ticked away, bringing the minute hand ever closer. He kept to the edge of the room, by the clock, where the Guardian told him to be. Waiting. Party guests drifted throughout the room, some were dancing to the orchestral music, a minuet, if his memory served. The ceiling was enchanted — a winter sky, with faint snowflakes and grey clouds and a crescent moon so thin it was like a slice through the cosmos. The walls around him were lined with columns and tall windows facing the courtyard.

The clock chimed, loud bells that drew the attention of a few of the spectral dancers. And there, stepping through the same door he’d entered from not that long before, was his missing partner. She scanned the room, her breathing uneven, raising her chest. One of her hands pressed against her stomach, turning until at last she saw him. And smiled.

The gown was a deep blue, the perfect compliment to his own robes, with a panel of periwinkle down the center. A silver bow tied around her. A present he longed to unwrap. As she approached he could see the fine silver threads in the fabric. She reached out and he met her in the middle, taking her hand. The clock chimed its sixth chime, by Draco’s count.

“Look at you,” he said, as he did just that. Taking in every inch of her.

“The Guardian wanted me to wear gloves but I took them off.” Her grin was mischievous in a way that he wanted more of. Because if she smiled like that, her thoughts might be similar to his own.

“Always a rebel, aren’t you, Granger?” He started, but was interrupted by an amplifying spell.

At the front of the ballroom, just beside the string quartet and pianoforte, stood a couple who could only be the Lord and Lady Nott. He was unremarkable and she was cold.

“Welcome!” He said, and the attention of the room fell upon him. “Winter solstice is here and with it, the longest night. Let us celebrate with a dance! And a special one, at that. My dear guests we have within our midst a truly remarkable couple. And they must lead us until the clock runs out on this most magical of days!”

All eyes turned to Draco and Hermione. She squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back.

“Come! To the dance floor,” Lord Nott said, beckoning to them.

“Right, Granger, follow my lead,” Draco said, offering his arm to her. She took it and let him lead her to the middle of the room. There, on the tiles at the center, was a painted Guardian, though it was still. Above them, however, amid the floating candles, was a grand chandelier made of twisted gold in the shape of a Hebridian Black. With purple glass prisms hanging from its chains.

“And now, let us celebrate the longest night,” Lord Nott said, and clapped his hands twice.

The floor beneath them rippled, and Draco pulled Hermione into a basic waltz as the music started. Grateful for the lessons he’d attended as a boy. Once they’d begun to move, the floor flattened.

“So we’re to dance for the next four hours?” She asked, keeping up with the steps. None of the other couples were dancing the same style of dance. It was perhaps a little out of the era they seemed to have dipped into. Some of the looks they received were near scandalous. Especially at the sight of a woman without gloves.

“Could be worse,” Draco said, pulling her close. “At least there’s no boggart.”

“Or troll,” she replied.

“Or enchanted statues.”

“Cursed kitchenware.”

“What a nightmare that was,” he said with a grin.

The first hour passed with relative ease. They talked and avoided stepping on each other’s feet. Her gown was silk and soft beneath his fingers. The echo of their earlier tryst seared into his memory. Her body warm through the fabric. The candlelight gave her the sort of glow that witches bottled. Skin polishing serums and radiance charms. But nothing had compared to how undone she was — with her curls unbound and cascading down her back. Only a simple tiara kept them from her face. Silver with tiny stars. A compliment to the pendant around her neck.

“Come on,” she said, and tugged his hand. The floor shook a little as she lead him to the end of a line of couples. “We’re going to try it.”

Neither of them knew the steps but they tried to copy what the others were doing. Whenever one of them erred, she would laugh. And the sound and sight of her face lit up with happiness wrapped around his chest, pressing against it until he could barely breathe from how much he wanted to keep her. After a few changes they picked up the steps. It was a fairly simple dance that seemed reliant on eye contact and fleeting touches. The ladies present — the filmy memories of party guests from hundreds of years ago — wore gloves. And none of their escorts could feel what he felt dancing with Granger. The electric current of skin on skin. When their hands floated behind their backs, lightly holding their place. How she seemed almost shy.

The rest of the guests faded away until all he could see was her — moving to meet him in the middle. To circle one another with hands not quite touching, then stepping around another couple before joining together again. Each dance blended together seamlessly, leaving no room to take a break between songs. If they slowed their steps too much, or moved too far from the dance floor, the ground beneath them would shake. The chandelier above them would rattle.

The final hour, when they were both tired and no longer felt like learning the steps to the courtly dances around them, he tucked her under his chin, with her cheek pressed against his chest. They swayed on subtle steps. Barely dancing by the definition, like he’d seen Muggles do in a park near his flat. Holding each other and rocking step to step, in a circle, in time with the cheerful guitar of a city busker. It wasn’t dancing like he’d known at galas and events. It didn’t matter that they weren’t keeping proper time. It wasn’t a waltz.

It was better than that. He got to hold her. To pretend that he could keep her, for just a bit longer.

Because he knew that once they were out of this house life would return to the way it was before. Who would want to be with someone who was followed by curses? With no future beyond the subtle hope that one day they could walk down a street without judgement. That someday, maybe, people would forget. Or forgive. No one would want that, least of all the most golden of girls with the brightest future ahead of her. So he pressed closer and let the violins wash those thoughts away. Until there was just the feeling of her in his arms.

The music swelled but they stayed in their not-quite-a-dance position. Letting the other couples twirl and spin.

“This is a good look for you,” she said, smoothing the front of his robes.

He let himself have an indulgent look at her face. At the line of her neck down to where a corset surely intended to turn him speechless. He flexed the hand at her back. “A good look for you as well. This shade of blue,” he ran a knuckle across her waist, to the front panel of the gown, “it’s always suited you.”

“You know, I always pictured you at these kinds of things. With a closet full of dress robes and those perfect manners,” She said. “Even when you were a boy, I’d wager.”

Draco smirked down at her. “Really? Why, Granger, that would mean you thought of me.”

“I always thought about you,” she said, and immediately snagged her lip between her teeth.

It was a physical tell that made him ask, “What do you mean?”

“Well, for a while you were a nasty bully to my only real friends and you hated me just because I wasn’t born a witch.”

“If you let some twelve-year-old arrogant little shit take up space in your mind—”

“And even though you were—that, I also thought you were…well, quite handsome, really.”

They stepped around one of the spectral couples, with their upturned noses and sneers. An expression he’d known well.

“You’re serious?” He said. “Even with the ferret comparisons? Took a few years to grow out of that.”

She chuckled and rolled her eyes. “We all have our awkward stages. If memory serves my hair was bushy and my teeth so large you hexed me—”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Granger, that hex was intended for Weasley. And you…”

Her voice was soft when she interrupted him. With one hand in his and the other absently running along the hair at his nape, she peered up at him. “In sixth year we sort of ran into each other outside of the library.”

He remembered. That day he’d been researching how to fix the vanishing cabinet, as he’d been doing nearly every day for months in between his other assignment. It was a fruitless endeavor. Madam Pince wouldn’t let him into the Restricted Section without a note from a teacher and he hadn’t wanted to involve Severus at that point, though the man wouldn’t leave him alone. So it was with a particular level of defeat that he’d exited the library, turned a corner, and nearly tripped over Granger. She’d given him this look — one of fear. So he’d leaned into it and scowled at her before turning heel.

“And?” He prompted.

“It made me realize something—”

“To look before marching around a corner?”

She laughed and gripped his shoulder tighter. “No, not that. The amortentia in Slughorn’s class. It wasn’t…who I thought it was.”

He snapped his head to meet her eye, looking down on her in her blue dress. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Everything he’d kept on a barge out to sea approached the shore.

“I wanted to know for sure but I never had another chance, that year…So it was sort of on my mind when I found out about the exams after the war and wrote to Professor McGonagall. But then when we sat for N.E.W.T.s we were in different classrooms so I didn’t even see you. Kingsley kept me informed of your marks. And then I talked to Harry about getting you a position in his department.” She spoke carefully but quickly, leaving no room for him to do anything but look at her while she said things that he hadn’t thought possible. “But you never went out for drinks after work, even though I suggested he invite you. It wasn’t until a few months ago in the lifts that we were that close again but I still wasn’t sure—and then I heard about the case so I volunteered and asked Harry to put in a word hoping they wouldn’t assign someone else more senior. I had to be near you to be sure and—well, you didn’t make it easy.”

She shifted her gaze to look past his shoulder, away from him. With a gentle touch he traced his fingers up her spine, counting the vertebrae and the breathy exhales against his throat as he did so. When he reached the delicate curve of her neck he tilted her face, curling his fingers in her hair, absorbing her soft features. The dusting of freckles from summers spent outdoors. The large brown eyes, warm like cinnamon tea in winter.

And the only thing he could say was, “You thought of me?”

Notes:

A little bit of spice and some confessions at last 🥂

And if you noticed the chapter count went up again... Yes you did. I'm typically writing 3-5 chapters ahead of what's posted and realized I needed to split one for pacing.

Chapter 16

The clock struck midnight, its tolls loud in the ballroom. Hermione held close to Draco, who turned them in their simple dance to look around the room. The rest of the revelers were still dancing and laughing. Their grey-tinged visages seemed happy but she still focused on using all of her magic to wordlessly summon her wand from where she’d tied it to her thigh beneath the layers of skirts.

“Do you see a door?” She whispered, hoping that his height gave him a better view of the room. The hand at her waist flexed and guided her to the edge of the dance floor. They moved in a slow circle until they reached the clock. The hands all pointed upward, and with the last toll the gold of its face shifted from floating flecks into a familiar creature’s face.

“Your gracious host is pleased you’ve come this far,” the Guardian said. Behind them, everything began to cease movement. Lords and ladies disappeared into ash. The orchestra faded into nothing but empty chairs and broken music stands. Until all that was left was a dusty ballroom. The strange film that seemed to coat everything with mist was gone. “What you seek is worth the trouble, is it not?”

The question was rhetorical. A door shimmered beside the clock, and when it had fully materialized the once gleaming grandfather clock let out a horrible clang and tarnished before their eyes.

Hermione gripped Draco’s hand as he led them through the door. Not to their respective dressing rooms but to the study that had become their sanctuary. She kicked off her shoes, grateful for the cushioning charms she’d cast when she put them on. The flimsy slippers would have ruined her feet after hours of dancing.

“Drink?” Draco asked and she nodded.

“Can we try for some wine?”

He obliged her and ordered a few bottles, along with some bread and cheeses and fruits. Tossing his formal robes on the desk chair. Neither of them were in a hurry to change or bathe but they both perched on the sofa. After a second of awkwardness she shifted until they sat side by side. Improper for the regency era of the ballroom but not close enough for Hermione.

While they snacked and sipped on champagne — “This is what one drinks at a ball, Granger,” he’d said — they relaxed into the cushions and talked more. There was an ease to their conversations now. Maybe it was because she’d told him the truth about sponsoring him all those years ago. Or maybe it was because he’d admitted to feeling something for her, too. But beneath the ease and the words spoken was want. Curled up in her like smoke, rising higher and higher. Until it let itself out.

“I’m not sleeping on this sofa again, not when there’s a perfectly nice bed in Zahra’s chambers.” As she said it she summoned the skeleton key and the door to Zahra’s bedroom appeared. She boldly tugged him up off the couch to lead him inside.

The door clicked behind them and she lit the sconces on the wall with wandless magic. The bed was large and its linens were fine and it loomed mere feet away. She needed to keep moving before she lost her nerve, so she lit a fire and placed her wand on an end table.

“Granger,” he said carefully, rooted to the spot just inside the door with one hand in his pocket, “I can’t share a bed with you.”

“What do you mean?” She stepped closer to him. Until she closed the distance and he took a step back.

Draco sighed and rubbed a hand over his mouth, holding his chin before releasing it. “You know why.”

“Because it’s improper? We’ve technically already shared a bed, actually. You were unconscious but—”

“No, I know we did. I remember.” He ran his free hand through his hair. Fidgeting more than she’d ever seen him. “I meant that I can’t just sleep in the same bed as you. Like it’s…because there’s only one and we both need to sleep. I can’t—Not without it meaning more. Not without wanting more. If you’re in a bed next to me—”

“But I do want it to mean more,” she said, swallowing as she looked up at him. Undoing the knot of his cravat with care and winding the fabric from his neck until she could drop it to the floor. He laid a gentle hand at her elbow, another resting on her waist. Long fingers reaching behind her to find at the ties of her dress. The hidden strings at her neck and waist. While she unbuttoned his waistcoat and pushed it from his shoulders she said, “I want more.”

With a firmer pull he undid the bow at the waist, trailing his hand up her back to loosen the ties there. She pulled his shirt from his trousers until he removed it entirely. The scars across his chest and stomach were gruesome, and his hands faltered once her dress fell to the floor.

Using only the lightest touch she felt the raised flesh. Where it had knit back together, impossibly, from the severity of the sectumsempra curse. She’d been angry at Harry for nearly all of sixth year for using the Prince’s book to cheat his way to perfect marks in potions. But the day he came to her and told her what he’d done to Malfoy, she’d seethed. Using an unknown curse was beyond dangerous and only proved her point that the book should have been turned in at the start of term. Harry hadn’t done a very good job of describing the extent of the curse, she thought, tracing the branches over Draco’s heart and back to the center of his sternum, where the scar was thickest. Had the healing started any later, the crevice that bisected the flesh would have grown, and once it reached his heart—

She pressed her lips to the center of it. “I want to know your scars.” She tangled their hands and kissed him again, on his collarbone. Over a thin, near invisible scar there. “I want their stories.” On her tiptoes she reached the crook of his neck and let herself taste the skin there. “And just…so much more. I want all of you.”

Hermione stood in the thin underdress — she thought it might be called a chemise, but she wasn’t sure. Draco summoned his wand and her corset vanished, then he tossed the wood onto the nightstand. Looking at her with a gentleness she hadn’t expected after the heat of their earlier tryst. It was that way he had of looking at her. Studying her and devouring her all at once.

One of his hands curved along her hip. The other took the tiara from her hair and flung it somewhere behind her. The clattering noise it made on the floor took a laugh from her throat. He smiled at her, and it was crooked and beautiful.

“Something funny, Granger?”

He pushed her hair over her shoulder and the neckline slipped, bringing the sleeve down to expose more of her skin.

“No one’s had to remove my tiara before,” she said, breathing out another laugh. The pads of his fingers trailed over her shoulder, making a slow descent to her collarbone. Grazing the fabric of the dress but nothing more. The air in her lungs pressed against her ribs.

“What a shame,” he said, fingers moving across the neckline to the other side. Nudging it just enough to let it slip. The dress held up only by the firmness of her breasts and the hand at her hip. Everything felt suspended in the distance between his lips and hers. Waiting for him to close the gap before she flung herself over the edge.

She licked her lips and felt his eyes on the motion.

“Look at me,” he said, and when she flicked her eyes to his they were storm clouds at midnight. He cupped her cheek and tilted her head. “You’re more lovely than a dream. All I’ve known is nightmares.”

The touch of his hands pursued a path down her arms and back. Across her collarbones, stopping to feel the place where they met at the base of her throat. He brought one hand to her neck, stepping his fingers up to her jaw, ghosting over her lips. She wanted nothing more than to kiss his lips but settled for pressing a light kiss on the pads of his fingers, quick to continue their journey before she could do anything more.

Her heart raced, and she knew he could feel it, that he chased it, down her neck to where it was held in her chest, contemplating the thin chemise that she still wore. It beat faster, and she pressed her thighs together, the anticipation enough to illicit a moan but she swallowed it before it could escape her lips. She wanted his hands on her. Playing melodies and spinning sounds that she for once wouldn’t feel embarrassed by.

At last his careful movements caused the dress to slip down her shoulders, exposing her breasts. His intake of breath sharper than normal. The fabric of pooled at her waist and she pushed it down to step out of it and the gown that lay at her feet, balancing against his forearms while she kicked them aside. With one hand over the faded mark. Feeling the muscles beneath. Moving against her while the skull and snake were nothing but a shadow of the past.

There was a puckered scar of her own, from the Department of Mysteries when she was just sixteen, beneath her breasts. They were small, she knew, but she liked her body. Liked that her breasts were small and her hips a little on the wider side. She had strong thighs and big feet for her height. It didn’t matter that every witch deemed desirable by the gossip pages had sizable breasts and dainty waists and sleek hair. She could see just how beautiful she was in Draco’s eyes. Reflected in the striking shade of grey and in the way his lips parted, just watching her.

When he finally eased some of her tension and stroked her, rubbing his thumbs over her nipples, she reached for his trousers. Patience was a virtue and she’d run out. Trying to focus while he made deliberate circles. The trousers were more complicated than any she’d encountered before — a series of buttons instead of a zipper, but she figured it out. Relishing every new place she could touch him. Her friends teased her about her affinity for quidditch players but there were certain muscles only a sport played on brooms seemed to tone. And she read enough books to know that attraction was just as important as compatibility. How rare it was to find both. How she’d craved it.

Draco was perhaps fitter now than he’d been in school, and certainly fit in the way that men were fit. With lean muscles and height and an arse she could grab onto. Digging her fingers in when she did. He moved one hand lower and squeezed her own through the lace of her knickers. Then he ducked his head, following his hand down her thigh.

“I quite like these,” he said, pulling on her stockings. With a tug he undid the knot at the top and pushed them down her legs. Following the silk with his lips, down her thighs and over her knees and calves until he pressed a chaste kiss to her ankle and tossed each stocking aside.

There were indents in her thighs from his fingers. He knelt before her, on one knee like a Muggle proposal. But instead of a ring he held her hand and kissed her wrist, tongue seeking her pulse point. When it touched the edge of a letter, he looked up at her and kissed her most hideous scar. Lips against each hateful letter. Erasing them as he went. As he finished his path he pulled her hips, bringing her closer. While she could barely breathe. Running his nose over her stomach and leaving more invisible impressions of his lips on her skin. Over the freckles and stretch marks on her hips from sunlight and growth spurts.

His breath was warm on her core, breathing softly over the blue lace of her knickers. Kissing her there, tentative and asking permission. She rested her hands on his shoulders. Their eyes connected in a way that felt natural. Sharing a moment, a glance, a feeling. Eye contact was intimate. Something that was avoided. But everything with Draco felt intimate — and she wasn’t nervous or ashamed or self-conscious like she’d been with past lovers. She wanted to look into his eyes. Wanted to see what he was doing with his hands with his mouth with his tongue. And when he peeled the lace away she watched every moment. When he kissed the inside of her thigh she saw it. When he wrapped his hands around her legs, opening her to him, she kept her eyes on his. The way they glazed over before focusing, intent and sharp.

At first he was gentle, soft presses of his lips and light swipes of his tongue. Parting her and searching for the places that made her gasp. She moved one of her hands to his hair, smoothing it back and tangling her fingers in it. He didn’t need her to guide him — he circled her clit with increasing pressure until she saw stars. When he closed his lips and hummed, like he did when he was thinking, the way that she adored, colors burst and her breath caught. He teased her entrance, nose brushing her sensitive clit as he did so. She leaned into him, fingers tightening on the platinum strands of his hair. Leaving marks on his shoulder.

He lifted her leg, letting her knee rest beside his shoulder, and he took every gasp and breath and moan and made a symphony with his mouth, coaxing sounds from her while she tightened. It was hard to find air, hard to keep her eyes open, and she tried so valiantly to keep her eyes on him. On the determination and desperation of his technique, unshy and uninhibited. Unashamed of the sounds he made and the way she thrust her hips on instinct, chasing her pleasure. When he skated one of his hands across her hips, over the soft flesh of her thigh to press her closer, she felt herself reaching her peak — eyelids fluttering no matter how hard she tried to keep them open. Body curling over him. Long fingers parted her and dipped in, shallow at first then deeper, crooking just so, repeating the motion until she burst. Until everything was silence and noise.

While she caught her breath he kissed her stomach, rising to his feet. He held her upright and she mouthed at his chest, feeling the raised skin of his scars. Following it up and up to his neck. His hands continued their path along her body, up her spine and over her waist, across her ribs and until they tangled in her curls, tilting her head upward.

She smiled at him, and he smiled back. The muscles in her thighs quivered. She thought he must have felt it. Letting out a breathy laugh that she needed to taste. At last she captured his lips with hers. Savoring the precise movements and touches. The heat from his mouth. The taste that was just a little enhanced. From her. The grip on her hair tightened. Tugging her along while she did the same with her teeth, tugging his lips. The fullness of them. She’d never taken veritaserum but she imagined it felt like kissing Draco felt. Euphoric and all-encompassing. Because the more she kissed him the more she wanted to tell her truths. To share things she’d never thought possible to share.

That she’d wanted his mouth on her for days or months or years. That she’d thought of the cut of his robes whenever she found herself walking behind him in the halls of the ministry. Lust was a curious feeling. One that she didn’t have much experience with. But she’d lusted after him and his fine clothes and broad shoulders and when she touched herself it was his hands, his elegant fingers inside of her. And now she had him. Had his hands on her and his tongue tangling with hers. Had the little groans and sighs just there for her to take.

It wasn’t like her to be selfish. She always gave more than she took. For her family and her friends and the wizarding world. But she let herself be selfish here. With him. She melted into him, their bodies flush as their lips. He was hard against her hip and she needed to touch him — to give as much as he took from her. To feel him come undone. The rigid Malfoy manners and posture was a facade for the rest of the world. And she wanted to tear it down. To ruin it. Until what was left was him and her, without walls.

They were on the floor, she wasn’t sure when that had happened. Or when she’d placed a leg on either side of his body, kissing him breathless. Until they were connected at every point. He pressed against her core and she rubbed her hips in time with their kisses. With a grunt he ripped the lace of her knickers, tearing them on one side and using wandless magic to tear the other and toss it aside. She pushed his trunks down to free his cock at last. Even more perfect was the awe on his face. The softening of his features as she positioned them and slowly took him in. Inching over the length until she could take all of him.

His hands floated to her hips, pressing into the bone and rising to meet her. Deliberate at first, while she set a rhythm. He leaned back on one elbow, rising up to kiss her again. She cradled his head in her hands and rode his hips, each buck of their bodies together hitting her with pleasure.

“Fuck,” he breathed against her cheek. Dragging his lips over it in not quite a kiss before suckling her ear lobe, the spot just beneath, her pulse point. He grazed her clit with his hand, lazily drawing shapes over it while she keened.

“Do that again,” she breathed, pressing his face to her chest. His tongue darted out to lick the sweat from her skin, taking her nipple into his mouth while he rubbed at her. She moved quicker now, pressing her knees into the floor to take him deeper. Reaching a place inside her that seemed impossible. Brushing the spot over and over again. Until she clawed her fingers into his chest and leaned back, chasing the spark of pleasure that ignited. Burning beneath her skin and across every synapse. Until everything faded away except for the color of rain in his eyes. The softness of the rug beneath her. The snap of his hips. The heat from his breath on her neck. The scars on his back, traced by her fingers.

When her pace faltered he changed the angle. It took her time to notice that he was speaking, whispers of woods across her shoulder and into her curls. Little snippets of promises and praise. “Feel so good. You—Never let anything happen to you. Never again. Promise.”

He said it over and over, in variations and with desperation as he held her open under him. Drawing out their pleasure until she couldn’t breathe without gasping.

Carding her fingers in his hair she said, “I know, I know, I know.” Tugging until he kissed her again and again. Breathing air back into her lungs and fire under her skin. Pressing her knee upwards to her chest. Chasing it. “I know, I know, I know.”

The closer to release the less coherent his words. She thought she heard apologies. Thought she might have heard her name. But in the middle of the syllables she came in waves, pulsing around him while he moved faster. Until he followed her after with a husky groan. Buried in the crook of her neck, mindlessly kissing his way up to her ear and back down to her shoulder. She relished the feeling of his weight on her and held him against her with her legs. Tasting the salt on his skin and scratching her nails down his back, up to his nape and against his scalp.

“Keep that up and I’ll fall asleep,” he murmured, pressing up on his forearms to look down at her. With a gentleness he twined one of her curls around his finger and released it off of her face. He memorized her, the flushed cheeks and sweat at her hairline.

“You can sleep,” she said, and brushed his own wavy fringe back. “I won’t let anything happen to you, either.”

When he kissed her it was slow and intent until it wasn’t. Until he breathed fire once more and spun them so that she lay on top of him. One arm draped across her body and the other holding her head just so. His cock twitched inside of her and her walls fluttered. Eventually they parted, and she stood on shaky legs. The sensation was strange but she was forever grateful for contraception and cleansing charms.

Draco raised his arms toward her, and she clasped his hands, tugging him up to standing only for him to lift her once he did. She wrapped herself around him, clinging to his torso.

“Perhaps we should sleep in the bed,” he whispered, the air sending a shiver down her spine despite the warmth of the room. He deposited her on the duvet and she slid to the center, pushing the bedding down.

“That’s what I wanted to do in the first place,” she said, with a light chuckle. He drank her in, eyes darkening beneath his mischievous brows.

“I think you wanted to get my trousers off.” He crawled to her, kissed her knuckles, her wrist, the bend of her elbow, which tickled.

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“Yes but only because you asked me nicely.” They faced each other and she tangled their legs.

“Actually I think I took them off myself because you were taking too long,” she teased. The paths of his fingers were methodical and still she burned beneath them.

“Would have never guessed you can be impatient.”

She pressed her lips to his palm, right where it rested along the curve of her jaw. There was an openness to his face. If occlumency was like watching a fog roll in, this was its opposite. Warm flecks of light speckled the grey clouds and brought the details of his face into focus. That his eyebrows and eyelashes were dark. He had no freckles or moles. Just pale, creamy skin that she wanted to put her mouth on.

“What you said before, about the amortentia…Did you really do all of those things?” He asked, voice low. “For that long?”

“I like research. And studying. It was sort of a project of mine.” Their fingers found each other, a few of them hooking together and releasing while they pressed palm to palm. “A longterm project.” She twisted her wrist and moved their hands to her chest, the heat of his palm over her heart and his fingers on her collarbone and resting at her throat. Heartbeat gradually increasing, like a cauldron set to boil.

He brushed his nose across her face and kissed her, light at first before taking more. “What did you discover? In your studies?” He leaned against her before parting her lips and sliding his tongue along hers. Truth serum, she thought, kissing him back. The hand at her throat traveled down her arm to her waist before stopping at her hip and squeezing the flesh there. Dipping between her thighs.

“You,” she gasped, and met his lips again and again while he lazily touched her where she was most sensitive. Most wanting. “I discovered — parts of you. But you know me,” she said, briefly losing her train of thought. Their breaths matched, and she found his gaze on her face.

“I do know you,” he whispered, and the devotion she saw there made her tremble. “You’re very thorough.” The hitch in his breath when she stroked him tasted sweet.

“When something fascinates me,” she said, “I find I have to continue my studies just to satisfy.”

“Even if it takes years?” He asked.

“Even then,” she said, claiming his mouth once more.                                                                                                    

---

Draco woke to find himself curled around Hermione, with her leg draped over his and her hand in his hair. Head against her chest while his breath caressed her stomach. It wasn’t an elaborate fantasy he’d created to help him fall asleep. She was really there. In his arms. Or perhaps he was in hers. They’d had a leisurely second round before collapsing from exhaustion. He raised his head to the pillows and pulled her closer. She made a sleepy little groan.

“Why are you awake?” She blinked at him with tired eyes. Sated and content and so beautiful his skin hurt. He stroked her back, up and down.

“I’m sorry for waking you.”

She hummed and reached for his arm. Pulling his hand to rest under her chin. Clutching it against her chest. The edge of her lip teasing his knuckle. “It’s okay. Go back to sleep, Draco.”

“But sleep would rob me of this moment,” he whispered. Would plunge him into nightmares and wake him again in an hour. Desperate for a drink or a potion.

“We’re safe,” she replied, grazing her lips over his fingers with fleeting kisses.  “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

He watched her slip back into sleep, the skin around her mouth softening and her breath slowing. And he felt himself being pulled under. Though he tried to resist it, tried to have one last moment to look at how well they fit together, his eyes began to close.

And his last thought before sleep was that maybe he could keep her.

Notes:

If you introduce a bedroom in chapter 7 and a skeleton key in chapter 11 there will eventually be the explicit smut promised in the tags.

Chapter 17

Dreamless sleep would give the drinker an uninterrupted eight hours, in a full dose. A deep sleep that, when taken after many sleepless nights, would leave Draco feeling like he’d drank an entire bottle of fire whiskey. Disoriented but rested, and not quite sure how he got to be that way. Most nights he tried to go without drink or draught, and when he did he slept in fits and starts. Always interrupted by nightmares. Fear and anxiety keeping him from ever feeling a true night’s sleep.

When he woke throughout the night it was to visions of pain — his own, his mother’s, a girl on his drawing room floor, and countless others. He found that occluding helped give him a blank slate but it was soon filled with scribbled darkness and he’d wake again, starting the process over.

But that night he slept with an ease he’d forgotten existed. And when he woke it wasn’t gasping from nightmares but with a warm body against his. Soft curls on his pillow and winding between his fingers. Moonlight glowing on her golden skin. He’d wake and their positions would be different —  bodies folded together with her backside pressed to his front, her lush body draped over his torso, noses brushing face to face. All of them perfectly imperfect and comfortable. He would breath her in and hold her closer until sleep took him once more.

It was morning — or what they’d thought of as morning — when he woke for good. The bright colors of the bedroom a contrast to the moodiness of the rest of the house. The bed beneath him firm and plush. Granger’s legs were tangled with his and the warmth of her breath hit his chest on her exhales. They were facing each other, her lips slightly swollen and darker. Marks along her throat and collar bone. A few on her breasts. He traced symbols on her back, content to steal his moment admiring her loveliness while he could. While the spirits who haunted the Noble House of Nott allowed them.

She woke when he summoned his wand, intent on conjuring tea and coffee for her but caught in the process.

Brown eyes blinked sleepily up at him. “Hi,” she said, a shy smile painting her face.

He rested his head back against the pillow and draped his arm over her waist. “Morning.”

“Did you sleep?”

Nodding, he asked, “Did you?” Even though he knew she did.

“Wish we could just turn over and sleep all day,” she murmured, inching closer. When she traced the edges of the scar he’d thought grotesque, so horrible that he’d almost always kept a shirt on when in bed with a witch, it wasn’t with the discomfort he’d grown to expect. With Hermione everything was a curiosity, something to study. And she studied him with the reverence of a long-practicing scholar. The kind who was enamored with their subject. And he was honored to be hers.

Draco cradled her face in his hands and kissed her, slow and savoring, pulling her on top of him. He’d never forget the way that she melted into him, or the little humming sounds that she made when she kissed him back. The feel of her bare skin against his.

“We have a job to do,” she said between his ministrations. “More…curses and haunted ballrooms to get back to.”

She made no moves to extract herself and he set a path along her jaw, stopping to whisper in her ear, “This house likes to break us up at the worst moments.” He sucked the sweet skin just beneath her ear, the place he liked best — or at least second best, to taste her. “Give it a moment and the alarm will sound.”

To have her again in the morning when everything moved more slowly was on his mind when he woke up. He ran a knuckle down her spine, curving along her waist before gripping her hip.

Hermione groaned and pulled back, taking his hand from its preferred — or perhaps second most preferred — spot and lacing their fingers. “Much as I would rather continue this…We should get a move on. The clock is ticking and all that.”

Wandlessly she summoned her thin dress and pulled it on, then gave him his clothes before stepping into the bathing room. The shower let steam under the door, and instead of getting dressed he crossed to it and knocked.

“We could save time, you know,” he drawled. “Since you’re in such a hurry.” The door opened.

While they showered, far too practically for his liking, he thought about the Muggle turn of phrase she’d used. The clock is ticking. It made him think first of the clock tower at Hogwarts, with its loud tolls signaling mealtimes. He saw it in between the droplets of water on Hermione’s skin. The way its face had crumbled in the battle. The hands cast aside in the courtyard.

There were no clocks in Nott Manor, and transfiguring one was nearly impossible because time was its own magic. An entire division of Unspeakables studied it deep in the Department of Mysteries. The ballroom had the grandfather clock, but it only seemed to work in whatever past they’d been transported to for the evening. When they’d returned to the present it was useless. Broken.

As Draco dressed, his own clothing appearing once he asked for it, he kept thinking about that clock. It was striking, to be sure. With its golden flecks and changing face. The spectral Lord Nott, presiding over the room. Lead us until the clock runs out.

They moved back into the study, leaving the comfortable bed and memories of pleasure behind a disappearing door. Hermione fixed them breakfast and tea while he sifted through the papers they’d kept on the desk. Theo’s map, with all the little markings she’d made on it. All the rooms they’d been to and notes near the ones they hadn’t. The main drawing room, dozens of bedrooms, the formal and informal dining rooms.

Beneath the map was their welcome note from Nott Senior. In its garish purple ink. Draco’s eyes snagged on If you have the grace and grit to beat the clock, dear guest, you will be rewarded. Reading it over and over. Until the clock runs out, in the ballroom. Beat the clock, in this letter.

“Granger, can you summon some parchment and a quill from that endless bag of yours?”

She’d just placed his tea in front of him and he thanked her for it, sipping the Earl Grey sweetened with honey and a splash of milk. Exactly how he liked it. In a thin teacup with a saucer.

“What are you thinking?”

Draco dipped the quill in the ink pot and drew a circle on the parchment. Then he split the circle into twelve quadrants. Starting at the first, he wrote the name of each room they’d been in beside a number. Until there was only one space left.

“It’s a clock,” he said. He was sure of it. “The house—it’s a clock.”

She leaned over his shoulder and examined his work, a hand resting on his arm. Comfortable and familiar in a way that made him regret all the times he didn’t lean into her touch. Didn’t pull her into his arms when he’d wanted to. Would he have ever let her go if he had?

“Eleven rooms so far… do you think there’s one more task waiting for us? A full circle?”

“I think it has to be the laboratory. Senior said if we beat the clock we’ll be rewarded, and if not we’ll join his bloody collection. Our reward isn’t the potion. It’s the way out.” He drew an arrow upward for effect.

As they stared at the page they were interrupted by the Guardian.

“Well reasoned,” it said, sitting on its haunches on the tapestry. The morning light reflected on its scales and added an otherworldly glow to its eyes. “You’ve done well so far. Take what you need, dear guests. I’m afraid you won’t be in the comfort of these walls again.”

“So this is it then?” Draco asked.

“It is, Master Malfoy.” The Guardian flapped its mighty wings and shot into the sky, leaving them alone in the study. For one the last time.

The door appeared, made of thick iron spelled to contain potions accidents. Draco was familiar with it from his own lab at the Manor. The Nott family crest was etched into the black surface. Two amethysts imbedded in the eyes of the Hebridean Black. 

Granger vanished their meal and took the map and letter, tucking them into her satchel. As she went to sling it over her shoulder he took it from her. Their coats and scarves shrunken and added to the extension-charmed bag. He took one last look around the study, with the cold coals in the fire grate, the enchanted window that never looked like anything but a spring day. It had been theirs for nearly a week.

“Draco,” she said, and when she reached for his hand he felt himself relax. “Whatever happens—”

“It’ll be alright, Granger,” he said, not letting her finish the worrisome thought running through her head. “We’ve seen what this house has to offer, yeah? Let’s finish the job.” Their fingers laced, and he ran his thumb across the back of her hand. She squeezed his.

“I’m glad I’m with you. That’s what I wanted to say.” If they weren’t about to meet their doom he would have kissed her. And maybe that was all the reason to, but instead he nodded and reached for the handle.

The iron door swung into a dark hall, its hinges silent. Draco muttered lumos to guide them along the grey stones. The walls were narrow and their steps echoed until they reached the end. Torches lit an antechamber of gleaming obsidian — it was perfectly round, with no doors or windows. Opposite the hall they emerged from was a Guardian. Goblin wrought, with teeth sharp as daggers and talons just as lethal. Its wings spanned the ceiling and its jagged tail skirted around the base of the wall. Ending in a spike Draco didn’t want to get to know. Of all of the dragons they’d seen in Nott Manor, this was the only one that seemed capable of hurting them with more than just words.

“Guardian,” Draco said in greeting. The great beast snapped its jaws and faced them, the weight of its purple gaze heavy.

It opened its mouth, and that timeless voice said:

 

It is the symbol of kin

and the pathway of kings.

More valued than gold,

more precious than silk.

Pouring like wine,

flowing like milk.

An offering of war,

A pact sealed forever more.

Present me, and pass.

 

Hermione summoned some sort of Muggle writing implement and the sticking papers from her satchel and scratched down the riddle. Whispering it to herself, thinking of possibilities. But Draco didn’t need to think too long or too hard about this particular riddle. The rest of the room, and in fact the very walls of the house, which seemed to breathe and move and have a mind of their own, told him what it was. The only thing it could possibly be.

“The answer is blood,” Draco said, and once he spoke the word runes appeared on the walls. A combination he was all too familiar with.

“These runes,” Hermione said, her hand hovering over the shapes. “It can’t mean—that’s horrifying.”

“It’s a pureblood thing. Our own vaults have the same protections.” As did his father’s study. And the dungeons.

“Wait,” she said, grabbing his arm. “We can just use a drop of Theo’s blood.”

As she reached for the clasp of the pendant around her neck he shook his head. “No, Granger. One, you’re not giving any of that up. Two, this is the only way; trust me.”

“But it’s not the only way, Draco, it’s just the way you’re going to go with.” He shook her off in the middle of her sentence.

“It is.”

“I don’t like the idea of you harming yourself when we can pay the price painlessly! It should only take a drop. I’ll still have the rest in the pendant. And if it doesn’t work then we—”

She wasn’t expecting him to cast a nonverbal body bind. The shock on her petrified face said it all.

“Protective of me are you?” He said, lips turning upwards. “Much as I like it, I’m not the one who needs protection in a pureblood household.” One of the dragon’s claws had ornate scrolls carved onto it. Like veins. Once his sleeve was rolled up he pressed the meat of his forearm to the sharp point of the claw. The skin broke, and his blood, no more precious than anyone else’s, and no more valuable, slipped into the lines carved into the claw. “It has to be a sacrifice willingly paid.”

He released the body bind, expecting her rage to hit him full blast.

Instead she healed his wound before he’d fully stood, tracing his skin and casting her spells to check for lingering curses. “The next time you want to make a blood sacrifice at least let me disinfect the blade first,” she said softly.

“Granger, I’m sorry—”

“I would have done the same to you. I understand,” she said.

The runes glowed an angry red and the walls began to spin, faster and faster until he made sure he had her hand in his, just in case. When they slowed to a stop the entryway had moved, and instead of the dark passage they’d come in from there was a short and sterile hall.

When they walked forward into the small brewing lab, the circular antechamber spun again, until all it left behind was solid wall. A door made of stone at the opposite side of the room. And all around them shelves of vials. Some covered in dust, others clean and full of potions of all colors. Draco recognized basic healing potions that most wizarding households kept in stock — skele-gro and dittany and pepper-up. A few minor poisons. Many contained ingredients, though he knew there was likely a store room somewhere in the laboratory. Certain things had to be kept in certain temperatures, and under the right lighting, to maintain efficacy.

Hermione cast her detection spells on the stone door. It wouldn’t open and no spell worked on it, as expected. At the center of the room was a large work table and a few stools. A cauldron and some dragon hide gloves. Tucked in the corner, almost camouflaged, was a stone Guardian.

“Guardian,” Draco said, “any chance you can tell us how to open this door?”

The voice of the Guardian sounded in the air, floating around them. “You’ll think of something clever, Master Malfoy.”

“We are in a potions laboratory,” Hermione said, “it would reason that we need to brew a potion to get past the door. The conditions aren’t right for a freezing potion.”

“It’s made of stone, so most elements won’t work on it. An explosive, however,” he said, plucking various vials from the shelves. “Might do.”

“Have you ever made one before?”

Draco shook his head. “Read about them a lot. They’re temperamental, and we’ll need a heatproof vessel to contain it. Can you see if there’s a flask anywhere?” When he turned to her she held one out to him, summoned from her satchel. “Any chance you have a few potions texts in there, Granger?”

The way her cheeks turned pink made him grin. “Actually, yes.”

They spent the next half hour reading through different methods and searching for ingredients in the room. Summoning charms wouldn’t pull them from their shelves so it took longer to gather everything.

While they both retrieved various jars and vials from the shelves Draco set the cauldron on a medium flame. It would need to slowly be brought to a boil later on in the brewing process.

He’d let Granger take the lead a lot of the time, with the curses, but this was where he knew the mission required him. Out of all the aurors and auror-adjacent employees, none of them could outbrew him. And being in front of a cauldron again, with a goal, settled his nerves. This, he could do.

“Will you grind the nettles for me?” He asked, flicking his wand to summon the mortar and pestle. While she set to that he measured the honeywater and added it to the cauldron. Once the yellow liquid was simmering, he added a little still water, then a whole fanged geranium. When it turned the right shade of yellow, like sunflower petals, he added the nettles and increased the heat. It was important not to stir the potion until all of the crushed nettles sunk to the bottom.

From his pocket he retrieved his knife, flicking the blade out. Muggles called it a switchblade, which sounded quite cool. He trimmed the legs off of a salamander and added them to the cauldron. Then took the snake fangs from Hermione’s outstretched hands and added them, one at a time, stirring with a silver rod. She made an excellent partner, just as he expected she would.

“The last step is adding the fluid from an Erumpent horn with a very steady hand,” Hermione said, looking up from the text. It was the one ingredient he hadn’t brought to their work table. The slightest shake of the exploding liquid could set it off, and he was sure there would only be a single bottle of it available to them.

Draco scanned the shelves of ingredients, some of them rare and valuable, others as readily available as bat spleens and eel eyes. There, on a high shelf, was a frosted glass vial covered in cobwebs. The faint drawing of an Erumpent horn on its label. The liquid inside was thick and viscous, a pearlescent marigold color. He removed the dragon hide gloves and stuck them in his back pocket. Then he slowly took the glass from the shelf, his seeker dexterity mixed with his potioneer’s patience. Careful steps back to the work table, holding his breath as he went.

The stopper was made of glass with cork at the end. Removing it felt like one of those Muggle programs Theo made him watch, where the hero has to diffuse a box with numbers counting down before it destroys an entire city. He pulled firmly, keeping his other hand around the vial, pressing it against the work table to keep it steady. The cork released with a pop, though it was less joyful than opening a bottle of champagne.

He used his wand to take three fat droplets from the vial, adding them one at a time to the cauldron. Stirring counterclockwise four times then clockwise twice between each drop. After the final one was added and stirred he closed the vial and returned it to its shelf.

The potion bubbled, turning the color of ripened oranges. It was nearly finished and at last he let out a steady breath.

“You’re really focused when you brew,” Hermione said. She’d cleared their station and returned the books to her satchel, sat waiting on one of the stools beside him.

“I was trying not to spill and kill us both. Takes a certain concentration.”

“I almost expected you to occlude but you don’t need to, do you? Not unlike the determination when you played quidditch, I suppose.”

He smiled at that. She’d watched him on the pitch, too. The potion needed to darken to the shade of pumpkins, and that would take another few minutes. So he stepped to her stool and nudged her knees apart, standing in the space and enveloping her in his arms, closing his eyes for just a moment. She ran her hands down his sides and when he pulled back he pressed his lips to her forehead.

The last step was to infuse the potion with an incantation. A version of a blasting spell, spoken while stirring the bubbling brew one last time, clockwise then counterclockwise. It was important to gather it before the liquid stopped moving.

Using a siphoning spell he moved the potion from the cauldron to the flask slowly — it needed to maintain its high temperature but disturbing the movement could activate it. Once it was full he carefully placed it on the table. There was still a fair amount in the cauldron.

“If you have a second flask we could take some with us, just in case,” he said. But as she started to hand one to him the cauldron’s contents vanished.

“Or not,” she said. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Are you ready, Granger?”

She nodded and slipped the satchel over her shoulder, then stood beside him, wand ready. Draco gripped the potion in hand, shook it twice, and hurled it at the stone door, immediately turning and casting a protego charm over them. Leaning over Hermione while the explosion boomed behind their shields. A burst of fire bloomed on impact, with a great bang echoing, ringing in his ears. The sound of the wall crumbling. Chunks of stone hit their invisible barrier and clattered around them, but he kept his eyes on hers until the last bits of smoke cleared.

It was only a moment, but it brought him back to nearly five years before, in the halls of Hogwarts as they collapsed around him. Racing around corners and over fallen students and teachers and fighters. The smoke on the air filling his lungs. Coughing for hours and never feeling like he’d cleared all of the ash. And all around him the smell of blood and burning — wood, clothing, and things he didn’t like to think about.

“Draco?”

“Hmm?”

“I think we can move on, if you’re ready,” Hermione said. She squeezed his hand again and he squeezed back.

“Reminded me of—”

“I know. I know.”

The dust had cleared and where once there was a door made of blocks of impenetrable stone there was a craggy opening to a storage room. He could just make out the barrels and baskets and potted plants that he kept in his own laboratory storage.

“Maybe you should try out your detection spells again,” he said. “I have a feeling it’s not just a cupboard and shelves in there.”

“Of course it’s not.” She waved her wand and muttered her incantations, pulling runes from the air and spinning them around. Reading them. “There’s a faint sensory spell, which means it’s likely a stronger one once we’re inside. Bubble head charms as a precaution, I think.”

This time he knew how to perform the spell, and when they were both sporting ridiculous bubble heads they crept through the door. The storage room was cramped, and packed with additional ingredients that the small brewing lab did not have. Barrels of porcupine quills, baskets of dried peppermint and thyme, jugs of moondew and rainwater, even a unicorn horn left carelessly on a high shelf.

In a small pot, angel’s trumpet bloomed under a stasis charm. A thin window provided enough light to keep it alive, and a humidity charm kept it watered. The plant was common enough in potions, but as it matured it was known to release a toxic gas.

The doorway closed, and the already narrow walls seemed to tighten until Draco and Hermione were pressed together. The stasis charm over the flowering plant disappeared, and the pale pink fog of its toxins began to fill the air. Until all around them clouds of the noxious gas filtered, sucking the oxygen from the room.

But Granger had outsmarted the house. Their bubblehead charms held firm, and they were unaffected. She cast a whirlwind charm and the air dispersed, until all of the pinkish clouds dissipated and the room stretched itself back to its original size. On the opposite end was a plain wooden door with a grand door knocker. The head of a Hebridean Black, holding a ring of iron in its jaw.

Of all the doors they’d encountered in the house, this seemed the oldest. The wood was worn and smooth. There was a stretch along one side that had the stain of touch — decades or centuries of hands pushing it open, until there was a darker tint to the wood.

Draco pushed the door open, revealing Theodore Nott Senior’s personal laboratory. It was far grander than the small brewing room they’d been in before. There were three rather large work tables and a half dozen stools to one side. To the other, row upon row of shelves and cabinets. Stacks of cauldrons and stirring rods of every material. Dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. A shelf of potions texts and what he suspected were personal records of the potion masters who had lived there.

And at the center of the room, on a marble pedestal, was a large glass cabinet traced in gold. A golden Guardian perched on top. The cabinet itself emitted an eerie glow of pale green light. Wafts of dark magic surrounded its corners. And inside was a large vial full of a black liquid, sat on a tufted purple cushion.

“I don’t suppose we can just take it,” Hermione said.

“No, I suppose not,” he replied. Taking the satchel from her, he slung it over his own shoulder and watched as she cast her detection spells on the cabinet. He recognized the runic sequences for a forgetfulness curse, a blood curse, and what might have been a burning curse. She quickly extinguished the later and began working on the forgetfulness curse.

Draco wanted to stay out of her way but he didn’t want her near a blood curse, not after the last one. So he circled the cabinet and began performing her runic magic to find the root of the blood curse. As he expected, it was specifically targeted at Muggleborns. It would only take a drop of his blood before the counter curse would take effect. So while she was occupied, he reached for the handle. Let it bite into his palm. Sharper than a paper cut, but not enough to fret about.

“Seriously, Malfoy?”

“It’s fine, you don’t have to get all serious and using my surname on me, Granger.”

While he cleaned his wound and sealed it, she shook her head. “You know you just did the same thing to me in that very sentence.”

“No, when I use your surname it is with fondness and sometimes the hope that you’ll flirt with me. You only use it when you’re admonishing me. Or at least, as of a few days ago that’s when you use it now.”

He watched her blush. Ten points to Slytherin.

Soon the dark curses around the cabinet were chased away. They were an efficient team, and both were eager to get their hands on the potion within. To be done with this place. But the door wouldn’t budge.

They circled the cabinet, casting different spells. Nothing worked.

The more he looked at it, the more Draco hated it. The etched glass. The gilding. The golden Guardian on top, watching, always watching, but never helping. The glass was frosted and carved in a sort of abstract pattern. Whenever he tried to follow it, the pattern would abruptly end and begin anew. Almost as if—

“Granger, look at the glass.”

She’d been checking one of her reference books and slammed it shut, then passed it to him. Inspecting the paneling. “What about them? There’s no curse on them, I’ve checked a dozen times.”

He tucked the book in the satchel and pointed to a panel. “This here, this pattern — it’s similar to this one,” he pointed to another panel, around the corner of the piece of furniture. “Like they’re a continuation of each other just in the wrong spot.”

There was one panel that was blank, and after some trial and error they determined that they could remove it entirely but not get through the space it left behind. That was for moving the panels.

“It’s almost like a brainteaser puzzle,” Hermione said. Whenever they moved a panel, if it was in the wrong place, they were hit with a stinging curse. Draco barely cast a shield in time after the first instance. She began to label each of the panels using a series of markings. Then she used a duplication spell to put each panel onto a sheet of parchment. All of the pieces of parchment floated into the air, in a wall in front of them. And after rotating some of them and moving them into new positions, they worked out the image sketched in the glass.

The crest of House Nott, of course. Hermione moved the panels in the proper order, sliding them into place until the image in the glass was complete. It shimmered, then settled into place. Leaving only the green glow behind the panels. 

With a wave of his wand the latch opened, and the door to the cabinet clicked. It revealed one last curse on the inside. A powerful sleeping curse that Granger spent at least an hour on before getting frustrated.

“That should have done it,” she said, wiping her runes from the air and casting another detection spell. “We’re so close.”

Draco pulled a flask of water and some biscuits from the satchel and handed them to her. “You’ll get it, Granger, just take a break.”

She took a swig of the water and passed it back to him. “That’s exactly what the house wants. To get us off our guard and make a pot of bloody tea and then send in a manticore or—”

“Look at me,” he said, holding her shoulders. She took a bite of a biscuit and chewed slowly, her gaze floating between his eyes. Waiting. “Picture an ocean.”

“An ocean?”

“Yes. You told me you used to go to Brighton with your parents. Breathe in the salt air. Picture it for me.”

The skin of her nose scrunched and she closed her eyes. Skeptical as ever. “Alright, I’m picturing it.”

“Describe it to me. And match your breath to mine.”

“What?” She opened one eye. “How am I supposed to do that?”

“Tell me about the ocean that you see,” he said. Then he took her empty hand and pressed the palm against his chest, breathing slowly and evenly.

She sighed and closed her eyes once more. “It’s vast, and the beach is empty. Sometimes my dad and I would wake early and walk the shoreline. Before the rest of the world woke up and ruined it, he’d always say. The water was calmer then. And everything was sort of grey and misty, but beautiful.”

“Can you hear the waves? Soothing, yeah?”

“Mmm. I’ve always liked those sounds.”

“I want you to picture a boat, can you do that?”

“I—yes?” She said. The biscuit in her hand forgotten.

“What does your boat look like?”

“It’s a small sailboat. We used to rent them sometimes. I always liked the ones with the colorful hulls.”

“Put everything you don’t need on that boat. All the distractions and thoughts you don’t need. They’ll fit nicely on that boat, okay?” He watched her mind work, her eyes flicking back and forth beneath their lids. “You’re going to keep only what you need for this curse. And then you’re going to let that sailboat catch on the wind, and sail over the waves to the horizon. You won’t lose it. It will lay anchor and wait for you. But you have to let it go.”

For a moment she breathed with him, the inhales and exhales slower than before. Her palm resting on his chest, rising and falling. Until she opened her eyes and they’d sharpened.

“Now try again,” he murmured, and stole the rest of her biscuit.

It only took her a few minutes to break through the sleeping curse. There was a thread of a forgetfulness spell woven into it that she had to work on first. Once she’d done that, she sliced through the rest of the curse until all that remained was a potion on a cushion. With a green aura.

“Nice work,” he said, and he couldn’t help but smirk at her. “Not bad for your first occlumency lesson.”

“Really?” She asked. “Is that what that was? I thought you were just trying to get me to relax.”

“That’s a big part of it, in the beginning. At least with this method. A sort of combination of meditation and using the waves to push things out to sea.”

“But I thought occlumency was about closing one’s mind? I could still think and I was still worried about everything I was worried about before.”

“It takes a lot more practice to truly close your mind. Think of this as the foundations of a grand manor home.” She rolled her eyes at his joke. “We’ll work on it.”

She stepped on her toes and pressed her lips to his, far too fleeting. “Thank you for teaching me.”

“Anytime, Granger. Preferably not in this place, but anytime.” He faced the open cabinet and sighed. “The only time I’ve seen this sort of green glow is in a pureblood home. Best if I’m the one to touch it.”

Hermione cast her detection spells again, and frowned when they didn’t show anything. “If you really think—”

“I don’t think. I know.”

Draco plucked the potion from its seat on the cushion. It weighed little, and the liquid inside was like that of a fresh pot of ink, shimmering black sloshing from side to side. Once it was in his hand the house rumbled. The ground beneath them shook. Dust rained from the crumbling ceiling. And the golden Guardian snapped its face to them as the walls began to rattle.

“Get. Out.”

Notes:

Oh hello there the chapter count went up again. Do I now want to get it to an even 30 because I am that type A? Yes. Will I increase it to 30 just yet? No. Do you have permission to (gently) roast me when I do? Yes.

Thank you for all of the comments on this story so far. It's really a special feeling as a writer to get a response to something you cherish and work hard on and I'm consistently humbled by the kindness and enthusiasm.

Chapter 18 will post a day early next week (Friday, 2 April) and a fun one shot is coming soon 🖤

Chapter 18

The Guardian’s warning echoed as Draco grabbed Hermione’s hand and pulled her towards the door. She flung it open with a spell, revealing the cramped storage room. They yanked open the next door, and greeted the small brewing room. The little bottles rattled on their shelves. Everything was as they’d left it, only instead of a destroyed stone door there was a wooden one that smacked into the wall as they ran through.

The walls shook, leaving fragments of stone and clouds of dust. Draco gripped Hermione’s hand, their fingers laced and knuckle bones pressing against each other hard enough to bruise. The floor beneath them vibrated, making their steps precarious as they ran faster than he’d run in years.

“Portkey!” He called, and she pat her pockets.

“I can’t—it’s not in my pocket,” she said, eyes wide. “It should be there!” They kept moving.

Instead of the antechamber they’d started in, with its shining black walls and riddle-speaking Guardian, the door opened to a plain hall with a staircase. It was too narrow for them to stay together, so he pushed Granger in front of him and urged her along. Keeping as close as he could without tripping her. The potion held tightly in his hand as they climbed the steps.

“There’s light!” She exclaimed between panting breaths. The house rumbled, and he braced a hand along the wall to stay upright. Moving up and up until they were deposited inside the conservatory. It was brighter there now — the darkness curse lifted.

“The house must have set itself to rights when we took the potion,” he said. They reached for each other’s hands and moved through the paths of plants, a much shorter path than the first time they’d been in this part of the house. It was no longer a sprawling forest but a conservatory that spanned the length of the manor house. The layers of decay were gone, too, and instead of grays and blues all around them was green. And it was shaking. Leaves falling from trees and branches swaying as if in a hurricane. The glass panels of the ceiling rattling against their metal frame.

Hermione stumbled over a root and he hauled her up, keeping them moving. A jobberknoll cawed from above them and the bushes rustled with every aftershock along the ground.

They reached the end and pulling the iron door revealed another hall, one that split in two directions. Behind them glass shattered. Before they could decide which way to go the ceiling caved in to the left, forcing them to go right. To the trophy room. Coughing through the clouds of dust from the disintegrating walls around them.

“Granger, do you remember the layout from Theo’s map?” Draco said, breathing into his sleeve and blinking fast.

“If we cross through this room it opens into the art gallery—”

The walls shook, sending artifacts and taxidermy creatures to the floor with a crash. Glass shards crunched beneath their shoes and still Draco held the potion tightly in his hand. Kicking fallen chess pieces and swords aside.

“Slow down for just a second,” he said, and reached for the satchel. “Accio portkey!” Nothing came out.

“It was in my pocket before the ball. It must have fallen out when I changed and—”

The walls vibrated, raining more glass.

“We have to move!” Once he’d safely tucked the potion inside the bag he slipped his wand from his pocket, took her hand once more, and let her lead them towards the sculpture room. He felt shards of wood and glass spray at them but kept moving, ignoring the sparks of pain. Leaving the destroyed trophies of Nott Manor behind and entering the sculpture room.

“Can’t believe I lost our bloody portkey,” Granger said, her grip near painful. Draco was unsure if the portkey fell from her pocket or if the house took it when her clothes had been in its possession while they attended the ball.

“We’ll be alright,” he said. If they hadn’t been quite literally running for their lives he would have made a joke about her language. “Nearly there.”

It was as if they’d never fought dozens of statues here. The great sculptures no longer moved. Instead they stood regal atop their pilasters and fell to the ground with each new groan and rumble of the house. Chunks of marble skidded across the room, crashing into each other. The massive Salazar Slytherin was missing his staff but the three strange sisters held their own symbols in their moss-stained hands. Until they, too, fell to pieces. Breakable and harmless. The large oil painting of the Guardian surveyed it all.

“Keep moving, young guests,” it called, flapping its wings and taking to the painted skies. Hovering just long enough to say, “You must leave this place. Hurry, now.”

They raced down the hall of portraits, ignoring the cursed shouts from the Lords and Ladies of House Nott. Spewing hatred even as their gilded frames rattled against the walls and slid to the ground. Until they reached another door and left them all behind. The library was nearly as large as it had been a few days before, and just as maze-like. They twisted through its shelves while the noise of the manor sounded around them.

A great boom shook the house, and dozens of books flew off of their shelves, colliding with Draco’s shins.

“What do you think is happening?” He asked, leading her around a corner and in the direction he thought would lead them out. Further and further into the stacks.

“Self-destruct button? Some sort of curse must have activated when you took the potion. Harry might know. Probably something to make sure we’re trapped here forever,” she replied. “We were in the lowest part of the house, near the ley lines. Concentrated magic like that is volatile.”

As they were winding through the shelves Draco became impatient. If they weren’t out of this house now they would be trapped under rubble at best and buried with it at worst. And he wasn’t about to die in this place. Not when she held his hand like this.

“Fuck it,” he said, then released a blasting spell at the shelves. One reducto after another until charred bits of paper and leather bindings rained down on them with the dust and debris of the house as it crumpled. It gave them a clear path to the double doors. A large beam fell from the ceiling behind them, collapsing onto the library. They ran straight to the entrance hall, where the small statue of a Guardian shouted encouragement until they were out the front door. Almost as if it was on their side.

Draco sprinted down the drive, pulling Hermione with him, not stopping when the statues there turned to look at them. Forcing their legs to go faster while the pebbles from the driveway kicked up beneath their feet. The house crashed behind them, and Draco glanced over his shoulder to see whole wings of the manor fall. They kept running until they reached the end of the property line, to the scrolled iron gate with the first Guardian they encountered.

“What’s happening?” Granger asked. They stepped through the gate and it slammed shut.

“Leave,” the Guardian said, the amethysts of its eyes shining in the sunlight. “You’ve done what you came for.”

The ground trembled.

“We serve the House of Nott. Our task is ended. And so is yours.”

There was a great, explosive collapse and they watched as the house crumbled. Leaving groaning piles of rubble that were soon swallowed by the earth. Devoured by the ancient magic that flowed beneath it. Until all that remained was a large, dry field and clouds of dust. Behind a rusted iron gate, with a dragon resting along its handles. Eyes closed. Body as still as the metal around it.

They stood and caught their breath for a moment, staring at the nothing that had replaced the once ancient and noble house.

“Come on,” he said, “We should head for the edge of the wards so we can apparate. It’s just over that ridge—”

“Something feels different, don’t you think?” Hermione replied. “When we arrived you could feel them, the wards, and now it’s just…nothing.”

And that was when Draco noticed that everything felt still. As if the magic itself leeched away when the house was destroyed. Dispersing on the air and into the wind. To test that theory he wrapped his free arm around her and apparated them away. To the first place he’d thought of. The wards were gone, and they squeezed through time and space until they popped into a familiar alley. The weather was colder than before, and he summoned their coats and scarves from the satchel he took from her shoulder.

“Hold on,” she said, and healed what must have been a cut on his face. Cleaning the blood away and checking for other injuries.

“You can play healer soon enough, Granger. I don’t want to be in the open for long.”

Hand in hand they walked to the end of the alleyway, until they were out of its magical protection and on a Muggle street. They walked in silence, passing the occasional person who didn’t know who they were. One of the better features of his neighborhood. The sun was high in the sky. Midday or just after. They turned down his quiet street before she finally asked where they were going.

“My flat,” he replied.

“But we should go to the Ministry and—”

“They can wait half an hour, come on,” he said, and pulled her up the steps to the front door. Once inside they climbed to the top and Draco opened his wards. The act of magic in the building would alert Dawlish that he was home. Not that the auror stopped by, other than on their designated check-ins and with the occasional unscheduled inspection. With a breath he let her into his place. Where there wasn’t much to brag about.

In the main room was a stiff sofa and a coffee table. The Muggle television he’d bought out of boredom and curiosity. Theo liked some dramatic program about Muggle aurors — police, maybe. The kitchen was open to the space, though he didn’t cook. It was mainly stocked with Ogden’s and a few bottles of wine. Some sure to be mouldering cheese in the fridge. Down the hall was his bedroom, the bathroom, and a guest room that he used mainly as a library. And occasionally a temporary potions laboratory, though that pushed the limits of his probation. Most of his experimental work happened at the Manor whenever he visited his mother on weekends.

He had no art or photographs. There were no cushions on the sofa or even a blanket draped casually over the back. Nothing that said, Please, have a seat and enjoy the comforts of my home. Only Theo had ever been there, anyway. To drink his whiskey and watch his television. The thought of his mother seeing how he lived now was something he didn’t dwell on.

“You weren’t kidding before,” she said at last. She removed her coat and scarf and he hung them in the closet next to his own. Their shoes beside the door. “With Tippy.”

“Haven’t really gotten around to decorating…”

“There’s always time for that later, I suppose.” She smiled at him. And he noticed the cuts along her hands and bits of blood on her sleeves.

“Let me see that,” he said, and gently rolled her sleeves back. Mostly superficial, from the debris. While he tended to her wounds they talked a little about the last hour, and then he got her some towels and let her use the shower. It was hard to believe that only a few hours ago they were brewing an explosive potion and working to solve the last of the mysteries of Nott Manor. And now they were home. He was home. She was in his home.

He rarely made tea there but scrounged up some tea bags and set a kettle to boil. There would be no milk but he brought out the sugars and honey and an unopened box of biscuits that hadn’t reached its expiry date. The rest of his cupboards were a combination of bare and stale.

She emerged in fresh clothes, pulled from her expanded bag. Some sort of soft, very fitted black trouser and a large jumper, almost a dress. Comfortable. In his flat.

“It’s not as lavish a shower as Zahra’s but it felt just as good, getting the grime off,” she said. Using her wand to dry her curls. They smelled like his shampoo. “Your turn. Oh, is that tea?”

“Yes, help yourself to whatever—can’t say there’s much else but, yeah. Right.” He pushed open the door to his bedroom and grabbed some clothes, then rushed to the bathroom and locked the door behind him.

Now that it was his turn to get cleaned up he went quickly, eager to make the most of his time with her in his sparse flat. Before they went back to the Ministry. Back to crowds of people and the whispers and shame that followed him throughout its halls. To sitting at his desk and transcribing until the end of the day when he’d clear it off. Back to the Scroll & Raven and drinking and commiserating with his best mate. Trying and failing not to glance at the Leaky Cauldron on the walk to the apparition point, looking for curly hair.

But for now he could have just another hour with her. Perhaps two. In pseudo domestic bliss, even. He pulled on the clean jumper and once he’d tousled his hair just so, he wrenched the door open and nearly stumbled into the hallway in his haste.

A spoon clinked against porcelain. Hermione was adding honey to a cup of tea. A second cup lay steaming on the counter behind her.

“Here,” she said, levitating it to him. It was hot and he could smell the honey and he nearly sighed with relief that she was really there.

“Thanks,” he said, and took a sip. The warmth spreading through his veins while he looked at her, leaning on the counter in his kitchen.

“Can’t believe you own a television,” she said, lips quirking in a wry smile.

“Don’t get too excited, Granger, I barely understand the thing. Muggle gossip seems much harsher than what they print our papers, I’ll give them that. Theo’s always asking about the different scripted programs.”

Hermione sipped her tea and wandered around his apartment, leaning over the coffee table to examine the books he’d left there. One of the more recent potions journals, open to an essay on Phineas Bourne. He hoped that intrigued her. A small stack of titles his mother sent from the Manor a few weeks before, research for the mission Hermione had suggested he read.

“Are these all of your books?” The disappointment in her voice made him laugh. And when she turned to look at the room and its lack of shelving he smiled.

“Hardly,” he said, and pointed to the hall.

She looked at him with curiosity and took one last drink of tea. Setting her cup on the table, she walked to the short hall of his flat and looked at the three identical doors there. One, open to the bathroom, steam still fogging the corners of the mirror, and two closed.

“The one on the left,” he said, before her hand closed on the doorknob of his bedroom. As much as he wanted her in that room above all others he knew she’d want to see this room first. And if he had her in his bedroom he knew he’d never want to leave it. Ministry be damned.

When she opened the door she let out a gasp that he tucked into his memories, along with the excited little press of her bare toes against the floor, pushing herself up tall to look around.

It was the only room in the flat with any semblance of life — the worn cushion on his favorite reading chair, moved from his sitting room at the Manor. The piles of books by the desk, scraps of parchment poking out of the pages. Bottles of black ink and a silver cup of quills on the desk. Letters collecting on the corner, from where his owl, Hesper, had left them while he was away. The spelled window allowed her the ability to fly in and out but only in the middle of the night, when his Muggle neighbors were asleep. A barn owl wasn’t common in a city as populous as London.

Hermione read the titles on his shelves, letting her fingers travel over the spines as she went.

“Each bookshelf is a subject,” he said, wanting to show her all the things he’d considered in putting the room together. To impress her, somehow. Because if she was impressed she’d want to stay longer. To pull one of the books from its shelf and read for hours. “Actually, you’d probably like this one here,” he pointed to the one in the middle of the wall. “It’s mostly theoretical but there’s a lot of interesting charms from the eighteenth century in that green book on the third shelf.”

She looked at him with bemused fondness, smiling softly. “If you keep talking about books like that I’ll never leave.” And he thought that was the whole point of showing her this room in the first place.

“Take as long as you want, and as many as you want,” he said, slipping his hands in his pockets. Leaning one shoulder against the edge of the shelf he watched her scan the books and then she mimicked his posture and leaned next to him. Close enough to touch.

“We really did it,” she murmured. “The potion and the house.”

“Touch and go for a while there, what with the house caving in on us. And all the other fuckery.”

Her laugh was breathy and she reached for his sleeve, following the fabric down to tangle her fingers with his like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Who’d have thought we’d make such a good team?”

“I did,” he said.

“Highly doubt that.” She was closer now, and he could see the faded freckles across her nose, nearly invisible from a distance.

“I did,” he said again. When she kissed him it was sweet, delicate in a way that he tried to match until the sweetness faded and boldness replaced it. A gentle nip on his lower lip. His hands on her hip and in her hair. Trying and failing to let her take the lead, tugging at her curls and sliding his tongue against hers. 

With one hand at his neck and the other around his arm she pressed their bodies closer. Until he leaned back against the shelves. His own hands slid down her back, lower, until they cupped her arse. So perfect and lush he squeezed harder and she moaned.

He wanted to go slow. To spend hours mapping her skin with his mouth, tasting every inch until she was limp with pleasure. He wanted her fast, bent over the desk while he pounded into her from behind. Her breasts in his hands and the curve of her arse cushioning his thrusts, the wood straining beneath them. He wanted to take his time, to drag out the hour they had and make it feel infinite. To steal her breath and swallow her sighs and covet her whimpering moans. All from his touch between her thighs, only a thin layer of fabric beneath his fingers while he rubbed at her.

With enough pressure to make his breath catch, she gripped the front of his trousers, dragging her palm over his cock. Kissing him until he bucked against her hand. Groaning into her mouth. He fisted her curls and nudged her backwards until her legs hit the wingbacked chair he loved to read in. One of his knees rested on the seat and he gently pushed her to sit, folding himself over her and tasting the skin along her jaw. Letting one of his hands burrow under her jumper to peel it off. She pulled his face back to hers and carded her fingers through his hair, just the right amount of force when she tugged it. The heat beneath his fingers slick and wanting.

A loud knock sounded from the opposite end of the flat. He ignored it and reached for the clasp of her bra. Her hands fumbling for his buckle. A louder, more insistent knock and muffled chatter followed. Could feel someone attempting to dismantle his wards.

“Oh for Merlin’s fucking sake,” Draco said, hoisting himself off of her. “It’s always a bloody door.” Adjusting his trousers on the walk down the hall he muttered a few more choice words, all of them colorful, between charms to make it less obvious he was about to defile the darling of the wizarding world on an antique armchair.

“What?” He said as he yanked the door open. Before him stood not Dawlish, checking in, but Chief Auror Robards, Potter, and a healer, dressed in St. Mungo’s robes. The three of them stared at Draco, who blinked the feeling of ice being dropped down his shirt away.

“Malfoy, you’ve got to practice a more cordial greeting,” Potter said. His pose too casual for the hold on his wand, knuckles straining with the effort.

“Etiquette lessons must have slipped my mind,” he said, crossing his arms. “Wasn’t expecting company at this hour.”

“Harry?” Granger had righted herself and joined them at the door. “Is everything alright? We were just on our way to the Ministry. I know it took us a couple of extra days but it seems extraneous for all of you to come pounding on Draco’s door like this.”

Potter looked at her with narrowed eyes. “Days? Hermione, you’ve been gone for almost two months.”

Notes:

Out of the house at last! And a new character tag. We'll be back to the usual Saturday posting schedule next week.

In case you missed it, I have a new one shot called By the Book. There's no nefarious house investigation but there is Draco with glasses and inappropriate bookshelf use.

Chapter 19

Hermione blinked, trying to absorb what Harry had just told her. It must have been for a laugh.

“That’s not possible,” she said. “We only slept a handful of nights — it can’t have been more than a week. You don’t have to exaggerate just because you were worried about me.”

“I’m not exaggerating,” Harry said.

She looked at Draco, his lips pressed together and brow creased.

“One of the...things we encountered mentioned the winter solstice,” he said carefully. “I wondered if it was the actual day or just the magic of the house. Time was odd in the manor but two whole months seems—”

“It’s the fifteenth of January. A Monday,” Auror Robards said. He was a stern looking man, though it gave him a certain handsomeness that used to make Hermione nervous. Now she felt her fingers flex, wanting to hook onto the ones resting at Draco’s side. It would settle her.

Instead she said, “Right. Well, I suppose we should get to the Ministry and give a full report. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

Harry wouldn’t meet her eye. Kept looking over her shoulder into the apartment behind them. As if he expected to find something there.

“We made an attempt to enter Nott Manor a week ago and failed to pass its wards. Auror Potter expressed some concern when Dawlish reported that Malfoy had returned to his home but you had not returned to yours.”

Hermione turned to Harry, skimming over the flash of occlumency in Draco’s eyes on the way.

“You were at my flat?”

He finally looked at her guiltily. “No, but I had set up some additional wards for when—”

“Harry, I can handle myself thank you very much. I asked you to feed my cat and collect my mail not monitor my comings and goings. ”

Both aurors took a step backwards into the hall, where the healer had retreated. Robards whispered to her while Harry grasped for words.

“Granger, it’s fine. Let’s all just get out of my doorway,” Draco said, inadvertently saving Harry from himself. He handed her a coat and scarf, brushing a casual graze against her knuckles as did so. It was meant to soothe her, she knew. And when she looked back to her best friend his emerald eyes were on her.

She summoned her satchel and said, “I appreciate your concern, I do. We came here to catch our breath. Next time send a patronus first.”

Harry nodded, but the hand in his pocket hadn’t moved and she knew he gripped his wand. Draco closed his wards silently and locked the door behind them.

“I’ve activated our portkey and we have ten seconds,” Auror Robards said. He held a worn tennis ball in his hand. They all placed a finger on it as it glowed. “It will be a little sharper than the average so prepare yourselves.”

With a sickening lurch Hermione was tugged from where she stood in the hall outside of Draco’s flat and deposited in an empty Ministry conference room. The table and chairs had been removed to allow a larger landing area. To create a portkey with that level of accuracy, let alone one that would transport someone between buildings, into something as heavily protected as the Ministry, was extraordinary. Likely the work of the Department of Mysteries.

The healer ran some basic diagnostics over Hermione and then Draco before leaving them, satisfied that they were in good health.

“You’ll both give a more formal report tomorrow. For now we’re hoping you can give us as much information as possible. Miss Granger, if you could begin,” Auror Robards said. With a flick of his wand a large table appeared in the middle of the room, followed by four chairs, a full tea service, and glass pitchers of water. A quill, ink, and parchment plopped in a neat stack beside his seat, along with a few folders she recognized as Death Eater files. One was very slim, and she wondered if it was Draco’s.

He held a chair for her, ever the gentleman, while Harry frowned and fixed himself tea.

It felt like sitting across from a stern teacher, demanding an explanation. Her heartbeat quickened, and she glanced at Draco, with his cool demeanor and almost bored expression. It reminded her of his words as she worked through one of the final curses. She thought of the sea. A sailboat. And everything she didn’t need tucked safely in its hull until she needed it. With a smooth inhale and exhale she began. For nearly an hour she spoke of what they encountered in the Manor, starting with the Guardian at the gate. 

She explained the various warnings they received, the tapestry in the study that they used to estimate the time, and the contents of that room. From there she spoke of the kitchens and the spell work they’d needed to rely upon to stay alive while the house attacked them. The dungeons and Draco’s kindness with the forest troll, though neither Robards nor Harry seemed to find it important enough to write down. It took a while to detail each room and the manner of curses and dark objects they encountered.

At one point Draco interrupted to question if it was really worth going into detail since the house swallowed itself. “It’s not like there’s anything for you to recover.”

Harry disagreed. “We need to understand everything. There have been two dozen Muggleborns affected and we’re no closer to figuring it out.” He gestured for Hermione to continue. She worried that he didn’t trust Draco, and that wasn’t fair.

“I do agree we should be thorough, but Draco’s right. There’s nothing left of the house. I believe the magic in the ley lines absorbed it all. There were no magical traces. Just nothing, after.”

Auror Robards wrote quickly, his hand neat and letters sharp. A shorthand system that was a relief — she’d grown used to the quick quotes quills of the likes of Rita Skeeter and other reporters. Charmed to mimic the writing style of their user, which often meant extraneous and incorrect details. Soon to manifest in an article about her personal affairs.

“Go on then, Granger,” Draco said. He stood to fix a cup of tea and a plate of sandwiches and biscuits. While she spoke of the trophy room he slid a cup into her hand and got himself a glass of water. She hoped Harry would notice that he was thoughtful and attentive.

As she spoke about the boggart and the ballroom, leaving out the more personal details, Draco occasionally offered more information. Anything that was common in a pureblood house and any of the things he’d seen Death Eaters working on throughout the war. Hoping to help explain some of the intricacies of the house.

While she finished her tea and ate a sandwich she let Draco take over. Watching him speak eloquently about everything that happened in the laboratory. About potions and ingredients and how he’d puzzled things out. When she noticed Harry looking not at Draco, who was speaking, and instead at her she glanced at the table where her hands were clasped.

They took turns regaling the aurors with their harrowing escape from the collapsing house. Describing the way the Guardian had seemed to help them in the end. Until they reached the property line and everything they’d been through was devoured by the earth and the Guardian along with it. Hermione had felt a little sad about that. It was a fascinating bit of magic.

Robards and Harry asked some questions. They presented Nott’s poison, retrieved from Hermione’s bag. They hadn’t taken anything else before it was too late. She kept the wood from the statue of Slytherin’s staff.

“Thank you both,” Auror Robards said. He stood and smoothed his robes, then collected his things with a wave of his wand while Harry busied himself with the tea again. “You’ve done extraordinary work and having this will make curing those afflicted move much faster. We are hopeful to catch the culprit and prevent further incident. Take the rest of the day off to go home and rest. I’ve already alerted your supervisor, Miss Granger.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said, grateful to avoid seeing her office neighbor, Harriet, another day.

“Potter, we need to get to conference room C to debrief with Auror Bonham and the potions department.”

Draco stood, shaking Auror Robards hand and murmuring together about work.

Harry hugged Hermione with a promise to floo call her later. Then he shook Draco’s hand, just a quick up and down but surprising none the less.

And then they were alone once more. Hermione pulled her sailboat back to shore and let herself smile at Draco.

“Bloody glad that’s over,” he said.

Hermione nodded and shut the door. He raised a brow at her and she laughed, then reached into her bag. Pulling out the small vial of liquid, black like ink.

“Granger, you didn’t.”

“I kept some. Just about a third of it. You should be the one to test it,” she said, pressing it into his hand. She brushed her thumb over his knuckles. “You’re brilliant with potions, I’ve seen it myself. If anyone can figure it out, it’s you.”

He looked at her, studying her like she was a piece of art or a poem or something precious. With his other hand he moved her hair over her shoulder and lingered for a moment before pulling back.

“Might need some assistance,” he said, the corner of his lips turning upward. “If you’re up for it.”

“You know a challenge is the quickest way to get my assistance.” She opened the door and they walked to the lifts. It was lunchtime, and the hallway was crowded. They stood shoulder to shoulder in the lift and she felt her heartbeat in her throat. She’d barely been apart from him for days — months, technically.

They reached the atrium and walked for the fireplaces in silence.

“Well then,” he said, hands in his pockets. The occlumency lending a blankness to his eyes. How often did he rely on it in public?

“I should check on my cat, Crookshanks. He’s sort of a terror when I’m gone for a while. Especially after the war.” He nodded. “We should probably listen to Robards and get some rest.”

She wanted to reach for him but she caused enough eyes to glance their way. It didn’t seem like a good idea to draw further attention to them by embracing him. But maybe she could—

“See you later then, Granger,” he said, and strode through an empty fireplace without a backwards glance.

With a sigh she followed his shadow and shouted her address in the green flames.

Everything was just as she left it — kitchenette tidy, stack of books with a thin layer of dust that she cleared with a spell. And Crookshanks, glaring at her from the cushions of her favorite chair. The sides of it shredded like streamers. Stuffing spewing out.

“Is this what you’ve got up to while I was away?” She asked, and he hissed from his perch. “Crooks, darling, Harry came to see you plenty and snuck you extra treats I’m sure.”

The cat stood and leapt from the chair, prancing around the corner and into her bedroom. Hermione sighed and prepared herself for devastation. He’d mostly left her room alone, though a few of the things that were normally atop her dresser and nightstand had been knocked to the floor. She sent them back to their places, picking up the photo of her parents and returning it by hand. They’d only just started dating in the photograph. A picture of them outside of a pub near their dental school. Laughing with ease. Her father’s eyes bright as they looked at her mother. Studying her.

She cleared the thought and instead focused on a happy memory to conjure a patronus. The luminescent otter bounced around the room and waited for instruction.

“Please go to Harry and ask for an address for Theodore Nott. I need to return something to him and tell him about his house,” she said, and watched it disappear in a sparkling jump.

A few minutes later Harry’s stag came with an answer, but without his usual friendliness. He must have been busy to be so direct.

The old jumper and leggings she’d thrown on weren’t exactly appropriate for a social visit, much less for delivering a Ministry report. She changed into trousers and a silk blouse, topped with a wool coat. Crookshanks had yet to emerge from his hiding place beneath her bed, content to give her the cold shoulder until at least the next day.

So she wrapped a grey scarf around her neck, unsure of when she’d taken it. Had she put it on when they left Nott Manor? Or had he given it to her by mistake when they left his flat? It was butter soft and smelled faintly of sandalwood cologne.

Taking the floo to the Leaky Cauldron and walking was how she normally traveled to Diagon, but instead she chose to walk to an apparition point further from her flat. To take the long way to get there and enjoy the stroll through Diagon Alley. She’d missed the Christmas shop windows without even knowing it. Most of the displays were for the new year and a fresh start, something wizarding Britain seemed hypocritical about. A few people said hello to her. Others whispered, “That’s Hermione Granger!” In a way that she’d never be used to.

Theo lived in a townhouse on a hidden corner between Diagon and Nocturn Alley. It was more modern than the other buildings, as if a developer had torn down and started over. When she knocked on the door it opened on its own. Inside was a stairway to the first floor, painted a rich sage color. The steps beneath her were a grey wood. Everything felt somehow calm.

“The Golden Girl gracing me with her presence on a Monday afternoon. Whatever have I done to deserve this?” Theo said. She stepped onto the landing and into an open space with light floors and walls and a large skylight at the edge of the room, pouring sunshine down the flat from the stairway to the upper levels. And there in front of her was the Nott heir.

“This is beautiful, Theo,” she said by way of greeting and he brushed off her compliment.

“It’s not nearly finished. A constant work in progress but I’m quite particular about things.”

He took her coat and scarf. She wondered if he knew who it belonged to, with the way he grinned at her.

Theo was dressed similarly to the last time she saw him, in a sort of rumpled elegance. Fine clothing that needed a good press. A jumper with a hole that needed mending. Now that she’d seen a portrait of his mother, she saw all the features he’d inherited from her first. Including her kindness.

“Can I get you a drink?”

“It’s barely three in the afternoon,” she replied, laughing a little.

“Well then that calls for a white, don’t you think?” He crossed to the open kitchen and selected a bottle from a wine fridge. Many of the things in the apartment were Muggle, though she suspected they were magically modified. Then he pulled wine glasses from a cupboard and poured them both a glass.

It was crisp and refreshing, and she felt a little bit reckless drinking during working hours when she was supposed to be resting.

“Glad to see you’ve returned to us in one piece. I’m assuming Draco did as well?” He asked between sips.

“Yes, he went back to his flat.”

“He didn’t get what I asked him to get from my room, did he?”

“Afraid not. We weren’t able to get to it,” she said.

Theo tapped her glass with his. “Bastard.”

Hermione chuckled and turned to take in the rest of the space. Noticing a small Muggle photograph of Zahra on one wall, framed by trailing plants in colorful pots. Not unlike the oasis of the reflecting pool. The photograph of Zahra seemed to smile at her, and she smiled back.

“So, how was my father’s house? Dusty? Death Eater robes in the corners?”

“In general it was as we expected, lots of curses and traps and things. We could only go into the rooms it presented us, which made getting to the laboratory a challenge. Some of it was really quite lovely, your mother—” she stopped when she saw his playful expression dim. “But, well the house sort of…imploded,” she said, immediately taking a drink to busy her hands. “I’m sorry”

“Sorry for what?”

She looked at him and he might as well have been at a hotel bar, enjoying the ambience with a relaxed posture. “About your house. It’s—there’s nothing left of it. I’m sorry.”

Theo laughed and clinked his glass against hers once more. “The only thing to be sorry for is that I didn’t light a match myself.” He led her to the living area and draped himself over an armchair, one leg over the side. “I hated everything about that place.”

Hermione perched on the adjacent chair and finished her wine while Theo told her about his plans for a wine cellar. It was easy to talk with Theo and easier still to listen to him talk. They’d never spoken at Hogwarts, and she started to wonder if she’d missed out on friendships because of the segregation their Houses favored. If perhaps it would have been easier to make friends if they’d been as welcoming then as he was now.

There was a reason for her visit and she reached behind her neck to unclasp the necklace. “Here,” she said, holding the chain, watching the pendent shift and spin. “Thank you — I don’t know if the house would have let me in without it. Harry tried to get in last week and the wards were too strong.”

Theo immediately vanished the blood then touched the vial but didn’t take it. “I supplied the blood but not the vessel,” he said. “Gave it to Draco in a much less valuable old pepper-up potion jar.”

“You think this is his, then?”

“The stars on it look like his constellation. My guess is that’s an heirloom, based on the sentimentality and the fine make of the chain. Probably a tradition from his mother’s side. They love their astronomy, the Black’s.”

Hermione knew how to chart the stars and had to memorize the constellations in school but it wasn’t a branch of magic she kept up with. Astrology and curses overlapped but her specialty was with runes. The dragon constellation was hazy in her mind. She’d need to look it up when she got home, to be sure.

“It must be important to him, to have given it to you,” he said carefully.

She tucked it into her pocket though she wanted to put it back around her neck. “I’m sure he only loaned it to me. It’s probably just something he found in a drawer somewhere. Easier to wear it rather than hold a jar. Practical, and all.”

Theo smiled at her stammering and drained his glass.

“Another drink, Hermione?” She started to decline but he wouldn’t let her. “It’s not often that I have a visitor, which is a shame because I love to entertain.” With a wink he refilled her glass and stepped to the kitchen. There he began assembling a cheese plate while she watched, amused.

“Do you bring this level of hosting skills when Draco’s here?” She crossed the room to help but he gestured for her to sit at one of the stools on the opposite side of the counter.

“Merlin, no. We just nurse our own bottles of Ogden’s and talk about shared trauma or our fathers’ expectations or unrequited love, the usual.”

“So you two get drunk and complain about things?” She teased.

“We don’t need to be drunk to do that but it certainly helps.”

They talked for a while, standing over his kitchen counter and eating French cheeses and drinking wine. It seemed like the topic always circled back to Draco. If Hermione asked about the shops nearby, Theo had a story about going there with Draco. If he spoke of a night at a pub or a trip to Italy to visit Blaise Zabini, Draco was there. And every time his name was mentioned Theo looked at her with a mischievous little grin. Soon they’d finished a second bottle and sunlight no longer beamed through the skylights.

“You’re going to make me ask, aren’t you?” Theo said. They’d cleaned the kitchen and moved back to their chairs. He had a fire whiskey in a cut crystal glass and she drank water.

Hermione tucked her legs beneath her and relaxed into her seat. “Ask what?”

“You and Draco alone in a house for two months.”

“Well for us it only really seemed like five days or so,” she answered.

“Regardless, my question stands.”

“Sorry, I’m not sure that was a question?”

“Something did happened between you then?” Theo asked, and Hermione tried not to tense.

“I don’t—this is a bit forward of you, Theo.”

“It’s just how I am. Terrible manners, but you’ll get used to it. And that’s a definite yes.” He grinned at her again and she knew she must be blushing. Because her thoughts had drifted to a bookshelf and a ballroom and a bedroom and—

“That many times?”

“What? No! I was just thinking.”

“Hmmm yes those are the thoughts I dwell on as well.”

Hermione laughed outright. “Theo! You’re absolutely shameless aren’t you?”

“I’m an attention-starved pseudo-shut-in with impeccable taste so yes, a bit.”

“If you’re going to ask about my personal affairs then I get to ask about yours,” Hermione drank the rest of her water, feeling clearheaded and calm. “It’s only fair.”

Theo stretched his arms above his head and mussed his hair. “Not nearly drunk enough to tell you all the sordid details of my disastrous love life.”

“What about the detail that’s at the front of your mind?”

“Another time, when you’re not fresh off a mission and in need of several night’s sleep and when I’m feeling more morose I’ll tell you all about the wizard currently splintering my heart.”

“Alright then. I am pretty tired. I should probably head home,” she said, standing. The coat closet opened and her jacket and scarf were returned to her. She slipped her arms into the coat and draped the scarf around her neck, breathing in its faint scent.

Theo watched her for a long moment, tilting his whiskey in the glass. “You’ll always have to be the one to tell him what he can have.”

“I don’t—what do you mean by that?”

“I mean he went from getting anything he could ever want and thinking he was better than everyone else to knowing that we’re all the same. And because of a poor decision at sixteen he’ll never be allowed to just have anything he wants ever again, regardless of his wealth. Just because of his name and a bloody tattoo. So, Hermione, you’re the one with the power here. You’ll have to make the decisions.”

“It’s not about power, Theo—”

“Isn’t it, though? One step out of line and —” he snapped his fingers “—off to Azkaban with both our fathers. Power to eviscerate the poor sot.”

“I’d never let something like that happen to him. It’s not — I care about him very much.”

“Then really tell him that. If you don’t prove it to him he’ll just take whatever secret moments you offer. Show him it’s more to you than some adrenaline-induced romp on the job.”

She touched the chain in her pocket. Running it between her thumb and forefinger. “You’re awfully protective of him.”

“I understand how it feels to be kept in the dark. He’s spent half his life with darkness, Hermione, and you’re the golden light beaconing at the end. Don’t be an illusion.”

Theo walked her to the stairs leading out.

“You’re a good friend, Theo,” she said. “Thank you for being honest. For being my friend, too.”

By the time she got home it was late, and she wanted to get some rest before heading back to work the next day. Two months was a long time to catch up on. But there was something she needed to do first.

She dug through her bookshelves, muttering curses that she could never seem to maintain a proper organizational system. There was alphabetical by author but she liked to keep her subjects together. Alphabetical by author, by subject, worked for most but some subjects needed to be organized by year so that she could find the most up-to-date information. In the end everything was just a mess. Had she remembered the title of the book she would have just accioed it to herself but she could only picture the cover.

It was a dark blue book, and she found it on a high shelf. The Stars: Connected and Aligned, thirteenth edition. They’d used it in sixth year Astronomy. She flicked it over to her desk and went looking for a candle and parchment. While wax dripped onto the parchment she opened the book to the chapter on constellations.

Gently, she rolled the glass pendant over the melted wax. Letting the etchings leave an imprint in golden yellow beeswax. There were fourteen stars, some of them binary pairs. They trailed together to make up the dragon constellation. It was beautiful — in the night sky, as painted in her book, and on the pendant she held in her hand. Now that she’d worn it for so long it felt like hers. Like she could keep it.

Notes:

Thank you for the kind and excited response to the last chapter! We're officially in a post-Nott Manor world. 🖤

Chapter 20

The floo dropped him in the public toilets near the Ministry. He was already in Muggle attire so he didn’t have to transfigure his clothing before he stepped out and onto the crowded city streets. It was cold, and Granger had his scarf. After a few blocks he popped into a café for a coffee and takeaway sandwich.

The paltry offering at the Ministry hadn’t tasted of anything but ash, sucked between his teeth while Potter glared at him across the table anytime he so much as looked at the witch next to him. She spoke breathlessly of their mission, highlighting every moment he’d done the bare minimum of what his job required. Talking about the forest troll as if Robards gave a shit.

He occluded for most of it, in case either of the Aurors had learned legilimancy in the two months they’d been gone. However unlikely. And it wasn’t as if Granger had any mental shields. His more wanton thoughts were safe for now. As long as they didn’t request his memories. The clearest ones weren’t exactly what he’d want out of his mind, and should Potter be the one reviewing them he’d get thrown to the dementors for sure.

The steps of his flat were concrete. The door cheap pine painted grey. The hallway was drab carpeting and dim lighting. Three flights to his apartment, taking the stairs two at a time.

The flat was even colder now that he was alone in it. He ate the sandwich and finished the coffee. Switched to something stronger and flipped the television set on. A news reporter spoke of the weather. What was with Muggles and needing to be told the weather constantly? He turned it off. Picked up the potions journal on the coffee table, planning to finish the issue but finding his mind cloudy.

With a sigh he drained his whiskey.

“Tippy,” he called, and with a pop the elf appeared. 

“Master Draco calls for Tippy at last,” she squeaked, and when she beheld his sorry excuse for a home she crumpled. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket.

“It’s alright, Tippy. I know it’s dreadful.”

“Worse than dreadful,” she said between tears.

“I suppose so.” He laughed darkly. Of course it was worse than dreadful — it was pathetic and so was he. “Tippy, I require your assistance.”

“This is obvious to Tippy. Master will need to be more specific.” Fair point.

“We need to set up a potions laboratory in this room. Most of what I’ll need is in the lab at the Manor. I can make you a list and—”

“First Tippy will make tea. You’re looking peaky.”

He figured he looked drunk, if anything.

While she snapped her fingers and brought him food from the Manor he made a categorized list of ingredients and supplies. After he’d eaten a full roast dinner and drank three glasses of water she was satisfied enough to leave and begin moving things back over. But only after leaving him with a steaming pot of tea and some fresh biscuits. Cinnamon shortbread — his favorite from when he was a boy. 

The television went into his bedroom, tucked in a corner. The coffee table he shrunk and stuck in his closet. Then he moved the sofa flush to the opposite wall, in case they needed a break while they worked.

Tippy returned and snapped her fingers, depositing a work table and two stools. A variety of cauldrons, a shelf stocked with ingredients common and rare, stirring rods, silver knives, cutting boards, and everything else he’d painstakingly written on his list. All of his additional potions texts and the notebooks he kept while he was in school. A few that he’d inherited from Severus, after the war. Most of Snape’s possessions went to Hogwarts but a small parcel of books arrived at the Manor a few months after his death. No note from the man himself, just a brief letter from a solicitor explaining that they were bequeathed to Draco Malfoy in Severus Snape’s estate.

He sent Tippy home for the evening after a little more fussing from the elf, who wanted to decorate for him. That was the least of his concern for tomorrow. She’d already seen it. Instead he spent a lot of time making sure everything looked professional. A true potioneer’s lab. In a tiny flat. He used polishing charms on the cauldrons and lined the stirrers and knives in neat rows. Cleared the dust from some of the older ingredient jars. There were protections on the Muggle building to allow everyday magic but he added a few enchantments to keep any brewing mishaps contained. Not that he made them often.

Then he read over dozens of his books until he found what he was looking for in one of Snape’s. A suspension that could help determine the ingredients in a potion. It wasn’t foolproof, but it would at least be a start. It took over an hour to brew and would need at least a day to separate. Using a siphoning spell he placed a single drop of the inky poison into the suspension in a silver cauldron. It was likely that the potion was an amalgamation of other existing potions. Most potioneers built off of the works of others. He scratched down some notes until the moon was high.

Hesper returned, carrying a letter from Theo that he set on the table to read later. He’d spent a long time writing his own brief letter, and he wanted to send it immediately.

 

Granger,

After work tomorrow I’d like to begin our project.

My flat. Any time that’s convenient for you.

DLM

 

The owl held out her foot and let him tie it to her. Then she swooped out the window. It was late, but he wasn’t tired. Working while a cauldron boiled kept him calm, clearing his thoughts enough to make progress. And when he finally dragged himself to bed it was hours after midnight, when the rest of the world slumbered. Now that he’d had a restful though still disjointed night of sleep, with his face in her hair and her legs tangled with his, he knew he probably wouldn’t sleep that well again. And as he stared at the cracks in the ceiling, pushing everything out on a gentle wave, he wondered if she missed him, too.

 

---

 

The drop of poison in his suspension had slowly leeched its way to the edge of the cauldron overnight. Its inky tendrils spreading, working to separate. By evening it would begin to give off different smells, colors, and other hints as to what the ingredients were. If he’d brewed it correctly.

Draco had slept as he always had. Horribly. With only a few hours stolen between nightmares and fits of staring at the ceiling. So when the light of dawn crept through the blinds he woke and went to the living room turned laboratory to stress about that instead. He stacked his worn dragon leather gloves next to a few forceps. Another, smaller set of gloves beside them. Pristine from the apothecary he’d sent Tippy to with a list of ingredients and other things to purchase.

There wasn’t much else he could do at the workbench, other than rearrange things yet again. So he showered off the nervous sweats and dressed. Taking his time on his hair, since he had no one waiting for him. After he finished his grooming routine he changed his clothes. Most of his wardrobe was just duplicates of the things he wore most often. He shrugged on a black shirt, fastening the obsidian buttons. It was one of his nicest, without being too showy. Then he tugged on a charcoal jumper, fixed his now messed hair, and pulled on the Muggle peacoat that could transfigure into robes after he arrived at the Ministry.

Hesper still hadn’t returned with a response by the time he left for work. The walk to the apparition point was crisp, and his breath made little clouds on the air. He folded his collar up against the chill and walked quickly, stopping at the café he favored for a coffee and croissant.

By the time he arrived at the Ministry he’d felt a little more prepared for the day, with a manageable amount of occlumency in place. It was still early for most but he looked out of the corner of his eye as he walked to the lifts. Only a few people he recognized, most of whom ignored him. A glare from someone he recognized from school but couldn’t name. Probably a Hufflepuff.

He sat at his empty desk and conjured a quill and ink, then began working on his formal report of the mission. Normally he transcribed the reports of others. Taking their ghastly penmanship and making it legible for Robards and the other aurors who would review it. Editing some of their poor phrasing and misused commas in the process. While his colleagues arrived he kept his head down and scratched away at the parchment. Including every minuscule detail he could remember about Nott Manor.

Every detail except for the ones he thought of endlessly and wanted to repeat. Of a soft mouth and knees pressed against his hips. Whispers in the dark, sparkling like water in the moonlight. Those he kept just off the shore, waiting. He’d drown in them if he didn’t.

When his wrist started to cramp and the parchment was nearly as long as the desk, he looked up from his work. Two hours had passed. He had a meeting with Dawlish, just to check in. The older Auror mostly disinterested, as usual. Then back to his report. Hoping that maybe Robards would need them both and call her to their floor. But he hadn’t seen her, and in the queue for lunch at the Ministry’s cafeteria there wasn’t a curly haired witch to be found.

Later, when he’d finished his report and had begun working through a small stack of memos that had accumulated during lunch, he found a folded square of creamy parchment.

 

I’ll see you at six o’clock.

HJG

 

And just under her initials was an x. He wondered what it meant. If it was the rune Gebo, or maybe Nauthiz. What sort of hidden message was she trying to send him? For the rest of the afternoon he alternated between staring at the little x and reading through his work memos. Until at last he gave up and sent a note to Theo, casually asking if he knew what it meant when someone put an x beneath their name in a letter.

 

No “hello, I didn’t die.” No “I’m sorry about your house.”

Did you even read my owl from last night? Rude.

Theo

xxxxx

 

With his anxiety nearing its limit Draco had never been happier for the workday to end. He cleared his desk, transfigured his robes back to their Muggle-safe design, and walked purposefully to the lifts. Then the atrium to the fireplaces. And at last back to his pathetic, dreadful flat.

“Tippy,” he called, and she was there in an instant. The joy on her face was almost infectious but he had an agenda to stick to. “Hello,” he said, “Will you stock the cupboards and fridge with things that Miss Granger and I could eat? We’ll be working on a potion—”

“Tippy will cook for you. A nice meal to impress your witch. Five courses with wines.”

“No, that’s—just things we could nosh on easily. And…maybe one bottle of wine, one of the whites from the château. Something dry but not the Chardonnay, only Mother likes that.”

“But you will need a good meal to help with your work, yes?”

“We might but I didn’t—I’ll need to ask her first. Just fill the cupboards for me so it looks a little less…”

“Worrisome?” Tippy supplied, and he laughed.

“I was thinking depressing but sure. Thank you.”

She disappeared with a crack and he put his coat in the closet, spying a light blue scarf on one of the hooks. He took off his jumper and folded it, putting it away in the wardrobe in his bedroom. Thinking of how he’d greet Hermione when she arrived. If he could kiss her, or if that was too forward. They’d slept together for fuck’s sake and here he was, worried about saying hello.

He checked on his suspension once more, pleased with its progress. Tippy popped in and out, snapping her fingers and producing a bowl of apples and other fruits, a baguette warm from the ovens, and some flowers.

Just as he was telling her that the flowers would be too much there was a knock at the door. She was early. Or Dawlish was here. Or maybe it was Potter, here to arrest him for looking at Granger for too long during their debriefing the day before. Tippy vanished, the flowers with her, and after smoothing his shirt Draco opened the door.

And there she was, wearing his scarf and smiling at him. Everything he’d prepared to say flew from his brain like a snitch released on the pitch.

“Hi,” she said.

He stepped aside to let her in. “Granger,” he said, because he needed to shock his brain into functioning properly before he fell at her feet. She hung her own coat and the scarf while he stared at her neck, her hair piled atop her head. And either she didn’t know the charm to hide them or she didn’t care that there was a mark just beneath her ear.

“I see you’ve redecorated.”

“A bit,” he said, letting her observe his laboratory set up. “Can’t work on an antidote without a proper brewing station.”

“You have just about anything you could ever need.” She picked up the different stirring rods and looked over the open book he’d been working from. Peeking at the brew. “A silver cauldron?”

“It heats faster than copper, and for a suspension like this I had to get everything to the right temperature before adding the poison and casting the different stasis charms and incantations.”

He wondered if she was impressed. If the way her eyes widened were an indication of it.

“So it’s been about twenty-four hours. We should be able to extract different ingredients — or at least the essence of them,” he said, stepping closer and rolling his sleeves. With a wave of his wand he extended the stasis charm, creating a larger bubble that floated above the cauldron. Then he separated the ingredients using Severus’s final incantation, Abscindo verto permutatio. It worked perfectly.

Her gasp was worth the day of worrying. “I’ve never seen it in person,” she said. “Just read about it.”

Of course she had. He started to recognize some basic ingredients. The silvery liquid of a Sopophorous bean, not a surprise considering the effects of the poison. There would have to be a number of ingredients meant to induce sleep. Granger commented on it, correctly guessing its origin as well.

“I think it’s a variation of a Draught of the Living Death,” he said. “Robards said none of the first patients at St. Mungo’s have woken up. The severity of the magical coma points to that, but it’s the other factors I’m worried about. Like the draining of magical essence.”

Valerian root, of course. Identified in this state by the small puffs of mud-colored smoke. There had to be a lot of it in the brew.

“What else do you think was added?” Hermione stood to one side, giving him space at the work table while he gathered ingredients and set a copper-bottomed cauldron to heat over a low flame.

He’d spent half the night thinking about it. The other half thinking about her.

“It’s potent, that’s obvious. And given the expense of some of the ingredients it would have to be something that could be diluted while still maintaining efficacy.” He reached for a tall, thin jar that Tippy had brought from his lab at the manor. Using forceps he removed one of the long grey hairs to show her. “Granian hair increases magical effects in potions.”

“Didn’t you say that Theo’s family used to breed Granians?”

Draco nodded, returning it to its container. “It’s a rarer ingredient but Nott would have had plenty at his disposal a few years ago. More if he collected and stored it properly.”

Granger pulled a sheet of parchment from the stack he’d placed on the far corner of the table, then took a quill to ink and began writing notes. “I can confirm with the Magical Creatures department tomorrow. I wonder if the Ministry have talked to the apothecaries—”

“What, every potions shop in Britain?”

“There might be a pattern — someone buying the same ingredients in large quantities.”

The suspension swirled in its bubble. Creating a flower shape that signified powdered root of Asphodel. It was all the makings of a Draught of Living Death. A potion they studied extensively in sixth year.

“I don’t think one person could clear a shop of the ingredients for something like this without arousing suspicion from the proprietor. They probably go to multiple shops, only buy a single ingredient for the poisonm and then just other standard ingredients. Make it less obvious,” he said.

While the suspension continued to move, he noted different ingredients while she wrote them down. They ran through the methods for brewing an Exstimulo potion, since a lot of its ingredients were present.

Draco started on the Draught of Living Death in its own cauldron while Granger worked on the Exstimulo potion. The two potions had different viscosities, but one of Severus’s notebooks had instructions for using a stimulating potion to enhance another potion. It was similar to his own methods for combining a calming draught with dreamless sleep. He’d called it Golden Sleep. Stupid.

“Robards said that the poison seemed to drain the magic from the afflicted. Slower for some of them. Why do you think that might be?” Hermione asked. For a moment he was distracted by the curls at her neck, wilder in the humidity. The silver chain disappearing into her navy jumper.

“I’ve been thinking about that. It would have to be something that’s powerful enough to end life but administered slowly. Without repeated exposure to the poison that’s fairly impossible.” He reached for a few jars until he found a small vial. It was old, and from a part of the laboratory he didn’t use often. “But there are ways to prolong effects.”

She took the vial from his hand and held it to the light. The pale green liquid had a faint glow. “Is it some sort of moon dew?”

“Close. It’s the dew collected from death cap mushrooms during a full moon. It has the effects of moon dew infused with that of the mushrooms.”

The cauldrons simmered, each of their potions gently bubbling. The Living Death turned the perfect shade of lavender.

“So it wouldn’t be as powerful as an entire mushroom cap but perhaps powerful enough to slowly drain someone of life,” she mused, placing the vial on the table. “How can the potion affect only Muggleborns? All of these ingredients are standard. Things we had at school, even.”

“Some of the ingredients will be guesswork. And I think it’s an incantation that seals it. Protects pure and halfbloods somehow. A few of those books talk about incantations to protect one’s family, things like that. My guess is that Nott created his own version based on the common blood wards used by pureblood families.”

He began lowering the temperature of the Exstimulo, gradually cooling it to room temperature while the Draught continued to bubble, turning the precise shade of pale pink.

“I can do some research. See if any of the more senior cursebreakers have ever encountered a potion like that. They might be able to recommend other books or people we can talk to,” she said, absently flipping through the books he’d left out. Trailing a fingertip over the handwritten notes from Severus.

“You’ll have to do the talking, you know.”

She glanced up at him. “Why should I have to do it by myself? You’re the potions master here, you’ll know the right things to ask. I can make the introductions.”

“I don’t think they’ll want to discuss a magical incantation created by Death Eaters with a Death Eater. I’ll give you a list.”

“Draco—”

The cauldron began bubbling loudly, releasing the waft of smoke that signaled it was ready. “Hand me that flower, would you?” He gestured to a bud vase, holding a few wildflowers Tippy had snuck in.

He plucked one of the petals and placed it in the cauldron, watching it disintegrate. Though their professor in sixth year had joked that a drop would kill them, it only had such effect on plant life. And even then it took an entire cauldron’s worth to kill a single plant. There were plenty of household herbicides for weeds that worked more effectively. It wasn’t that difficult to brew a—

“Draco?”

“Hmm?” He blinked his train of thought away and looked at Granger, who smiled at him, blushing in a way that made him want to wipe the table clean and lift her onto it.

“How are you planning to combine the two potions? And add the other ingredients?”

“Right.” He cleared a smaller section of the work space than he’d imagined and brought out another cauldron, a standard one. Like they’d seen at Nott Manor. Adding the Draught of Living Death would be the most difficult part. Added too soon, it would essentially eat anything else they added to it. But added too late, it would remain at the top, too difficult to mix. “I have a few things I want to try but Severus—Professor Snape, he had a method for using Exstimulo to increase a potion’s efficacy. We’ll start there and if it doesn’t work we’ll try something else.”

Once the Draught of Living Death had turned the proper shade of pink, like decaying carnations, he siphoned it out of its cauldron and into a thick beaker. Then he cleaned the cauldrons and the work space.

Severus’s method required a certain amount of precision, like most of the things he’d taught or passed on to Draco over the years. Because Exstimulo was meant to enhance, and Living Death was nearly its opposite, combining the potions required a serpentine method of stirring. Not just clockwise and counterclockwise but a combination. A figure-eight. All while maintaining the proper temperature — body temperature, strangely enough. Something about the Living Death needing to be closer to Living than Death. Fucking magical poetry.

Granger watched every movement of his hands. Absorbing all of the academia she could. He could feel her eyes on him even while he concentrated, adding the very last of the draught to the cauldron.

It had been almost two hours and he hadn’t offered her anything. Amateur hosting skills, his mother would be thoroughly disappointed. Tippy, too.

“I can order some dinner, there’s this curry place—or if you want a drink—”

“Oh god, a drink!” She checked the slim watch at her wrist. “I’m so sorry, I was supposed to meet Harry twenty minutes ago.”

Draco blinked at her. Of course she had other things to do with her evening. “That’s fine. I think I have enough to go on to start brewing a replication. It needs to sit for another hour anyway. We can work on the antidote tomorrow. If—if you’re free.”

He watched her put her coat and scarf — his scarf — on, fluffing her hair out of the collar. Letting it flow wild down her shoulders. “Tomorrow. Of course,” she said, and kissed him so swiftly he didn’t had time to hold her or kiss her back properly or even close his eyes. “You know, you really are brilliant.”

The door clicked shut behind her. Draco stared at it for longer than he would have ever admitted to anyone, then after making sure everything in the laboratory was stable, he contemplated the rest of his long evening.

Once the two potions were blended, he split them into three cauldrons for experimenting. He sent Hesper off to Theo with an invitation to drink one of the more vintage bottles he’d been saving for a special occasion. It was only when he’d pulled the bottle from the cupboard and reached for the crystal glasses, the antique ones he used when he didn’t want to feel like he was just a pathetic sot drinking alone, he remembered that he had a stack of letters to open, including one from Theo dated the day before.

 

Just saw your witch. Bet you need a drink. Or four.

Theo

p.s. You owe me a dozen vintage Muggle magazines and an ancestral home full of invaluable antiques and artifacts.

Horrible friend, you are.

 

Theo knocked on the door just as Draco added Granian hair to one potion. So far he’d reached a charcoal grey tone, but the consistency was still off. The poison was the exact color and thickness of ink. There were a few other things he wanted to try, but for now he opened his wards and the door with a flick of his wand.

“Hey,” he called, “Sorry, finishing something for work. Whiskey’s just there.” To each of his experiments he added a drop of the death cap mushroom dew. Feeling confident that it was something all of them would need.

“Mate, I realize you were gone for two months but it absolutely reeks in here,” Theo said.

The brew with the Granian hair shimmered, turning black as night. The liquid thinning. Draco smiled.

Notes:

Piles of gratitude to Inky_Pens for her Latin expertise! Did you know that Latin has different cases in addition to tenses? Wow, she's smart. 🖤

Chapter 21

On Wednesday Hermione took the floo to work, her satchel weighed down with most of the potions texts she had in her flat. She arrived an hour early and took the lift to the Department of Mysteries to put in a request with the archivists for anything that might help Draco. Her clearance let her skip the queue. Most people had to put their requests in weeks in advance.

The majority of her day was spent in deep focus on her own work, catching up so that she could sneak in her other research. At four in the afternoon she finally finished everything she needed to do for the week, so she felt less guilty pulling out one of the books the archivist sent up. Most of the books she borrowed from the Department of Mysteries archives weren’t allowed to leave the building and she didn’t want to be late getting to Draco’s. She pulled out a notebook and a pen and wrote as many notes as she deemed necessary until her hand started to cramp and the workday ended.

The atrium floo took her to Muggle London. She followed the throngs of people to a quiet apparition point a bit out of the way from the one she usually used. She didn’t want to run into anyone and risk being late. Being away for two months meant that everyone seemed to feel as if they were owed her time and idle chatter.

Harry had been concerned when she showed up to the Leaky Cauldron half an hour late the night before. And though they mostly laughed over butterbeer while he caught her up on the things she’d missed, she could tell there was something he was avoiding. Her mind filtered through different scenarios involving the Weasley family or their other friends. It had been two months, and if something bad had happened while she was away it was probably kept from her until she’d readjusted.

Before she could catastrophize further she asked, “What is it, Harry? Did something happen?”

“With me? No.” He pushed his glasses up his nose; one of his stalling ticks. It made her more nervous. “It’s just that yesterday, you and Malfoy—”

“Yes we worked well together and our mission was successful.” Her nerves were replaced with a different, redder emotion. Protective. “We earned a brief rest before going to the Ministry.”

“Hermione, I’m not saying you didn’t deserve to take a breath, believe me I think you deserve a whole bloody holiday. I’m just a little confused is all.”

“What is there to be confused about?”

Harry sighed and waved a hand. “You seemed close—friendly. I was just wondering why or how that happened.”

“We worked together,” she repeated, and sipped her drink. It wasn’t that she wanted to hide from Harry, specifically. What she had with Draco was new and precious and she wasn’t quite ready to talk about it in public, where multiple sets of eyes kept looking at them. How many of them had a Quick Quotes Quill hidden in their lap? It wouldn’t be the first time details of her personal life made their way to the papers just because she happened to share a secret at a pub. Skeeter had an entire column devoted to the one date Hermione had gone on with Dean Thomas two years ago, the first date she’d been on after her split with Ron. The howlers after that charming piece of journalism kept her fire stoked all winter. “It was—you were there, when we told Robards everything. Why wouldn’t we be friendly after an experience like that?”

“You’ve got a love bite you know,” Harry deadpanned. “Just there.” He brushed his fingers over his own neck and Hermione moved her hair back into place to cover the small mark. While she blushed she noticed her friend had one of his own. It was faint, but it was there. Peeking out of the top of his shirt. She squinted at it and looked up at him with purpose.

“If you want to tell me about who gave you yours I’ll tell you about mine, but not before and not in public. Dennis Creevey and Pansy Parkinson just walked in and that makes two too many Prophet staff members in earshot.”

“You’re really that paranoid?”

“Skeeter wrote about your breakup with Ginny based on a few snippets of overheard conversation but why don’t you tell me all about your secret snogging partner if you’re so blasé about it?”

When he turned red and reached for his drink Hermione wanted to scoff in a very Malfoy manner but she refrained. Harry was always open with her, and if he wanted something to stay private…maybe he had something precious to protect, too.

“You’re right.”

“I usually am,” she said, and smiled.

“It’s getting late and you’re probably still tired from your mission,” Harry said, and dropped a galleon on the table. “We can talk this weekend, really talk. I could probably use some advice.”

“Brunch Sunday?”

Harry had nodded and pulled her into a hug. “I’m glad you’re back.” He’d held her a little tighter than usual last night.

She hadn’t seen Harry since, but in a few days they’d meet at a Muggle breakfast spot they liked and then she would feel more up for talking.

Hermione knocked on the door to Draco’s flat and it opened on its own. He was already at the work table, with his back to her. For a brief moment she admired his form, the graceful movements of his wand and the lines of his back. Confident and comfortable.

“Granger,” he tossed over his shoulder, “I’m just finishing something. Come in.”

It was barely half five. He must have left in more of a hurry than she had to be brewing already. Clearly he was focused, and she didn’t want to disturb him. She hung her coat and scarf — it was his scarf, she should remember to take her own back later. As much as she wanted to see what he was working on she gave him space and perched on the sofa. Taking a book from her bag and opening to one of the pages she’d marked with a sticky note. Chewing on the end of her pen while she reviewed what she’d wanted to talk to him about. Sneaking little glances at him in between paragraphs. He was at home in front of a cauldron. Relaxed in a way he never was at the Ministry.

“You can come look if you want,” he said, smirking at her. She’d been staring and because she’d been lost in thought she didn’t realize she was staring and now she knew her face would be red because he knew that she was staring.

“Oh, sorry, just zoned out a bit.”

He smiled and nodded. “Last night I recreated the poison — or at least I’m 99% sure I did. Making it easier to start preparing an antidote. I took notes here, if you want to—”

She pulled the notebook from his hands, greedily looking over his crisp letters. He must have worked on his ideas throughout the night and at work. There were several versions of the poison and each of them had extensive explanations. Then there were pages of antidote recipes, all slightly different, with a few marked as the more promising ones.

“You did all of this? Since last night?”

“I started a few variants when I couldn’t sleep but I wanted to wait for your help before I started to work through them. I’ve just been recreating the poison one more time to see if it’s right. What do you think?”

Hermione looked at the vial she’d taken of the poison. Like ink. In the cauldron was an identical liquid. The viscosity was the same, the color was perfect.

“Have you compared them closely? For smell—”

“Yes.”

“And have you tried to mix the two to see if anything happens? In a controlled—”

“Yes, I’ve done that as well. They combine and nothing changes. As I said, I’m about 99% sure.”

It wasn’t surprising, how impressive his work was. She’d see him focused in this way just last night and however many days ago at Nott Manor, brewing an explosive potion as if it were a first year assignment.

“Right. Well, I’m not sure what you even need me for. I’m mostly decorative at this point,” she said and laughed. He looked at her carefully, studying.

Finally, he said, “Someone has to remind me of Golpalott’s Third Law while I roll my eyes.”

“You and I both know you can recite it from memory. I see you’ve already made your lists to ensure that the alchemical reactions are sound. What else can I do?”

“If you can start on the Wiggentree bark,” he levitated a large jar to her, “I need to essentially brew a draught of peace as a starting point.”

Hermione began to separate the bark into equal sections, chopping the larger pieces. “What’s your reasoning for that?”

Draco was already several steps into his draught of peace, moving as efficiently as Professor Snape did when he’d taught them how to make it in fifth year. “If you botch it, you end up with a potentially irreversible sleeping potion, much like Nott’s poison. In theory, a correctly brewed version can act as a suspension for ingredients that will counteract the other effects of the potion.”

His cauldron simmered and turned pink, and he added the syrup of hellebore. It turned the correct shade of turquoise.

“And you’re adding the Wiggentree bark for its properties against dark magic.”

Draco nodded, shaking powdered porcupine quills into the potion, which had turned purple, and would now need to turn red. It was a complicated brew, with a specific color order. She didn’t want to take his focus, so she just watched as he went through the steps. Tidying things once he was done with them. Reading through his notes, admiring the slope of his penmanship when he’d had an idea and rushed to write it down. Leaving imperfect smudges where his hand dragged across the page. So different from the perfect letters on the note he’d owled her. The one she kept in the pocket of her coat.

“Right,” he said, and reached for the hellebore again. “Once we’ve added the seven drops we’ll need to go in a specific order with the modifications.”

Hermione stood at the ready. “Just tell me what to do.”

He grinned, “Always wanted to boss around a know-it-all.”

She smacked his side and he laughed. “I am assisting you. I retain my autonomy.”

Draco added the drops of hellebore, the cauldron now set to a low temperature. “First the Wiggentree bark. Add one piece at a time, between my stirs.”

The pieces of bark made a small plop as she added them to the cauldron. Next he had her place an entire sprig of peppermint into the center, letting it sink to the bottom.

“For this batch I want to try adding dittany and a bezoar,” he said, using his wand to keep the antidote swirling.

“Both of them?” Hermione said, reaching for the small box of bezoars and the jar of dittany leaves. They’d been preserved for freshness. An expensive ingredient, as their shelf life was short and dried dittany produced weak results. Draco shredded the dittany leaves and sprinkled them into the brew. It turned the color of honey, and the added peppermint gave it a pleasant, medicinal smell that reminded her of Muggle medicines.

“I don’t expect us to solve this on the first go,” he said. “Might as well start with the most potent combination and experiment from there.”

It was practical, she knew, and she didn’t necessarily expect them to make the perfect antidote today or ever. The Ministry had a team working on an antidote too. This, well, this was mostly for her benefit — she’d wanted to give him something, a task that he’d not only enjoy but excel at. And she could be there to witness it.

For a few hours they worked, creating four different versions. Each had a slight change to the last, until Draco seemed satisfied with the base of the potion and at least some of the additives. There was something about the Wiggentree that he seemed particularly investing in making work with the antidote. The bezoar absorbed too much, making it fairly useless at the bottom of the cauldron. Too much dittany seemed to have the same problem.

They took a break to eat a meal that must have come from Tippy. It simply appeared on the counter when Draco offered her dinner. Hermione wondered if the elf had a hand in making his flat seem a bit more vibrant than it had two days ago, when they’d come here after leaving Nott Manor. They ate quickly, discussing the next steps and their theories, before returning to their task.

More brewing and reading. Chopping ingredients and grinding ingredients with a mortar and pestle. Observing him while he worked. Wanting to pull him away from the table to take a break. To kiss him until they were both breathless.

Eventually she began to grow tired, and after a lot of coaxing from Draco she agreed to just rest her eyes for a few minutes on his sofa.

“There’s not much left to do but wait,” he said. “I’ll keep an eye on everything.”

When she said he should rest, too, he’d blushed a little and kept working. He always said he didn’t sleep much. She watched him for a while, until her eyes grew heavy and she felt herself pulled into sleep.

                                                                                                   

---

 

Hermione woke when sunlight brushed her face. It was warm, and she was beneath a thin blanket. As her eyes blinked open she was greeted by dawn’s first light. Much earlier than she usually woke. She’d stretched across the sofa, which had been extended into a chaise lounge on one end, with Draco’s long legs across the cushions. Their heads just beside each other. He was deeply asleep, breaths even and silent through his nose. It was still early, and she needed to change for work. Before she left she draped the blanket over him.

The whole day at work she dug into more research, specifically into magical incantations. A few of her colleagues loaned her books and through careful reading she found a few potions-specific verses that imbued power and weakness based on magical blood. She wrote out half a dozen different incantations for them to try.

Harry replied to her note asking about the progress on an antidote with a disappointing Nothing yet but they’re working hard. I’ll know more by the end of the day. She ate a sandwich at her desk, sick of the small talk she’d been forced into for the last three days about her being gone for two months. As if it mattered to her that the Christmas party had been more grand than last year or that Celestina Warbeck had released an album of Muggle music. Idle gossip annoyed her on a good day and now she had the added annoyance of being the subject of the gossip yet again.

At five sharp she left her desk and took the lift to the atrium. Just as she stepped out she spotted a pale blond head and sped over to him.

“Hi,” she said, “sorry I left this morning I had to run home before work and didn’t want to wake you.”

Draco looked around them and back to her. Walking quicker. “Right, that’s fine.”

She kept pace with his long legs, heading for the green tile fireplaces. There was a short queue of people eager to leave work for the day.

“I did a lot of research and worked out a few incantations to try. The blood curses we encountered at the manor were actually useful starting points and then Edward — he’s a senior curse breaker — told me about this one translation,” she paused, noticing that Draco wasn’t engaging her in conversation. He kept his head angled slightly, almost hunched, away from her. “Are you listening to me?” She asked quietly.

He nodded. “Trying not to incur the wrath of half the Ministry, is all. Can’t let them think we’re together—talking together, I mean.”

She turned around, noticing just how many eyes and ears were on them or trying to appear as if they weren’t on them but were. And she realized she didn’t care. People talked about her regardless.

“Come on,” she said, linking her arm through his and dragging him into the open fireplace. A few faces watched but she just ignored it as they were spun up into the entrance. It was only when they were pressed together inside a bathroom stall that she remembered it was smarter to leave separately for practical reasons.

Draco maneuvered them so that they could exit, grey eyes sparkling with laughter she knew he kept to himself. She adjusted the strap of her bag and muttered a quick spell to transfigure her outer robes into a winter jacket.

Once they’d made it to Muggle London she finished her earlier monologue about her research while he listened and nodded, occasionally asking questions about parts of the incantations. The streets were crowded with people — leaving work and heading to pubs or running errands. When she was jostled by a particularly hurried man, Draco kept a steady hand at her back. Leading her down a quieter street. When he slipped his hand away she reached for it, lacing their fingers. Savoring the little squeeze from his thumb.

“Do you think we should compare the incantations first? Or work on the antidote first? How late were you up after I fell asleep?” She interrogated him as they walked, enjoying the way his lips quirked with each new question.

“I’ve told you many times not to worry about my sleeping habits, Granger. We can begin with the incantations. I’ve prepared a few variations on an antidote that we’ll want to test but only after I’m satisfied that we’ve recreated the poison.” He strolled along, speaking so casually that Hermione almost stopped moving to ask him if he knew what this kind of academic talk did to her.

Instead she asked, “You finished more than one version of an antidote?”

They turned down a narrow street that she recognized as his. It was lined with bare trees and some cars. A Muggle neighborhood, as required by his probation.

“Yes,” he replied, climbing the steps to the door of his building. She followed, wanting to ask a hundred more questions but held her tongue until they’d made it into his flat and he’d reset his wards. And then she began her next inquisition, while he patiently explained the versions he’d made and why.

“This one here,” he held a pale green potion, the color of dried eucalyptus, “used more knotgrass, assuming that part of the poison requires a tether.”

“Which one do you feel strongest about?”

Draco looked at them for a moment, drawing her eyes over the slightly different colors in their little vials. “This one,” he said, handing her a vial that was a touch darker in color, but still a similar tone of green. Like sage.

She turned it over in her hand, watching the shimmering liquid swim from one side to the other. “What about it makes you feel that way?”

When she glanced up he was looking at the work table, keeping his hands busy by organizing papers and moving jars into sections. “It sounds silly but…a feeling, I suppose. Something about the Wiggenweld Potion felt like a good place to start. And then using the different methods for the first few that I was happy with contributed to some of the ingredients and brewing methods.”

Hermione nodded and placed the vial back on the table. Magic was often intuitive, and his natural proclivity for potions would likely lead to those feelings of surety. “Makes sense to me. So what now?”

“Now we take a look at those incantations and attempt to infuse this,” he held up a larger vial of an inky black liquid, the poison replica, “and hope that it makes a perfect match with that.” He pointed to the small vial of poison she’d taken from what they retrieved from Nott Manor.

They spent an hour comparing the different incantations, with Draco providing some helpful historical information about pureblood rituals. Though he had the knowledge, he shared it in a clipped, clinical sort of way. As if speaking about it was as bothersome as explaining an injury to a doctor.

When they’d at last settled on an incantation, Draco emptied the vial of recreated poison into the cauldron. Gradually bringing it to a simmer. He made Hermione sit on the sofa behind a shield charm before even speaking the words. That was the compromise — he’d originally wanted her to leave the flat entirely and await an owl before coming back. They’d argued for at least a quarter of an hour.

He spoke softly, and between the wind outside and the flame crackling beneath the cauldron she could barely hear him. Probably for the best. She knew they were just words, and that he didn’t mean them beyond wanting to complete the poison. You had to mean it with magic and particularly with dark magic. But Hermione had theorized that Draco would mean it in the context of the brew, and that would be enough. He wanted to create the poison and the incantation would make it possible.

Having her in the room likely added to the stress she could see in his brow as he worked. But she wanted to be there for him when it was over. To tell him that she knew he didn’t believe the sentiment of the words, even if he’d meant them while he said them over a bubbling cauldron.

“It’s done,” he said. She leapt from the sofa and peered into the cauldron. It was black like ink, and fairly thin. Just like the small vial they’d taken.

Draco siphoned a small amount into a vial and then took a drop of the poison and the variant, comparing them using an aequāre charm. They swirled and clashed and knit together and made rivers in their containment. Until they settled as one. They were identical.

“And now we test it?” She asked, watching as the little raindrops of poison dissipated in their bubbles. They became vapor before disappearing entirely.

“Yes, there’s a way to simulate if an antidote will work. Something I read about in an old potion’s journal,” he said, nodding towards a small stack on the corner of the work table. “This morning I tested it myself using a few different minor poisons and their antidotes. It works quite well, so we’ll want to start that process now. It can take an hour to get the temperature and color right.”

“Okay, so what do we do first?”

“First, we take a break and eat something.”

“Draco, I don’t need a break. We can wait—”

“I heard your stomach just then, Granger, so your argument is invalid.”

He cleared the table, sending ingredients back to their spots along the back. Then he pulled a large container from the refrigerator and began to ladle soup into a pot on the hob.

A freshly baked bread appeared on the counter and he poured them glasses of a crisp white wine. There was a domesticity to it all that she rather liked. It felt normal to fix dinner together. She spent half the meal staring at the way his hair waved slightly from the humidity of brewing. She’d pulled her own back into a plait, away from her face until the curls began their inevitable escape. They talked about the journal he’d found the antidote experiments in. Arsenius Jigger, one of the same volumes that she’d read a little of in the study at Nott Manor while he recovered from the sculptures. It felt like only days or a lifetime ago. Realizing just how much she cared about him. How afraid she’d been to lose him before they’d even began. How much she wanted to begin.

Draco created four different testing stations. They’d use a drop of the recreated potion and a drop of each antidote, making notes on each before trying another. The first was a disaster, and he attributed it to the amount of dittany. The second was promising, but ultimately unsuccessful. But the third turned clear as water. Steam rose and curled into nothing. Leaving behind purity. They tested it ten times, using different amounts of poison and antidote. Each time they were left with pure water.

While Draco cleared the failed versions from their cauldrons and began to bottle the antidote Hermione reached for the poison from Nott Manor. It was a small amount, but their recreated version seemed to react to the antidote in as little as a single drop.

Draco waved his wand over the table, wiping it clean of little bits of dried knotgrass and crushed porcupine quills and all the other ingredients they’d tried over the last three days. “Tomorrow we can bring it to Robards and he’ll send it to the lab,” he said, polishing the front of the glass jar that now held the antidote. “We should get some rest. It’s late.”

Hermione shook her head. Fingers wrapped around the vial. “We need to test it on a Muggleborn to be sure it works. In a controlled environment. With a competent potions master who knows healing spells. We have all of that right here.”

His eyes snapped to her. “Granger, don’t you dare.”

But she’d already pulled out the stopper — a drop splashed onto her hand. She smeared it around, fascinated by how it spread. Spilled ink on parchment, ruining the corner of her transfiguration essay. At the bottom of her bag, staining the leather. And always spots on her hands and sometimes her face, from mindlessly holding her quill between her lips or writing so quickly the ink splashed. Too busy to notice.

“Granger what are you doing?” Draco said, and vanished the smeared potion from her hand. “There’s undiluted bobotuber puss in it, that can cause blistering on the skin. That’s fourth year shit, you know that! You can’t just touch a poison.” There was a determination to his brow, casting diagnostic spells and murmuring healing spells that she didn’t need. Cleaning her hands and holding them in his own, inspecting them.

“Draco, you’re being ridiculous. My skin is fine.”

While he continued fussing over her hand she took a drop of the poison and put it on her tongue.

Notes:

Once again, the magnificent Inky_Pens has provided her Latin expertise to help me sound smarter.

Chapter 22

When he dreamed of his father it was often behind a chess board. Looming over the black and white tiles. The marble pieces carved with a delicate hand. The detail of the knight’s horse, with its angry snout. Even when the pieces were at rest it looked ready to charge. In his dreams it was rabid, and his father snarled.

Theo always hated chess. It was another way for his father to belittle him. To beat him at the game and deliver punishment for not trying hard enough to win. But he stopped playing to win years before his father stopped asking him to play.

Yet even now, as a grown man who hadn’t seen his father in nearly five years, Theo could picture his pale face above the board in his dream. This time it was on the drive in front of the Manor. Set up at an iron table. Waiting. While Theo stood outside the gate, desperate to get in.

He was used to waking with sweat on his brow, tangled in his crisp silk sheets.

For a week it had been just Theo, waiting to hear that Draco and Hermione had gotten through the house. He did his usual bits of nothing, practicing different theories on his wards and reading. Quit smoking with the help of a potion he ordered from an owl service. He wished he’d thought to ask Draco for access to his flat, so that he could watch television. If he had any idea where to buy one of his own or get it to operate in his own flat, he would have. But mixing Muggle with magical required help from the Ministry. Electricity and all that. And Theo avoided the Ministry. Having his kitchen appliances installed was nightmare enough. The Weasley patriarch marveling over his collection of Muggle cooking implements was enough.

Without his friend to join him he didn’t feel safe going to pubs, even the Scroll & Raven. So he’d stayed in. Waiting.

There was a sharp knock at the door, and he knew it wasn’t Draco because he rarely knocked. Padding across the floor and down the stairs he unlocked the door and opened it to reveal Harry Potter, dressed in Auror robes. Hair a mess as usual and robes wrinkled. He scrunched his nose. An inspection on a Friday afternoon. Lucky for Theo.

“Can I help you, Potter?”

“I want to talk about your house,” he said. Theo almost laughed at how to the point the fucker was. Not even a hello.

“Well, as you can see from the front door it’s actually a townhouse, and the main layout extends above us. I worked with a very skilled contractor. Beautiful hardwood floors, vaulted ceilings in the bedroom, lovely skylight. I’m thinking of a wine cellar—”

“I meant your father’s house. The manor.” And he managed to get Theo to invite him inside within two minutes. All while he went over the layout, what things he suspected might be inside. Again. Potter had been there for the initial inquisition so it was all beyond repetitive. No, he hadn’t heard from his stepmother. The last he knew, Antoinette Blanc had fled for the continent during the war. It wasn’t as if they exchanged owls — they barely spoke his whole life. Though Potter didn’t request that Theo draw a map he did anyway, for the practice. He’d started to draw more, after creating the map for Draco and Hermione. It was calming for him, to sketch little landscapes. Potter had thanked Theo for his time and left after an hour.

Two days later he came back, wanting to talk about the wards. What sort of ancestral magic was in place and how one might work around it. Theo told him what he knew and what he could assume from his own tinkering with warding magic. And they’d discussed work-related things until Potter was off the clock and awkwardly accepting a drink. Telling Theo about his inevitable breakup with the female Weasley. It was quite the visual, Weasley and Chang, and sixteen-year-old Theo would have cheered. But Potter had seemed sad, so instead Theo told him about the summer he spent pining after both Blaise and Pansy only to be soundly rejected by both — Pansy because she wasn’t over Draco, Blaise because he was actively trying to sleep with Daphne Greengrass. It worked out for one of them, at least.

Theo learned that Potter’s childhood was grim, too. Sleeping in a cupboard with only spiders for company. He confided some of the more mild moments of his life with the most famous wizard in the country — the abusive father and blah blah blah. Until they’d drifted closer together and Theo felt his heart beat faster, looking at the way Harry’s black hair fell over his eyes. The contrast between the bright emerald green and the dark hair and fair skin. He left before midnight.

A day later he came back a third time, presumably to talk more about the wards or the house but Theo instead offered copious amounts of firewhisky and listened while the Chosen One lamented the state of his life. How he’d thought that he wanted to continue to protect the world but his job as an auror was draining and left him feeling empty. He missed teaching others and being social without the visage of the savior tainting his interactions.

“Are you not over Ginny, then?” Theo asked.

“No, I am. I just had to mourn the loss of something I’d always wanted.”

Theo waited for him to elaborate. It took him a few minutes to articulate his thoughts.

“The Weasleys will always be like family to me but had I been with Ginny forever— I’d be less of an outsider, I guess.” Potter knocked back the rest of his drink with a grimace. “Less the orphan.”

“And did you want to be with her forever?”

“No. No, I don’t think I did. We were what the other needed at the time.”

And somehow that led to Theo offering a comforting pat on the shoulder which turned into heated snogging followed by clumsy yet passionate sex on his expensive sofa. Said Chosen One left his flat without so much as a goodbye and Theo drank himself into a stupor.

But every few days he showed up and wanted to talk, and Theo listened. Turns out being the Chosen One was quite stressful, especially when he didn’t actually enjoy his job. And so Theo had spent weeks seeing Harry Potter on a regular basis. Though seeing someone implied seeing them in public and what they had was an illicit affair at best and a dozen or so sometimes drunken trysts at worst. Always at Theo’s. Always through the floo, not the front door. Always later in the evening. And never staying the night, though there was one night it almost happened, before Theo’s owl arrived and woke up the green-eyed bastard.

When a month had passed and the Golden Girl and Slytherin Prince hadn’t returned, Auror Potter (as Theo took to thinking of him whenever he showed up during the day) requested Theo accompany him to Azkaban to talk to Nott, Sr.

“I’ve no interest in seeing my father,” he said, and crossed his arms. If he just held tightly, he’d stay together. He’d just need to breathe and hold firm.

“I wouldn’t ask if—”

“Why do you want me to go with you? Why not one of your aurors?”

“Because I think he will be more amenable to my questions if his son is there,” Harry said.

Theo laughed. “If you’re hoping that subtle threats to my well-being will sway him, you’re barking. He’d wring my neck himself if he had the chance.”

“I’m hoping to appeal to what little compassion he might have left. Years in Azkaban changes people, maybe it’s changed him.”

Theo closed his eyes and breathed in through his nose, counting. For the last two years he saw a therapist once a week. Louise Anderson was a healer who’d also completed Muggle schooling, though she mainly worked with wizarding patients. Breathing was one of the first things she taught him. Apparently he’d been doing that wrong.

The last time he’d seen his father was the day he left the manor for good. The ancestral magic ensured that, once he’d turned seventeen, his inheritance was transferred to its own vault at Gringott’s. And his father hadn’t even stood from his desk when Theo went to say goodbye.

“Been trying to be rid of you from the moment you were born,” he’d said, flourishing his quill. “Took long enough.”

And that had been that. He was nothing. And he didn’t want to be nothing anymore. So he’d left and started new, from the floors to the skylight.

Theo released another breath and opened his eyes. Content to leave it all in the cobwebs where childhood memories were supposed to live. Where he would have more things to remember, if only he weren’t overcoming a lifetime of trauma and lost memories are normal for those with your experiences.

“He can’t—he won’t—” Potter stammered, “I won’t let him hurt you, Theo.”

It was barely two in the afternoon but Theo poured a glass of whiskey and knocked half of it back. Tapping his fingers across the bar. One, two, three, four.

“What do you expect to get out of him now that you weren’t able to when he was first arrested? Or at either of his appeals?”

Harry leaned against the counter beside him, arms crossed. Assessing Theo — for what, he wasn’t sure. “I’m hopeful that he’ll have remembered more details this time. And maybe he’ll feel some remorse, considering he knows Malfoy—”

“Unlikely,” Theo said with a scoff. “Lucius and my father had a strange…not exactly friendship. It was more a friendly rivalry. Each working to best the other to curry favor with the Dark Lord. I don’t think he’ll give a bludger’s beating fuck that it’s Draco trapped there. Probably overjoyed at the thought.”

“Then we’ll just have to hope he’s in a chatty mood,” Harry said. And he wrapped an arm around Theo’s waist, squeezing his side. “If you want to leave at any point, we’ll leave. Okay?”

Theo nodded and pulled Harry into a real hug, the kind he’d rarely given or received. Tucking his head into the crook of his neck. I won’t let him hurt you.

  

---

                                                                                                 

Azkaban was cold, damp, and dark. Three things Theo hated. They’d taken a special portkey from the Ministry directly to the visitors chambers at the prison where Theo had to surrender his wand and submit to a search for potions and other items. He’d emptied his pockets and left his Muggle wristwatch, too.

Potter was quiet until they reached the lift. They didn’t need an escort, since he was, well, him.

“You don’t have to talk, if you don’t want to,” he said. He’d worn his Auror robes today, and they could have used a pressing charm yet somehow it was endearing. Theo was fucked.

“And you don’t have to play protector, I’ll manage.”

“If you want to leave—”

“I don’t.”

Potter sighed. “I meant if at any point it’s too much or you’re just done, give me a nod or something. No questions asked, we’ll go. Alright?”

The lift doors opened to cell block 9B. It was a narrow, grey hall of stone. Moisture leeching from the walls and collecting in little puddles on the floor. There were no dementors inside the walls anymore, a new bit of legislation kept them contained to a dungeon-level space. They were only brought out for the rare kiss. But the walls and floors of Azkaban remembered their presence. Theo felt as though he might never feel happiness again just by stepping over the threshold of the lift.

All along the hall were grey metal doors. Heavily warded. Potter didn’t say how many of the cells were occupied. He just quietly guided them to a door whose number Theo hadn’t managed to catch before he’d pressed his hand on the metal and it opened.

The cell had been separated into two parts, with bars to keep the occupant at bay. And there, sitting on a cot in a thin, grey uniform was Theodore Nott, Sr. Thinner than he’d ever been, with his hair cropped close to the scalp. The mustache he’d had throughout Theo’s youth was gone. And behind it was age mottled skin the color of old milk. His pale blue eyes watery. Eyebrows thick as ever, but more white than blonde.

“My only son, come for a visit after all these years?” His voice was ragged, like he hadn’t spoken in weeks or maybe months.

“Mr. Nott,” Potter said as the door closed behind them.

“Gracing me with your presence once again, Potter?”

The cell was cold. The cot was in the corner, flush with the wall. In the opposite corner there was a toilet and sink. There was no mirror. There were no windows. Everything was the same grey metal. Theo could feel his magic retreating — coiling around his soul, away from the room. The walls and floor had been spelled to suppress magic, he knew, but feeling it was another thing entirely.

“Mr. Nott—”

“If you aren’t going to extend the courtesy of my Lordship title then I think Theodore will suffice.”

Theo hated him.

Potter clenched his jaw. “Mr. Nott,” he said again, and Theo almost smiled at the insolence, “a team has been sent to your manor to retrieve the potion you so conveniently obliviated from your memory.”

His father chuckled. “What can I say, I’m a practical man.”

“This team was able to enter the gates and we have been unable to contact them since. Patronuses cannot breach the wards and though we’ve sent Aurors to the property, it is as if the house doesn’t exist.”

Theo stared hard at the floor in front of his father’s bare, filthy feet.

“Then it is doing its job,” his father said.

“What manner of protections are there inside of the house and how might we breach the wards to assist them?” Potter’s directness helped, Theo thought. No one was direct with Theodore Nott, Sr.

“Oh, this and that. Some curses. A few enchantments. I’m afraid others lived in my home for a few years. I can’t speak to any experimentation that may have happened at that time.”

“And what about the outer gate?”

“Pureblood is the only blood allowed to cross the property line. Your mudblood mother makes you unwelcome.”

“Don’t say that word,” Theo said, hoping his voice didn’t waver.

And his father laughed. If the coughing fit he submitted to counted as laughter. “I’ll speak how I wish, boy, and you’ll listen. Can’t even meet my eye after all these years and you have the gall to tell me what language I’m allowed?”

Theo raised his head and faced his father. They looked nothing alike, and had the magic not instinctively known him as the heir Theo was sure his father would have accused his mother of adultery. There was nothing of his features in the hateful face across from him. He was not his father’s son.

“Seeing as you’re the one behind bars for life and I’m able to walk out of this building, I will do as I wish, Father.” He said softly.

“Mr. Nott,” Potter said, taking his father’s gaze from him, “Draco Malfoy represents the Auror Department in the search and seizure of Nott Manor.”

“Draco is there?” His father said, and gave him a cruel smile. “He always was a bright boy. Perhaps he’ll manage. And if not, well, do tell Lucius I’m sorry. He’s somewhere in this wretched place, perhaps you’ll visit him next. I’d love to see the look on his face when he finds out his son works with the Ministry.”

Theo wanted to rage at him, to ask the hundreds of questions he’d never get the answer to about his mother. Instead he settled for bruising his father’s ego. “He’s there with someone even smarter,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve heard of Hermione Granger. Muggleborn witch who helped vanquish your Dark Lord. Between the two of them whatever you left in that house won’t stand a chance.”

“Theodore, you talk as if a mudblood could even enter the gates.”

“She could with my blood on her person,” he replied, voice quiet. “Willingly given.”

His father chewed his cheek while his brain lit the fuse. Theo was used to this. The explosion. If there hadn’t been a veritable wealth of magical protections between them he would have flinched. Because as expected his father launched himself from his seat, reaching for Theo’s throat or maybe to just deck him. An invisible wall behind the bars rebounded the scrawny prisoner. He stumbled and fell.

“You filthy blood traitor! And you,” he scrambled and turned to Potter, who looked ready to raise his own fists, “you should have stayed dead. Take my son with you next time.”

Theo breathed, in and out. Blinking at his father. The man who’d never shown him warmth or comfort. Who’d never asked him about school or taken any interest in him. And he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Mr. Nott, you’re intimately familiar with veritaserum at this point,” Potter said, his voice low and colder than Theo thought him capable of. “The Ministry has laws about how many times it can be administered, who can be there for questioning, and all manner of things to ensure it is used ethically.”

His father didn’t speak, didn’t so much as flinch.

“You’ve been questioned under veritaserum as many times as the law allows, I’m sure you know. Your solicitor would have informed you.”

Theo didn’t know that, but he’d guessed as much. Even Draco had been questioned under truth serum before his trial. Theo briefly thought about how much easier things would be for the detectives on his favorite Muggle television show if they’d had a vial.

“If you aren’t going to speak you can at least nod and acknowledge that you understand what I’m saying,” Potter continued. “Do you understand?”

Theo’s father scoffed and crossed his arms. The word was a hiss. “Yes.”

“Good. Because the next time I come here it will be with another vial, and written permission from the Minister himself.”

“As if I care,” his father said, dripping with derision. “I don’t know who’s distributing my poison or how. You can search my memories all you want. I have nothing else to offer your precious Ministry.”

“Perhaps not, but I have a bit of a free pass to do what I like with Death Eaters who don’t cooperate. If you have nothing else to contribute to our investigation of your home, you’ll have the pleasure of seeing me again without your son.”

“Potter, your ideals are misplaced. I won’t have anything else to say whether my disappointment of an heir is present or not.”

“Oh, I know that,” Potter said, oddly light. “I just wanted to prepare you for the day I don’t have to maintain a level of professionalism around you for Theo’s sake. Being, well, me, has plenty of advantages. Perhaps next time a dementor will accompany me and my patronus. The one I cast just by thinking of my mudblood mother. And then we’ll see just what you have to say.”

And with that, he turned, nudging Theo ahead of him, and they left the cell block.

As they were leaving, alone in the lift that would take them to the travel antechamber, Theo wondered if Potter would speak. Or at the very least reach for his hand, give it a reassuring squeeze like he’d seen couples do. But they weren’t a couple. And he didn’t do either. They left via portkey, and only once they were in Theo’s living room did he say, “I’m sorry, Theo.”

The anger and hate and sadness he’d kept inside came to the surface, gasping for air. Theo broke his entire shelf of glassware, screaming. Until Harry held him, murmuring words Theo couldn’t hear but sounded nice. He had a nice voice and his arms were strong enough to hold Theo up.

                                                                                                    

---

 

After Azkaban Harry’s visits became more frequent. Nearly every night he showed up at Theo’s flat and they grew closer. Talking deep into the darkest hours. He stayed the night for the first time two days later. Then again. Until every night Theo slept beside the warm, comforting presence of Harry Potter.

Sometimes he left before Theo woke. Others he stayed and they had breakfast and read the Prophet together, swapping sections over cups of tea. Harry sweetened his with far too much sugar. It made sense to Theo, that he took it that way. After a childhood going without.

It was just after the new year, and they’d developed an almost domestic routine in which Harry would arrive via floo just after seven for dinner and whatever else he let Theo have that day. Sometimes it was conversation. Others it was the magical distraction of sex. Sometimes it was both. That evening it had been both, and earlier than usual, so they’d had a nightcap and read side by side in Theo’s grand, modern, Muggle-made bed.

“When we saw your father you said something about your blood and Hermione,” Harry said. It was late, and they’d both set their wands on their respective bedside tables. Along with Potter’s glasses.

“Yes and he loved that I did that, you heard his response to that bit of information.”

“What did you mean?”

“What did I mean what?”

“Theo.”

“Harry.”

“You said she could enter the gates,” Harry said.

Theo looked at him and fluffed his pillow. “Yes there’s additional protections to the wards for those with non-magical blood. I told you this.”

“So if, for example, a half-blood were to attempt to enter—”

“No,” Theo snapped. “Whatever you’re thinking, don’t.”

“It’s been almost two months I can’t just leave her there.”

“My friend is in there too, Potter. Maybe his safety doesn’t matter to you or the Ministry but it does to me. Just because we weren’t on the same side doesn’t make us disposable.”

Harry tensed then softened. “Theo,” he said, and reached a hand around his neck, pulling him foreward to rest Theo’s head against his own. “You’re not disposable. Not to me. You have to know that.”

Theo let him kiss along his jaw for a moment, lost in the way it felt.

“You are infuriating, do you know that?”

“Not sure I’ve heard that particular word before but I suppose it applies.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t be cute right now,” Theo groaned and turned away before he got distracted. “You think you’re all those fucking Gryffindor things — brave and courageous and whatever.” He held up a hand, “No, don’t interrupt let me monologue, I’m quite good at it. You’re stubborn and you act first, think later. Your loyalty, while attractive, is often misplaced. You need someone to tell you when you’re being a bloody idiot and I’m guessing that was just one of the many things Hermione did for you over the years. What makes you think that you’ll be able to do what she can’t?”

“That’s why we’re going tomorrow to try to help—”

“Tomorrow?” Theo’s vision blurred. “You’re making this foolish attempt tomorrow?”

“If there’s some way that you can help me get in…Theo, I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate. None of my patronuses have been answered. None of the aurors we’ve sent to scout the area have found anything but an impenetrable gate. It’s like the house doesn’t even exist beyond it.”

Theo pressed his hands against his eyes, picturing Draco and Hermione trapped somewhere in his former house. Were they in pain? And would it be his fault if they couldn’t get out? All because his stupid not-boyfriend had to be practical about how long it had been.

“Why did you have to bring this up now, the night before?” He asked from behind his hands, the words slightly muffled. “As if I don’t have enough nightmares about that fucking place and now you want to waltz in all Chosen One ready to die? You are not disposable either. Not to me.”

“She’s my best friend, Theo. I have to at least try. If it were me, she wouldn’t hesitate. She’d have gone immediately and I— well, I’ve hesitated. I can’t wait anymore. I have to try myself, just like she would.”

“And if you get through the gate then what,” Theo said, lowering his hands to face him. The blankness of his features. The way his eyes squinted in the dark, without his glasses.

“Then we search the house—”

“It won’t want you to search, don’t you get that? You’ll be sucked into the walls or trapped in a maze forever.” And I’ll be all alone, he thought.

“Hermione left me a copy of all of her research about the wards,” Harry said quietly. “I’m not asking for permission I’m asking for your help.”

Theo looked away. His stomach lead. The air he’d worked to breathe in was thick, and settled at the top of his chest. Needing quicker inhales while his heartbeat sputtered. An anxiety attack, his therapist had explained. Breathe in for a count of four, out for six.

“We can talk more in the morning, if you want.” Harry rubbed circles on his back.

In one, two, three, four. I have to try. Had anyone tried for him? Would anyone?

Out one, two, three, four, five, six. If it were me, she wouldn’t hesitate.

In one, two, three, four. She’s my best friend.

Out one, two, three, four, five, six. You’re not disposable. Not to me.

“You’ll need my blood for the gate. And I’m going with you.”

 

---

                                                                                                    

It looked the same, from the outside. Untouched by time. The gate was the same. The drive down the front garden undisturbed. The topiary trees and statues just as he remembered them.

The last time he’d been here had been just after his father went to Azkaban. He’d tried to go in his mother’s rooms but they remained sealed, and try as he might he couldn’t break the wards his father had placed there after she died. After Theo had caused her death, with his birth. All he had of her was a small, Muggle photograph that one of her school friends had sent to him when he was twelve.

He’d been alone, that last time, and now he had Potter, Head Auror Robards, Auror Dawlish, one of the Senior Cursebreakers, and an Unspeakable. They all deferred to him, which was laughable. He was no one. Potter maintained a level of cool professionalism that Theo resented. Here he was Potter. In private he was different; he was Harry. Before they’d left his flat this morning — separately, of course — they’d had a moment he thought meant more than it perhaps did. When Harry’d reached up to move his hair off his face and cup his cheek before he kissed him slowly.

Theo had handed him a small vial of his blood, clasping his hand over it. And now the Boy Who Lived to Fuck Theo Up had it in his pocket, while keeping his wand aimed at the gates of the house Theo had spent his whole life trying to escape.

“Hello, Guardian,” he said to the little metal dragon. They had a fairly amicable relationship. As amicable a relationship as one could have with a sentient dragon gatekeeper.

“Master Theo, home once again,” it said. “I’m afraid you cannot enter.”

The crowd behind him tittered, and he swallowed. “We have to, though. There are two friends inside who need our assistance.”

The dragon stretched, arching its back like a cat. He’d always thought the creature feline, and after watching a Muggle program that featured a striped purple cat fond of riddles he couldn’t help but think they were related. Though the cat was more along the jovial end of mischievous and the Guardian more stern. “Yes they have proven to be well-mannered guests, your friends.”

“Do you know if they’re alright?” He asked. Occasionally, in paintings and tapestries, Theo would see the purple eyed Hebridean black watching him. It never spoke — only the gatekeeper spoke, but he’d long wondered if it kept quiet because it liked to observe.

“Both remain well, if that is your question. They cannot leave without finishing the Lord’s task. And I’m afraid none can enter until then either. Even you, Master Theo.”

“Nott,” Potter called. Theo turned, hating the sound of his surname, and rejoined the group, where everyone looked dour and about ready to bombarda the gate and kill them all, due to the reflective enchantments in the wards.

“I tried to tell you before,” he started, as calm as he could manage, breathing in the slow pattern he practiced. “The magic of the Manor is old, it’s in the very earth. It will not let any of us in.”

“What if the others leave, and it’s just you and me? You’re the heir doesn’t that mean anything?”

Theo wanted to roll his eyes. It counted for dick. “If the Guardian says we cannot enter, then we cannot enter. No spell or ward dismantling will open them.”

“I still want to try,” Potter said, determination behind his glasses. The same round style he’d always worn. If they’d been alone, Theo would have made a comment about how a newer frame style would suit him. Would help him grow up and away from the image the world had of him. The boy with the scar like lightning, round glasses, and messy hair, here to save us all. Grown into a man who couldn’t bear the weight they placed on his shoulders for much longer. Theo wondered if he carried his name like its own burden. If Theo Nazari would carry himself differently. If his mother would be proud in all the ways his father wasn’t.

Theo sighed. “Fine. If they’ll leave us alone, we can try again. But no promises, Potter. This is ancient magic. Even your Unspeakable won’t have encountered it before.”

Potter went to his colleagues and had a rapid conversation with Auror Robards while Theo stared at the house. His bedroom was just there. The grove of trees to the side still green, kept vibrant by the magic despite the January chill. He’d learned to fly a broom beside them. One summer, when Draco and his father visited. He’d never been on one before and Draco was gleeful about his new broom. Theo couldn’t remember what model it was, but after sheepishly admitting he’d never flown before Draco patiently taught him the basics. It was the first time in his young life that he realized he could leave someday.

“Theo?”

He turned at the sound, and saw that it was just Harry. They’d all left while he was busy in memories.

“Let’s just get this over with,” he said, stepping to the gate. The Guardian was still, and Theo cleared his throat. “Guardian.”

Its eyes opened, blinking in the sun. “Yes?” It said, its tone not one that Theo appreciated.

“Please open the gate. The others have gone and it is my ancestral right to enter this home.”

Theo had hoped authority would help him here. Instead the Guardian chuckled. “It was a valiant effort, Master Theo, and most appreciated. But I’m afraid even you cannot enter. You could send away your partner and still I would not be able to open my gate for you.”

Harry bristled beside him, whether it was at the term partner or at the firmness of the statement, Theo couldn’t be sure.

“Can you at least tell us of Draco and Hermione?” Theo tried. “Are they…close? To solving things?”

The Guardian curled around the handles of the gate, its tail writhing against the metal. “Oh, yes. They’re quite close. I expect they will succeed. Much like you and your partner, they make a suitable match.”

Theo glanced at Harry, who was glancing at him. “Is there anything else you can tell us?”

“Patience, Master Theo, is indeed a virtue.”

 

---

                                                                                                   

Draco and Hermione returned a week later. Harry sent Theo a patronus to inform him. The great, glowing stag burst into his bathroom while he was luxuriating in a bath so hot he might as well have been becoming a broth. He knew that Draco would want time to decompress after the mission, so he refrained from owling him. Until Hermione Granger showed up at his door with a sentimental heirloom and a clear need to dish. Theo had hoped she would provide more colorful details than she did. Seeing her flustered about Draco was promising, but he couldn’t help but wonder if she, like her best most heroic friend, had a tendency to keep things hidden. So he’d meddled, just a touch. And he’d liked the result.

His first owl to Draco went rudely unanswered, and when his friend sent a benign owl to him midday from his office, Theo responded in kind. It wasn’t until later that evening that he went to his flat with two bottles of Ogden’s reserved label. It cost a gilded galleon, but Theo thought his friend had earned it.

When he’d entered the flat it smelled like a potions laboratory mixed with…he didn’t know what. He’d received an Acceptable on his potions exams.

“Mate, I realize you were gone for two months but it absolutely reeks in here,” Theo said, placing the bottles on the kitchen counter. Draco faced away from him, busy brewing something foul.

He turned and grinned. “I think I’ve done it,” he said, “Or at least, I’m on the way to having done it. We’ll see in about an hour. I think it needs to simmer a bit longer until the Granian Hair disolves.”

“Yes, yes,” Theo said, waving his hand, “You’re a brilliant potioneer and witches and wizards alike swoon in your presence.”

Draco rolled his eyes and crossed the room to clasp his hand, pulling him into a pseudo embrace.

“Missed you, too,” Theo said, patting his back.

“What’s happened since I was away?” He asked, and Theo knew him well enough to know that he wanted to know about Hermione’s visit. Theo kept her privacy, and only told him the basics. That she was more than just the Brightest Witch of their age. And that Theo liked her.

After a few glasses he said, “I have perhaps gotten myself into a bit of a situation.”

Draco laughed and refilled his glass. “Worse than mine? Is that even possible?”

Theo contemplated for a moment, knocked back the liquor, and said, “Yes. Perhaps.”

“And do you wish to divulge any further information at this time?”

“Unlike you it wasn’t years of pining—”

“I didn’t pine for years—”

“You’re not at all subtle and yes, you pined. Pansy always asked me what I thought about Hermione and it finally made sense in fourth year when you drooled over her at the Yule Ball.”

Draco’s ears turned red and he busied himself with his drink. Confirmation at last, Theo thought with a smile.

“Anyway, back to me, for a change,” he said, draining the last bit from the bottom of the bottle. “There was no pining it was sort of like being hit by the Hogwarts Express. Full speed, no brakes. Just absolutely clobbered.”

“I know the feeling,” Draco said, and he ran his fingers over his lips before blinking hard and finishing another drink. He wandered over to his brew, casting various stasis charms over the cauldrons. Siphoning some of the liquid into vials. Vanishing others.

“What are you working on?” Theo asked, hoping a change of subject would help him focus on what kind of advice he actually was looking for from his oldest friend.

“Right now, recreating the poison your bastard father created. I think I’ve got it, actually, but will check for sure tomorrow once the firewhisky has left my system. And then Granger and I will begin work on an antidote.”

“She was here?” Theo asked, looking from side to side as if he’d see the ghost of the Golden Girl in the walls.

“Yes, we were working on it together,” Draco said, voice quiet, running a hand over the table and lingering over his notes.

“And she’ll be back tomorrow?”

He nodded, smoothing his hand over his face. “That’s the plan. She left to go see Potter.”

Theo swallowed. “They’re good friends still.”

“I know. I just…”

“Just what?”

Draco sighed and threw himself onto the sofa in a very un-Draco way. “I wonder if she’ll tell him that we—”

“Shagged?” Theo guessed.

“Don’t be crass, you’re too rich for that. I don’t know what she’ll tell him.”

“If you want to be part of her life, maybe all you have to do is ask,” Theo said, and when the words left his lips he realized that perhaps he needed his own bloody advice.

                                                                                                    

---

 

A few nights later he and Harry were talking about one of the Auror’s minor cases, and Theo gave more insight about ward magic. Throughout dinner they laughed about how Cormac McLaggen had completely bungled one of their scouting missions, tripping arse over tit. Even though he hadn’t been there, Theo enjoyed the image of the git toppling over. He was always leering at Pansy in a way Theo knew wouldn’t end well, if the witch had any interest in him.

They finished the washing up and played a few rounds of exploding snap. It was late and they were about to go to sleep. Harry turned on his side, facing Theo with his hands beneath his face. Theo learned this meant he wanted to talk about something serious, and that it was not the time to try to initiate foreplay. So he mirrored his pose and asked what was the matter, hoping that he wasn’t about to be broken up with by his not-boyfriend.

“You know Malfoy well,” he said, and he already knew the answer, as they’d discussed him at length. Theo just nodded, waiting for the real question. “Well, what do you make of it? Him and Hermione? It’s—that’s a thing, isn’t it?”

“I can’t really speak to her as closely,” Theo said, “but even if he didn’t realize it Draco always fancied her. A year ago he drunkenly told me that he dreamed about her and what I thought that might mean.”

Harry inched closer and tangled their legs. Now they were getting somewhere. “Hermione always had a soft spot for him. In sixth year I was a bit…obsessive about what was going on with him—”

“Wouldn’t have thought him your type.”

“Theo.”

“Harry.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I had this feeling that he was a Death Eater and I was right but Hermione thought he seemed like he needed help. Sometimes I feel guilty for not going to Dumbledore.”

Theo brushed some of the mess of hair from Harry’s forehead. “You were right to be suspicious, clearly. And if anyone should have tried to help it should have been me.”

They looked at each other for a long time before Harry spoke again. “He’s good at his job. Would be even better, if they actually let him do things outside of paper pushing. Hermione talked me into recommending him for the position. She was always asking if I invited him out for drinks with everyone but he always left without saying anything. Keeps to himself.”

“He’s the son of the Dark Lord’s General and bears the Dark Mark himself. Even I get howlers once a week and I wasn’t involved in the war, just had the misfortune of sharing a name. I don’t think you realize what it’s like for those of us who weren’t on your side.”

“I know. I know that. It can’t be easy, for either of you.”

“What do you want me to say here, Harry?”

“Nothing, I just…I guess I’ll have to believe it when I see it.”

“See what?”

“That he cares about her, I guess. With Hermione I know because I know her, it’s obvious. And I just want whoever she’s with to match her. She doesn’t do things by halves.” Harry pulled his glasses off and placed them on the night stand. The shift in position gave Theo the chance to snake his arm around his waist and pull him close. Their fingers lacing.

“I think he’s protective over the things he cherishes,” Theo said, nuzzling into Harry’s neck. “But he’d do anything she asked of him.”

It was quiet except for their breathing.

“Did you love her? Ginny, I mean,” Theo asked.

“Of course.”

“What’s it like?”

Harry twisted in his arms to face him once more. His brow furrowed. “To love someone?” Theo nodded. “I think there’s different kinds of love. What I had with Ginny is different from how I love my friends or how I love my parents, even though I never met them. I don’t know that we love people in the same way every time.”

Theo cared about his friends, and perhaps he loved them. He knew he loved his mother, at least instinctively. But to love and to be loved was blurry.

“Next you’ll say something about how love is easy and when you know you know or whatever, won’t you?”

“No,” Harry said quietly. “Sometimes I think you get so lost in it that you don’t realize when it happens. It’s there before you even see it. And one day you happen to look.”

Notes:

A lot can happen in two months.

Endless love and thanks to iconicnovel for the encouragement to include Theo's story.

Chapter 23 picks up quite literally where we left off 🖤

Chapter 23

Time slowed as he watched the drop of poison melt into her tongue. Her rosebud mouth pursed. Eyes blinking shut.

Hermione grimaced and gave him a wan smile. “It’s surprisingly warm. Like tea that’s sat for a minute. Pretty ingenious that it has no real taste, though I suppose all the clever poisons do. It’s a miracle they even knew to suspect a poison when the first few patients were admitted. I wonder how long it will take—”

He caught her as she swooned, passing out into his arms.

“Fuck’s sake,” he whispered, the panic hammering in his chest. With one arm under her back he leaned her against his body and tipped open her mouth, giving her three drops of the antidote, just in case. It didn’t work immediately, but that wasn’t unusual, and he shifted her so that he could carry her to the sofa. She appeared to be sleeping. The magical coma that Robards told them about instantly taking effect. No breath escaped her nose but the diagnostic spell he cast showed that she was breathing, her heart still beating, however slowly. Sometimes antidotes took a little while to take effect. That was all. It wasn’t unusual. He sat at the edge of the seat, brushing her hair from her forehead.

“Come on then,” he said, ghosting over her cheeks, no longer pink with a blush at his voice or his touch. A paleness there that he didn’t like. It was too similar to the blood-drained faces in his nightmares. “Wake up now. Granger, you have to wake up.”

Every minute was a torment. It was so much worse than being separated from her in the library. He could see her and he could touch her and yet she wasn’t there. Wasn’t rolling her eyes at his worries or telling him just how easy it was, that they’d done it. Because they hadn’t done it.

Something was wrong.

After ten minutes he began to feel desperate. He gave her a full tablespoon of the antidote, despite their tests proving that only a drop was needed for up to a vial’s worth of poison. She’d only tasted a drop. Another ten minutes passed and she remained still.

The air left his lungs and behind his eyes he felt pricking pain, so similar to the pain of his aunt’s legilimency, slicing through his thoughts and memories and feelings. Until she could warp them into something that benefitted her. Something she could use to hurt him. Only now he’d done it to himself. He took another breath.

“Tippy,” he called, voice shaken. The elf appeared immediately.

“Master Draco sounds—”

“Tippy I need you to watch over Miss Granger. She’s—she’ll be alright I just need—I have to go but I’ll be back very soon.” He spoke quickly, keeping his eyes on Hermione’s face. It was serene, somehow, like she was having a restful sleep. But he didn’t know if she felt pain. If the poison was leeching her magic away already, like the longterm patients at St. Mungo’s from a few months before, when the Ministry had first discovered the poison.

“Tippy will take very good care of Miss Granger,” she said, tiptoeing closer. “Master Draco will need to let go of her so that Tippy may help.”

He hadn’t even realized he was holding her hand. It smoothed over her stomach, laying flat where he set it down. He struggled to stand, struggled to leave her side. She was too pale. What if she was cold? He placed the blanket over her. Tippy said something he couldn’t hear, placed a bony little hand on his shoulder until he finally stood and apparated to Theo’s. Breaking his probation by apparating in a Muggle building. He arrived just outside, and used his runic key sequence to open the wards and start climbing the steps to the main floor. Shouting Theo’s name.

There was no one else he could trust. If he went to Robards, they’d arrest him and he’d be sent to Azkaban, never knowing if she woke. Never able to tell her how stupid and brave and beautiful she was.

“Theo!” He yelled again, marching through to the next set of stairs. It was late, well past midnight, and Theo came padding down the stairs on bare feet, meeting him halfway.

“Blimey, I heard you, what’s the matter?”

“Theo I can’t— I need,” he couldn’t finish his thoughts. Could hardly catch his breath. “I don’t—”

“Alright,” Theo said, guiding him to the armchairs and waving a hand to light some candles. “It’s alright. You need to breathe. Count with me. Inhale one, two, three—”

He struggled to count. Struggled to feel his lungs inflate. It was like drowning. But he could see her face. Feel her touch. The way she’d looped her arm in his at the Ministry, in front of dozens. The way she’d held his hand, walking down the street. She was pale and still and he wasn’t with her. He had to breathe. Had to get back to her. She’d held his hand. Had to breathe.

“There you go. Again,” Theo murmured, and Draco wasn’t sure when he’d folded himself over, his head at his knees while he went through Theo’s breathing exercises.

“Theo, I heard shouting what’s going on?”

“I’m trying to find out,” Theo said, voice low. He resumed counting breaths.

It sounded like Potter’s voice, and when Draco lifted his head he was surprised to see the wizard himself. In cotton pajamas and bare feet, but wand in hand as usual.

“What are you doing here?” They both asked at the same time. He’d have laughed if he could spare the energy for anything but worrying about Granger.

“Did you put a trace on me?” Draco said. “Following me even in the middle of the night, in your bloody plaid pajamas. Just like sixth year. Ready to curse me, Potter? Didn’t carve me up good enough the first time?”

Theo rubbed a soothing circle on his back. “Not exactly. He was here first.”

Draco looked at his friend, always easily amused, and found his expression guarded. His tan cheeks darkened beneath the shadow of a beard he’d grown in recent weeks. “Is this— Potter’s who you told me about the other night?” Theo looked over at him and before he could deny it to save Potter the embarrassment of admitting he was with someone like them, he interrupted.

“Merlin, I’d need a drink if I wasn’t in a fucking rush. I don’t have time for this level of confusion and whatever it is I support it fully but right now I need your help.”

Potter turned red but didn’t lower his wand.

Theo shook his head and said, “It’s a bit of a long story best for another time. Anyway, we’re here to help. Both of us.”

“Is everything — are you alright?” Potter asked. “You look—well like shit, to be honest.”

Draco took a deeper breath and squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m going to need you to listen without interrupting and keep in mind that the more you interrupt, the more time is wasted.”

“He agrees,” Theo said. He summoned a glass of water and pressed it into Draco’s hand, encouraging him to take a drink before he began.

“Granger and I took some of the poison to conduct our own experiments and try to develop an antidote. We managed to recreate it, and created an antidote. Everything checked out fine in tests. We were overcautious, even. It worked with even a single drop of the antidote but then—”

“Hermione took it, didn’t she?” Potter interrupted. “She willingly poisoned herself to test it on a person before you brought it to the Ministry. To ensure it really worked.”

“She didn’t let me —She just—”

“She always just. Can’t bear the thought of anyone else hurting. Why are we sitting here? Clearly something’s happened to her and that’s why you barged in here in the middle of the night. I want to see her Malfoy. Now.”

He nodded, feeling numb to everything. Of course she’d done it. She wouldn’t want another Muggleborn to take the brunt of the Dark Lord’s agenda, even years after his demise. And worse than that, she’d trusted it — trusted him enough that she hadn’t hesitated.

“I think I should apparate us,” Theo said, pulling Draco to his feet. “Just for— Here, everyone grab a non-sexual part of my body.”

No one laughed at the joke, and they spun into nothing, reappearing in Draco’s living room with a lurch that almost made him sick. Tippy squeaked, and Theo greeted her. But Draco could only see Hermione, laying on the sofa. She might have been napping, if she weren’t so inhumanly still.

“Hermione?” Potter said, kneeling beside her. He checked her pulse the Muggle way and cast a few diagnostic spells. Muttering to himself. “All of her vitals are normal—”

“Yes, it’s the same as the patients at St. Mungo’s,” Draco said. If he could just get through the basics. Walk through everything clinically, they could figure something out. He needed to calm down. “Tippy, could you make some tea for Potter and Theo? And coffee might be best for me. You can go back to the Manor after that, it’s late.”

Potter had moved around the apartment, his Auror investigatory skills on display as he catalogued everything on the potions table. “Tell me about what you did. You said you made an antidote so I don’t understand why she’s still unconscious.”

“Because the antidote worked on the poison I recreated and Granger took the one Theo’s father made.” He hadn’t said it out loud before then, but he knew that was the problem the moment she took it. The one they made wasn’t 100 percent. It was missing something, and Golpalott’s Third Law meant that the antidote was missing something, too.

Theo sipped some tea and handed a mug of coffee to Draco. It was hot and tasteless. He’d drifted back over towards the sofa and sat on the floor in front of it. Had he ever sat on the floor before? His mother would have screamed at the sight.

“Go through every step. I need to understand what you did entirely,” Potter said. He and Theo both sat on the stools at the work table. Facing him like the Wizengamot. Only worse.

Draco closed his eyes. There was a beach he’d been to as a child, in Nice. One of the only wizarding beaches in all of Europe. The water of the Mediterranean was almost turquoise, and so clear he could see the bottom for quite a ways off the shore. The sun was hot, and he’d splashed about in the waves while his parents sipped chilled champagne under their private cabana. He pictured a sailboat, the kind with a colorful hull. It floated over the water, towards the horizon. Until he needed to pull it back.

“Weren’t you rubbish at potions?” Theo said to Potter. “Other than that brief bit of sixth year where we all knew you were cheating to get better marks than Hermione or Draco. Slughorn fucking loved you.”

“I wasn’t cheating.” Potter sighed. “Well, fine, I was kind of cheating. It doesn’t— Just walk me through it, Malfoy.”

“Make sure you use small words,” Theo added. “He’s shit at potions.”

“The first thing you’ll have to remember is Golpalott’s Third Law,” Draco said, and he began to describe everything he’d done over the last few days while Theo and Potter listened, the latter asking the occasional follow-up question. Why did you add that? Or How many stirs? And What did Hermione think about that?

“I’d just said something about going to sleep, bringing it to the Ministry in the morning. And then she spilled some on her hand, and while I was cleaning it up and making sure she was alright she put a drop on her tongue.” And Draco had felt a fist around his heart. Squeezing.

“How soon after did the poison take effect?” Potter asked.

“Fairly instantly, maybe 10 seconds after she’d ingested it. Long enough for her to comment on the lack of taste and how brilliant it was and other typical Granger swotiness.” And then she’d collapsed in his arms.

“And how long after that before you gave her the antidote?”

“Couldn’t have been more than another few seconds,” he replied. “But it doesn’t matter how long. There has to be an equal number of ingredients between a poison and its antidote. Something was missing from the poison we replicated and thus something was missing from the antidote. That’s why it didn’t work. She took the other one.” Draco looked at her sleeping form. It wasn’t like being petrified. There was still softness to her and warmth. “She took the same poison affecting everyone else.”

Potter looked at him strangely; gone was the sharp edge, replaced with tired eyes and a hand rubbing his jaw. “So you’ll do it again,” he said.

“Do what again? I can’t give her more of the wrong antidote, Potter, it won’t do anything. What has your department been able to do? Can’t you just get some of whatever antidote they’ve created? Perhaps they’ve found something Granger and I didn’t.” The thing he’d missed. If they found what he’d missed then he would know what else to add. He could fix it.

“They haven’t made an antidote. They’re still analyzing the poison. Figuring out the ingredients. When I left earlier this evening they’d been talking about valerian root as a potential ingredient. That was all they’d found out.” Potter was solemn.

“The Ministry determined one ingredient in four days?” Theo asked, and Potter nodded. “And Draco was able to recreate it nearly perfectly in that amount of time?”

Draco cleared his throat. “Actually I’d recreated it by Tuesday evening, just as you arrived. Yesterday we started on antidote variants.”

“Harry, your department is shit. Why haven’t they moved Draco over to your poisons and potions division?”

“Well, I’m not sure anyone’s even aware that Malfoy’s decent at potions—”

“Better than decent, I’d say. Didn’t you get perfect marks on the N.E.W.T?”

“They have all my scores. Theo, you know why,” Draco said. Their eyes met, and though he’d never practice legilimency on another person, it was like reading his friend’s mind in that moment.

“You’ll make another antidote. Recreate the poison again, figure out what you missed,” Potter said quietly. “Owl Robards and tell him you’re ill, need to rest. I can cover for Hermione tomorrow.”

Draco looked at his rival. Waiting for the conditions. For the terms of his sentence.

“I’ll go back to Azkaban to try to get as much as I can out of Nott Senior but he has no memory of the poison. Oblivated himself before his arrest. We haven’t been able to reverse it but maybe if I bring your list of ingredients—”

“He’ll be inspired and offer you a suggestion as to the missing ingredient?” Theo mused. “Doubtful. You don’t have to go see him. At this point you should just escalate his crimes and give him to the dementors.”

“He can still be useful. It’s his recipe, why wouldn’t he have an idea about what’s missing? If we just explain to him what we know—”

“Because he’s a bloody bastard who hates Muggleborns! Why would he help you create an antidote for something he made to continue on his Lord’s work?”

The two of them argued in hushed tones for a moment, and Draco summoned his notes and a quill. Every drop of ink made him want to claw at his skin. All he could see was the drop of poison hitting her tongue. He wrote quickly, adding some additional notes to help simplify things for Potter and the clearly struggling poisons and potions department. Then he tore the pages from his notebook and levitated them to him.

“That should help,” he said. “You can take it to the Ministry—”

“If I bring it to Robards he’ll want to know where it came from. Like Theo said, I’m not exactly known for my potions skills. And if they know it’s from you—”

“I’ll be their prime suspect,” Draco said and scoffed. “Of course. We—Granger and I left the Ministry at the same time yesterday, too. I’m sure there were a dozen witnesses and more than half of them would be willing to testify that I dragged her into the fireplaces by force.”

“Use whatever Malfoy influence you have left to figure this out. I don’t care what you have to do just…practice that potions mastery and get a proper antidote,” Potter said, standing. “By Monday morning Robards will know I went to Azkaban to talk with Nott Senior. I’ll have to tell him all of it then.”

Three days. He’d have three days to accurately recreate a complex poison and develop an antidote. And then they’d likely arrest him. Would they hold him at the Ministry or immediately transfer him to Azkaban because of his priors? Perhaps he’d get one of the nicer cells, if it came to that. Not the same prison block as his father but maybe near some of the lesser Death Eaters. They’d hiss at him, surely. Mother would inform the solicitor, who’d charge her double and mount a paltry defense. And then he’d have to lay his trust in the poisons and potions department of the Auror office to solve the mystery of Nott’s poison sometime in the next century, at the rate they were going. Would Granger lose her magic in that time? It was a slow leeching of power, according to the healers. How slow was it?

“Do what you must,” Draco said. Potter and Theo approached him, the former taking one last long look at Hermione. He turned his face to Draco and nodded before apparating away.

“We’ll figure it out,” Theo said. He ran a too casual hand through his dark hair, tugging at the ends. “Sleeping with the most famous wizard cop; probably not my best idea.”

Draco choked on a laugh. “I can’t fault you for a bad idea,” he murmured, looking at the frozen witch beside him.

“She’ll be alright. Try to get some sleep.” Theo gripped Draco’s shoulder once and then twisted away, leaving behind an echoing crack. He looked at Hermione and only felt more alone.

It was nearly two in the morning and the coffee had started to work. Draco needed to start anew. Recreate the poison from the first step. There were a few theories he hadn’t explored, and some rarer ingredients at the Manor he wanted to retrieve and test. Things he hadn’t asked Tippy to bring. Things kept in a locked cupboard with a blood seal.

He couldn’t get past the look on Potter’s face before he’d left. It was almost sad but had a hopefulness to it. And it was only when he’d struck on the word hope did he realize why.

From the moment he sat on the floor he’d been holding Granger’s hand. Without even thinking about it.

Chapter 24

The first thing Draco did was clear his work station entirely. Sending all of the ingredients to the back in a neat row. He began the process again. Separating a sample of Nott’s poison in one cauldron, and using another to work on another theory for an antidote.

If he could spend a little more time on the extraction process within the suspension, he might be able to figure out what he’d missed before. And while that worked he could at least get started on another variation of an antidote. Cursing Golpalott as he went. The absolute fucker. Though perhaps not quite as bad as Nott Senior.

It was a poison created through hate. Just as the Dark Lord was unable to triumph over the love  protection that Potter extended to his friends at the final battle, Draco wondered if a love potion as a base might work to counteract the more hateful elements of the poison. One of Severus’s old Hogwarts notebooks had a few theories on love potions, which made Draco wonder what witch or wizard his professor had been thinking of when he began experimenting. Some of them seemed to be intended to help the drinker remove romantic feelings, rather than instill them in another.

Magical opposites. Dark and light. Pureblood and Muggleborn. It made some sense, he thought, crushing ashwinder eggs into a fine powder. It was well after three in the morning but he kept going. At the very least he could get the ingredients for his amortentia variant prepped, except for those that had to be added fresh. He was running low on a few things he’d had Tippy bring from the Manor. A trip to the apothecary once it was mid-morning and his colleagues had all made it to work was in order. He couldn’t risk running into anyone just because he needed more valerian root and wiggentree bark.

The lab at the Manor would have many…unsavory ingredients he might need for the poison. It had been a while since he’d seen his mother, and though she was more adept at charms he might ask her for advice. Perhaps his father had known something and shared it with her. They rarely discussed him. His mother remained angry that he’d been the catalyst for Draco’s Dark Mark. And Draco wasn’t sure how to tell her that it wasn’t his fault, not entirely. She’d withdrawn so much since the final battle. But then again, so had he.

The suspension looked as it did two days ago, and with a heavy sigh Draco transfigured one of the stools into a cot. It wasn’t comfortable, but he would only sleep a few hours and he didn’t want to leave the room. Granger lie still beside him and he closed his eyes, hoping for sleep.

Early in the morning a tap on the window woke him. There was an owl he didn’t recognize, holding a scrap of parchment. His legs groaned and his mouth was dry. A pepper-up would help. And coffee.

It was a note from Theo, telling him that Potter had gone to Azkaban to try to get Nott Sr. to share his thoughts on the missing ingredient. Theo had phrased it somewhat sarcastically, which was normal enough that it gave Draco a boost. Granger was much the same. Nothing different in the diagnostic spells he cast. But he couldn’t bear to leave her alone.

“Tippy,” he called, and greeted the elf as warmly as he could in his current state, answering her concerned questions. “Would you make coffee and something quick I can eat? After a shower I need to go to the Manor, if you’ll stay here with Miss Granger while I’m away.”

“Of course,” she replied. “Tippy will keep Miss company and keep her safe for you.”

Draco nodded and walked to the bathroom, turning the water as hot as possible. He peeled his shirt off, banishing the stains from nervous sweating and adding it to his laundry. Tippy had taken it upon herself to start handling his washing as well. Within just a few days she’d helped make his flat less…what it was. There were even a few paintings on the walls. Some landscapes he’d liked as a boy. A rocky sea crashing against white cliffs.

Before he stepped into the water he knocked back a pepper-up potion. One of his own versions, to avoid the steam from the ears. He only wanted the steam from the water, rolling over his face while he strengthened his occlumency. It would be prudent to use stronger methods today, to do what he would likely have to do. To touch ingredients he’d hoped to never touch. To read things that would make his eye twitch. To recite incantations that would feel wrong on his tongue.

Once he was dressed and had eaten a scone, sure that Tippy was adequately fussing over Granger, he left the flat. It was a few blocks to the apparition point. The suspension would need another half a day at least and he could easily replicate the amortentia base at the laboratory of his former home. He turned on his heel and arrived in Knockturn Alley.

It was always slightly darker in this part of wizarding London. The buildings were older, leaning closer together. Blocking the sun. Draco pulled his cloak tight to his body, using its large collar to shield his face from the cold January air. There was no hiding who he was, especially not here. At least it was quiet.

The Vine of Plenty had been around since before the Great Fire of 1666 that raged through Muggle London. It was the largest apothecary after Slug & Jiggers, in Diagon Alley, and it catered to a more colorful customer. He found it empty.

Draco went for the Wiggentree bark first, collecting a new jar of it. It had gone up a sickle in price since the war. He picked up more knotgrass and a large piece of moonstone. A rather expensive dragon scale impulse purchase. The last two jars of valerian root on the shelf.

Once he’d paid for his wares he headed back to the Alley, nodding at Marcus Flint on his way into Borgin & Burkes. Stopping for a chat wasn’t worth his time today. The shifty old shopkeep had assisted him quite a bit in sixth year, and while he considered finding a roundabout way to ask what Borgin thought of the poison, Draco knew there was a small chance the man was involved. Though he was never a Death Eater, for the right price, Borgin would bow to whomever asked. Instead Draco said hello, rhetorically inquired after his wellbeing, and requested the use of the floo.

Theo answered immediately and allowed him through.

“You alright?” Theo asked, eying him as he brushed soot from his cloak.

“Of course not but me being bloody wrecked won’t help Granger so I’m suppressing it as usual.”

Theo nodded. “You’re good at that. I could use some tips before I say things I might regret the next time I see Potter.”

“You didn’t want him to go to Azkaban.” It wasn’t a question.

“And he went anyway. No wonder he and Granger are such good friends. They’re both fucking stupid.” Theo sighed. “Maybe he’ll prove me wrong and come back with a complete ingredient list and brewing times and how ever many bloody stirs and whatever else you potioneers get on about. Or maybe he’ll do me a favor and introduce my father to a dementor.”

“Let’s hope for both, shall we?” Draco said.

“Harry trusts you, you know.”

“Highly doubt that.”

“Doubt you might but he knows you’ll do everything you have to to help Hermione.”

“Why’s that?” Draco asked.

“Because Harry said he could see it on your face,” Theo said. “He told me last night. And again this morning. Kept repeating it, really, which he does a lot.”

Draco nodded. He wasn’t sure what to make of it, or if he really believed it. But he nodded anyway. “Theo, I hate to cut and run but I need to get to the Manor. There are…things there that might help.”

“I’m not as rubbish at potions as Potter but if you need an assistant—”

He shook his head. “Thank you, but I think I’ll be more clear-headed alone. It’ll be bad enough having my mother in the same building as me. She’ll probably sit and watch the entire time while I try not to have another anxiety attack.”

“Will you tell her?” Theo asked, and Draco couldn’t be sure if he meant about the potion or about Hermione. Perhaps both.

“If she lets me get a word in,” he said, and grabbed a handful of floo powder. He cast it into the fire and shouted, “Malfoy Manor.”

The traveler’s parlor was dark. He flicked his wand and opened the curtains, letting some light in. Most of the time he apparated here, when he visited. But it had been a few months since he’d last made the journey.

A crack announced one of the elves.

“Greetings, sir,” Griff said. Draco handed him his cloak and inquired after his mother. “Lady Narcissa is in the small dining room.”

Small dining room because it merely seated twenty. It was on the opposite side of the house as the other dining room. The one that they’d sealed permanently but its memories remained.

He walked the halls of his childhood home, unable to shake the unease that settled into its walls when the Dark Lord took up residence. Despite his mother’s efforts to redecorate it lingered — echoes of the worst two years of Draco’s life. Sometimes when he came here he swore his forearm itched.

“Hello, Mother,” he said, stepping into the room. It had been recently refurnished with lighter wood and cream walls. There was a brightness to it that comforted Draco. Little touches of gold here and there, in the candelabra and in the fabrics.

“Draco, darling, I wasn’t expecting you,” she said, placing her tea on its saucer then on the table. Perfect manners as ever. Despite not expecting company Narcissa Black wore one of her finest dresses, a deep green brocade, and high black heels. It was the first time in years she’d made the effort. Normally she wore ornate dressing gowns regardless of the hour. Perhaps she’d made more progress than he had thought.

He leaned down to kiss her cheek, still taller than her by a fair amount despite her shoes. “Sorry,” he said, gripping the back of a chair. “I should have owled first. I realize this is sudden.”

“You could have sent Tippy, she does dote on you,” his mother said, smiling.

“Tippy’s at my flat, actually.”

“Draco, I do hope you’re at least letting her clean for you. I shudder to think what your living arrangement is like if you won’t have me over for tea.”

“It’s fine, you know I like to keep things tidy. She’s—Mother, I should probably tell you all about my first real mission and why I was away for so long but I don’t have the luxury of time,” he said. His knuckles were straining against the wood.

“What’s the matter?” Her steel blue eyes narrowed and she reached out a hand to caress his face, the way she always did when he was young. “You know you can tell me anything, don’t you?”

Now was the time to find out what anything meant, he thought. “The short version is that my partner ingested a poison and I need to create an antidote before—”

“Before the Ministry blames you,” she finished, and brought her hand to her throat. “What do you need?”

“If you’ll accompany me to the laboratory I can tell you more of the specifics and perhaps you might remember something that could help.”

She nodded and followed him through the house, listening intently as he told her of Nott’s poison and his attempt to recreate it. She didn’t ask questions, just let him talk. It was a fair bit of a walk to the laboratory, and once they reached its door he had to open the wards to gain entrance. Pricking his finger and saying the incantation he loathed. Capped off with Sanctimonia Vincet Semper.

While he set up his work table his mother kept to one side of the room, levitating things for him.

“Did you ever overhear anything about a poison?” He asked, lighting a cauldron and getting to work on his love potion antidote.

“There were a few potions discussed but nothing this complex,” she said, watching him. “Not that I witnessed, at least. Of course there was speculative talk of the Dark Lord’s future plans.”

He began with the powder made from Ashwinder eggs that he’d prepared at his own home. Mixing it with pearl dust. Then he heated some honeywater and added a spring of peppermint before the powdered ingredients. Next was rose thorns and moonstone. Stirring clockwise in a slow pattern between each ingredient.

Clearing his throat, he said, “I’m not actually brewing a love potion, just using it as a starting point. The poison contains several ingredients that need to be accounted for. I think some petals from the rose garden could help.”

“An unconventional ingredient,” his mother replied, but she stood from her seat. “I’ll be right back.”

For a long while he worked in silence, focusing on every stir, every incantation. The way the color of the brew changed and the steam curled. Picturing her face because the pink of the potion was so like her blush. The steam already beginning to smell like her. It curled in his nostrils, teasing him with memories of her neck beneath his lips. Of peppermint and shortbread and the finest stationery.

“I hope this is enough,” his mother said, holding a basket full of dozens of roses. The old English roses she knew he favored for their mild sweetness.

“Thank you,” he replied, and cast a spell to remove the petals from a single flower. 

“The Ministry are working on this as well?” His mother asked, and he nodded, stirring his cauldron. Adding the petals one at a time. “You’re worried,” she whispered. “And not about the Ministry.”

Occlumency worked with strangers but a mother with a sharp skill at legilimency was no match for it. And Narciss Malfoy never needed to use legilimency on her own son. She knew his tells. Even after all this time. There was no use lying, not when his anxiety was palpable. “Yes.”

She was quiet, and when he looked at her she seemed small. Always petite but with the grace of someone much taller. Narcissa carried herself like royalty. Demanded her son learn good posture and the proper stride length for his height. But now she folded in on herself like a chastised child.

“You care about this person,” she said solemnly. “This…Muggleborn.”

Their eyes met, and he didn’t expect hers to be lined with silver. “Mother—”

“Does she care for you? Please tell me the truth, son.”

“I—I believe she does,” he said, and swallowed the emotion threatening to boil over. The defenses he’d thought through in his mind, whenever he let it wander outside of Nott Manor, to what he might have with Granger after. But this was after, and he didn’t have anything beyond his determination to wake her.

“She could forgive you?” His mother asked abruptly, and stepped closer. Tiny steps until she stood beside him, looking into the cauldron at the rosy contents. He wondered what she smelled. If it soothed her in the way it soothed him.

“Yes, I apologized but she said my actions meant more than the words — that I showed I was sorry. It’s possible for us to obtain forgiveness. From…from those we need it from most.”

His mother contemplated what he’d said, breathing evening out. Likely using her calming brand of occlumency to keep her thoughts in order.

“I haven’t spoken to my sister Andromeda since before you were born,” she said, twisting the ring on her finger. A massive diamond heirloom monstrosity. That name had never left his mother’s lips in his presence.  “And at the—that day, at Hogwarts, I saw her daughter for the first time. She looked so much like her. And she was dead. I’d never even met her.”

Draco hadn’t looked at his cousin in death. It was strange enough to have seen her from a distance. Even as she dueled, commanding the room. To recognize the slope of her nose as his. From their grandfather, Cygnus. He’d kept running and didn’t see her again.

“If your witch could forgive you, do you think my sister could forgive me? Is there even a chance?”

Draco cast a stasis over his potion and for one of the few times in his life wrapped his arms around his mother, tucking her against his chest. Tighter than he’d ever held her. And when he felt his shirt become damp he smoothed her fair hair. For years he’d thought she’d retreated because of his father. And now he wondered if it was never about him at all.

“You have to try,” he said softly. “Or you’ll always wonder.”

It was a long time before his mother’s breaths calmed. Before she loosened her grip on him and cast a pressing charm over both of them.

“I can help you,” he said, removing the stasis charms and getting back to work. “If you want to talk about it before…”

“My entire life, Draco. Over four decades. I’m trying but it’s a lot to unlearn,” her hands shook as she gathered roses, “a lot to have burdened you with when you were just a child.”

“That’s,” he chuckled, and it stuck in his throat. “That’s what Hermione said. That we were children. She also said we can unlearn the things we don’t need anymore.”

His mother halted her bouquet and looked up at him, smirking. “Only you would reach for the highest shelf.” Then her smile faltered. “That makes all of this worse for you. For both of you.”

There was no denying it. She was right and he’d known it from the moment he kissed Granger or maybe before that. It would always be worse. But what was worse, really?

He knew that he wasn’t good, and he’d rarely done what most would consider right. But he did do what was necessary to protect his family, or at least to try. And if he was willing to go through everything he went through for his parents, there was worse he would do for her. If he had to bleed and scream and break himself apart all over again he would do it. There was worse that he would do and it would be worth it.

“The first time the Dark Lord came to power,” his mother said, pulling his focus from the steam above his brew, “there was a ritual. Your father made me stay here because I was pregnant.”

The love potion was the color of old English roses and he began to add the Wiggentree bark. “Do you know what happened at this ritual?” He asked.

“It was a blood sacrifice,” she said. “Every pureblood family was accounted for.”

“How is that even possible? Not all of the Sacred Twenty-Eight were on…that side.” He’d almost said our side, out of habit.

“I didn’t say it was willingly given, just that it was accounted for. Your father stood for our family and my sister stood for the Black family. He told me of it later.”

Blood rituals weren’t uncommon in pureblood culture. Half of their wards were blood wards and many ceremonies required a binding of magical blood.

“Theodore Nott was there. The elder.”

Draco furrowed his brow. “Of course he was there. Do you know what the purpose of this event was?”

She shook her head. “All your father said was that the Dark Lord required it, and that Nott collected the blood.”

Nott, who had the talent and possessed the means to experiment for years in solitude. “You think he used it in the poison?” He asked, mentally turning over everything he knew about blood as a potion ingredient. Unicorn blood was considered an abomination, though several old journals suggested it in healing potions. Only a drop to aid with pain and blood loss on a battlefield. Most modern potioneers were split on the subject.

“It’s possible, is it not? You were always brilliant at potions, you’d know better than I.”

Of course it was possible. And had he had the time to really look around Nott’s laboratory, perhaps he would have found a goblin-wrought flask labelled “The Blood of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, Here Draco You’ll Need This.” But he didn’t, and now several pureblood lines had ended. Recreating the poison was impossible, if that was an ingredient.

Draco felt as if his ribs had cracked all over again. Tossed to the floor in an art gallery. If he couldn’t recreate the poison, he had to discover the missing antidote ingredient solely on guesswork. He’d only be able to test it using the few drops of Nott’s poison he had left. And he had two more days to do it.

“I’m going to need every book we have on blood magic and potions,” he said, working on fortifying the bricks in his mind. His mother gave him a knowing glance. “Will you help me?”

While Draco worked on his new antidote his mother went to the library, occasionally popping back down to the laboratory to share something she’d discovered. He worked as quickly as he could without sacrificing accuracy. Griff checked on him. Offering tea and sandwiches that he refused. A serving tray sat on a stool at the other side of the room, kept warm beneath a series of charms.

He’d recreated his previous antidote as well as the new version, based on Amortentia. With modifications to account for some of the ingredients in the poison. Each were missing one thing, though. One last ingredient to account for Golpalott’s Third Law. Draco fucking hated Golpalott.

Poisons contained blood as an ingredient — it wasn’t a novelty. But it was troll blood or dragon’s blood or, more rarely, manticore blood. The blood of a beast was counteracted by the blood, venom, or excretion of another beast. He siphoned a dozen vials of each antidote and added a drop of different kinds of blood to each, looking at the reactions. Troll blood turned each of them into a hardened mess. Unusable. He vanished it. Dragon’s blood dissolved them. Manticore blood was so rare even the Manor didn’t have it in stock and the likelihood of obtaining it on a Friday evening was slim. He’d have to go back to Vine of Plenty in the morning with a fat purse of galleons.

None of them would work, he thought. He knew enough about brewing to know that the blood of a beast wouldn’t suffice here. When using blood or venom to counteract another ingredient, it had to be because the source of that ingredient was its opposite or a predator. Using that logic, how would one negate the blood of twenty-eight purebloods? It seemed unlikely to Draco that more than a drop of that blood was used to create the poison. He’d been able to recreate it near flawlessly without it. Too much and the viscosity would change, not to mention the rate of conduction and probably the color.

A drop of pureblood and an ancient incantation to ensure that should any pure or halfblood ingest the poison it would not harm them. Using the blood of a Muggleborn in the antidote wouldn’t do anything. Perhaps he needed to look into incantations as well. More research he did not have time for. He knocked back another vial of pepper-up and made himself eat, tasting nothing. Drinking cup after cup of strong tea to stay awake.

His mother returned as day shifted to night. “Darling, if you don’t have a meal and some sleep—”

“I’m fine,” he said, testing rarer and less likely ingredients. Anything available to him. Even the things he knew wouldn’t work. Just to try. He had to try.

“Draco,” his mother said, using a tone he hadn’t heard since he was a boy. “You can use everything in this room tomorrow. It will still be here.”

The steam in the laboratory made his vision blurry. The heat from the cauldrons was making him sweat. “I can’t waste time. If I miss something—if tomorrow—”

“You can barely hold yourself up,” she said, gripping his elbow. She cast a powerful stasis charm over the table. Containing everything. And still his eyes were clouded. Holding them open was a chore. “Griff can get your rooms together—”

“That isn’t necessary,” he said, and squeezed his eyes shut. Rubbing them until he felt more awake. “I need to make sure Granger’s alright. Send Tippy home.”

They walked through the house in silence. Every step felt like failure. Every step brought him closer to something he didn’t want to see.

“Think I should apparate, actually,” he said, when they reached the fireplaces. He didn’t want to call on Theo again so late and he’d still need to apparate after that. “The air might help.”

His mother halted her steps and brought her hand to his cheek, looking up at him. “Anything you need. Always.”

What he needed was a miracle. The ghost of Severus Snape or Albus Bloody Dumbledore to appear to him with the answer. The former would have sneered and the later spoke in riddles he didn’t have the patience for. But one of them might have had the answer.

He pressed his hand over hers, removing it to kiss the top of it. Before he left he said, “You could write her first. Andromeda.”

She nodded stiffly and squeezed his hand.

“Anything you need, Mother. Always.”

He turned before her first tears fell, landing with a crack in the apparition point near his flat. The moon was high, and though he couldn’t see stars because of the Muggle lights he knew they were there. He’d always found comfort in the stars. Whether it was from his window at the Manor or out for a walk late at night, just before curfew when he was in school. Clearing his head down by the Black Lake. Walking around the pumpkin patch at the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

It took him less time than usual to reach his flat. His steps spurred by the urgency flowing in his veins. Tippy had made a veritable feast while he was gone — plates of scones and biscuits, loaves of bread, and something savory atop the stove.

Granger was as he’d left her and the sight of her fucking hurt. Not the squeezing little pain he got when she smiled at him or when he caught her watching him. But an ache that settled deep in his chest. Spreading out like a curse, ripping his skin open.

And there, seated at her feet, was Potter.

“Breaking and entering now?” Draco said.

“I wanted to speak with you, if that’s alright,” Potter said. “Tippy answered the door.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No, not really.”

The elf gestured for Draco to lean down, so he did. “Tippy would like to speak with you also.”

“Potter don’t—I suppose asking you not to touch anything is a bit useless at this point. I’ll be right back.”

He followed Tippy to his library and shut the door, casting a silencing charm for additional privacy.

“Tippy has left food for you,” the elf said. She had been knitting something, and held the yarn in one tight hand.

“Thank you, Tippy, for taking care of Granger.” he said. “You should go home. It’s very late.”

Tippy looked around the room then walked up to Draco, gesturing for him to bend down to her level once more. He crouched, waiting. “Tippy thought you might want this,” she said, and held out the pendent he’d given to Granger. Before they’d entered Nott Manor. “Tippy was worried it might tangle, before she wakes.”

The blood was gone, and he could see the etched stars along the quartz. He thanked Tippy again and she left with a snap of her fingers. Then he put the chain around his neck, tucking it away under his shirt. Out of sight.

Potter hadn’t moved. If he had the energy, he would have felt some shame at the state of his flat but at present he only cared about one thing. And it certainly wasn’t impressing the Chosen Prick with a collection of art and fine furnishings.

“Drink?” Draco asked, pouring a small firewhisky for himself.

“Alright.”

He sent him a glass and conjured a chair, pulling it up beside the sofa where Granger lay still. There was a curl out of place and he wanted to fix it. But not with an audience.

Draco cleared his throat and sipped his drink, letting the warmth coat his throat before he spoke. “You wanted to talk?”

Potter cradled his glass and looked at his shoes. “Theo’s father didn’t help, as predicted.”

“Right. Well, he’s quite possibly the worst person in the world.”

“Other than me?” Potter joked, and Draco didn’t smile.

“What do you want?” He asked. “I’m working to a rather aggressive deadline, if you remember.”

“Look, Malfoy, I know we don’t exactly…Get on.”

“Understatement, I’d say.”

He sighed. “You’re good at your job. The department—Robards especially—values you. Dawlish certainly likes you. Thinks your funny.”

“Yes, I’m hilarious. Is there a point to this conversation?” Draco finished his drink. For once he wasn’t itching for another just to feel less uncomfortable in the presence of someone outside of his very, very small social circle. He wanted to keep a clear head.

“You’re guarded and I understand that, but you’re going to work this out.”

“Because if I don’t it’s all over for me, you made that very clear last night, Potter.”

“What have you done so far today? Walk me through it.” He finished his own drink, then stood and went through Draco’s pristine kitchen for a pitcher of water and two clean glasses. Levitating them to the counter.

Draco transfigured one of the stools at the work table into a small table, flicking his wand to send the water and glasses there while Potter fixed plates. Like they were going to have a meal together. What a nightmare.

First he relayed his trip to Knockturn Alley, answering all of Potters questions about who he saw there and what ingredients were sold out at the apothecary. How much of everything he bought. Then he went over everything he’d tried in the laboratory at the Manor. He didn’t talk about his mother — that was private, though Potter at least had the decency to inquire after her health, which he also kept private, instead giving a non-answer.

He couldn’t bring himself to eat any of the food in front of him, so he just sipped water while Potter asked questions. Until he’d finished the long list of his failures for that day. He looked back at the curl that draped across Granger’s forehead. The way her skin seemed to be frozen, though he knew she was warm. At some point, Tippy had adjusted the cushions around her.

“Hermione believed in you,” Potter said, “and so do I.”

Draco cringed. “Don’t make me vomit. I haven’t eaten it would be horrid unpleasant.”

Standing swiftly, Potter flexed his shoulders. “She cares for you. Try not to be too angry with her when you do crack it.”

When he made to leave, Draco couldn’t stop himself. “You and Theo, that’s— are you ashamed of it? Of being with someone like him?”

“What? Of course not. Is that what Theo thinks?”

He didn’t want to speak for Theo. “Then why all the sneaking and secrecy?”

Potter sighed, and seemed much older in the moment. “Because I gave everything to this world to protect it. To save it. And I want to have something for myself.”

Draco nodded.

“Same as you,” Potter added.

“You seem to forget which side I was on. I wasn’t trying to protect or save this world.”

“And you seem to forget that I’m perceptive. I know you do everything for your own world. And right now, that’s Hermione. You lost everything in the war and you’re still trying to save her. To protect her.”

Draco looked back at her face to avoid Potter’s eye. “I did a shit job of it before and—”

“You’re doing better now, that’s what matters.”

“Why are you being…I don’t know, nice to me?” Draco said, standing and vanishing the chair. “I thought you’d be thrilled to have an excuse to send me to Azkaban.”

“Because I know Hermione. And I told Theo I needed to see for myself.”

“See what?”

“That you love her,” Potter said, as if it were that simple.

Draco was quiet. Clenching his jaw.

“I needed to know it wasn’t just her.”

“Did she tell you that?” Draco asked. His ears were ringing and his skin felt tight across his bones.

“She didn’t have to. You’re not going to bloody Azkaban. Look, maybe I wasn’t clear before but I’ll do everything I can to help you whether you fix the antidote or not.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s what Hermione would do. And it’s what’s right.”

“Always the bigger person, eh Potter?” Draco cleared everything, sending dishes to the kitchen to wash. Not wanting to hear more. Because if he knew more and she never woke, he wouldn’t be able to take it.

“No,” Potter said. “I just know what it’s like.”

“I haven’t slept in days,” Draco said. “Your vagueness is supremely unhelpful, you know.”

Potter sighed, and let out a sharp laugh at the end. Shaking his head. “I know what it’s like to fall for someone quickly, without realizing it. And to want to protect them.”

“That’s why you don’t — with Theo, that’s why you’re cautious? To protect him?”

“Yes.”

He was going to regret confiding in Potter come morning. “And do you think…is that something…”

“Hermione took a poison to protect another, faceless Muggleborn from the effects. She doesn’t think of herself the majority of the time but she does think of you.”

“I don’t think she thought about what it might mean for me when she took it. At all.”

“No, she didn’t, because she believes in you. She knows that you’ll be able to make her the proper antidote. And like I said, so do I.”

They looked away from each other, down at Granger.

“Get some sleep, Malfoy,” Potter said, one hand on the door. “I’ll check back soon.”

For a long while he stood, alternating between mentally cataloguing different ingredients, different methods, and looking at Granger.

There was a story he’d read as a child, about a princess who pricked her finger on a spindle dipped in the Draught of Living Death. A hag was jealous of her, and wished her harm. Wiggenweld potion was the antidote to any sleeping potion, including the Draught of Living Death. A wizard prince put some on his lips and kissed the sleeping witch. She woke.

Maybe that was what was missing, he thought. Though it was wizarding history that he learned as a child, it served as inspiration for a Muggle fairytale he’d read once. It was late, and he’d been in the Hogwarts library researching the vanishing cabinet when he stumbled upon a book of stories he’d never heard of. And proceeded to read them. Sleeping Beauty, they called the princess. She woke up not from an antidote but from true love’s kiss. Draco didn’t really know what love was like. If what he felt for Hermione could even be love. But she was sleeping, and he thought her beautiful.

Nothing had changed in her features. Her curly hair fanned out behind her head where it rested against a plush pillow. The soft hands he knew could grip tightly were folded over her stomach, above the blanket. He brushed his fingers over her forehead, pushing the curl aside. The skin was warm. He knelt beside her, knowing it was wishful thinking. Knowing that until he’d figured out the missing ingredient for the antidote, she’d remain asleep.

But he tried it anyway. Kissing her still lips. She didn’t wake.

Notes:

An early update this week! The Saturday schedule still stands, I was just eager.

There are moments in this chapter that I wrote before I drafted the first chapter. I'm so grateful for every comment 🖤🖤

Chapter 25

Time couldn’t be held in his hands. It ran through the cracks between his fingers and flowed over the edges. The more Draco failed to find an answer to his antidote problems, the more desperate he became. Saturday he went through three cauldrons and about a dozen new ingredients. Even more methods and incantations. Until he quite literally collapsed from exhaustion and Tippy apparated him home. He’d slept a few hours and knocked back two doses of pepper-up before starting again.

During the day his mother collected more research for him while he went to different apothecaries to ask about the use of human blood in potions and what one might put in an antidote. If the Ministry learned he was asking questions, well, he already had a Golden Girl in stasis on his sofa. They had enough to throw him in Azkaban on that alone. A few questions at potions shops were the least of his worries.

Sunday was, officially, the worst day of his miserable little life. Theo checked in on him around noon, offering a few books and notes he and Potter had written down. Tippy brought him plates of food he didn’t touch when he was at the flat. He kept leaving to seek answers. First from apothecaries within the limits of his apparition, then the library at the Manor. Flipping through truly foul books, hoping to find anything he’d missed about blood magic and its use in potions. He wished he’d had time in the library at Nott Manor to do anything other than race through its maze and plead with the Guardian.

“What would you give to me to be with her once more?” The Guardian had asked.

It was barely a question — he nearly told it anything, would have given anything to be with her. Instead he replied, “What is it that you want?”

The Guardian loved its riddles and spoke one, just for him. “Something that is only yours, until you give it away.”

Draco had sighed. “A secret.” It was too easy, he’d thought. Things had never been easy at Nott Manor.

“Indeed, Master Malfoy. A secret shall do nicely.”

“Right. Well, I hate goose liver pâté. Find it disgusting. I’ve never told anyone.”

“That’s not quite a secret, is it?” The Guardian mused. “Sounds more like a preference of palate.”

“No one else knows it, so by the very definition it is a secret and I’ve answered your riddle. Now show me where Granger is.”

The Guardian clicked its tongue. “I should think not. Your secret first. I want to know when you realized it.”

“Realized what?” He swallowed.

“That despite what you were raised to believe you’re not different or special. That your blood is just the same as hers. And it didn’t bother you.”

“Sounds like you’re asking for more than one thing. You said a secret, not spill my bloody soul to a fucking vase.”

“Language, Mr. Malfoy. Sounds like you’re not in much of a rush, if you’re challenging everything I say,” the Guardian replied. “Pity, that you’ll have to leave your witch behind because you’re not in an honest mood. She was more than willing to share.”

Draco looked at the dragon, stretched across its vase. The little floral patterns swaying in a nonexistent breeze. Granger had given something up — for what, he did not know. And unless he gave up what he kept pushed out to sea, he’d never get to her. He’d tread water until his legs gave out.

“Part of me always knew we were the same, I think. From the moment we stepped off the train she was brilliant. Effortless with magic in a way that most weren’t. Answering every question, mastering every spell. She—she always fascinated me, being so different from what my father told me about Muggleborns. Nothing like what he’d told me.”

“And when did her blood stop bothering you?” The Guardian asked.

He closed his eyes and thought back. Through all the memories he’d had to keep tucked away, out to sea, behind walls of bricks and meditation. To third year, when he’d been so sure the Mudblood was going to hex him and instead had hit him square in the jaw. The feel of his tooth cutting the inside of his lip. The pain ringing in his ears. To just before fourth year, when he’d been told to stay hidden while his father and friends played at terror, and he’d delivered a warning to the bushy-haired Muggleborn outside the World Cup. To the Yule Ball, watching a pretty witch twirl on the arm of a quidditch star, from a pureblood school. Proudly displaying her. Kissing her hand. To fifth year, and every challenge at Umbridge’s lessons and regime. Until he landed on it. The moment he knew.

“In sixth year I had failed to complete my task from the Dark Lord. I wasn’t eating or sleeping, really. Just skirting by in my classes and avoiding all of my friends. I didn’t really talk to anyone and no one talked to me. No one really looked at me anymore and I didn’t care. But at breakfast one morning everyone else was leaving and I just kept staring into my coffee cup. Occluding so much that I wasn’t really focusing.” He took a breath and closed his eyes again, and he was back on the bench at the Slytherin table. Chin resting on his hand. Watching the reflection on the coffee. Something startled him out of it and he looked up, only to lock eyes with Hermione Granger. Across the Great Hall, alone at the Gryffindor table. “She saw me. In that moment she wasn’t a Muggleborn; she was just a girl. And she saw me.”

“And?” The Guardian sat patient, painted eyes gleaming.

“And I knew she understood me.”

“Will you run for her?”

He thought of the sculpture room. Of being held by the throat, high in the air. “I’ll do anything for her.” The path opened, and he ran.

Now, in the library at the Manor, he wished it was as easy as giving up a secret. He’d spill every drop left in his very soul for the answer. Would spill his own blood, willingly. But there was no Guardian to give him the answers and he was running out of time. He wouldn’t find the answer in a book. Not this time. Theo owled again to check in and Potter had sent a patronus, encouraging him. As if they were friends.

It was late in the evening on Sunday. Tippy had sat with Granger while he failed to bring back an answer once again. He couldn’t eat, though the elf had left him dinner. Sleep seemed pointless — surely he could sleep in his prison cell the next evening, once the aurors came and arrested him. Or he’d sleep when he was dead.

There was nothing left to try. So he sat beside her for a while, holding her hand in his. The smooth skin soft and not quite warm enough. It didn’t grip his fingers or squeeze the knuckle bones. He wouldn’t figure the antidote out in time, and if the Ministry did their job and figured it out, he wanted to leave something with her. So that no matter when she woke, she would know that he tried.

The pendant that he gave her to hold Theo’s blood was a family heirloom. When he was fifteen, he’d gone to Gringotts with his mother to tour the vaults and collect a few pieces of jewelry she wanted. While they were there she’d given it to him. For when you have a witch to cherish, she’d said. The pendent was meant to hold something special from the heir. A Black family tradition, for men to gift their paramours. In the past they’d been filled with hair. Sometimes a poison. His grandmother, Druella Rosier Black, wore a vial of her husband Cygnus’s blood, from the day their betrothal agreement was signed until they were both buried in adjacent plots.

Restless, he started working on a new potion. Granger carried little bottles of blue flame in her expanded bag. Constant light in darkness, even a darkness curse. He sought to create something like that. Something that never diminished. He’d seen a few different brews for light sources in his various texts and began to fashion his own. Pouring everything he felt into the steps. While he waited for the incomplete antidote to brew once again. Hoping that something would spark inspiration.

Anxious and scared for her, he let his emotions sink fully into his magic. The way that she lit up his darkest impulses. The way that her touch was like fire. Dragon scales added luminescence to most brews, and he paid a lot of galleons to get his hands on those of a Hebridean Black at the Vine of Plenty. Adding them last, with careful stirs, until they were incorporated. The potion was a pale, silvery glow, almost like a patronus, in the cauldron where he’d been experimenting. He worked on the little light. On the warmth in his bones when he pictured her smile. The heat beneath his skin when he thought of her kiss. Until he’d created a little star.

He added the silver light to the pendant, sealing it with a spell. It glowed in his hand and he had to put it in his pocket. Everything would remind him of her. Every glimpse of the sun beyond the walls of Azkaban or reflected on water, in his mind, when he pushed thoughts of her to sea. They were tied together now, like the knotgrass he used in potions.

There had been knotgrass in the poison, of that he was positive. The Dark Lord’s followers —the Sacred Twenty Eight — bound themselves together, knowingly or otherwise. Blood taken without permission from those on the other side. Those who fought against the Dark Lord. Like the Longbottoms, tortured to madness beneath his aunt’s wand. Was that when their blood had been taken?

What could cancel them all out? Death would only add permanence. And so many of the remaining pureblood families had perished in the war or in the years since. Losing bloodlines wouldn’t work and he wasn’t the murdering type anyway. Draco thought about his conversation with the Guardian, and how he’d always known that Granger’s blood status couldn’t really matter in the way he’d been taught. Because if a Muggleborn witch were that extraordinary, he could acknowledge that they were the same. Their blood was the same. And with that, and crossing the property lines into Nott Manor with Theo’s blood, he thought that maybe it was more simple than he’d let himself believe.

A sacrifice. Magic liked poetry and symmetry. He pulled Granger’s books on runes from her satchel. Reading through them and writing down different runic combinations. Then he began to work on an incantation using a few different existing incantations for sacrifice and even some for binding rituals, the kind that linked souls. Alliges duplicia sounded like a place to start. To bind in two.

The antidote simmered. And using his silver knife, the one he kept on his person, he spoke the first words, anima mea, anima vestra, idem — my soul, your soul, the same — and pressed the blade into the soft flesh of his palm. A bead of blood gathered at the tip, and he added it to the cauldron. It turned the liquid near golden. The smell was soothing. It was midnight and the poison from Nott Manor was still half full. There wouldn’t be much time to test anything else, so Draco siphoned a drop of the poison and a drop of the antidote. Testing them in the suspension he’d kept under stasis.

The golden antidote spread into thin tendrils, reaching around the inky poison. Until it covered it completely. The droplet doubled in size, and with a gasping sigh, it dissipated. Leaving behind clear, pure water.

Draco stared at it, gripping the table so tightly it creaked. He turned to look at Granger, asleep and perfect on his sofa. Gathering the antidote in a small vial, he stepped towards her. Heart racing. His owl tapped on the window, and he waved his wand to let her in. Another note from Theo, dropped on the work table.

He knelt beside the couch and gently eased her body to lean against the armrest. Supporting her with one arm around her shoulders. Then he pulled her bottom lip down with his thumb and placed a single drop of the antidote on her tongue. Holding her and waiting. Feeling his heart stop.

Color returned to her cheeks first. Little inhales and exhales through her nose. Lashes fluttering. Then she let out a contented sigh, as if waking from a nap. Blinking at him.

She smiled, and it was sunlight. It was warmth and health and alive. 

“I told you you were brilliant,” she said, and he folded over her, burying his face in her neck. The warm skin. Right where he could feel a pulse against his cheek. Steady. Breathing in the peppermint and shortbread and rose. He trembled beneath her touch where she carded her fingers through his hair. Smoothing the strands over and over. Her other hand on his back. “What’s wrong?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” He said, muffled.

“What?”

He pulled back just enough to look at her. Casting a diagnostic spell as he did so. Marvelling at how undamaged she was. How perfectly Granger her response to it all was. “Do you have any idea what I’ve—how could—are you—”

Granger sat up and brushed his hair back, running her hand over his forehead. “Draco just breathe. Your heart is racing—”

“Of course it is, Granger, you’ve been in a coma for days and it’s after midnight. My heart’s been racing for three fucking days.”

“What does the time matter? Was I really asleep for that long? That can’t be right, I just barely closed my eyes.”

He couldn’t believe how angry he was. And how like his mother he was when he was angry. Quiet and cold. Seething, not simmering. “The time matters because Potter gave me until Monday morning to fix this, to get a proper antidote before he had to tell Robards. It matters because if you hadn’t woken up—”

“They would have arrested you?”

“I would have lost you!” He said, voice raised. “I don’t fucking care about being arrested, it’s happened to me before.”

She cupped his cheek and forced him to look at her fully. Into the eyes that saw him. “Hey,” she said, and leaned forward, resting her forehead on his. “You didn’t lose me. You won’t. I knew you could do it.”

“Don’t you know it’s foolish to place your trust in someone like me?”

“I’ve done it before,” she said, pulling back slightly and gripping his hand. “I’d do it again. I don’t have to think twice about things, remember?”

He breathed for a few moments, until the fear that had taken over slithered off of him. “You’re probably tired—or maybe hungry.” Leaving his spot on the floor he released her hand and went to the work table to get the letter from Theo. Update? It said. He grabbed a quill and ink and wrote a reply across the back, Figured it out and she’s alright. Going to rest now. Tell Potter we’ll bring the antidote to him first thing in the morning. If he shows up at my door I will hex him. Hesper waited on her perch and he attached the letter before sending her off into the night. Shutting the window behind her.

There was some soup Tippy left and he made her eat it. Watching her lift the spoon to her lips. Casting diagnostics and making tea and asking her how she felt. If she could sense anything different in her magic. She cast some spells, first simple then more complicated. Bloody brilliant as ever.

“If you can manage you might want to send Potter a patronus, just so he doesn’t show up here unannounced again,” he said, giving her some privacy while she cast the charm that alluded him. Whispering a quick hello to her friend.

He cleared the work table, organizing everything and shrinking the ingredients back into the case Tippy had brought them in. Then he cleaned the cauldrons, putting the completed antidote into a flask and vanishing the others. He pulled more of his blood and added it to a separate flask, placing it with the antidote and instructions for brewing it. Until there was nothing left on the tabletop but scraps of parchment and some books.

“Where’s my necklace?” Granger asked. She’d stood from the sofa and now leaned against the table beside him.

“Your what?”

She blushed. He’d missed that. The way it crept down her neck, half hidden by curls. “The pendent you gave me. I was wearing it — before.”

It was heavy in his pocket. He hadn’t thought he’d get to see her hold it. Making it was like a goodbye. And now it was more momentous than he’d prepared for. He cleared his throat and pulled the chain from his pocket. Holding the pendent at his chest, covering the glass in his fist.

“When you were—I thought—I wanted to give you something.” He gradually opened his hand, letting it shine. “It’s like your little blue flames,” he said, watching her reach for it. She looked at the glass, tracing her thumb over the stars. The glow dusted across her face. “It will glow brighter in darker places. The lights in here aren’t—”

“You made this?” She breathed, and he nodded.

“Yes,” he said. When she looked up at him her eyes were lined with silver.

“It’s for me?”

He took it from her hands and moved her hair off of her neck. Clasping the pendant in place. She held it again, and when their eyes met he said, “It’s a Black family tradition. It’s yours. If you want to keep it.” I’m yours, he thought, maybe I’ve always been yours.

When the first tear fell she pressed onto her toes and kissed him. It was delicate, and he felt the tear slip from her cheek to his, running down his throat. She looped her arms around his neck, tugging him closer. Until they wrapped together. Holding each other as close as they could.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered against his lips, taking them back and with them every bit of anger he’d felt at her recklessness. “I’m so sorry for scaring you.” He moved to her jaw, peppering it until he reached her ear. “I’m sorry I put you through that.”

He pulled away slightly. “Just…Promise me you won’t give into your worst ideas without at least running them by me first.”

“I’d rather it be me than someone else,” she said, and he clenched his jaw.

“And I’d rather it never be you again.”

They looked at each other, and she touched the pendant again. “I do want to keep you—to keep it,” she said.

“Then you have to promise.” The words were low, taken from him. “Never again.”

“I promise.”

“Good,” he said, “Good.” And for the first time in days he kissed her how he’d wanted to. Slipping his hands under her jumper to hold her hips close. She tugged at his scalp and opened for him, letting their tongues meet again. Losing himself to the feel of her, the taste. The way she sighed and melted against him, leaving no space between their bodies. Just heat and friction. Hands roaming while they kissed. Slowly, at first. A languid pace while they shared more than just breath. Draco thought that he felt their magic touch. Two souls reaching for each other in the dark, meeting in the bright spark between them.

In the stories, it was a kiss that brought the heroine back. And she’d come back to him with vigor. Taking the lead and spinning them so that she could lean against the table. Pulling him so that her back bent, and he broke away just long enough to sweep the remaining stacks of parchment and potions texts to the floor. Forgetting that he could have levitated them neatly. Then he lowered the table with quick transfiguration and lifted her onto it at the perfect height. Slotting himself between her legs. She pressed her knees to either side of his hips and squeezed.

He’d missed her. The ardent way she held the skin at the back of his neck. Tracing his throat with her thumb. How she tightened her grip on him, whether it was with her legs or her arms or her fingers laced with his. As if she couldn’t imagine ever letting go. He missed her lips, and the gentle kisses. He missed the lazy, soft kisses with just a slip of tongue. He missed the ones that made him dizzy, with tugs from her teeth and increased pressure. The little moans and hums and sighs — he thought he missed those the most.

Pulling away to look at her, he took in the flushed skin and rosy lips. The darkened eyes and fluttering lashes. Yes, he quite missed when she looked like this. But mostly he’d missed her. The way her mind was like an endless cavern of a library. How she challenged him and believed in him. Talking with her. Just being with her.

He kissed her lightly, rubbing his thumb across her cheek. The other circling her hip bone. They had hours before they had to report to the Ministry, and as selfish as he was raised to be he knew he had to get permission first. To make sure she knew that if she said yes, he wouldn’t leave any time. It would be everything.

“We should— You should rest.”

“I’ve been resting,” she kissed his neck. “For what was it, three days?” That spot just beneath his jaw that made him mad. “You’re the one who probably needs to rest.”  His lips again. Slowly.

“You know I don’t sleep,” he said, the words skating across her mouth. “Not without you, anyway.”

“Do you want to? Go to sleep?” She scratched patterns across his chest, over the scars and his heartbeat. Looking up at him.

“Never been more awake, Granger.”

Draco tugged her blouse over her head, tangling one hand in her curls. Claiming her mouth once more. With nimble fingers she undid his buttons and pushed his shirt to the floor. When she started on his belt, grazing him in the process, he groaned. He’d missed her hands.

There were faded marks on her collarbone. He sucked them, pulling the skin between his teeth and watching the skin bloom once more. She was his, and he wanted everyone to know. The Wizarding World at large could get fucked for all he cared. Because he had Hermione in his arms, singing little bits of praise and shoving his trousers down. It was trickier to remove her own, yanking them off her legs and tossing them aside. He pressed a kiss to her knees, running his hands over her calves as he stepped out of his trousers.

She pulled him back up, taking his mouth again. Their hands clasped, fingers linking while he leaned over her, pressing her closer to the table.

“I missed you,” he said, and using one hand he guided her to lay across the table. She leaned up on her elbows and watched as he began a trail of hot, open kisses from her sternum down. Right next to where the pendant of light rested on her chest. She’d worn a matching set — which meant she’d thought of this, thought of him, when she’d put it on. It was the kind of lace that begged to be seen. To be admired. To be kissed.

He let his nose nudge at the top of her knickers and she smiled down at him. When he placed a chaste kiss on the little bow at the center she grinned. And he thought they could play this game whenever she wished. For as long as she wanted.

“I think I missed you too,” she said, and he moved his eyes from the goal of his journey to find hers on the ceiling. “Even though it wasn’t — It only felt like a few minutes. But I miss you when you’re not with me.” She looked down at him again and he stood tall, leaning over her. “Is that too much?”

“Granger, I’m fucking spare without you.” He kissed her again, never enough. Never enough of her. “Don’t you understand? I’m so bloody yours.” She whimpered when he slipped a hand between them, under the lace to feel her.

“You’re mine,” she whispered, brushing his lips with the words. “And I’m yours.”

He traced her, dipping into her center and back, a slow path while they kissed. It was consuming, he thought. To want nothing more than to touch her forever. To show her everything he couldn’t articulate with words. To feel her respond in kind.

Once more he left her mouth, making his way down her body. Kneeling in front of her like a supplicant. He removed her knickers and placed them on the floor beside him. Intent on nothing but giving her pleasure. Of feeling every shiver beneath her skin.

He focused on light, teasing strokes. Listening to her breaths. Reveling in the taste — better than his memories. Everything was better than he’d let his mind focus on over the last week. From the way she reached down and laced her fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp while he worked her to the quiver in her thighs, desperately trying not to clamp on his head. The mewling sounds she made when he hummed around her clit, wrapping his tongue around it over and over. When she came it was silent, her face scrunched and her throat clicking while he worked her slowly, easing her down.

As she caught her breath he licked her again. Thought he could do it for hours. Alternating between that and sucking the skin of her thighs. Her hips.

“Please,” she whimpered, one hand tugging at his hair and the other reaching for his jaw. He looked up at her, with the wild hair and flushed face. Perfectly imperfect. And his.

He tasted her skin, just above her hip. The spot he loved to hold onto. It was soft and supple, the skin warm and inviting. “Please what?” He asked, taking one of her hands in his as he traversed the path he’d made down her body. Swirling his tongue around her belly button. Kissing beneath her breasts. Kneading one while working the other, sliding her hardened nipple beneath his tongue and between his teeth. Teasing her while she moaned.

“Please,” she said again, panting. Her grip on his hand tightened and he released her breast to press a finger inside of her. Slick with pleasure. He was hard and he wanted her more than ever. “Please let me touch you.”

Now he wanted her more than ever. His cock twitched and he surged forward for her mouth, delving inside with his tongue while she reached for his trunks. Vanishing them and tossing her wand behind her. The wood clattered on the table and dropped to the floor. She held his face in both hands, kissing him hard enough to bruise.

When she stroked him he stuttered — he’d missed her hands. The way she’d twist at the end. The way she knew how much pressure he liked.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he said again. He’d missed her. He’d missed her even though she hadn’t left. It was dizzying, how much he’d needed her. How much he’d wanted to ask her advice. Ask what she thought. Talk to her about his theories and his research. To know what she thought. To have her there, but not there. He’d missed her.

Nudging her lower back with one hand, he pulled behind her knees with the other until she perched at the end of the table. Level so that he could press into her with ease. She pumped him a few more times while he played with her clit and sucked at the spot behind her ear.

When she lined them up he pulled back to look in her eyes. At the way they met his. Shining, with pupils blown wide. He sank into her and they both blinked quickly at the sensation. Pressing deeper while she caught her breath. Gripping her hip with one hand and holding her face. Kissing her again. Slow, matching the pace of his thrusts with the movement of their tongues.

She placed her hands on his shoulders. Letting her wrists rest there while her hands held his face close. The table rattled when he went faster. The wood creaked. And they laughed a little at it, pressing their lips together. Humming through the humor. Until he hit a spot deep within her that made her gasp against his mouth. Pressing her cheek against his while she panted. Pulling him closer. He kissed across her shoulder, drawing shapes over her fading freckles with his tongue.

“Oh god,” she whimpered, walls squeezing him. Her thighs squeezing his hips. Her hands squeezing the back of his neck and his shoulder. Whispering his name.

He went faster, slipping a hand between them to trace circles over her clit. Loops and swirls while she ratcheted higher and higher. Until her body pulsed, and he could feel himself tightening with each flutter around his cock.

The words spilled from his mouth unfiltered. He’d said them before, when they were trapped in the Manor. When he realized he never wished to be parted from her. He said them now, when he knew he would never let it happen.

“No more heroics,” he said. “Never again. Never let anything happen to you.”

“I promise,” she said, and he kept moving on her, drawing it out as much as he could. “Never again.”

“So lost without you,” he said against her temple, letting himself breathe in her curls and the smell of her skin. “Need you safe. With me. Always.”

He gasped, and his pace became frantic. Couldn’t think clearly. Couldn’t tell what fell from his mouth anymore. Until at last he spilled into her, holding her against him. Cradled to his chest while she shook. When he could move his limbs he pulled back just enough to tilt her face up to him. Looking for any signs of pain or discomfort and seeing only bliss.

“You’re alright?” He said, and he knew it wasn’t just for this moment that he was asking. “You’re okay?”

She nodded and claimed his mouth, kissing him until he softened and pulled out of her.

“I’m alright,” she said, resting her forehead against his. “We’re okay.”

For a moment they stayed like that, with just their noses brushing. Sometimes they kissed. Then he carried her to the bedroom and told her everything that happened while she was asleep. About the different brewing methods and ingredients. About Potter and Theo. About his mother. About the Princess and the Wiggenweld potion. And she stroked his arm and hooked their fingers and traced the scars on his chest. She asked questions and he answered them. Until it was nearly dawn, and they needed to sleep.

“Draco?” She said, burrowing closer. They were on their sides, facing each other. His arm under her pillow and her legs tangled with his.

“Hmm?” He blinked in the dark, trying to stay awake a little longer.

“If I promise no more heroics you have to promise I can sleep in this bed as often as I like.”

As often as forever, he hoped. “What if you drool? Do you know how high this thread count is?”

“No, and neither do you I’d gather.”

He nudged her with his nose and she kissed him. “You said you’re mine,” he whispered.

“I am.”

“And I’m yours.”

“Actually you said you’re bloody mine. Emphasis is important you know.”

He pressed her back to the mattress. “I’m bloody yours,” he said, and took the words from her mouth. Wrapping around her. Breathing in the warmth and the light. Until he saw her, and she was lovely. She was his.

Notes:

To the reader who called it "Chekov's Draco's Secret" — at long last it has gone off. I'm really sad to say the Guardian has made its final appearance.

Thank you so much for reading and for commenting. The kindness in the comments has brought me light on dark days and I'm so grateful for everyone who takes the time to comment, from the emojis to the long reviews, I cherish them all. 🖤🖤🖤

We're back to Saturday updates next week, for real this time!

Chapter 26

Hermione hadn’t been tired but she dozed for about an hour before blinking awake once more. Greeted with the sight of Draco’s face pressed into her pillow, just next to hers. One of his arms draped over her middle. Even little breaths ghosting over her face. The pale light of morning creeping through the curtains. There was a softness to his features when he slept—as if the tension melted away once he finally drifted off.

It was still early, and there were a few hours before they’d need to leave for the Ministry. She wanted a shower but not as much as she wanted to just be next to him, watching him sleep. There were many things she felt guilty for — her relationship with her parents, so fractured before the war, and now they did not know her, might never know her again. The way she treated Ron, towards the end, when they’d both realized it wasn’t working and he turned even more complacent while she got mean. How often she forgot to return owls from her friends, scattered across the country. But when she’d woken from her poison-induced slumber and saw what she’d done to Draco, she knew that as horrible as removing her parents memories was, it was not as bad as this.

Because what she saw on his face was what she felt when he’d been thrown like a rag doll onto the sculpture room floor. It was all her worst memories, playing over and over as she stared into a reflecting pool. It was watching him reach for a cursed tiara, taking the brunt of its curse so that she didn’t have to. She’d thought by testing the antidote on herself that she would save others from pain. Instead she’d caused it, to the one person she couldn’t bear to see hurt again. The person she would always try to save.

His brow furrowed, and the hand slung over her waist tightened. The fingers twitching against her ribs. Hermione spent most of the night apologizing, in between his stories of what she’d missed. Sometimes aloud, but mostly in her thoughts. In her touches and kisses. She’d apologize forever if he let her. If it had been reversed, she would have been furious. How many times did he make a quip about not sleeping, and she took sleep from him in her moment of misplaced heroism. Moment of stupidity, really. She sighed, mentally chastising herself some more, when he stirred again.

With a sharp intake of breath he snapped his head to the side and woke, immediately looking towards the door. When she reached for his face he breathed out.

“Granger,” he whispered, and laid back down.

“You’re alright,” she said. “Just a dream.”

Draco nodded and watched her for a few moments, turning so that he lay on his back.

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

He shook his head. “No, it’s...nothing for you to worry about.”

“What if I want to worry about it?” She replied, scooting closer. “What then?”

His eyes flicked to the ceiling and his nostrils flared on his exhales. “I couldn’t tell what was real,” he said. “If you were actually here or not.”

“Draco, I’m so sorry—”

“Stop,” he said, sitting up. She followed and frowned, holding the sheet to her chest. “Please don’t misunderstand me. I don’t need you to apologize anymore.” He reached over for her, cradling her skull in his hand. “I know you’re sorry. You don’t have to keep saying it. However, if you’d like to keep showing it to me with your mouth…”

She nudged his nose with hers. “I don’t want to be the reason you can’t sleep.”

He pulled her closer, enveloping her with his arms. Pressing his cheek to the top of her head. “Granger, I won’t lie to you. That’s a promise I want to keep. And because of that promise I’ll admit that you’ll be the reason I don’t sleep for the rest of my life, but only when you’re not here.”

“What about when I am?”

“Then I’ll relish the few hours of slumber I manage to get before you accidentally kick me or snore so loudly I wake up.”

She smacked his chest in a playful way. “I do not snore! I can provide references as proof.”

“No, no—that won’t be necessary,” he said, gathering her close once more. Tangling their legs. “Only a little longer.”

“Only a little longer what?”

“Until time starts again and I have to share you once more.”

“Best make the most of it then,” she replied, and brushed her lips over his jaw. Pressing closer as she strayed to his neck. Making a path along the column of his throat until she reached the edge of a scar, just beneath the collarbone. Tasting it with her tongue. “If you’re not too tired,” she added, gazing up at him.

The slow, predatory tilt of his lips stole her breath. He slowly shook his head, and she remembered to breathe. Continuing her journey across his chest. Down the ragged scar that pulled in thick, pink lines. Reaching across the pale skin from hip to sternum, spread out like crackling lightning. Long fingers combed her hair from her face as she pressed a soft kiss to his hip bone, just over the end of the scar. Grey eyes seared into her own when she slipped her tongue out to taste him. Lightly tracing over the head of his hardened cock before wrapping her lips around it.

There was power in pleasure. It was something she only learned in the act — not from books. From books she learned semantics and positions and how to keep her jaw from locking up. But here, on her knees, using the mouth that was always just a little too smart and the hands that were always high in the air ready to answer questions, she felt more in charge than she ever had. A swirl of her tongue could give her the most wonderful response. When she pulled her cheeks in, sucking to take him deeper, she’d receive praise and promises like no other.

One hand was in her hair, gently tugging at the scalp while she moved. Another squeezed at her hip.

“Granger,” he rasped, pulling harder on her curls. Away from him. “Wait—”

She licked the tip and grinned, ready to take him once more. Instead he pulled her up and over, so that she straddled him. Then he tugged her hips until he could lap at her center.

Hermione gasped, and his cock twitched in her hand. For a moment she was dazed, pressing herself against his face. The perfect nose she loved to brush with her own nudging her clit while he tasted her. Long swipes of his tongue and swirls around her entrance. Burying himself in her. Teasing her.

This was supposed to be for him, she thought, and licked up and down the shaft, along the vein and back. Coating him so that when she took him in her mouth again it was deeper. He moaned against her and the vibrations made her legs shake. There would be marks on her hips, the tops of her thighs, the flesh of her arse where he held her tightly. Whenever she’d done this for a partner it was on her knees, solitary. Never had it been shared pleasure. Simultaneous and insatiable.

She stroked his thigh, admiring the muscles while she bobbed her head. Most witches went on and on about abdominals and while she could appreciate them, there was nothing better than strong legs. They had stamina, after all. And she’d learned how to breathe through her nose, prolonging pleasure for a male partner. Books could be quite instructive. Her technique became less precise the more he worked her. The tingling in her thighs quickened, and she knew she was close. Chasing her pleasure and riding his face. Moaning around him.

When he came she swallowed it down, the taste hot and musky and new. She caught her breath and cleaned every drop with her tongue. The gusts of his breath against her core made her shiver. Before she could climb off of him he leaned forward and laved at her clit, pressing a finger inside of her. Pumping and curling it until she came, legs shaking and vision pure white.

He gathered her in his arms, cradled against his chest while she caught her breath. Lashes fluttering as her orgasm subsided.

“I think you’re forgiven for at least one additional transgression, Granger,” he said, skating his knuckles down her spine.

She stretched up to look at him, at the pink on his fair cheeks and the lazy grin. There was a shine to his teeth, like he’d cast a tooth-cleaning charm. She summoned her wand and did the same, cleaning the sweat from them both before tossing it aside. And kissing him soundly.

“Does that mean I get a free pass for more heroics?”

He slapped her arse gently, and it gave her a bit of a thrill. “No heroics. But perhaps a minor Gryffindor moment. You’re sure to have at least one of those today.”

It was still early, the sun just starting to peek into the windows. “Are these points cumulative?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” He squeezed her and captured her mouth, tangling their tongues and nipping her lip. “What are you scheming?”

Hermione stretched and moved off of his lithe body to kneel on the bed. Reaching for his hand she tugged him until he followed. “We’re both in need of a shower, I think.” He smirked at her, casting his eyes over her body. The soft curve of her stomach and hips, the small roundness of her breasts. The war made her thin, malnourished, but she’d filled out over the years since. She’d always envied the slimmer figures of her female friends and their curvier bustlines. But watching Draco admire her body pulled the envy from her like a whip. She’d never seen such unrestrained devotion, even from couples she knew to be deeply in love.

Their fingers hooked and she walked on quiet feet to the washroom. While he fiddled with the taps she admired the muscles in his back and the line of his shoulders. So much better than she’d imagined, the times she’d ogled him in his robes at the Ministry. They washed and kissed beneath the stream of water, hands wandering. He sucked on her neck, just beneath her ear. Whispering about peppermint while the flat of his tongue curled around her earlobe.

Water dripped from her body. Bubbles of soap slid between her breasts. It was difficult not to touch him. To feel the warmth of his body under her hands. To press her ear to his chest and listen to the thump of his heart. When the shampoo was rinsed and the suds swirled in the drain, he wrapped her in the plushest towel and lifted her onto the counter beside the sink.

She watched him put product in his hair. Tousling it in an artful way. She watched him shave with a straight razor, scraping it over his jaw. A Muggle and old fashioned thing that somehow suited him. She watched him apply after shave and creams and a dab of cologne. Until she was so ready for him to pound her against the mirror. But he merely lifted her from her perch, set her on her feet, and sauntered back to the bedroom, talking about breakfast and coffee and things she didn’t pay attention to. Heading for his wardrobe.

“Not hungry,” she said, and with a light shove she maneuvered them back toward the bed. It was still early, she reasoned, and what was it Muggles called it? A honeymoon stage? She wasn’t entirely sure but she pressed her mouth to his and deepened the kiss immediately. Taking the soft chuckle and memorizing the way it tasted. Like salted caramels.

The towel dropped from her body and she pulled his from his waist. Before she could push him onto the mattress and climb into his lap he lifted her up, wrapping her legs around him. With one hand beneath her, kneading at her backside while the other controlled the angle of their kiss. She could feel him move, not knowing the destination. Linking her arms behind his head to keep his face close. Moving her hips until her core rubbed against the hardened length between their bodies.

“Draco,” she whispered, letting her lips brush over his. The tip of her nose skimming his cheekbone.

He bit her lip and released it with a groan. “Anything you want,” he murmured.

“I just wanted to say your name.”

“Say it as much as you like,” he said, dropping her on the bed. Looming over her with a grin. “Scream it, if you prefer.”

She pulled his wrist until he bent down to kiss her, reaching between her legs to stroke her. Matching the moments of his fingers with the slide of his tongue. She didn’t need much help to be ready for him, and when he pushed inside of her with a hard thrust she sighed his name. When he gripped her knee, opening her further, she whined it. Scratching her nails down his back as they moved together, whispering it in his ear.

One of her legs slung over his shoulder and he quickened his pace, hip bones connecting with her own. The slap of skin on skin. The noises that always embarrassed her only spurred her. She pressed her ankle against his shoulder and he leaned forward, folding her and hitting a spot deep inside of her.

Sunlight spilled into the room from the edge of the curtains. Turning his pale hair glowing golden. He muttered against her neck, praises and curses and maybe even her own name. So she said his once more, dragging it out along the touch from clever fingers between her legs. Until she couldn’t form words, only sounds. And when she came back down from suspended bliss he looked at her fully, the thoughtful way he had always looked at her. Like he saw something there that no one else did. And he had to keep looking before it was lost.

She knew that look. It was how she always looked at him.

They lay together after he came. Catching their breath and sharing shy smiles and bold kisses. Until the little lion in her heart refused to be ignored.

“We can’t stay in bed forever,” she said.

Draco sighed and rubbed a hand over his face and up into his hair, which stuck up all over from where she’d used her hands on it. So much for his careful pomade application. And so much for their shower. “Merlin forbid you have a lie in on a Monday.”

“What if I make a bargain with you?” She said, thinking of Tippy and the elf’s ability to get what she wanted from her employer.

“That depends on your terms,” he replied. Then he strode naked across the room to his closet.

“I promise to skive off of work on the day of your choosing,” he poked his head from the door, “after we deliver the antidote and the assailant is caught.” The bright smile dimmed a little, but he nodded.

“Alright, Granger,” he said, and stepped back to her side of the bed with an outstretched hand. He’d pulled on a pair of black trousers.

“Do you seriously require that I shake your hand?”

“That is traditionally how one agrees to terms.”

She stretched up and kissed him instead. “Does that work?”

Rather than answer he hummed and pulled her chin back to kiss her again, more thoroughly. When he released her he said, “Bargain with me more.”

Hermione walked with him to his closet and trailed her hand over the fine silk shirts and wool suits and bespoke robes hanging there. The criminally soft jumpers folded neatly on shelves. Rows of ties, dragon leather shoes and boots, heavy cloaks. A true wardrobe. And all of it in the colors of storm clouds and obsidian.

“I’m borrowing this,” she said, selecting a black jumper that felt supple against her bare skin. She slipped it on and went to find her bag, hoping that there was still another clean pair of kickers in there somewhere. Her brassiere was on the floor and so were her grey trousers.

“I haven’t agreed to terms,” he called from the bedroom.

“You can mull them over,” she replied, and finished dressing. Draco’s owl pecked at the window so she let it in.

“Hesper, what do you have for me?” He said, and she flapped over Hermione’s head to land on his offered arm. There was a note and a small parcel tied to one of her legs. Draco read the note with a gentle smile before opening the parcel. Inside was something very small.

“What is it?” She asked. As she stepped closer he enlarged it, and held it out to her. A single rose. An Old English, if her memory was right.

“For you.” He handed it to her and she breathed in its sweet scent.

“Where’s it from?”

“My mother,” he replied. With his back to her he went to the kitchen and began to call out options for breakfast. “Tea? Or perhaps coffee?”

“Coffee, please. Your mother sent a single rose to me? Isn’t that more of a romantic gesture than an introduction?”

“I wrote her last night while you slept and she sent it along. Some of the pedals from this rose bush are in the antidote. It’s a good start. She’s trying.”

It was a thoughtful gesture, and one that Hermione didn’t take lightly. She cast a charm to prolong its life and tucked it into her bag. While they sipped coffee and nibbled scones she indulged in the kinds of looks she wouldn’t be able to give him outside of the flat. The lingering kind.

“I will make us both late for work and you will deal with the consequences if you keep looking at me like that,” he said from behind his cup.

She blushed and drank another gulp of coffee. “Just getting my fill, that’s all.”

The grey eyes across from her darkened, a summer thunderstorm rolling across the horizon. A press of his foot beside hers. It made her insides simmer.

“Stop that,” she said, laughing a little. She brought their empty cups and plates to the sink. Setting them to wash with a quick spell. When she turned he was just behind her and she breathed in sharply. He reached for her hand and traced her knuckles with the tip of his finger. Eyes on her face.

“Stop what?”

He did it again, and the side of his mouth curved when her breath caught. “That. Stop that.”

“Why? Afraid your hands are dirty?” She scrunched her nose. “If yours are dirty so are mine.” He pressed his lips across the top of her hand. Flicking his tongue over the freckles there.

“Okay, okay, I yield,” she said, snatching her hand back before she used it to lock all the doors and windows forever.

“Come on, before Potter shows up with his savior face on and I have to hex him, as promised.”

“What do you mean, as promised?”

Draco opened the door for her and followed her into the hallway, resetting his wards and locking the door behind them. “I made a minor threat when I wrote to him and Theo last night. Honestly surprised he gave us privacy for an entire seven hours.”

“So then—Does—Harry knows about us?” She asked, and color bloomed on his cheekbones. Faint, but a blush all the same.

“Not—I didn’t get into specifics but he made assumptions that I didn’t correct.”

Hermione nodded and climbed down the stairs, out onto the cool morning of the Muggle neighborhood. “Well, I did tell him that I would only share when he was ready to share about his love life. I suppose now that I know about Theo it’s only fair that he knows about us.”

Draco was quiet as they reached the end of his road. “He told me he didn’t need you to tell him, that he knew you enough to guess.”

They walked down the streets of Muggle London, Draco placing a guiding hand to her lower back whenever they had to cross. Skating his fingers across her hip before dropping them to his side.

“Yes, well, he’s gotten more perceptive over the years. That something they train you on in the Auror department?” She laced her fingers with his as they reached the apparition point, ready to spin them off to Diagon when he pulled back.

“Should probably travel separately,” he said, but his voice lilted at the end, turning it almost into a question. One that she wanted to answer before they misunderstood each other, as they had so often done.

“People look at me,” she said, holding his hand with both of hers. Tracing the bones of his fingers and the little scars. “I hate it but I endure it. The thought of people—If you’d rather not subject yourself to the stares I understand but you don’t have to do it for me.”

“Granger,” he said, tightening his grip until she looked up at him. “Do you know how many people point their wands at me when I walk down the street?” She opened her mouth to defend him but he cut her off. “If you want even more attention, by all means hold my hand or snog me in public, I won’t turn away. But if you—I understand wanting to keep something just for yourself.” He ran his thumb across her knuckles and pressed her hand against his chest. “And I think I’d rather keep you to myself for a while, before the harpies set down on me.”

Hermione gave him one last kiss, flexing her fingers against his, over his heart. “Harpies are nothing. We’ve had worse.”

“We’ve also had harpies; of the stone variety.”

She laughed and released his hand. “See you at the Ministry, then? Meet at Robard’s office?”

He nodded, and they both turned on their heels and left the alley behind.

 

---

                                                                                                    

Draco landed outside Theo’s flat and let himself in. “Theo, I’m using your floo,” he shouted, and climbed up the stairs. His friend wore a dressing gown as he prepared coffee in the kitchen.

“Your rudeness knows no bounds,” Theo said, adding several spoons of sugar to one mug. The man drank his black. “Not even a good morning.”

“Tell Potter not to be late for work,” Draco replied, and stepped into the fireplace. Emerging in the lobby of the Ministry just as Hermione crossed the atrium to the lifts. She wore different shoes than the ugly, dowdy ones she normally favored. And with her fitted trousers he had to keep his gaze on the floor in front of him. She carried her cloak in one hand, and wore a magically tailored jumper. One of his favorites.

He watched her step into the lift and pressed his way around lingering crowds until he made it into the same one just as the gates closed. Their eyes met and he smirked at her before settling just beside her. Their arms brushing.

“Hermione!” A male voice called and Draco felt his eye twitch.

“Hello, Cormac,” she replied. And then he felt it, the slightest touch. Her little finger grazing his. Draco smiled, and couldn’t hear whatever drivel McLaggen went on about. Instead he went over everything he’d need to tell Robards and the Poisons and Potions department about his antidote. The batch he’d made was in a shrunken flask in his pocket, beside another of his blood. They’d need to get the incantation just right when they added it. He probably should be the one to add it, he thought. Unless there was a pureblood in the Ministry willing to do it. It was unlikely that Robards wanted to alarm people by making an announcement for a volunteer to drain their blood.

Hermione’s little finger looped around his own and squeezed. He looked up and the lift had emptied. She released him and stepped into the hallway, walking ahead of him through the auror department.

“Don’t you need to stop at your desk?” He asked. They were earlier than most, and when they reached Draco’s empty desk he leaned against it.

She worried her lip between her teeth. It was a shade or two darker than it had been the day before. “I suppose I should at least check in with my boss — where do they think I was on Friday?”

“Potter told them you were ill, I’m unsure of the specifics.”

“Right.” She sighed. “I should see Harry then.”

When she made for the Chosen One’s office he called out, “He might be a bit late this morning.”

Draco couldn’t tell for sure, but he thought she rolled her eyes as she opened the door. Shutting it behind her. Potter had a private floo in his office. The perks of being the savior of wizarding Britain never ended.

Draco removed his cloak and hung it on the coatrack behind his desk. None of his colleagues had arrived so he was able to claim the tallest knob, ensuring the fabric did not skim the floor. Then he rewrote his instructions for the antidote as neatly as possible, making several copies once he was done.

Robards arrived at 9 o’clock sharp, wearing navy robes and drinking a steaming cup of tea with lemon, no sweetener.

“Malfoy,” he said in greeting. “Feeling better?”

“Er—yes, quite.” Before the Head Auror could disappear into his office Draco followed him.

“Sir, I’ve created an antidote for the poison from Nott Manor.”

Robards stopped and faced him, one hand on his office door. “Oh? How is that even possible?”

Draco cringed. “It—”

“It was possible because I took a vial of the poison before we turned it over to you,” Granger said, having materialized beside him. Potter at her heels. “And Draco is clearly underused in your department, sir. He should be brewing—”

“Did you know about this?” Robards asked Potter, who had always been a shit liar.

“Well, I—”

“Auror Robards,” Granger interrupted, “if Draco and I could explain everything to you, we can get the antidote to St. Mungo’s immediately and begin brewing additional batches.”

Robards gestured for them all to file into his office. It magically adjusted to the amount of people in the room. The one of guest chairs that normally stood opposite his desk split into a slightly less comfortable sofa. Potter took the chair on the right, allowing Granger to sit beside him. Crossing her long legs as she sat. He internally cursed her for winding him up that morning, thus turning him into an insatiable loon. Then cursed himself for thinking it anything other than fucking fantastic.

Granger immediately launched into her explanations, with Potter chiming in to confirm that he knew of their experiments, and that he’d made an attempt to help by visiting Nott Senior again. Draco listened as they went, nodding to confirm details of the concoctions they tried. Taking over to explain the suspension he used to distill the poison down and how he was able to identify different ingredients. Until at last Granger admitted to taking the poison herself.

“Well, that was bloody stupid of you," Robards said, and Draco and Potter both agreed, then scowled at their tandem response.

“Yes, I am aware it was not my smartest idea but it seemed necessary to test it on a willing subject, rather than one of the afflicted currently in a coma and unable to give consent to an experimental poison antidote.”

Touché, Draco thought.

“And then you created a proper antidote. So you weren’t ill, after all,” Robards said, leveling him with an expression to rival Lucius Malfoy.

Draco breathed through his nose and pushed it out, letting everything settle offshore. And then he explained his methods and ingredients for the antidote. Floating copies of them to Robards, Potter, and Granger as he spoke. He was barely halfway through when Robards flicked his wand and sent the remaining sheets of parchment from the room.

“Did you use all of the antidote on Cursebreaker Granger or do you have more?” He asked, rising from the desk.

Draco handed him the flask. “A single drop should do it. I would estimate that a batch of the antidote can cure twenty or thirty. Is that enough? I also have more of my blood and once the antidote is prepared I can—”

“Malfoy, head down to Poisons and Potions. Find Auror Bonham and give him clear instructions — spare no detail. I’d like you to oversee the brewing with him. Potter, you’ll come with me to Mungo’s. And Miss Granger, I believe you have somewhere to be?”

She jumped, and nodded, practically running from the room. Draco sighed.

“Are you sure they need me?” He asked. “I wrote it all down, it should be clear.”

“They needed you six months ago, evidently. Consider this a tentative promotion, pending a discussion with Minister Shacklebolt.” Robards clapped his shoulder, and Draco winced. It was far too friendly.

“What about the distribution?” He asked, keeping stride with the two aurors as they all approached the lifts. No curly hair in sight.

“We have a few ideas to explore. Antoinette Blanc is currently in French custody, and I am to interview her this afternoon. Potter will also seek out a few suspects once we’re finished here.”

“And how will the antidote be administered without causing alarm?” Draco asked, waiting for an elevator down, to the floor beneath them, while Potter and Robards waited for one to take them up to the atrium.

“The general public will need some thinking but for now, we will take care of everyone at St. Mungo’s until the culprit has been apprehended.” Robards straightened his robes and pulled out a pocket watch. “Meet back in my office at four.”

The lift doors opened and they stepped inside. Scar Head smiled at him. Disgusting.

“And Malfoy?” Robards said, holding the gate. “Excellent work.”

Notes:

I think everyone earned some domestic smut and fluff, especially D&H.

At CrookshanksCrew's urging I'm posting something for Draco's birthday on 5 June, so just a head's up that chapter 27 will either be a day early or a day late, depending on some real life deadlines.

Also, I occasionally share things on twitter, like this thread about my WIP (this one!) and I share visuals for each chapter. Last week I did a Q&A, if you're interested in checking it out 🖤

Chapter 27

There wasn’t much of a fuss when Hermione began her work day. Her colleagues inquired after her health and she assured them she was fine, just a bit of a cold. And that was that. They knew she wasn’t chatty. She answered memos in her office for an hour and dealt with some of the endless clutter that she accumulated. Then she went to one of the labs to start working on the latest import from Scotland. A few old crypts that the Auror Department were investigating held a small stash of rare and valuable items — golden goblets, spears and swords, a rusted axe from the 7^th century. Half of it held curses.

When wizard warriors were buried, they often placed curses on the objects that they hoped would accompany them into the afterlife should anyone try to rob their graves. It was one of the most common projects she encountered in her role as a junior cursebreaker. She’d just worked out a memory curse on a small dagger when a memo zoomed into the room, circled her head, and landed beside her. It was a paper airplane in a familiar design. An update from Harry about the patients at St. Mungo’s.

She unfolded it carefully and scanned it. Every afflicted Muggleborn woke instantly, after a single drop of the antidote. Harry said that Robards was impressed and that Draco had been effectively promoted after she’d left them. She summoned a scrap of parchment, ink, and quill intending to write a memo to Draco. There, at the top of her bag, was the piece of wood she’d taken from Nott Manor. A long shard from the statue of Salazar Slytherin’s staff.

After some research when they’d first returned, Hermione was almost positive it was snakewood, due to the pattern of the grain. The same wood that Slytherin’s wand was crafted from.

She quickly wrote a note to Mr. Ollivander explaining her findings and theories, and a brief summary of how she came to be in possession of the wood. Then she started to go on,

 

I know you do not work with this particular wood, but I wanted to send it to you for your own research. Should you wish to craft a wand from it, I would only ask that you return any leftover materials to me once you’re finished. There have been some interesting thoughts about the use of different woods to heat a cauldron for potion brewing, and runic casting stones often—

 

When she finished her rather lengthy letter she wrapped it around the wood, sealed it with a spell to prevent tampering, and asked her department’s assistant to owl it off for her. Once that was done, she returned to her work at the lab. And the note she’d initially intended to write. 

 

A promotion and they put you in charge of the antidote brewing? I told you that you’re brilliant. Harry said it’s working and the affected Muggleborns are all waking. Well done, you.

xx H

 

Turning to a shield with a Medusa charm — so that if one looked at it straight on they would be petrified — Hermione continued working. It was nearing lunch, and she was starting to feel hungry. Mostly she was curious about what Draco was doing. If everyone in the Poisons and Potions department was kind to him, or at least professional. She had a hard time believing that anyone would question head Auror Robards but she’d seen firsthand how nervous Draco was at work. Always alone. Always clearing his desk at the end of the day, like he was preparing to get the boot.

She’d been working steadily for about an hour when a crisp memo arrived at her elbow. It was a paper crane, like the ones she used to try to make in school as a girl. Before she knew what Hogwarts was.

 

Granger, please end my curiosity and agony and explain what those bloody x’s mean. The Poison and Potions department is, as predicted, a mess. Do you know how many times I’ve had to correct techniques? You’d think the Ministry would hire people who know the difference between chopping and dicing.

DLM

 

Hermione chuckled to herself, picturing him in flowing black robes, skulking between rows of potioneers and correcting them like Professor Snape had — with a biting tongue and limited patience. If she could wrap up her work early, she might be able to pop back up to that floor and observe him at work. The way the steam from the cauldrons brought out the waves in his platinum hair. He’d probably have to roll his sleeves and — she tamped that thought quickly, before she blushed too fiercely.

 

Shall we meet Harry and presumably Theo after work to discuss their incompetences over drinks?

xxx H

P.S. — An x is a kiss. Some Muggles use xoxo, kisses and hugs.

 

Lunch was a sandwich from the café that she picked at while finishing the last of the cursed objects that had come in from that weekend. Because of her runic sequencing she was able to get through a dozen objects before the day officially ended. Her colleague, Harriet, likely received six objects from the crypt and it was with a small bit of smugness that Hermione wondered how many she had manaaged in the same amount of time. She’d never ask, nor would she offer to help. It was easier this way. To coast by and keep under the radar. Since she had time left, she cleaned up the space.

Another paper crane landed beside her and she smiled. When she opened it she blushed. The entire paper was covered in little pale grey x’s beneath his black ink script. Almost like a pattern. Insignificant to anyone else but it made her skin warm.

 

I told my new colleagues to purchase a copy of Advanced Potion-Making and start studying. They’re an Acceptable at best. Quite a few Trolls, and not the kind you can send off to the forest.

Any interest in transferring departments? Your new supervisor would be quite handsome, at the very least. An improvement on your current circumstances.

Theo said they will meet us at the Scroll & Raven at 6 sharp.

May I walk you there?

DLM

 

Perhaps the tedium of her days would improve now that she had flirty memos to write and respond to. She kept herself busy with research and once the clock struck half five, she returned to her office. In the time she had before heading to Diagon she fixed her hair as best as she could. At quarter to six, there was a knock at her door.

Waving it open, she called, “Come in.”

“Hermione, you ready to go?” It was not the wizard she expected.

“Hi, Harry, yes just need my cloak.”

He shifted, and leaning against the wall behind him, grey eyes on hers, was who she’d been eager to see. As she fastened her cloak she blushed a little and his lips turned upwards in the slightest hint of a smile.

The three of them walked to the lifts with Harry leading.

“Good day?” She asked, looking up at Draco.

“Better now,” he replied at the same time Harry said “Yes,” then coughed.

When they stood in the lift, hands grazing, Draco drew a tiny X on her knuckle. More than a few heads turned as they walked through the atrium to the main entrance but Hermione didn’t pay them any mind. Every bit of her focus had narrowed to the burn in her skin. How much further it was to the pub. If she’d be able to sit beside him and trace shapes of her own on his thigh. Or just hold his hand beneath the table. She wondered if Harry would sit with Theo. If she’d have to make him so that she could live out her current hand-holding in wizarding public fantasy.

“You’re three minutes late,” Theo said, “Abysmal manners.”

He stood with his hands in his pockets, a relaxed nonchalance that was betrayed by the tightness in his jaw.

“Hello, Theo,” she said, and pulled him into a hug.

“Welcome back, Hermione. Looking especially lovely. Like there’s a pleasing glow about you—”

“Theo.”

“Harry.”

“Right, let’s just leave this outside, shall we?” Draco said, holding the door open.

The pub wasn’t nearly as crowded as the Leaky Cauldron tended to get after work, and Hermione followed Theo to a booth at the back. He slid onto the bench and she filed into the opposite side. Without hesitating Harry sat beside Theo and smiled up at him.

“Ogden’s?” Draco asked, and both wizards nodded. “For you, Granger?”

“Can you recommend a white wine?” She asked, knowing the answer.

“Butterbeer it is, then.”

Hermione watched him approach the bar before turning back to Harry and Theo. She’d already seen Harry that morning, and apologized for her rash behavior. He was less forgiving than Draco had been but she knew he just needed time to come around. Theo, however—

“Here’s the thing Hermione,” he said, leaning back and slinging an arm over the top of the booth. Drumming his fingers. “I know we only had the one bonding evening together but I thought we were on the same page.”

“That depends, Theo, I’m a fast reader and often of multiple books at once so you’ll have to tell me what page you’re talking about.” Humor was his game, and she thought she might defer to his preferences while Harry watched with a curious expression.

“The page, my dear, is the one in which you told me that you cared about my best mate very much. I know you care about this one,” he tapped an unamused Harry on the top of the head, “but I had assumed that all that caring meant that you would consider the consequences of your actions.”

“Don’t hit my head,” Harry said, buying her a moment.

“Theo, I may be bright but I’m also…I can be a bit…”

“Bloody stupid?”

“Yes, that has been the general consensus. I was going to say impulsive. But in my defense it has almost always worked out in the end,” she replied, grateful for the drinks that had just floated over to their table. Sipping her butterbeer she watched Draco fold himself into the seat. Drink in his left hand.

“Don’t worry, I made her promise no more heroics,” he said, and beneath the table he linked their fingers, until their hands were clasped together.

“Do share how you managed that,” Theo said, taking a measured drink of whiskey. “I could use some pointers.”

“Hermione can promise whatever she wants, I’m not required to do the same,” Harry said. When Theo moved his arm from the top of the booth to drape across Harry’s shoulders he didn’t move away, and Hermione smiled.

For a while they just talked. She didn’t want to compare, but there was something different about their conversations compared to the ones that she used to have with Harry, Ron, and Ginny. They’d always talked of the past. Of before the war. Of things that had long changed. With the Slytherins, she found that they talked of everything. And it was exhilarating to be able to share theories and laugh together. All while the delicate skin of her wrist was traced by long fingers. Draco had expressive hands, and by the time they’d ordered dinner she was about ready to push him out of his seat and haul him from the pub.

“Potter, what is taking so long with the investigation? Truly?” Draco asked. They’d had a few rounds of drinks by then and finished their greasy pub food.

Harry sighed and pushed his glasses up his nose. “Honestly? We haven’t much to go on because we don’t know how it’s being distributed. None of the patients we spoke with had ingested anything in common with each other. It seems unlikely that whoever is behind this is delivering poisons one by one but right now that’s what the department is pursuing. Robards spoke with Theo’s stepmother today. She cooperated fully. Took veritaserum and everything. Checked out.”

“And that was your prime suspect? A middle-aged woman who retired to France because she hated her husband?”

“Everyone with a connection to the Dark Lord is or was a suspect at one point or another. It’s just narrowing it down that’s taking a lot longer than I would like,” Harry said.

“Perhaps now that there are more people to speak with one of them will remember something odd that happened?” Hermione suggested.

“Here’s hoping,” Harry said, resting his head against the back wall.

“You keep differentiating with what Robards and the department are doing and what they think. I want to know what you think. It’s obviously different,” Draco said. A hint of challenge to his voice. Hermione squeezed his hand and he squeezed back.

“I think keeping things quiet is only hurting the investigation. If there were more eyes open — if the Prophet did a write up and put people on edge, maybe someone would share what they know. Or whoever’s behind it all would get scared and stop long enough for someone to remember something useful.”

“Why don’t you just speak with a reporter then?” Theo asked.

Harry closed his eyes for a moment and breathed.

“Because there aren’t many reporters who would speak to us without wanting to know more than we’re willing to share,” Hermione answered for him. Harry nodded and Theo frowned.

Drinks were sipped in silence. Hermione stared at the patterns on the table, beneath the rings of condensation from their glasses. She’d learned a lot about wood grains in her research of the snakewood.

“What about the Quibbler?” Theo said finally. “You gave them an exclusive before.”

“It’s no longer in print. The Lovegoods are on sabbatical in America looking for some beast or other,” Harry replied.

“Pansy would help us. Help you,” Theo said. “She’s at the Prophet.”

“I’ll think about it. It’s getting late, we should probably settle the tab.” Harry pushed his glasses up his nose again and glanced at Hermione. She knew he was weary of reporters. It was even harder after Xenophilius Lovegood, one of the few he trusted, had betrayed them during the war. And now, all they wanted was another piece of Harry Potter to tear apart.

“Here,” Draco said, tossing a galleon onto the table.

“He’s wealthy too, you know,” Theo said, tilting his head towards Harry. “You’d think he would have shared some of that wealth with his destitute friends when he was in school—”

“Yes, yes, talk more about how vast my vault is. We get it.”

“It’s a pile of knuts compared to mine,” Theo said with a wink. “And we don’t speak of His Highness and his wealth.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Granger, my apologies. Theo can be rather gauche. Comes with the territory, after all, being new money.”

“We saw portraits going back several generations at Nott Manor, how can he be new money?” Hermione asked.

“Not all of us can trace our ancestors as far back as he can, so even Queen Elizabeth the first is new money in his view,” Theo countered. They all slipped from their booth and made for the exit. More than a few eyes on them. Hermione kept waiting for Theo to make a joke about two Slytherins and two Gryffindors walking into a bar.

They stood outside the Scroll & Raven, hands in pockets.

“Lunch tomorrow, Hermione?” Harry asked, and she nodded. “See you at work, Malfoy.”

Theo gave her a hug and then the two of them walked down the street, turning towards Theo’s townhouse.

“Still want to sleep in my bed as often as you like?” Draco murmured in her ear.

Hermione tugged his arm, leading him towards the other end of Diagon Alley and the apparition point. “I’m afraid you’ll have to deal with my far inferior thread count tonight.”

“Is that so? In addition to the snoring? Now I’m not so sure—”

She bumped her hip against his and he smirked at her. “If you think that’s bad, wait until you meet Crookshanks.”

They walked side by side to the apparition point, passing very few people at the late hour. He asked a few follow-up questions about her cantankerous familiar and when they reached the alleyway she laced their fingers. Twisting away to her flat.

As unhappy to see her as her cat was, he was even more unhappy that there was a new person at her side. Crookshanks made a noise she had never heard him make, then leapt from his spot on the (shredded) sofa and sauntered down the short hall to her bedroom. Bottlebrush tail high in the air.

“Not the most friendly creature,” she said to Draco, who looked amused. Hermione fixed her furniture and took off her cloak, hanging it on the hook by the door.

“You did abandon the poor thing. A cold shoulder is expected.”

“Don’t take his side! My sofa is held together by single stitches at this point.”

Draco laughed and placed his cloak beside hers. “As if I’d ever take a side that isn’t yours.”

Hermione put the kettle on and busied herself in the kitchen while Draco glanced around her flat. Now that she’d spent time in his she was less embarrassed by it than she would have been. The furniture was mostly secondhand, but she had a few framed art prints on the walls and some photos. He was particularly intrigued by the John William Waterhouse postcards that hung above her desk.

“Where was this taken?” He asked, pointing at a photograph of her and her parents. In it she was grinning broadly, and her father’s arm was outstretched to take the photo. It was the summer before third year. The last summer she spent entirely with her parents. After that was the World Cup, and then the Order. And then the end.

“We’d just been to see a production of As You Like It in Stratford-upon-Avon. Made it a long weekend to tour the town. It was one of the last normal things we did as a family.”

Draco nodded and moved along, taking in the details of the paintings again.

“Here,” she handed him a cup of tea and sat on the edge of the sofa.

They talked a little of the play and argued over whether or not Shakespeare was a wizard. Draco seemed convinced that he was, and that the ingredients that the witches used in Macbeth were far too accurate for a Muggle to have just made up. That lead to more talk of Nott’s poison and the antidote. And the distribution.

They considered different beverages that could have been tampered with. Butterbeer taps at the Leaky Cauldron. Or bottled pumpkin juice, a favorite in the autumn months. But none of it seemed likely, based on what Harry had told them. They talked round and round in circles, each idea more outlandish than the last. Hermione had stood and started pacing the flat. Draco tidied their tea cups and leaned against the kitchen counter.

“If it’s more than one person, targeting Muggleborns at random in pubs or restaurants would make more sense,” he said. “It could be a group, acting separately but with the same goal.”

“What about an unregistered animagus?”

“How common is that, though?” He replied.

“More than you’d think. Skeeter’s one, and if she’s capable then I’m sure there are others. Do you think there’s a Death Eater who might have hidden that ability?”

Draco sighed. “I think it would have been a useful tool for the Dark Lord to exploit if there was, and he was a powerful legilimens so it’s rather unlikely.”

“So we’re looking for someone or someones who have excellent brewing capabilities and the means to poison Muggleborns one at a time without notice. No wonder the Ministry hasn’t figured it out yet, it’s like trying to find a needle in a haystack.” Hermione continued her laps around the cramped living room. Crookshanks had finally emerged from the bedroom, though only to hiss at Draco before claiming the sofa as his own.

“Nott Senior must have been close with someone before his arrest. Enough to have taught them how to brew it and entrust them with the Sacred Twenty-Eight blood sacrifice. Potter’s probably already asked him about it but perhaps another Death Eater might know. They should be interviewing all of them again,” Draco said.

They were quiet for a while, both thinking. It was late, and though she was starting to feel tired her worries were greater. The longer it took to figure out, the more people would be admitted to St. Mungo’s. And even though they’d made an antidote, the thought made Hermione feel guilt. She’d tried so hard to make the wizarding world a better place for people like herself, and now she felt as though she was failing them.

“Don’t Muggles have some way of testing things for… what is it called? They talk about it all the time on the crime program Theo watches. It’s like bits of you that get left on things.”

“DNA?” Hermione guessed.

“Yes, that. Could there be some on the vial of poison we turned over to Robards?”

“At this point so many hands have been on it I’m not sure.”

Draco tugged at his hair. “Maybe there’s something else we can test it for. Traces of a magical signature or something. There has to be a way to link it back to the brewer. Though, in this case, it could just lead us back to Nott instead of his apprentice.”

“I can’t believe I spilled some of the sample we took. We could test—”

“Granger, you’re bloody brilliant,” he said, cutting off her thought.

“What?”

“It got on your hands. It’s not ingested it’s transmitted through touch. That’s what they’re missing. Muggleborns aren’t drinking something that’s been poisoned, they’re touching something.”

Hermione thought about how she always had little smudges of ink on her fingers. The way that the ink would bleed into the skin. “When I spilled it I kept thinking about how it was like ink…Draco, what if it is ink? Or it’s been added to an ink somehow?”

Draco contemplated it, looking at her hands. Like he, too, was thinking of the stains she often carried. “There haven’t been any reports of it in the Muggle world. Everyone who has been affected by it is a witch or wizard. And they’ve all touched something with this inky-poison.”

“How many witches and wizards read the Prophet, do you think?” Hermione wondered aloud. “A fairly large percentage, I’d gather. And if you don’t read it you at least come across it during the day. Sweeping it into the rubbish bin from a café table or moving it off a seat. It would have a large reach.”

“We should speak with Pansy. Before the Aurors burst in and muck everything up,” he replied. “She’s a more junior staff reporter but I know she’s made a few friends. Creevey, for one. The younger one. I think she said he works in production. They might be able to help. Tell us who their ink supplier is or—”

“Can we even trust her? How do you know she’s not involved somehow?” Hermione crossed her arms. “She took N.E.W.T. potions with us.”

“Because I know her.”

“Do you?” She trusted him so she bit her tongue from saying more. Friend of Draco’s or not, Parkinson was still a reporter, and in Hermione’s experience, they did whatever they had to for a story. A poison that only affected Muggleborns was front-page news. What better story for a junior reporter trying to prove themselves? To target the inadequacy of the Ministry in the process.

“Pansy was horrible to you at school and I’m sorry for that, but Hogwarts was her sanctuary from everything at home. Just like it was for Theo. I don’t expect you to like her but—”

She interrupted so that he didn’t misunderstand her. “I trust you. If you say it can’t be Pansy I believe you.”

“Granger, she wouldn’t. First because she’s worse at potions than Potter, she cheated her way up. Not to mention that she donated half of her inheritance to the rebuilding efforts at Hogwarts because she felt like she owed the school. You don’t have to like her but I know her, and I know she’s not involved.”

“Alright,” she said, dropping her arms. “Send her an owl. It’s late, but maybe she can meet with us tomorrow during lunch.”

“I can talk to Potter about it in the morning, I suppose.” Draco glanced around the flat, then towards the door.

“I meant what I said earlier. You could stay,” she said softly. “If you want.”

Draco gave her a half smile and put his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know if I have his permission.” He nodded towards Crookshanks, who sat in the center of the sofa. Orange tail swishing back and forth while he glared at them. Daring them to encroach on his space.

“Don’t worry, he’s just dramatic,” she said, and scooped him into her arms. Crooks let out a wailing sound to rival the horn on the Hogwarts Express. “You’re quite similar.” The half kneazle leapt from her arms and sauntered over to the armchair by the window.

“Oh, she’s funny now,” he replied, stepping closer. Until they could lace their fingers.

Tugging him along she smiled up at him. “That’s my secret. Ron’s not the funny one, I am.”

He tsked, “Granger, if anyone sincerely thinks Weasley is funny I’ll brew them an anti-confundus immediately. Though I might first need to create a remedy for your orange beast.”

Hermione pressed him against the wall outside her bedroom and his hands settled on her hips.

“Didn’t think you’d have this sort of reaction to me insulting your cat.”

“He’s more likely to curl up on top of you once we go to sleep than anything else. Judging by the way he looks at you.”

“And how does your monster of a cat look at me, Granger?” He grinned at her, thumbs making circles on her skin.

“Almost the same way that I do,” she said, and hauled his mouth to hers. Prepared to exhaust herself enough to fall asleep in approximately twenty minutes — forty, if she was lucky. When he started to tease the skin just beneath her trousers, skating his knuckles across her hip, she knew it would be the latter.

The next morning Hermione spread thick pats of butter over toasted bread. Taking it all the way to the edges and back. Then she dusted each slice with a spoon of caster sugar and topped them all with cinnamon.

It wasn’t freshly baked scones or French pastry, but it was something she’d always had as a girl. Even when she hadn’t done the shopping she could always make cinnamon toast. She slid a plate in front of him and sipped at her coffee.

“How did you know?”

“How did I know what?”

“Cinnamon—that I love cinnamon,” he said, taking a large bite of toast.

“I didn’t,” she replied. “It’s something my mum used to make me in the mornings. Sometimes after school, before Hogwarts.”

He considered her for a moment and took a drink of his coffee. Flicking his eyes to the photos on her wall.

“What is it?” She asked.

“Your parents — I know you said you weren’t sure if you wanted to try to reverse the memory charm,” he took a breath and leveled his gaze on her. The cool grey of his eyes calmed her beating heart. “But it should be your choice. If you ever wanted to try, I have a few ideas about a potion—”

If he had something else to say she didn’t hear it. Because she stretched across her tiny table and kissed him soundly, tasting coffee and cinnamon and everything she hadn’t known she needed before.

Notes:

My oneshot for the DHRbirthdaybash is called The Last Drop, if you're interested in some wartime melancholy romance 🖤xx Lu

Chapter 28

Pansy Parkinson wore higher heels than anyone else at the Daily Prophet. Her dark hair was cut to her chin in a severe line. Lips painted a violent shade of red. A tight skirt wrapped around her ample curves. Robes left tossed over her chair. And yet, she carried a Muggle notebook and pen, scratching down notes as she spoke with an older woman in hushed tones.

“Should we just…go up to her?” Potter asked.

“No one interrupts Pansy,” Draco replied. “Give her a moment.”

“Malfoy, I haven’t got all day to wait around for someone to finish a conversation.”

“Perhaps being the world’s savior has skewed what little manners you once possessed but the polite thing is to wait for—oh for fuck’s sake.” Draco walked after Granger, who had crossed the newsroom to do exactly what he told Potter not to do.

Pansy excused herself before turning to their ragtag group. “I’m sorry, it seems as if I’ve woken in a parallel universe.”

He gently angled himself between the two witches out of instinct, ignoring Granger’s huff of annoyance. “Hello, Pansy.”

“Yes, hello, what do you want? This is my place of work, Draco, and I’m terribly busy with a story.” She stepped around them to a tidy desk, scribbled a reply to a memo that zipped into the air, and began sifting through various news clippings.

“We’re hoping you can give us some information about the production process and raw materials used—”

“Draco, do I look like I step foot on the production floor? This dress is silk, for one. Its cost would likely scandalize Granger.”

“I know you don’t actually want me to answer that—”

“Excuse me, Pansy, but this is very time sensitive and we wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t,” Potter interrupted. “Official Ministry business. Er, Auror Department. If that helps—”

“And surely you understand that you’ve arrived unannounced in the middle of my work day to ask questions I cannot answer. I’m a reporter. I write and edit and interview, so unless you’re offering an exclusive, I can’t help you.”

“Perhaps you know someone who can? Someone you’re friendly with,” Granger asked, flicking her eyes at him.

Pansy caught the gesture. Red lips turned up at the corners. Nothing escaped her. “You know what, I just might. Come on then.”

Pansy led them from the newsroom to a stairwell, her heels echoing with the descent. At the base was a metal door. She waved her wand in a figure eight, murmuring an incantation, and it swung open. Inside was a bright warehouse of a room with tall ceilings and a half-dozen witches and wizards working on copies of the evening edition.

Some siphoned ink from large vats, trailing it over reams of parchment, transcribing headlines that changed and rearranged themselves on impact. Others imprinted photographs, trimming the edges to make them fit on the page.

A somewhat small bloke with light brown hair tumbling over his forehead came over with a broad smile. The younger Creevey brother.

“Pansy! What can I do for you? Oh, hi, Harry. Hermione. And, sorry, I can’t remember if we’ve met?” He spoke quickly, with a nervous lilt. Constantly glancing at Pansy between his words. Seeking her approval, no doubt.

Draco introduced himself and shook his hand briefly. Wiping ink on his trousers.

“Potter and Draco are with the Auror department. I’m not quite sure why Granger is here with them but regardless, they have some questions for you,” Pansy said. She spoke differently with Dennis, her tone slightly sweeter than her usual. “Do you have a minute?”

Dennis nodded, a hopeful gleam in his eye. “Anything you need,” he said to Pansy, then looked to Potter expectantly.

“What can you tell us about the materials used to produce the Prophet?” Granger asked, one of her sticky pieces of paper in her hand and a pen in the other. “Specifically, do you create the ink here?”

He shook his head. “We don’t make anything in-house. It’s all supplied. Been using the same suppliers for hundreds of years now. The ink, especially, would be difficult to replace. It has to include properties of transfiguration so that headlines are updated in real time. Before that things would be outdated by the end of the day whereas now we can transcribe new headlines using our master..”

Draco could see the shelves of Hermione’s brain expand, eager to ask a hundred follow-up questions that they did not have time for, as Creevey droned on. It was rude to interrupt but he did it anyway. “There is some urgency to this inquiry so if you could direct us to your ink supplier, that would be most helpful.”

“Same as yours, I gather. Scribbulus, right here in Diagon.”

“Have you noticed anything different about the ink in the last few months?” Potter asked. He had a nervous energy to him that manifested in little gestures — pushing his glasses up his nose and holding the wand in his pocket. Pressing onto his toes then back on his heels.

Dennis shook his head and looked again at Pansy, who smiled at him in a way Draco had rarely seen her smile. “Is there something I should look for? The evening edition has to go out in a few hours.”

“Everything’s fine, we’re just doing a bit of preliminary questioning. Thank you, Dennis, nice to see you again,” Potter said, holding out his hand. Everyone shook hands and exchanged murmurs of thanks.

Pansy held Draco to the side and smirked at him. “Did you do it, then?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied, glancing over at Potter, Creevey, and Granger.

“You did. You admitted it finally and so did she. Gone for months and Theo won’t gossip but looks don’t lie. Blaise owes me a fat purse—”

“How long have you been fluttering your lashes at Creevey for?”

Her lips tightened. “Dennis and I work together.”

“Might want to look up the rules on inter-office relationships, Pans. That man will be content to worship at your feet until you tell him to stop or give him permission.” He turned to rejoin the group and she pulled him back once more, nails tight on his wrist.

“I hope you’re happy,” she said. “I mean it, Draco. I know we used to joke that happiness wasn’t possible for people like us but it is. You just have to take it.”

Dennis smiled at her and she back at him, giving a small wave as she dropped Draco’s arm. Granger held the strap of her bag tightly in her hands, a slight furrow to her brow. He smiled at her and shook his head. “You might be right. Ask me again another time.” As he walked back over to them he added, “Thanks for everything, Pans.”

Outside of the Daily Prophet offices Granger shuffled things around in her satchel. Putting her sticky notes and pens away. The lunch hour was nearly over, and they had more information to put to use.

“I’ll need to take a team of aurors to Scribbulus. Investigate the shop and interview everyone who works there,” Potter said.

Draco nodded. They’d need to do a full sweep of the building.

“We’ll need to test the inks. Make sure it’s not just the Prophet’s that have been tampered with. Can one of your suspensions do that?” Granger asked, looking up at him.

“It should work, yes. I’d need at least a vial’s worth of everything to try a few different things.”

“I’ll talk with Robards. See if we know anything about the staff there from other investigations. I believe it was one of the shops that was damaged in the war. It might have changed hands or something,” Potter said.

Granger asked him a few questions while Draco thought about the stationary shop. And who he knew worked there.

“Fucking Marcus Flint,” he said, startling the others from their conversation.

“What about him?” Potter asked.

“Works there. Pureblood but not a Death Eater so he was never much to worry about. It has to be Flint. He was halfway decent at potions but hated school. With the right teacher, like Nott Senior, he could have been better…” Draco searched his memories, tearing through the neat little sections until he had what he was looking for. “I’ve seen Flint buying ingredients twice in the last six months. Once it was valerian root, in bulk. I was buying it too it’s a common ingredient but it has a short shelf life and to buy it in a large quantity — then just a few days ago as I was leaving the Vine of Plenty I saw him in Knockturn. He was headed towards the apothecary. It has to be him.”

“We’ll speak with everyone but make him the priority—”

“And what if he’s not there, Potter? It’s a complicated poison that requires precise brewing and incantations, I highly doubt he’s producing it at his place of work.”

“Then I suggest you find him and send word if you do. I’ll tell Robards you’re on it. Hermione, you should—”

“Go with him, obviously,” she said, hands on hips. “Isn’t it Department of Magical Law Enforcement policy that no one works alone?”

Potter sighed. “Fine. Just…be careful, alright?”

She nodded, and he set off towards the Ministry, casting a Patronus as he went. The silvery stag galloping towards Theo’s flat, if Draco didn’t know better.

“Do you know where Marcus Flint lives?”

“No, but I know someone who does. For the right price.” Draco slipped a hand across her back and guided her towards the entrance to Knockturn Alley. Wishing he was taking a walk with his witch someplace nicer.

It was midday, and the darker side of wizarding London was quiet. The bell above the door to Borgin & Burke’s chimed as they entered. The vanishing cabinet was now merely decorative, but the sight of it turned his stomach. Behind the counter Borgin wrote in a ledger and looked up with a grimace.

“Twice in one week, young Mister Malfoy. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Draco kept his hands in his pockets, opening his purse with one and holding his wand in the other. “I’m hoping for information. On Marcus Flint.”

Borgin closed his book and placed his quill on an ornate stand. The raven’s feather gleaming in the low light of the shop. “He’s not purchased from me in some time. I’m afraid I don’t have more information to share at present.”

A galleon on the counter. Sliding it closer to the man. “I’m in a bit of a rush, Borgin, so if we could skip this part I’d appreciate it.”

While he inspected the coin with an audacity that Draco loathed, Granger trailed her eyes over the shop, cataloguing things with keen interest.

“And what can I do about that?”

“An address would suffice,” Draco said. He thumbed another coin in his pocket. Waiting.

“That’s quite personal, don’t you think?” Borgin replied, flicking his eyes to the counter. Draco placed another galleon down.

“Indeed. You’d be right to remember that I work for the Ministry now, and my patience grows thin.”

Borgin chuckled and pocketed the coins. Then reached for his quill and a scrap of parchment. “What company you keep these days, Draco. I should wonder what your father would have to say about it.”

Draco snatched the paper and put it in his pocket. “Careful, Borgin. Just because you never took the Mark doesn’t mean the Ministry is convinced of your innocence.”

“A good day to you, Mr. Malfoy. And you, Miss Granger. I hope you’ll give my shop your patronage again sometime.”

Granger narrowed her eyes and said nothing. As they were leaving, Draco kept his wand aimed at the shopkeeper. Just in case.

He breathed a little easier when they shut the door, and more so after he took her hand and tugged her along until they’d reached the corner where Theo’s townhouse was.

“Draco, I’m not sure I like this,” she said. “How can we know this is even correct?”

“Borgin knows everything about everyone. I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew your address. He’s a purveyor of secrets first, trinkets second. Everyone knows that.”

She blushed. “Maybe everyone in…that world. If the Ministry knew—”

“It serves them more to leave him be. In case they ever need him.” Draco pulled his cloak closer and kept her beside him. Then he unfurled the parchment that Borgin gave him. There was an address written in poor penmanship 639 Forsyth Road, Ugley, Essex.

“Ugley. Unfortunate name. Have you ever been there?” Granger asked.

He shook his head. “I thought he was from Brighton. But I suppose if he wanted somewhere near to London but more secluded, it makes sense to choose Essex.”

“If neither of us have been there how will we even get there? We can’t apparate if we can’t picture our destination.”

Draco drew his wand and traced his runic sequence over Theo’s door. “We’ll give the floo a try. If it’s closed we can look at a map and get to a close point one of us has been to before.”

“Are you seriously breaking into Theo’s flat right now?”

“It’s not breaking in if I have my own runic key. Come on,” he said, and pulled her inside. With a wave of his wand he reset the wards and started up the stairs, calling for Theo.

At the top of the stairs Theo glared at them. “It is still breaking and entering. If I were a Muggle, I would call the police. In fact, I don’t need to be a Muggle. My…person who spends time here is a wizard cop, you know.”

“Yes, and he sent us on this mission so by proxy you are aiding the wizard cops. A dream come true, I’m sure,” Draco replied.

“Can I get you a drink or something else to make you feel more comfortable in my home, which you have broken into?” Theo asked.

“That’s very kind of you, Theo, but I think we just need to borrow your Floo.” Granger said.

“You need to get your own fucking floo, Draco, this is starting to encroach on my privacy.”

“I’m not allowed, you know that,” he replied, rolling his eyes. He removed his cloak and sent it to the closet, taking Granger’s as well. Then he lead her to the fireplace and reached for the floo powder.

“Wait—where exactly are you going?”

“Someplace horrible, probably,” Draco said. He tossed the powder, turning the flames a roaring green.

“Theo, you should stay here,” Granger said, with a hand on his arm. “Tell Harry where we’ve gone if we’re not back by nightfall. Just in case I can’t send a patronus like at your father’s house.”

“Harry doesn’t know where you’re going? Draco—”

He didn’t hear the rest. With his clearest voice he called out the address and he and Granger emerged in a dark sitting room. They both held their wands at their sides but didn’t light them. Draco reached out with his right hand as she reached with her left. Lacing their fingers just long enough to give a reassuring squeeze before they walked further into the room. There was a musty old sofa and not much else. The walls were a familiar dark purple, with a subtle dragon pattern.

“Lucius’s boy, I presume,” a deep voice sounded into the room. When he turned, he met the eyes of a portrait above the fireplace. Theodore Nott, Sr. The date on the frame was from just before Draco was born.

“Mr. Nott,” he replied. The portrait was from when the man was in prime health. His impressive mustache full, his hair styled. Robes immaculate.

“You know I have a lordship,” the portrait said. “It’s poor form to address someone by the wrong title. Your mother should have raised you better than that.”

Draco raised his wand to the portrait. “I know a variety of spells to burn through paint and canvas, so forgive me for disposing with pleasantries.”

The portrait huffed a laugh. “And to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“What is this place?” Draco asked, keeping one eye on the portrait and one on the door to the sitting room.

“A pied-à-terre I acquired just before my second marriage.”

“And who lives here now?”

“Why, no one, boy. It’s as empty as the room we’re in.”

“He’s lying,” Granger said.

“A bold claim from a Mudblood,” Nott said. For the first time on Nott property, Draco was disappointed there was no Guardian present. He much preferred the dragons to the man before them, even if he was merely a portrait.

“Mudblood I may be, but I can still hear the creaks of the floor above us. And no pureblood would leave their floo open without reason,” Granger said.

“Right you are,” a voice said from behind them. The door opened silently, and there was Flint. Facing them.

Draco cast a nonverbal expelliarmus that Flint deflected with a lazy flick. “Learning from Potter now? I wondered how long it would take before you slunk over to that side,” he said. Another flick of his wand sending a trip jinx that was easy to dodge.

“Since when do you squat in derelict houses?” Draco asked. A quick succession of spells to try to knock Flint over. He’d always had decent reflexes — it made him good at quidditch, at least.

“Lord Nott gifted it to me just before the Battle. Haven’t had much time to fix it up, you understand. I see you’ve brought along your little girlfriend. Perfect.”

Granger bristled. His dark eyes moved upward, the only warning before his shout of, “Reducto!” brought the ceiling down on them.

“Immobulus!” Granger shouted, yanking Draco with her to the floor. The destruction held above them as they crawled towards the door. Flint had barricaded it in a rush and it took Draco a few moments to clear their path. The house had collapsed on one side from the blasting spell and the rest wobbled. Except for one door to the right. Made of protective metal. A laboratory door.

“He’s going to collect what he needs for the poison and apparate out,” Draco said. “Contact Potter and tell them to get here as fast as possible. I’ll hold him off.”

She gripped his arm, “I’m right behind you.”

Draco tested the wards on the door and found them disarmed. Flint was in a hurry, not even bothering to try to prevent anyone from following. The door opened with a wave of his wand and he barreled down the stairs, eyes blinking rapidly in the darkness. Struggling to take in any bit of light.

With a shield charm in front of him, he breached the final steps to level ground. It was cold and damp. The ground beneath the house absorbing sound and heat and light. Except for a few candles to one side.

There, in front of a large cabinet full of vials, was Flint. Furiously tracing runes and reciting incantations. It was a complex bit of security, and that told Draco everything he needed to know about its contents.

Flint tossed a jelly legs jinx over his shoulder and Draco dodged it, sending his own blasting spell not at Flint, but at the shelves in front of him.

Little jars of powdered root of asphodel and moon dew rained down on Flint. Some shattered at his feet, spraying the hem of his robes.

“You can still do it, you know,” Flint said, raising his hands in a sign of ceasefire. “Can still make your father proud.”

Draco circled him, keeping one eye on the cabinet. Looking for the irreplaceable blood sacrifice. He had to keep Flint talking. Distracted. “Is that what this is about? Looking for someone to be proud of you? The Dark Lord is dead and Nott will follow him from a lifelong sentence in Azkaban. Right alongside my father.”

With an arrogant curl of his lip, Flint nodded behind Draco. “That what she’s about? Rebelling against your heritage because daddy went to prison?”

“You’re outnumbered, Marcus,” Granger said, standing to his right. Her wand high. “If you drop your wand—”

“Never,” he shouted, sending a shelf of dried herbs and little jars of salamander eyes to the floor. Granger gathered them from their wreckage and sent them shooting down on him with an oppugno jinx.

They upended furniture and moved in tandem, firing off spells and protective shields in equal measure. Flint’s slicing spell cut through the work table Draco had flipped over.

“Problem is you don’t fight to win. You aren’t a killer and you never were. It’s why you weren’t respected, even by your own father!”

“I don’t have to kill you to win a duel — or to prove anything to anyone,” Draco said, breath heavier with the exertion of his magic. He summoned a chorus of vials, sending them into a whirlwind around Flint. With a grunt, he pushed them back, giving Draco just enough time to force them into a tighter formation, whipping them at Flint.

While he flailed his arms, trying to swat the glass out of his way, Granger sent a trip jinx to knock him off of his feet.

Flint pressed back on his heels and launched himself from the floor, slinging spell after spell at them. A blasting spell hit the rest of the table, destroying it.

Draco wielded his wand like a whip, lashing hexes back. Parrying attacks. He had just sent a stunning spell when he saw it. Flint threw a blasting spell towards him but Granger was quicker, her protego wrapping him in her protection. But it was what Flint expected her to do, giving him an opening to send another, smaller blasting spell at her hand. Cracking her wand in two.

With a shove, Draco pushed her behind him and began an brutal assault. His spells ricocheted off of walls, breaking everything in their path while Flint struggled to shield himself. Reaching for an old, tarnished silver flask in the cabinet before turning right into Draco’s disarming spell.

Flint’s wand clattered to the floor. He ran for the exit, snarling something about Mudbloods, and Draco forgot all about magic as his fist collided with bone. He’d done well in hand-to-hand combat training at the Ministry, but Flint started fights on the quidditch pitch regularly. He swung back and Draco blocked it with his forearm. Bringing a knee to his gut.

A gust of breath exited Flint on a grunt, and he slammed his shoulder into Draco. Losing his footing on the broken glass and slick ingredients, he tripped and landed on the floor, taking Flint with him. The silver flask slid across the floor, out of reach. Draco yanked Flint’s collar, the force sending him backward. Before he could get to it Flint launched himself at him, crashing to the ground once more. They each got a hit in, and soon they were scrambling for the fallen flask.

Until Flint’s hand closed on his wand.

“Draco!” Granger called, and he swung blindly. Hitting Flint square in the jaw. He reached for the wand, wrenching it from Flint’s bloody hand, and threw it behind him. They were still crawling on the debris, pieces of glass cutting into knees and palms.

With one last push of his magic, he aimed at the flask. “Diffindo!”

It skittered across the floor, away from Flints hands.

Draco summoned the vial, his outstretched hand ready to catch it, when Flint closed his hand over it, pulling against the spell with gritted teeth. Flint’s grip was faulty, and the cap was damaged from Draco’s diffindo. So he course-corrected, sending the tarnished silver across the room, slipping from Flint’s fingers, and careening into the wall. Splattering the stones with blood. The silver flask echoing on the floor.

Growling, Flint turned to Draco, who leveled his wand between Flint’s beady eyes. “Yield.”

Bits of blood gathered at the corner of his mouth and he laughed, a manic sort of sound that had Draco pressing his wand beneath Flint’s chin.

“Oh go on. You never could do what you had to do. Can’t stomach it.”

Draco twisted his wand, letting it dig into the soft flesh. “It’s not about being able to stomach murder. It’s about doing what’s right, and everyone poisoned deserved the chance to witness justice.”

Flint choked on his laughter. “Justice. Why don’t you give it to them now? You read the Prophet. All those letters. You know they want us dead and buried. That’s the justice they seek. Do it.”

“Draco,” Granger called.

“Wouldn’t want to piss her off,” Flint said. “You know—”

The binds of his incarcerus were tighter than necessary. Slithering their way around Flint’s limbs, leaving him slack. Draco shoved him to the floor, satisfied that he couldn’t do more than struggled against the binds.

“Make sure they’re tight enough,” Granger said, snatching Flint’s wand from where it had fallen and pocketing it. “I want to check the rest of the house.”

“We should wait until the aurors arrive,” he replied and she shook her head.

“I can’t be in this room right now, I need to do something useful. I’ll be right back, I promise.”

He nodded and kept his eyes on her until she’d left. Listening to her footsteps echo as they marched up the stairs.

“Tell me how you did it,” Draco said. Standing before the bound man. Watching the blood trickle down his face from a cut at his brow, slipping towards his mouth when he laughed even more. As if it was all a joke.

“Your aurors will just veritaserum it out of me, won’t they? Take my memories and watch it in a pensieve.”

There were some things he learned as he got older, and one of them was basic kindness. Draco thought of that when he cleaned the blood from Flint’s face before he spoke calmly. “They will, but you have a choice. We always have a choice, whether we know it or not. Tell me of your own free will or let them take it from you anyway.”

Flint huffed. “Fine. I never had the marks for anything. Couldn’t be bothered to study when there were other things to do. In fifth year I met Lord Nott.”

“How?”

“Might’ve been stealing from Borgin & Burkes while he shopped there. He vouched for me and offered me an apprenticeship.”

“Doing what?”

“Learning from him over the summer and Christmas holidays. Assisting in his laboratory for the Dark Lord.”

“It wasn’t Death Eater knowledge or you’d have been a suspect sooner.”

“No one else knew,” Flint said. He’d leaned his head against the stones and closed his eyes. “His son was never there. It was just me and Lord Nott and occasionally his wife, but she didn’t like me much.”

Didn’t like her husband much either, Draco thought. He kept his wand aloft, listening as Flint went through his history with Theo’s father.

“When things were nearing the end, Lord Nott set me up here. Taught me how to brew the poison he created for the Dark Lord. Then I obliviated him.  He wanted me to carry on the work should anything happen. And that’s what I did, Malfoy. That enough for you?”

“How did you determine—”

“Putting it in ink?” Flint interrupted, grinning in the way that always unsettled Draco on the pitch, during practice. “It was an accident, if I’m being honest. Knocked a pot of ink into the cauldron. Nothing happened, so I started experimenting.”

Draco clenched his jaw. It’s what he’d have done. And he hated to think he’d have done anything that Flint would have. “Then you got yourself a job at Scribbulus.”

“Took months to get that. And a half a year before they let me help with the Prophet ink. Tricky stuff, that is, but I liked the added insult of using that ink.”

“You experimented with that too, I’m guessing? A specific day that you ran your tests?”

“Think I’ve had enough questions, Malfoy. Fill in the gaps yourself.”

“I’d rather you finish telling me what you did.”

Flint sneered at him. “Oh, fuck off. You were a good seeker and for whatever reason people followed you around like dogs. Snape favored you for Salazar knows why. But deep down you were always weak. A swot like Granger but without the bite. Too bad your blood didn’t change when your stance did.”

“It’s as pure as it’s ever been, thank you,” Draco said. He’d had enough. “You’re right, you know. I’m more like Granger than I thought. But I’m still an arsehole.”

The stupefy hit its mark, and Flint slumped further against the stone wall. Draco rubbed a hand over his face and slipped his wand into his pocket. Granger stood at the far end of the room, cradling her wand in her hands. The ivy wood was splintered. The dragon heartstring frayed where it poked through.

He knew what it was like to mourn the loss of one’s wand — first when Potter had taken his. Then for good when it was lost a few months later in the Battle of Hogwarts. He’d been using his grandfather’s since then, too ashamed to go to Ollivander for a new one. It worked well enough but it would never feel like his. Like so many things in his life.

“Are you alright?” He asked, placing a hand on her arm and stroking it.

“It’s just one more thing taken away from me,” she said, the words edged with bitterness. They both knew it wasn’t something a simple repairo or spell-o-tape could fix. Weasley’s first few disastrous years at Hogwarts were proof of that.

“I’m sorry,” he said. She nodded and tucked the pieces in her bag. “Do you—”

His thoughts were interrupted when Potter and several other aurors entered the room with a loud crack. Hauling Flint up from his spot in the corner and levitating him towards the stairs.

“Okay?” Potter asked, a quick visual assessment before placing a hand on Hermione’s shoulder.

“Yes, fine,” she said. “We’re okay.”

When her fingers laced with his he repeated her words. They were okay. They would be okay.

Notes:

Endless thanks to iconicnovel for helping me come up with a town name. Ugley, Essex, was a joke that turned out to be a real place. I love the UK.

Chapter 29

They left the Ministry in the evening, when the sun had crept its way into the earth. Leaving them with quiet twilight streaming through the windows at Hermione’s flat. She hadn’t said anything — anything other than to recount what had happened to Robards and the rest of them. There was a blankness to her face that anyone else would have mistaken for calm. For neutral. It said, “I’m fine, thank you,” just as she’d said when anyone asked how she was doing after everything.

But it wasn’t real. Draco knew it wasn’t. Couldn’t be. Because he knew her better. This was the face she wore when people looked at her on the street and in the halls of the Ministry. The one that kept questions at bay and allowed her to slink back to her work. To keep her worries inside. But she’d let him see her, and he wanted to see all of her.

“You’re allowed to be angry,” he said.

She paced her living room. Hand sliding down her side to her pocket then moving abruptly away. The cat had destroyed the sofa again but he didn’t want to fix it. To use his wand when she had none. It wasn’t fair.

“Granger.” He stilled her with a hand over her forearm.

“It’s fine,” she said, tilting her chin.

“It really isn’t.”

The cat sauntered into the room and rubbed against her ankles. She stooped to pick him up, resting her cheek against the orange fur atop its head until it made a noise and demanded to be put down.

He tried again. “You’re allowed to be angry. It’s alright.”

“I’m not angry I’m…” she stared at the sofa. The bits of stuffing poking through the torn upholstery. With a shutter, she took in a breath and closed her eyes. “I’m angry.”

“Tell me about it,” he said.

“What’s there to tell? My wand survived Snatchers and torture and—and—an entire war. I used it every day—every hour. For over ten years. Of course I’m angry but I can’t be angry. It’s—what’s the point? Anger doesn’t solve anything.”

The pacing continued and her hands shook. When she spoke again it was soft. “It was a part of me and now it’s gone.”

“We can get a new wand—”

“I don’t know who I am without it.”

Draco pulled her into his arms and held her, running a soothing hand over her hair and down her back. Speaking gently into her ear. “You’re still you, I promise. It might not feel like it but you are. Someday you’ll start to feel it again yourself.”

Tears stained his shirt and he held her tighter, swaying slightly. Wanting to absorb the hurt from her. To take it in and smother it.

“I feel—“ she moved just enough to look up at him. “I feel like I’m always mourning something. This was supposed to be after. How can it be after if things are still taken from me?”

He ran his thumb over her cheek, clearing the tear stains and relishing the feeling of her skin warm beneath his touch. “Granger, I’m not the best at this but I’m going to try. Sometimes we lose things. Things we don’t think about or even remember. Things—people we love. We lose things we don’t need, too. And we find things that we do.”

The wool of her jumper bunched beneath his hand when he pressed her closer.

“A wand is replaceable. I know you were fond of yours but we can get another. People aren’t replaceable. Our feelings, our memories. Those are ours. That’s what we get to keep.”

She looked up at him, cupping his face in her hand. Running her thumb over his lips and back to rest on the side of his face. “You always sell yourself short, you know.”

His brow furrowed. “I do not.”

“You do. For someone who had an ego the size of a Ukranian Ironbelly at school you sure lost your confidence.”

“It’s not missed. Look how much trouble it got me into.”

“I’ll help you find it. I think you’re brilliant, and everyone else will know it someday soon.”

“A valiant effort to change the subject. We’re not talking about me right now we’re talking about you—”

“And I’m yours, and you’re mine. And this,” she stroked his cheek, “it’s ours. If I lose anything else, I know I found you in between the rubble.”

“Do you need to yell anymore?”

Hermione laughed and shook her head. “No, I’ll be alright.”

“Good,” he said, pressing a light kiss on her lips. “Good.”

It was a slow kiss. Steady and gentle. Full of longing and apology and promise. Her hands in his hair and his in hers. Trailing down her nape to her spine. The slide of her tongue on his lower lip, tugging it between her teeth and releasing it. A groan, smothered.

“Hermione?”

She yelped and turned toward the floo, and Potter’s head in the flames, sputtering.

“Oh, sorry, I just thought that—”

“No! Harry, it’s fine—”

Draco pressed Granger’s back against his front, one hand curled against her stomach and the other holding her hip. “It’s most certainly not, fine, Potter. One of us still has a working wand and quick reflexes for intruders and serial interrupters.”

“Theo says you routinely break into his flat. A floo call is hardly intruding,” Potter said.

“Harry, can you just come through or tell me what you need?” Granger said, pushing at Draco’s hands and sighing when he refused to move them. Eventually settling for resting her own atop them.

“I was asked to invite you both to Theo’s for dinner. My appetite is compromised, however—”

There was a muffled sound and Potter’s head disappeared, replaced by Theo’s. “Sorry about that, I told him a Patronus would be better but he has yet to understand that adrenaline helps set the mood—”

“Theo,” a voice called.

“Harry,” he tossed over his shoulder. “Regardless, I’m making ratatouille and opened a rather expensive bottle of wine. Dinner will be on the table in twenty minutes. We’re celebrating and your presence is mandatory.”

“We’ll be there in half an hour,” Draco said, and closed the floo. Tucking his wand in his pocket and spinning the witch in his arms to finish what they’d started. Nipping at her throat and roaming his hands over her curves.

“Draco,” she squeezed his shoulder. “We should get ready.”

“Thirsty minutes is barely enough time as it is, Granger,” he replied. “Wasting it by talking.”

She squeezed tighter when he traced her pulse with his tongue. “Bargain,” she breathed, and he loosened his grip enough to look at her with a grin.

“What’s that?”

“I want to make a bargain,” she said.

“Hmm,” he moved his lips over her ear and his hands under hems and into waistbands. “What are your terms?”

“My…” She breathed heavily.

“Your terms, Granger.” He touched her waist, the tips of his fingers hot on her skin. “Twenty-nine minutes. Perhaps twenty-eight, now. I’m not good at timekeeping. Best be quick about it.”

“Shower,” she said, squirming until she slipped away from him, moving down the short hall to her bathroom. Shedding layers on the way.

He had just removed his own jumper when she called, “Twenty-seven!”

And he laughed, picking up the pace.

Steam clouded the mirror in her small bathroom. Shampoo already in her hair — the sweet, minty scent in his nose.

“I believe we’re at twenty-five, now,” she teased. Soap bubbles floating down her body to swirl in the drain. He stepped into the shower and turned them so that he could wet his hair, quickly washing it while she conditioned her curls.

“Twenty-three?” He estimated and she laughed. Her soap smelled like roses, and he lathered it over both of their bodies. Letting the hot water clear the suds.

“Maybe twenty, now,” she said, kissing him beneath the streaming water.

Hands became more exploratory and kissing turned dizzying and heated. When she moaned, rocking against his hand, he pulled back long enough to reach for his wand on the sink.

Enjoyable shower sex required a spell to prevent slipping. One that floated around the Slytherin dorms, handed down from older students like the most prized wisdom. And they had a point, Draco thought. It was a useful bit of magic. He pressed her against the tiles, letting a sticking charm help him keep her hands steady against them. Leaning over her shoulder to kiss her more, until she arched her back.

The water flowed over them, skating across their skin. He licked a river from her shoulder to her collarbone. Pressing his hardness against her soft, round behind. Circling her clit with his fingers before dipping inside of her cunt.

“Draco, please,” she whimpered, “We can go slow later.”

“What if I lost track of time?” He said, replacing his fingers with his cock.

Hermione gasped and leaned further against the wall of the shower. “Theo…will say it’s rude.”

“Don’t talk about him right now,” he said in her ear, thrusting his hips faster and digging his fingers into her hips harder with each motion. “We only have ten minutes and there are other things I want to hear from your mouth.”

The acoustics were exquisite. Every gasp and moan sounded more beautiful than the last, echoing off of the tiles and the glass. A song he’d sing in his memories.

                                                                                                    

---

 

The wine was a bold red poured into thin crystal glasses. Theo had found a recent determination to master the fine art of entertaining and that included cooking without the use of magic. This celebratory dinner was the first of these attempts that Draco had tasted, sure that he would have to hide a grimace and feign compliments. But the food was nearly as good as the hors d’ouvres he’d sampled before they’d arrived. Only ten minutes late but still damp from their shower. Potter wouldn’t meet their eyes and Theo’s sparkled at their rumpled appearance before declaring stasis charms a wonderful invention to accommodate rudely late friends. But it hadn’t mattered because just as they’d stepped through the floo Hermione stretched on her toes to whisper in his ear about having dessert at home. If he was lucky he’d taste his favorite—

“Malfoy, what do you think?”

“Hmm?”

“Harry was just telling us about proposing a new training program,” Hermione said, her hand squeezing his under the table. “On potions.”

“Can’t have too much, I suppose,” he replied and reached for his wine. “Would be helpful if half the department understood the rate of conduction between different cauldron metals.”

Conversation flowed and he found himself less distracted, They laughed together and finished a few bottles. Talking of work and the cleanup at Forsyth Road. Granger was looking forward to analyzing some of the objects recovered from the wreckage.

“It reminded me of Grimmauld Place, in a way,” she said. One of her hands in his beneath the table while the other circled the rim of her wine glass, lost in thought. “When we first lived there. Random little things in cupboards that are more than they seem. All the doxies and torn furniture and dust.”

“It’s not much better now, if I’m being honest. I’m rarely there these days,” Potter said. “Can redecorate and clean but the memories…It’s not exactly a place I want to spend time at or invite my boyfriend to.”

Theo’s glass slipped from his hand, landing with a thunk. He looked at Potter, then muttered a cleaning spell to remove the spilt Bordeaux from the table.

Draco looked at Granger, who raised her eyebrows just so—

“Right,” Theo said, clearing his throat. He downed the rest of his wine and pushed his chair back. “You are on your own for a dessert course. Sorry.”

Everyone stood and exchanged glances.

“You two,” Theo pointed at Draco and Granger, “out of my house. Immediately. Come on.”

He ushered them towards the stairs, summoning their cloaks.

“Theo, this is rather uncouth behavior,” Draco drawled, helping Granger with her scarf.

“Thank you for coming,” Theo said, and all but shoved him down the stairs. “My boyfriend and I have a dining table to defile.”

As Draco hustled Hermione out the door he couldn’t help but grin. “Guess you have a bit of the sight, Granger.”

She shut the door behind her and Draco warded it, sure that Theo was otherwise occupied but would want the privacy. “Really? Why’s that?”

“You said we’d have dessert at home and now we’ve been unceremoniously thrown out of our dinner party before the crème brûlée. A real shame, too, it’s my favorite.”

“I think I have some ice cream in my freezer. Can’t say when I bought it but it might do.”

“Think I’ll pass on that. What else are you offering, Granger?”

Her smile was just a little bit wicked as she held his arm and he apparated them back to her flat for the evening. And despite the day they’d had, he felt more at peace than he had in a long time.

                                                                                                    

---

 

They both were given the day off after their ordeal in Essex. It gave Draco hope for a lie in, but Hermione had other plans.

Plans that involved tugging him through Diagon Alley just after the shops had opened for the day. The narrow street was quiet. The air still bitter cold. First she wanted to have a coffee and he indulged her, ordering for them both and taking a guess at her favorite pastry. He’d just checked over his shoulder, ready to lean in and help take care of the chocolate at the corner of her mouth when she clasped his wrist and led him to a large, black door.

“Granger,” he said, digging in his heels, “I can’t.”

“Draco, you can and you will.”

He tried to extricate himself from her grip but she held tighter. “The man was kept prisoner in my home. Tormented, just like you were, and I didn’t—”

“Stop,” she said, placing a hand on his cheek. Forcing him to look at her. “You were a teenager. Those who harmed him were adults and they’re gone now. He’s rebuilt his shop and we’re going in there together.”

“I’ve never apologized to him. I’m not sure I even know where to begin.”

The door opened, and Mr. Ollivander held it until they crossed the threshold. “You do not owe me an apology. Your parents, yes, they could do with a letter expressing regret for their actions, but as Miss Granger said, you were not the cause of my nightmares in that house.”

Garrick Ollivander was less the gaunt man kept in chains in the dungeon who haunted his darker thoughts and more a curious old man, with eyes that were bright and hair that was unkempt.

“And I keep up with the papers,” he continued, returning to his spot behind the counter where the Prophet lay open. The headline read, Miracle antidote saves Muggleborns! Daily Prophet Exclusive Ollivander pointed to it as it scrambled once more, revealing a smaller subheading. Minister Shacklebolt credits Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger for ingenuity and bravery. “It is our actions that matter, Mr. Malfoy.”

“At least allow me to apologize on my family’s behalf, Mr. Ollivander. I’m sorry for what happened to you at Malfoy Manor.” Draco said. His throat was dry despite the large coffee. When he swallowed, it stuck in his throat.

“Shall we begin?” Ollivander asked.

     

---

                                                                                              

They’d taken a special portkey back to the Ministry the previous afternoon, prepared to give a full report. The auror team took the stunned and unconscious Flint to a holding cell in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Potter brought them to a conference room, the path familiar, where they spoke to Robards briefly. Their tale a shorter one to tell, this time.

“I’d like to give a report to the Prophet, if you’d all be willing,” the Head Auror had said. “It’s time to let the public know what’s been happening and to assure them that we’ve taken all of the ink that Marcus Flint helped to create into evidence so that no other Muggleborns need worry.”

Draco glanced at Granger, who looked at her clasped hands beneath the table. “I’m not sure I need to be interviewed,” she said, “I don’t work for the department and it’s probably best if it comes from you, sir. You have our reports.”

“I want there to be no question as to who was responsible for apprehending the culprit and for creating the antidote that healed those who’d been poisoned. That’s the two of you. Three, if we include Auror Potter—”

“I didn’t do much of anything, sir,” Potter started, but Robards waved a hand.

“You recommended Malfoy for the case and consistently ensured the rest of the department that he and Miss Granger would succeed. You’re a good friend and a good Auror. Trust isn’t something we can teach. It’s earned. And it’s also shared. The world trusts you, Harry Potter, and that is why you’re in this room.”

“Alright,” Potter said, clearly uncomfortable. “Who are we speaking to?”

A knock announced the reporter for the Prophet. The sound of expensive shoes on the polished Ministry floor. Draco was relieved to see Pansy Parkinson for the second time that day.

“Are we early?” She said, entering the room with Dennis Creevey at her heels, a camera in one hand.

“Right on time,” Robards said. “I’ll leave you to it. Excellent work.” He clapped Draco on the shoulder on his way out. “Miss Parkinson, the Minister will expect you in an hour for his statement.”

When he shut the door Pansy smiled. “Shall we begin?”

                                                                                                    

---

 

Now, standing in the wand shop surrounded by hundreds of narrow boxes, Draco wondered if this would be another beginning.

“Your wand was vine, was it not?” Ollivander said, pulling a few boxes and and lining them up on the counter. He asked questions of both of them. Placing more and more boxes into two distinct sections. Questions about spells they favored, techniques they preferred.

They were there for at least an hour, swishing and flicking different woods of different lengths. Until Hermione’s face lit up the moment she wrapped her fingers around one of them. Casting a beautiful spell that resembled calm waves. The kind that would send a boat out to the horizon.

“Curious,” Ollivander said, his chuckle almost menacing.

“What’s curious about it?” Granger asked, running her hand over the smooth wood. It had an interesting pattern to it. No carvings other than at the handle, where little diamonds made a sort of scaled effect.

“Once again a dragon heartstring core, and the same exact length as your previous wand, down to the millimeter.”

“And what of the wood?” Draco asked.

“Snakewood,” he replied. “The piece you sent me just last week, in fact. My very first and likely only snakewood wand. A hard wood to come by.”

Granger blushed and handed it to Draco. “Granger, no, it’s clearly yours—”

“I expected it to go to you,” she said. “At least try it. Maybe you’ll have an even stronger reaction to it.”

He rolled his eyes. “Why, because I was a Slytherin?” He said, and gave it a wave. While the results were somewhat favorable, it was nothing like the connection to her magic. She almost greedily took it back. Testing other little charms and smiling all the while.

“If I may make another suggestion,” Ollivander said, climbing up the ladder behind the counter. To the very top. Pulling a slim, pale blue box from atop a tall tower. “Tell me what you liked about your old wand. The one you purchased here, not the one in your pocket.”

“It felt…consistent. More than the one I’ve been using.”

“That is because of its core. Unicorn hair — very interesting that someone of your heritage would favor a unicorn hair core.”

Because it was difficult to produce dark magic with it, he knew. And that wasn’t the only reason he’d struggled with the dark arts.

“Here,” Ollivander said, handing him the periwinkle box. A familiar color.

Inside was an elegant wand, longer than his hawthorn had been. Like Granger’s, it had a subtle diamond pattern on the handle that reminded him of dragon scales. The two wands didn’t match, but they complimented each other somehow.

“That’s willow. With a unicorn hair core. Bit longer than your previous, which makes sense as you’ve grown since then,” Ollivander continued.

It was a pale wood, almost unremarkable compared to the reddish tint and intricate woodgrain pattern of Granger’s wand. But Draco found it more beautiful than any of the others he’d tried. When he twirled a shape into the air, it made waves. Gentle and calming.

“A good wand for healing,” Ollivander said. “Excellent for a potioneer like yourself. The wand chooses the wizard, after all.”

“It chose a good one,” Hermione said. And Draco knew she didn’t have to think twice about things.

They thanked the wandmaker for his time and stepped into the street. New wands in their pockets. With her hand in his he knew it was time to begin.

Notes:

The final chapter will post next weekend. Thank you for reading 🖤

Chapter 30

Five months later

 

The broken amphora vase was from over two thousand years ago but its curses were as powerful as the day they were cast. Hermione had been slowly unraveling the magic for four days, careful to avoid touching it with her hands. The first curse upon it was a mirage. The second, of forgetfulness. And the final didn’t have a name — it was the first she’d seen of its kind. It wove the magical signature of a dehydration curse with a Narcissus curse, which was popular at the time. Whoever looked into the vase wouldn’t be able to look away. Dying of thirst in the process.

While she traced the runic signature of the Narcissus curse she took in the state of her workspace. More cluttered than was appropriate for something so intricate. She pushed aside the front page of the Prophet, eyes snagging once again on the headline. Chosen One to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts. It was an exclusive interview with Pansy Parkinson, accompanied by a smiling photo of Harry with Professor McGonagall. Looking happier than she’d seen him — with the exception of when he was with Theo. The warmth radiated through her, nearly as strong as the day Harry told her he gave his notice.

It had been four years since they left Hogwarts together, after the battle. While she’d been back to take her N.E.W.T.s, Harry had only gone for the one-year memorial service they held for the fallen. And now he would return. Back to the place he’d always called home to do what he most enjoyed. With Theo, who couldn’t stop drawing up plans for a house on a small patch of land they’d purchased outside of Hogsmeade.

Grimmauld Place would begin renovations soon. It would take some time, but Theo and Harry wanted to gift it to the community. For the students left without parents and those in need of an escape during the summer and holidays. A number of alumni had already requested to be involved. It was early days, but Hermione had already put together some lesson plans and reading lists for an immersive Muggle Studies summer program.

The vase she worked on was in several pieces, making her job more difficult and more fascinating. The painted sides depicted lovers in various states of undress. Harriet had blushed at the sight of it, but Hermione could feel the magic emanating from the clay. She’d eagerly claimed it as her project and scurried off to her office. Now she was nearly through with it. If only she could figure out the thread that tied the final two curses together.

Hermione was drinking her second cup of coffee when the memo arrived, in the shape of a swan. Crisp white parchment covered in little grey x’s. The note in neat black script.

 

I’m calling in your first bargain. You agreed to skive off of work on the day of my choosing and that day is tomorrow.

Since you’re likely through with all of your work for the next week minimum, I assume this will not be a problem.

 

You agreed to the terms, after all.

x D

 

She’d been sleeping when he left for work that morning. Dosing a little longer than usual. As it turned out, a midnight romp left her knackered and him energized. There’d been a cup of tea under a stasis charm at her bedside and Crookshanks curled atop her hip. The weight of the little beast comforting.

Now she had to finish with the cursed vase before the end of the day, otherwise she wouldn’t get back to it until Monday. Not that it mattered that much — she’d worked through a half dozen recovered objects since the shipment arrived from Greece. A cave was discovered in Pelion by a magizoologist studying the migratory pattern of blue roan hippocampus herds. Inside was a veritable treasure trove of objects, cursed or otherwise.

She’d turned down the offer to be part of the extraction team. It would make things easier, if she went with them. She could split the types of curses fairly quickly and assign different cursebreakers to them based on their skillsets. But she wasn’t quite ready to lead a full team. She’d told her boss to ask in September. It was always a good month for things to start. Until then, she was content in her own world. Fixing things that needed mending and researching the things she didn’t yet understand.

There were plenty of projects to keep her busy. And when she was ahead on her work, she researched. Memory charms and Muggle books on memory. The best time of year to visit the Gold Coast of Australia. Someday, they would make it there. Until then, she would research. The portkey could wait to depart. She would make that choice when she was ready. And she wouldn’t be alone when she did.

 

---

                                                                                                  

The laboratory was pristine. Every piece of equipment had its place, and the common ingredients and those with long shelf lives were nestled into cupboards with clear glass doors. Everything was temperature controlled. The Poisons and Potions department was home to several laboratories — one for each Potions Master. There they were given approval from the head of the division, Auror Bonham, to conduct their research and assist the rest of the auror department as needed.

Draco was working on a memory restoration potion.

Though he was loathe to accept help from anyone, he’d been assigned assistants he did not need and gave them tasks he did not fully believe they had the skill to complete but could remedy himself if and when they fucked up.

On Thursday Draco led two junior potioneers and a summer intern, a Hogwarts rising seventh year, in the basic steps. First, he had the intern separate the Jobberknoll feathers by size and color. The more vibrant the blue, and the more contrast between the dark and light blue pattern, the more effective the feathers were in potions. He only wanted the most perfect feathers. The two junior potioneers had been in charge of stewing the mandrake, something that Draco had them working on for a full month until he deemed their most recent batch satisfactory. Tossing out several other versions that were stewed too slowly, too quickly, over too high of heat, and on and on. He didn’t yet trust any of them with the Galanthus Nivalis.

Most apothecaries sold a jarred version, but the stasis charms and potions required to preserve the flower muddled its efficacy. It was best to use freshly uprooted stems, from after their first bloom. As it was June, and most bloomed before the snow had melted, the best snowdrop flowers came from controlled greenhouses. Like the ones at Hogwarts. Draco traveled there the day before to obtain a supply from Neville Longbottom, who included a jar of honey in the parcel.

The powdered sage was a simple enough ingredient, though he required a fresh jar for each new batch.. All that remained was mountain river water, as its flowing properties translated well to potions for the mind. Lethe river water was used for forgetfulness potions, and its opposite was required here.

“If you’ll observe this time— just observe,” he added, when junior potioneer Marshall peered too closely to the cauldron. “I want you to make note of the steps as clearly as possible. I won’t announce what I’m doing so you’ll need to pay very close attention.”

This version of a memory potion was more potent than those available at an apothecary or from a Healer. The change in potency, Draco theorized, could restore lost memories from years before. The current brews, like the memory potion they learned in sixth year, had to be administered within a short time frame of the obliviation to take effect. Draco needed to create one strong enough for an obliviation of five years prior.

The strength of the spell cast mattered, too, because the stronger the spell the more likely the memories had been removed entirely, rather than just suppressed. Deep in the mind of the spelled. Hidden in a different way than occlumency could hide things. Revealing suppressed memories risked harm — emotional, mental, and physical. The Janus Thickey ward at St. Mungo’s held an entire wing of mind magic patients. Many of them longterm. He knew the witch who cast the spell he hoped to undo was brilliant, and it would be strong enough to resist tampering with reversal charms.

And so he’d spent months researching and brewing. Testing on willing participants. First to remove a memory from that day — a card shown to the volunteer for them to memorize. Later, testing memories removed from a month prior. From there the potency of the potion could be increased using arithmancy formulas, as could the power of the incantation. The reversal charm, too, could be used in conjunction with the potion. He’d gotten as close as he’d hoped the week of his birthday. Test results all positive. They celebrated with their friends at the pub before retiring to the new flat he shared with Hermione.

She’d made quick work of removing their clothes. Tossing them on her reading chair and the sofa, narrowly missing a very put out Crookshanks with her blouse. Lips insistent and hands clever. His touch still made her tremble. And hers was like fire, igniting the spark that had only grown between them over time. They started on the sofa before sliding to the floor. Her body rocking against his until they both finished. And when he thought they’d retired to bed, she emerged in a flimsy little number that he unwrapped like a new broom on Christmas.

It had been the best birthday he could remember. And he wanted to being memories back for others. The everyday domestic mundanity. The grand moments and milestones. The little bits of love and devotion. All the most important things worth holding on to.

The advanced memory restoration potion still needed extensive longterm testing, and he had thoughts on how to get it to work on her parents. But he was not quite ready to request a portkey to Australia and he knew Granger still needed time, too. That was fine with him. Good healing took time. When she was ready, he would be there beside her.

He dismissed his team at half four, once the laboratory was returned to his preferred level of cleanliness and order. Then he went to his office and shut the door. He shucked his white potion-making robes and rolled his shirtsleeves. It had been months since he bothered to wear a tie.

A few potions journals were stacked on one side of his desk, some with little pieces of sticky paper hanging between the pages to mark his place. Open on the desk was his personal journal, where he kept his notes and musings on the day’s brews. He began writing, getting everything down so that he could review it on Monday.

From the second drawer on the left he pulled a fresh sheet of parchment and addressed a letter to Theo Nazari. It had taken him a few letters to get used to Theo’s new name — his mother’s name. The last ties to his father finally severed after weeks of paperwork and meetings in the Department of Magical Registration. Draco had spelled a bottle of champagne to slide into the rolled parchment and closed everything with the wax sealing kit they’d given him for his birthday. The champagne was to celebrate the announcement of Theo and Potter’s move back to Hogwarts. He and Hermione would make the trip to Scotland in a few weeks, after they’d settled in.

Draco wrote his mother, once again offering to help her reach out to his aunt Andromeda. It was still difficult for her to leave the Manor but she’d been getting better at it. Last month he’d met Andromeda for tea with Granger. She’d come alone but wanted him to meet his cousin’s son sometime. If anything could help sway his mother, it was a precocious little boy. One who could change the color of his hair with a whim. Andromeda said he was fond of a silvery blonde color, smiling as she shared that detail. There was a lot to make up for — mostly lost time. Lost memories that were never made.

At five sharp he closed his ink jar and set his quill on its stand. Straightening the carved frame on his desk. It was a photograph of Hermione, of course. Playfully reaching for the Muggle camera as he clicked it. Capturing her in the morning light. Another memory he kept where he could see it.

He shrunk his notebook and stuck it in his pocket before locking up for the night. Waving goodbye to a few colleagues as he drifted down the hall.

The door to the lift opened, depositing him in the bright atrium. It was packed with witches and wizards eager to leave work. And there, by the fountain, was Granger. Curls loose down her back. Snakewood wand in her hand, tapping against her skirt.

“Waiting long?” He asked as he took her hand. Lacing their fingers before joining the queue for the fireplaces.

“Not at all. I finished the vase today,” she said, waving hello to a few people as they moved along. “Took me ages to untangle the final two curses but now I am the potential new owner of a mildly pornographic broken vase that is older than your familial line.”

“Didn’t think that was possible.”

She laughed, the sound wrapping its way around him like a protection spell. “At least the traceable version. Records weren’t kept before William the Conquerer, as you’ve reminded me on several occasions. How was the lab today?”

Draco furrowed his brow. “Beginning to understand why Snape wasn’t too fond of teaching.”

“He was, in his way. And I know you like it, you’re just being—”

“Tell me how much you enjoy younger people mucking up your work. This is why neither of us could ever do what Potter’s doing and teach at Hogwarts.”

One of a few reasons, at least. The line moved quickly, but they were still a dozen places from the front.

“Fair enough. What did you want to do tomorrow?” She asked.

“I have a few ideas.” He didn’t have anything scheduled. Sometimes the best memories were unplanned. He had room for all of them. Especially the ones with her.

“Alright then,” Hermione smiled, her face turned to his. The green flames of the floo illuminating them then fading. “I trust you.”

The pendant he’d made her glowed faintly against her chest. Brighter as he leaned closer.

“Hmm, I’ll hold you to that.”

With a gentle hand he reached up and wiped a smudge of ink from her cheek.

Notes:

The title of this story comes from As You Like It. Act V, Scene i.

I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways: therefore tremble and depart.

Thank you for reading. I'm so grateful for every kudos and comment. I'll try to keep this brief!

I cannot express my love and appreciation for iconicnovel, my vibe beta, enough. She's been the best champion for me long before I asked her if she'd be willing to read the first 5 chapters and tell me what she thought. Every week she has given me support and love and confidence and reviewed every version of every chapter image and every tiny change to video edits. Thank you, my darling friend. Love you 🖤

To everyone who left a comment on each chapter: your words, emojis, excitement, and kindness kept me focused on writing and posting each week. It's a special feeling to see the same name in my inbox and I am so grateful for you all.

xx Lu

 
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