Ghosts, Granger, and Other Things That Haunt Me

by Daria_Astrid

Summary:

Draco Malfoy’s new Auror assignment is simple: survive working with Hermione Granger, hunt a few ghosts, and maybe not die in a cursed antique shop. Unfortunately, Granger’s an eccentric inventor with a thing for haunted places, he’s stuck as her partner, and the ghosts aren’t their only problem.

Notes:

• A translation of Советы от вундергейста: лучшие способы испугать волшебников by Конфета без сахара

Chapter 1: Prologue

Tip 1: Never reveal your presence right away

Diagon Alley, Sibyl's Chest antique store.

Dear Mr. Smotherth,

I am compelled to inform you that the artificial eyes you sent me were a blatant unconscionable fake. One day after our transaction, one of them developed blurring on the left side of the lens, lost all of its eyelashes, and the other one was continuously broadcasting recorded scenes of obscene content involving you. I hereby notify you that in accordance with clause six of the contract between us, you are obliged to repay me double the amount I paid.

I remind you that if you do not pay the refund on time, there will be extremely unpleasant consequences for our future cooperation. I have close ties with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and you are not the first to try to sell me low-quality copies of artifacts from the underground market.

With boundless indignation,

Your Neville Longbottom,

Chief Archivist at the Ministry of Magic,

My new permanent address is Diagon Lane, Sibyl's Chest Antique Shop.

Neville folds the letter neatly, approaching the irritated owl perched on the sash of the ajar window. Rage never flies inside his dwelling, no matter where he is: perhaps there is some logic to that. His previous owl was sucked in and chewed up by a Grindillow leather hat that escaped from a dwarf kelpie aquarium. Rage bites it before it manages to tie the letter to his paw. Apparently the owl is eager to get back to his grandmother, even though he only borrowed it for a few days. Luna reminds him time and time again to stop by the Owlery tonight and look out for someone, but Neville fears a repeat of the incident, even though he has put on an extra barrier of protection charms.

Perhaps he should move the aquarium out of the apartment to a more isolated location, but for now he's had enough trouble with a parcel from a friend in Asia. Hua had sent him dancing chairs, self-healing scrolls and dazzling witch cameras, all of which had amazing magical properties. Neville had stashed a couple of magnifying glasses that tracked traces of poisons in wizard's bodies. What a waste that they'd stopped making them because of the threat of extinction of streelers (their inner pouch contained a substance for glass)! It turns out he was the only one who knew of the existence of such a tool and how honarable was that.

Neville has never complained about working with artifacts. Some of them are often inconvenient (like the talking wristwatches, which are annoyingly intrusive), most of them are deadly (like the suffocating serial killer butterflies from the 60s), but it's nothing compared to the results. What he feels when he marks artifacts in the logbook - the way the pages crunch, the way the quill squeaks - is an unimaginable sense of satisfaction. It cannot be matched by anything else.

Which is why Neville Longbottom is a lucky man today. Nothing is going to spoil his mood: neither the oculus he picked from the night before, which turned out to be a huge bat, nor the belladonna that came to life and tried to strangle him. If it hadn't been for Luna coming in with breakfast, he wouldn't have been able to untie himself from the plant and shoot Confundus at the flying monster.

Eventually Neville manages to sort out the morning's troubles and goes to make a deal with the timid Willy, the antique store owner's elf. Maybe this time he'll get to sign the contract after all.

Who would have thought he would be able to acquire ownership of three whole floors for such a small sum of money! Of course, Neville had jumped at the opportunity as soon as he saw the ad in the The Leaky Cauldron. The only thing that raised suspicions was Willie, constantly postponing the deal due to his forgetfulness. It was as if the elf didn't bring papers to their meetings on purpose, and when Neville asked him about his master, he lowered his eyes shamefacedly and mumbled something about loyalty.

However, the third time he'd managed to get it signed, so now Neville would be happy to renovate the room. Luna had already proposed a design project for the first floor, and he had agreed to pay for her work from the first profit. First, however, he would have to deal with the rows of cluttered closets. This place had been abandoned for twenty years or so: as a child, Neville had often looked in curiosity at the dull display cases littered with jewelry and harmoscopes and wondered why the store was closed. Antiques are a gold mine for any owner in any era.

He likes to think that Sibyl's Chest was the one waiting for him. Now this place is going to be famous. Never had Neville been so sure of the future as he was now. Never had Neville languished with anticipation: he would explore every corner of this place.

He might even be able to find something for Hermione. She had asked him about ghost seals at the last class reunion, but the only mention of them Neville had found was in a fifteenth-century trade book in the Ministry Library.

Merlin, long quiet hours of inventory awaited him, but only a yawn escaped to remind him: he urgently needed an invigorating potion to effectively analyze and outline. After all, the fight with the revived belladonna this morning had sucked an inordinate amount of energy out of him.

A knock sounded, and Neville had to step out into the drenching morning rain - no one. Just as the watch on his wrist had promised - the weather was lousy.

He must have heard it.

The floorboards creak underfoot. A few wet footprints are imprinted on the parquet. His hand reaches for the bag, and Neville sets the potions he'd bought at the shop nearby on the dusty table. As soon as he's distracted by a knock behind his shoulder, the vial in front of him bursts, the whitish liquid bubbling and spreading across the wood in a huge, shapeless stain. Expired? Strange, considering Mr. Milton is always meticulous about the quality of his goods.

He frowns, but is immediately caught off guard by the explosion of the next vial of burn cream. The shards fly past him and hit the coat rack in the corner.

The thumping noise was repeated, and Neville's whole body jerked. The hairs on his arms stand up, and his heart beats fast and hasty. He slowly backs away from the table, watching the new potion explode. His stomach clenches with fear. His fingers find the wand in his pants pocket. The pounding becomes more rhythmic and insistent, catching up with his heart rate. As he approaches the closet on the left, everything calms down. Neville freezes and squints at the piece of furniture: a seemingly unremarkable cabinet, plain cheap wood and the usual design of symmetrical grooves. Similar cabinets could be found in any store in Diagon Lane. One seemed to be standing in a closet at his grandmother's house. Nevertheless, as soon as Neville clutched the handle, a bad feeling was born in his chest.

Surely another Boggart.

He'll have no trouble dealing with him. Neville turns, pulls the door open, holds his breath, and when the cupboard is opened, he looks down, the parquet beneath him vaporized. A scream escapes Neville's throat, but it's too late: he's being dragged down into the thick, cold darkness. 

---

---

 

Chapter 2: Llyn Tegid

Tip 2: in order to discover the wizards following you, it is better to wait and do nothing

Lake Bala, Wales

You love your job. Draco, you love your job.

Tell yourself that more often, Draco.

You like terrorizing paranormal criminals, even if you're underpaid, and right now you're standing ankle-deep in mud, waiting for your quiet boss to share with you the reason why he dragged you out on a June Sunday night and not the scrawny, awkward intern who joined your department a week ago.

Draco had planned to spend this weekend having tea with his parents, not hiding in the reeds. Remus may have saved him, but he wasn't going to let the scowling, scratched wolf face find out about it.

Finding the crypts of the zoologist-cultists without any coordinates was still better than sharing a meal with Penelope-Clementine-Anneeta and an endless list of women's names he hadn't even tried to memorise. Sometimes he got the impression that Narcissa and Lucius had nothing to do: he had moved from the manor to his apartment in his second year of service and rarely visited them. A betrothal would be the perfect excuse for a return to the manor, but Draco won't be fooled.

He's fine with being alone and...

Yes, he's fine with his job, even if this night he gets drowned by a bog demon at the bottom of that damned hollow.

He hisses as the palm of his hand drives away a gnat. The damp, dense air envelops him, it's hard to breathe. The diffused light from the wand disperses the thick fog, making it hard to see the horizon. It's getting dark. The sun had set twenty minutes ago, but Draco had been freezing long before that. His movements are drowned out by the cicadas and the grumbling toads. Draco tries to stretch to his full height from his crouch, but a firm, strong palm prevents him from moving.

“What are we Merlin's balls waiting for, Rem?“

Not a single muscle on Remus' face moves.

Draco recognizes the familiar, focused stare.

”Quiet. We need moonlight."

"And what the fuck is your moon going to do for us, bloody Salazar? Or are you planning to bite me so I can share in the pleasure of tracking trout in this puddle?“

The torn corner of his lips lifts upward.

"Actually, I was going to teach you how to howl."

"What..."

"Howl with me. It’s way harder than it looks."

"You must be out of your mind."

"Come on — shoulders back, chin up. Lips like this. Now, repeat after me."

Draco rolls his eyes, but Remus insists on continuing to demonstrate the stretched neck and chin.

"You must strain the ligaments as much as possible...."

"Piss off!"

A low chuckle erupts from the side. He gets shoved..

"Be patient, fearsome white stoat. It's just a little while longer."

"If you call me that one more time...."

"There is a white long-tailed weasel. It's white and sneaky."

"I'll tell Dora everything, you bald-headed wolf. You promised her a day off this week, and where are we now?"

"Lake Bala, part of a glacial valley in north Wales. It's the largest muggle reservoir and also the habitat...."

"Mud bog demons. Turn off reference mode."

"You started it."

"It was a rhetorical question. It was meant to condemn you."

Remus snorted skeptically.

"It was Dora's initiative, by the way."

Draco frowns, the words already rolling off his tongue, but the next second Lupin is moving deeper into the thicket of greenery, and Draco has no choice but to follow him and scatter the nasty, slimy blue-green moss with the palm of his hand.

Still better than sitting out days one-on-one with papers? Merlin forbid, Draco would have died of boredom.

Three years ago, the Aurorate had seemed like a better option than the department responsible for integrating the Muggle and magical communities. To this day, whenever Pansy struck up a conversation about the process of registering Muggle artifacts with magical properties, it made him sleepy. Honestly, Draco hadn't originally planned on staying in the service for long, just to get the damned rehabilitation paperwork. However, the constant risk to his life, Dora and Theo's cheerful temper, yawning during interrogations under Lupin's menacing gaze, all of this coupled with the shock of the Order members and his parents learning of his career, would undoubtedly form an addiction.

Draco had tried to buy his reputation and ended up stuck in the Paranormal Crime Department for a few years and hadn't noticed when he started waking up on Lupin's couch from being tugged hard on his growing bangs. Teddy, the obnoxious weasel, adored him, and Draco's feelings for the boy ranged from adoration to extreme annoyance (especially last month, when Theodore had mundanely reported the 'asshole' inscription on his cheek while they were exploring the Wampus cat owner's wrecked apartment).

He was responsible for keeping an eye on his nephew, taking turns with the Potters. Despite Draco's objections, Tonks was unwavering in her stance and wouldn't take no for an answer.

Draco was undoubtedly the best uncle according to five-year-old Teddy Lupin.

Serves you right, goggle-eyed Potter,

Though, of course, Tonks didn't approve of his methods.

But only with him did Teddy enjoyed fizzy treats from Zonko's Joke Shop, dragged toads home from the garden, and colored everything around him, walls and doors, and often his face with magic paints. He managed to restore the house to its former appearance every time with a simple Scouring Charm. It was their shared secret, but the kid had gotten the hang of it and got some invisible ink from the Weasley brothers. Tonks had never yelled so loudly. In a nutshell, they always had fun.

He and Remus didn't get along right away: it took them a year to start talking without reproach, and another half a year to carry out joint operations without disruptions. If it hadn't been for his cousin's skill at defusing the atmosphere, Lupin would have kicked Draco out of the department before the end of his probation. She called them insufferable pricks, but made them agree every time over a cup of disgusting instant coffee at the end of the day. Nine months ago, Remus had saved his life in a werewolf den. Draco had realized that day that he had given up: he was ashamed to be rude to the man who had almost died for him. Lupin seemed to have realized something new for himself as well.

Ever since that incident, Draco had been allowed to bully the interns, and in return he had never informed Tonks how many vacation days Remus had accumulated.Thankfully, Lupin was suffering from hyper-responsibility. Draco has managed to hear a great many motherly eloquent epithets about who works in their department and how. It was unlikely that the boss was capable of entrusting the management to anyone but his wife. Tonks, on the other hand, had quit her job two months ago to set up a private detective bureau, The Sixth Sense, and had tried her best to talk Lupin out of staying. Strangely, she was the one who had encouraged Remus to take Draco on the mission. Perhaps she thought it would be good for the wolfie, but what did Draco have to do with it? In all his time in the department, he had been skillfully not overworking.

Lupin really hadn't been too focused on things in recent weeks, and it wasn't playing into Draco's favor. Last week, because of Lupin's inattention, the goblins had fooled them by tipping them off to a false mine ambush, and this week he had ignored a call about raging talking cows on a magical farm in the lowlands. Draco had to settle the misunderstanding, of course, but the good news was that the Animagus pranksters were fined and banned from transforming, and Draco returned home earlier than usual.

"What makes you think the bastards hid parts of Vecna here?"

"I heard the name 'Keridwen' while I was listening to them talk in Gaelic."

"You think a month's gonna come along and show us a flooded courtyard with caches hidden in the streets?"

"We shall see. Anyway, let's keep it quiet. We don't want any unnecessary attention."

There's a ripple in the water. Lupin draws a pattern with his wand to renew the stun spell.

"My last mission, in such a picturesque place. There's nothing like home, is there?"

"Lake Bourget? I've been there several times."

Remus raises his eyebrows incomprehensibly. Draco fights the irritation that has set in.

"France?"

"I can't enter there because I'm infected with lycanthropy."

"Even with a new course of therapy?"

"They haven't changed the laws since the seventeenth century."

"Conservative farts."

Remus snorts.

Draco sighs doomedly, raises his eyes and watches, the droopy sky rapidly being overcast with gray-brown clouds. He runs Remus' phrase through his head, belatedly realizing the meaning.

He coughs into a fist and says hoarsely:

“My last mission?”

Instead of answering, Remus points his wand upwards:

They say that in the Middle East, a month is like a giant swing. Here, we only ever manage to touch its edge.

Draco thinks for a moment, eyeing the shiny sickle.

"I don't think anyone has ever flown that high on a broomstick. It's impossible."

"She told me the same thing."

"Uh...” Suddennly, he is uncomfortable. "You're about-I read that right, you're about-"

Remus snorts mockingly.

"Your cheeks are flushed. Did you swallow the slug?"

"I still can't get over our last meeting."

"Her amulets, compasses and traps have been a great help in catching dead criminals. She's brilliant, Malfoy."

"She tried to turn Theo into a guinea kneazle! As if she didn't have enough of her own. Have you forgotten?"

"From what I can tell, he was the first to take the initiative. It's not every time you get to experience the effects of an unknown potion."

"She wasn't the one who had to listen to his verbal diarrhea of compliments."

"At least now the whole department knows that you were afraid of me in third year."

Draco pressed his lips together, squirming and trying to sizzle his boss with a glare, but he didn't even change his face. Bloody woolly clump.

"Hermione Granger is a reckless and bloodthirsty witch. She's-” he gasps, unable to find the right words. "A chimera! Exactly the same! She hasn't changed a bit since high school!"

His nostrils and bridge of his nose sting unpleasantly when he sees her irritated face in his head and her fist flying at him.

"You shouldn't be like that. She likes the way you get nervous when she's sharing the news of her progress with us." Lupin pulls the bushes apart and nods toward the horizon. "There it is, finally."

“It's what?” Draco snarls."Did you finally see an edible fish?"

A fierce glance in his direction.

"Someone said your eyes are awfully funny when you're trying to act 'werewolf-ish'?"

"You're like that half-witted old grandfather we banished from Percy Weasley's study, honestly."

"I don't look like a shriveled beanstalk."

"I don't mean outward resemblance at all."

Draco rolls his eyes.

"Look closely, not every wizard gets a chance to see such a thing in their lifetime."

Draco snorts, but stares into the dense darkness. The air grows heavy. The singing of crickets fades, the distant gurgling of toads hopping stops. They are plunged into a stillness that makes him both scared and excited at the same time. Suddenly Draco realizes that everything around him is frozen in anticipation: as the shapeless cloud floats away and silver jets break the surface of the dark waters, transparent, barely visible silhouettes appear on the surface of the lake. Gradually the walls of the castle, the streets, the wagons are poured with moonlight, the paths rise to the castle and sprawl with a bluish ghostly island. The silence is replaced by the noise of the market square, muffled conversations and bustle. The crickets start their familiar trill again, and instead of anxiety, awe spills into his chest. A legend that has been passed down by word of mouth for generations comes true. A ghost town comes alive to make them part of history.

"Amazing, isn't it?"

"It's fine."

"Before we get down to business, I have some news for you."

Remus squints uncertainly in his direction, pausing expressively. Draco raises his eyebrows.

“This is not a promising start.".

"Why make things complicated?"

"Confess, you're jealous of my unique talent."

Remus shakes his head from side to side, chuckles, but continues:

"I'm taking a month's vacation, Draco. I want you to run the department while I'm gone."

Draco's eyes widen and he exclaims in a whisper:

"A month?! I told you, nothing positive. Screw you!"

"I tried to talk her into two weeks, but I think my wife was too inspired by Petra. We're leaving with Teddy tomorrow morning."

"Don't you think there's a little advance notice?"

"It's kind of like a honeymoon."

"What the hell kind of honeymoon? You've been together for five years, if not ten."

Of course, he gets the familiar soft, wise smile in return. How he hates that smile. Thoughts refuse to form a coherent complaint.

"I refuse."

"You've been doing a great job these past two weeks."

"Are you telling me you've been purposely slacking off?"

He shrugs. Sparks of amusement danced in his dark eyes.

Draco starts to think of a plan for his dismissal, but images of future tasks fill his head.

"What, am I going to have to explain to the Idionterns how to put advanced defense runes..."

"Malfoy..."

"Oh, Merlin's pants, a whole month of listening to Kingsley grumbling about increased crime rate!"

"Malfoy..."

"But worst of all, of course, is your genius witch, who blew up the reception area last time! No way! I will not be a part of this!"

"Yes, you will!" Lupin growls at him." I'm retiring next year. Think of it as your probationary period."

"What..."

"I'll be recommending you to Kingsley to be my deputy. After I'm gone, you'll be in charge of all investigations."

"I'm not".

"You will be."

”No!"

They're glaring at each other.

"Don't yell. If we fight, we'll be covered in mud. We need to find the severed limb and the eye artifact."

"We'll talk at home,” Draco muttered and sat back down in his hiding place. "In front of witnesses."

"You can't even hope for her support. I'm telling you, not my idea."

"Then I need to face her. Outrageous betrayal."

"You're such an idiot."

Notes:

What Lake Bala in Wales looks like: https://www.istockphoto.com/ru/search/2/image-film?phrase=озеро+bala

What Petra looks like: https://www.istockphoto.com/ru/search/2/image-film?phrase=петра

About Vecna: https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/Vecna

Chapter 3: Rorschach test

Tip 3: The easiest victim has an unhealthy passion for you

Office of the Chief Investigator, Aurorat, London

Draco arrived at the department in a foul mood, but with shriveled, twitching arm in front of him. He had transfigured it into an umbrella so as not to frighten the staff. He still had to get through the hall and three floors, not to disperse the crowd, but to blend in with it. Since morning, Draco had spent an hour chasing after Vecna's. fingers, time after time wanting to separate from the rotting limb. All would have been well if he hadn't found his index and ring fingers missing in front of the phone booth, the entrance to the Ministry. The two lurkers had revealed themselves in the elevator, climbing onto the shiny coat of Mr. Durand, the burly lawyer on the top floor, and jiggling mockingly, showing off the protruding bony tubercles on the phalanges. Thankfully Draco managed to talk the lawyer's down by telling him about the results of the mission. The old man nodded in agreement with his remarks, and Draco made non-verbal motions with his wand to draw the fugitives into his pocket. He was just in time: the fingers almost climbed up his graying bangs to tap them. The rascals tried to get out, but Draco had the foresight to stitch them up. The umbrella twitched weakly in its attempts to reunite with the detached flesh. Durand inquired about his cologne, and only Draco knew that it was the disguised floral, cadaverous scent of the limb.

The rest of Vecna was never to be found: he and Remus were discovered and thrown in clods of dirt in the center of the square. To the outraged cries of the residents of the ghost town, they tried to fight back, but quickly realized that retreating was their only chance to stay alive. Draco tried to use cleansing and repelling charms combined, but it didn't work. Upon returning home, he spent an hour trying to scrape off the layers of clay in the bathtub. The spells refused to affect the mud demon's glans synthesis product. He knew the degree of his insufferability was proportional to the hours of sleep he'd gotten. This morning, someone would clearly be out of luck, because three hours was not enough.

That someone was Theodore Nott: Draco had scared him badly. He only remembered his new role when a sleepy Theo took the umbrella from him, and a second later he stunned everyone present with a piercing scream. Vecna's hand disappeared in an unknown direction, and Draco's mood turned even more sour. He had to send word to the ''findings'' department, detailing the degree of decomposition and mentioning the absence of two fingers that had been sent to forensics for examination.

It was early in the day when Draco realized that he had given in to Lupin's persuasion in vain. He hated the thought of a new position with so many responsibilities and no free time. Draco knew how to balance, not overwork. His working philosophy had always been one simple rule - minimum involvement, maximum efficiency. Those who took on extra responsibility were always loaded with overtime. Thus, Theodore had once interfered with Tonks' interrogation and doomed himself to six months of misery. Nymphadora handed him the case, but forgot to tell him that important detail - the suspect was a Dukuwaqa(1). He had calmly sailed across the Atlantic gulf, swallowing diamond spit stones while Theo was wasting time in Bloomsbury interrogating the staff of the store where the theft had taken place.

His experience in homicide had proved to him: initiative was punishable. Now he was living a terrible dream in which he had to decide where Jenkins and Creevey's group would go, and which of them would join them. Both thought their vacations happened when Draco took time off, though they maintained neutrality in their communication. He was perfectly fine with their forced politeness not forcing him to visit an Irish pub after work.

Before he could deal with his assignments, Draco would have to sit out his appointment hours and patiently listen to the old ladies who visited the department solely for Remus' sake. Everyone knew that the stories about the poltergeist thieves had no foundation other than madness.

Draco Malfoy had never suffered from excessive politeness, but Priscilla Morgan, in her knitted dirty-orange sweater across from him, looked as if she didn't notice his tired gaze and tightened lips. The stems on her sunflower hat bounce indignantly along with her thick, long eyebrows as she continues her meticulous account of slamming doors, a missing purse, and broken lamps. Draco tries to listen, of course, but after ten minutes he stoically saves the last drops of patience from laying Silentio on her . His head is splitting.

"Ma'am, last time Remus sent an auror squad to your place, I personally discovered your purse behind the pots of Knotgrass in the living room. Perhaps you should double-check your other... stash-” Draco falters. "Ahem, hiding places?"

"I think my downstairs neighbor put a jinx on me, causing me to have things go missing every time! Or maybe someone's Niffler(2) escaped? Take my word for it, though! It's definitely the spirit of Mr. Wilkins in the attic, he didn't like me when he was alive!"

Or Priscilla's dementia is progressing and Draco's not a healer to be understanding.

"Have you checked the second bookshelf on the right?"

Priscilla frowns, shutting up and sinking into her own thoughts.

"Perhaps you need professional help. A simple spell..."

"I beg your pardon, Mr-” she flinches, shaking her head and pressing her wrinkled lips together. "What's your name?"

“Mr. Malfoy."

"Mr. Malfroy, what are you implying?"

Her wrinkled puffy cheeks redden, becoming like baked apples. Draco decides to use an old trick.

"Let's take a Rorschach(6) test so we can make descriptions of Wilkins's spirit if he really wants to mess with you, shall we?"

"What, do you think I'm out of my mind?"

"This is standard procedure."

"How dare you?!" the woman rises abruptly from her chair, pulls off her sunflower hat and exclaims, waving it around and causing Draco to grab his wand.

"Outrageous, young man! It turns out theft and the words of a kind woman are not sufficient cause for action! What a time, today's youth refuse to work! Where's your boss? Where is my lovely, polite Remus? I want to take my complaint directly to him."

Draco clenches his jaws, barely squeezes out a smile, and informs her mundanely.

"Of course, Mrs. Morgan, as soon as he returns from his vacation, I'll send you an owl!" Her wrinkled mouth falls open, and Draco leans back in his chair and pulls lazily. “Unless, of course, you find the stolen stash when you get home.Check the second shelf, and you'll- Wait! Merlin's balls, don't-- goblin!“

 

Dueling Hall, Aurorat, London.

The purple flashes from the dueling ten paces away stop - the aurors squint in his direction and freeze with wands raised. His diaphragm clenches with spasm, but as soon as he tries to take a full breath and speak, the muscles contract, his stomach bulges and a squeezed sound bursts from his throat. Draco has been hiccupping for the past ten minutes because Mrs. Morgan didn't like his tone. Skrewt be damned that fabulist.

”You... Potion...” he wheezes. ”No... Don't... Now!"

The overjoyed intern immediately rushes out of his chair and scurries to the storeroom where they keep everything they need for training. From over his shoulder, Theodore gives him a bored look, snorts irritably, and continues rummaging through the papers. There isn't an inch of sympathy in his words as he casually tosses it to him.

"Priscilla wasn't as creative this time as she was with Creevey. Though, you know, you're bald - I'm not sure I could stand that kind of sight. Still, the aftermath of Calvorio(3) will take up to a month to heal, and I'm constantly interacting with you. Did you know that all ghouls are bald? I was surprised when we investigated the barber's wig theft. They're especially fond of blondes. I'll have someone to give my hair to!

Draco throws him a hard look, and gasps again before he can snap back.

"I see your first day in your new position is going well without any spoils or jinxes."

"Me... I'm doing fine... I'm doing fine."

"I can see it,” Theo's finger points to his ear. "And I hear it."

His friend plays with his eyebrows, smooths out a folder of sheets and pulls one out, showing him the blank side. Draco knows that the other side has a blot spread across the page, which is used to determine the shape and type of 'poltergeist' the victim saw. However, Draco, dying of boredom during his free hours in the department, came up with another use for the test: at the beginning alone, and afterwards together with Theo, he insinuated to young aurors that they had to guess the drawing on the opposite side or they would not be hired. It was a fascinating exercise, until Dora found out. He ended up getting suspended for a week, though Remus tried to hide his chuckles and mentioned someone named James.

“What is it?

Draco moves his jaw from side to side. Hiccups. He can't stand the urge to make Nott write an explanatory note, but he needs him too much to make his day a success.

"From... Don't see-- Don't-- Damn!"

"What's that? Didn't get that, did I?"

As soon as the potion bottle touches the oak table, Draco draws it down with a spell and tips it into his mouth.

It leaves a bitter taste on his tongue, but now his chest doesn't spasm every five seconds.

"Dismissed!" he finally manages to utter a complete sentence and nods to the intern, who is standing by the table, casting worried glances in Theodore's direction. “'You don't get it, do you? You have the day off today."

"But... Mr. Nott said that..."

"Mr. Nott was making you take a test that doesn't exist, so I wouldn't trust him."

The boy's eyes widen, and Theo shushes him angrily. Draco gives the intern an impatient look, and he pivots back. As his lanky figure joins the group of trainees, Theodore folds his arms across his chest, throws his head back and smirks:

"Playing the valiant knight? But you were born a Mordred(4), weren't you?

"I don't like my ideas being borrowed."

"Since when are bullying techniques intellectual property?"

"Since when can I fire you."

"Aye-aye-aye, abusing your authority? Isn't that embarrassing? Inappropriate behavior in the workplace? And on your first day?"

"Are you going to complain to the labor inspectorate?"

"Me? You're ridiculous.Creevey will probably send word to the wolfie."

"I gave him the swimmer pig case."

"Unprecedented generosity. Can I count on--"

"No."

A friend pouts his lips.

Draco rounds Theodore, sits down at the table and reaches for one of the folders to slam it shut at once.

"They have huge dicks, don't they? Giants have them like clubs? Only trolls are worse. Jenkins and I got one yesterday. We had to duck so he didn't kill us with it!"

"I need you,” Draco said seriously. "Luna Lovegood is in the waiting room, and she said that Longbottom had gone missing from the antique store two days ago."

The slyness disappears from Theodore's eyes.

"Sibyl's chest?"

"Uh-huh. That's the one."

“Missing again? Wasn't it last year that Madeleine vaporized while looking for the owner?"

"The owner was going on vacation, and Madeleine just wanted to quit. Probably frying in Fiji right now, along with your shark face."

Theodore squints his eyes, bites his lip and scratches his chin thoughtfully.

"You know, I requested the maps from the archives after the case was closed ..."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I was curious. I had a hunch it was for a reason. The elf on that ghost was troubled."

"Did you find anything?"

A hesitant nod.

"What?"

"On the old town plans, there was a well on the site of the store. And you know-"Theo clears his throat.

"How does it happen when the foundations of a building are created without modern safety measures?"(5)

"What century do the documents date from?"

The friend hesitates before wrinkling his nose, squinting one eye and holding out.

"Twelfth?"

Several curses roll off his tongue. Draco rests his forehead on the table and then bangs his fist on it a few times.

"Merlin's balls, this is the last thing we need! Fuck it!

A sneering voice comes from above.

"You know what this means, don't you? You're in charge now, and she's the only one with the necessary equipment to set traps."

Draco lets out a doomed sigh, props his cheek up with the palm of his hand, and watches Theo smirk across the room.

"Can you help me?

"Alas, no way, boss, I have three classes with our future coworkers today".

Theodore stretches, folds his arms in a straight line in front of him and raises his eyes to the ceiling. He speaks dreamily, as if he's not in a huge, boring dueling chamber, but wandering in a meadow somewhere.

"She's charming."

"I disagree."

Theodore lets out a chuckle.

"You'll appreciate it. In time."

"'m not interested."

"Put in a good word for me?"

"Theo, do you look like an explosive device?"

"No, I don't."

"Maybe you're missing half your torso?"

He shakes his head.

"Well, that's why you have zero chances."

"That's sad."

"But see, if I became a ghost, I could experience Stockholm Syndrome."

Draco rolls his eyes, tapping his fingers on the wood and tilting his head to the side.

"Would you happen to share the whereabouts of our abstruse ghost hunter?"

Theodore hums contentedly:

"I might by chance, but I won't share."

Sneaky asshole.

"What do you need? "Draco rests his elbows on the table and folds his hands into a lock. "Tell me what you need and let's get this over with quickly."

"I want the case of the floating pigs."

Draco lets out a disappointed groan and squeezes his eyes shut before opening his eyes again and hoping Nott's cheeks crack into an overly satisfied smile.

"Seriously? How about a day off?"

“'Screw your time off."

"Two?"

"I'd like to chase pigs for a raise. I'm one point short in the rankings. They're all hooked, all I have to do is deliver them to the master! Don't look at me like that, we don't all have powerful aunts, and we're not all our werewolf's favorites. I'll take Granger to a new restaurant that serves goose in honey sauce once you've sorted out the store. Oh, and, uh. Be honest, wouldn't you like to annoy Creevey?"

Merlin, Theodore Nott is hopeless. Draco has no choice, and he curses Remus.

“The bloody ghost on your back."

You don't have to ask a friend twice, Theo quickly pulls a small scroll from his breast pocket and holds it out to him. When Draco unfolds the sheet, he is caught off guard by surprise at the bewilderment.

"The fire station?"

"Moved because of the neighbors."

"Let me guess: they complained about her because she almost blew up their house?"

Theodore shrugs, though the look on his face makes it clear that Draco's guess is right.

Notes:

(1) Dukuwaqa - A shapeshifter, the Dukuwaqa possessed the ability to transform itself from a man into a shark and back (something impossible for non-Animagus wizards, as transformation into an animal rendered the transformed individual with the mind of that animal, and were thus unable to perform the spell needed to transform back into a human).
(2)Niffler - The Niffler was a magical beast with a long snout and a coat of black, fluffy fur.They were attracted to shiny things, which made them wonderful for locating treasure, but that also meant that they could wreak havoc if kept (or let loose) indoors. Nifflers in general were usually harmless.[1]
(3) Calvorio - The Hair Loss Curse(Calvorio) was a curse that removed the victim's hair or headdress.
(4) Mordred or Modred (/ˈmɔːrdrɛd/ or /ˈmoʊdrɛd/; Welsh: Medraut or Medrawt) is a major figure in the legend of King Arthur. The earliest known mention of a possibly historical Medraut is in the Welsh chronicle Annales Cambriae, wherein he and Arthur are ambiguously associated with the Battle of Camlann in a brief entry for the year 537. Medraut's figure seemed to have been regarded positively in the early Welsh tradition and may have been related to that of Arthur's son. As Modredus, Mordred was depicted as Arthur's traitorous nephew and a legitimate son of King Lot in the pseudo-historical work Historia Regum Britanniae, which then served as the basis for the following evolution of the legend from the 12th century. Later variants most often characterised Mordred as Arthur's villainous bastard son, born of an incestuous relationship with his half-sister, the queen of Lothian or Orkney named either Anna, Orcades, or Morgause. The accounts presented in the Historia and most other versions include Mordred's death at Camlann, typically in a final duel, during which he manages to mortally wound his own slayer, Arthur. Mordred is usually a brother or half-brother to Gawain; however, his other family relations, as well as his relationships with Arthur's wife Guinevere, vary greatly.
(5) According to beliefs, you can't build a house on a well, or it will be haunted by ghosts
(6) The Rorschach test is a projective psychological test in which subjects' perceptions of inkblots are recorded and then analyzed using psychological interpretation, complex algorithms, or both. Some psychologists use this test to examine a person's personality characteristics and emotional functioning. It has been employed to detect underlying thought disorder, especially in cases where patients are reluctant to describe their thinking processes openly.[4] The test is named after its creator, Swiss psychologist Hermann Rorschach.

Chapter 4: Aurophantom

Tip 4: Don't underestimate their deception skills

Old Kent Road, London

Draco, in truth, was rarely in this part of the city: muggles rushing past him in a hurry. He had expected his strict Auror cloak to attract more attention, but no one ever stopped with their mouths open. Not that he wants trouble, but it amuses him how time after time at the Chinese place near his house, customers pull their necks out instead of sucking in noodles as they see him walk past the window.

A blue van drives down the highway with the slogan “wash your windows” imprinted on the door, and beneath the sign with a mop in his hand is a creature that reminds him of a Redcap, but interpreted as a peaceful house cleaner elf. Muggles really do have a twisted imagination when it comes to marketing. What's worth remembering is that crude, bald chicken-thing outside the supermarket.

Draco takes his eyes off the road, turns on his heels and straightens his shoulders. He's ready to take the challenge of meeting the snarky, delusional witch face to face and convincing her to give him the equipment he needs.

His point of interest is a rambling, abandoned Gothic building that looks like a church, but is definitely not a fire station.The sun pours in on a muddy blue streetlight labeled “fire.” The trapezoidal shape of the building combined with the design makes him believe that the structure in the center, between two rows of windows, of which one half is broken and the other half is covered with ugly graffiti, is not the worst architectural solution in the case of this building. Perhaps it was after the client saw the lettering that the architect was immediately fired. He can't hold back a smirk. It's a pity he's not around the sullen werewolf, whom Draco annoys with such comments with regularity. Remus is racing around the dunes, and Draco has to deal with his responsibilities. When they return, Nymphadora (yes, yes, by her full name) is in for a serious talk on the subject of compulsion. No matter what she tells Remus, Draco doesn't have a third of the qualities required for the position of Head of Paranormal Crime Department .

Draco clasped his hands behind his back and examined the entrance carefully: an ajar wooden door with peeling paint, clumps of dust on the threshold, and a hole in the frame.

His gaze rests on a turquoise scooter resting carelessly against the rusty railing. Perhaps this marvel of Muggle mechanics belongs to Granger, though to be honest, he has completely different associations with her. To his deepest regret, it wasn't a stack of dusty, moth-eaten books like it had once been at Hogwarts. No, Granger is deceptively safe. Like that little trinket that turned out to be not a lucky cat, but an amusement gas grenade. Granger left it on Jenkins' desk, and the poor dumbass took a chance and pushed on the paw. The result: Draco's stomach muscles ached for a week - after all, cramps from laughter were no better than cramps from Crucio.

Sneakoscopes in Granger's presence should be screaming like madmen.

Checking his wand in the inside pocket of his robes, Draco glances away from the busy street and steps inside, leaving the honking road and, apparently, his composure behind him.

The door lets out a sickening creak as he pushes it open with the palm of his hand. He is greeted by an unsettling silence, the smell of rotting leaves, and a complete lack of light. As much as he despises Granger, even for her, living in an emergency building is not a typical, overly eccentric thing to do. And she'd never been seen as a hermit, either.

"Granger?"

No one's responding.

That's great. Merlin's balls, he'd better get this thing over with and head to Abraham Lincoln's Bar to see the owner of the antique store to find out what was wrong with that damned haunt of old and unwanted things.

A light glows on the end of his wand, and Draco takes a step towards the staircase with no confidence. The dim glow of Lumos allows him to step over the rotten steps to avoid falling and reach the second floor without breaking a limb. The closer Draco gets to the end, the greater his concern. On the second floor, at the end of the narrow hallway, a streak of orange peeks through the door crack, giving him a moment's relief.

Apparently Granger is too caught up in rummaging through the gears to hear the arrival of the uninvited guest and meet him. He enjoys the fact that he can frighten the arrogant witch by invading her personal space. It's not like she can mock his mistrust of her brand new toys she brags about every month at meetings. Her presentations make his coworkers' eyes light up, and Draco does just fine without the crap. To be more accurate, he blames his partner for picking up equipment for missions - though Creevey throws tantrums every time Remus gives them a joint operation.

The gloating grows and strengthens with each step as he gets closer to his cherished target. Down to the smallest detail, he runs through in his head what he will say to Granger when he sees her. For starters, after throwing accusations of utter unprofessionalism at her, Draco will inform her of the cutback to cause guilt and pressure her. She's probably going to be confused, at which point Draco will offer her the easy way out - equipment in return for a job. Alas, his elaborate cunning plan falls apart as soon as his lips move to cast a spell. A lean, graceful hand emerges from the wall at his side, grabs him by the collar, and pulls him into the dirty yellow pattern on the wallpaper. He shakes with a shudder as he passes through the barrier of illusion. A honey scent hits his nose: something sweet, but not sugary. Softness - his chin is tickled by hair. Draco's thigh collides with another person's thigh and an elbow flies painfully into his side. He draws in air through his teeth to focus. When he manages to regain his breath, his gaze collides with a round, sullen red whiskered muzzle hovering overhead and studying him meticulously. A dismissive 'meow' is heard, and the next second a hot breath is scorching his chin:

"Malfoy? You-” a pause, followed by a surprised question, ”How in the name of Merlin did you get in here!?"

Draco belatedly realizes he's sandwiched between a witch in a shapeless yellow protective suit and a shelf piled high with fire hoses. A warm light falls on the bridge of her freckled nose from a flickering light bulb swinging on a wire. Dilated pupils, a brick smear on her cheek and neat lips open, Granger is flustered. The yellow fabric on her shoulder is corroded, a black and red flannel checked shirt peeking out from underneath. Her curls are matched by her pink aviator glasses, and Draco seems to have caught a glimpse of how quickly the emotions on her face are changing. Granger raises, frowns, and relaxes her eyebrows in a matter of seconds. To win the verbal duel, Draco prudently attacks first.

"How did I get here!? You'd better tell me why you're hiding in the storeroom-” he speaks the rest of the sentence into her hand, which he immediately yanks away from her face furiously, yanking Granger's wrist. “You've got a nerve, haven't you?“

"Quiet!"

The witch's eyes sparkle, and she tilts her head to the side as if listening.

"You hear that? You must whisper."

"I can't hear anything!,” he said, lowering his voice at the end of his sentence. "And I will not keep my voice down! What the hell is going on? Why are you blending in with the wallpaper?"

"She's looking for me."

Draco tries not to touch Granger, but the too tight space forces him to either chew on the tail of a redheaded kneazle or collide the tip of his nose with a curly head. “'Who, Granger? There's no one in the house! You can hear the billywig, it's so quiet!"

Suddenly Draco is hit on the cheek with a paw. A stab of pain. A hiss. “Crookshanks dear, take it easy! Malfoy didn't know how to get his voice down.“

“Bloody hairball,” Draco scratches his cheek. "Ah, well..."

Granger taps his chest a few times with her index finger and interrupts his tirade with a serious voice.

"Red Riding Hood is looking for me."

From the shock Draco can't squeeze out a coherent response at first, but afterward he gathers himself and utters.

"Don't tell me you have huge ears, huge eyes, and huge-” Involuntarily his eyes dip lower to her chest, and Granger immediately punches him in the shoulder with her fist. "... Huge, ahem, shapeless suit."

"I'm not in the mood for humorous analogies right now, Malfoy."

Draco sighs, and the red fluffy pig leaps over to the opposite shelf and whips his tail across his cheek. Bloody kneazle!

"Do you really believe you're being chased by Little Red Riding Hood?"

Granger swallows, and Draco fights the urge to yank her out of the storeroom and into the open hallway.

"Granger,” Draco pulls at her mockingly. "Granger, are you brewing something for your new bombs? Maybe you're hallucinating from-"

"No!” her cheeks are flushed. "Or yes. I'm developing something. It's toxic, but the vapors don't affect the receptors. I promise, they really don't."

Draco squints, and Granger shrugs under his gaze. Looking suspiciously guilty, Draco asks a straightforward, obvious question:

“Do you grow poisonous tentacula? Do you?"

"Are you insane? I'm not interested in that type of thing."

That's good to know. That rules out the whole dealer thing.

“But I still have to make sure that your senses are capable of a proper perception of reality."

"I'm not going to count how many fingers you have on your hand, Malfoy,” she hissed."Get off me."

"You'd better not. What if it's six, and you miss your chance to learn about my vulnerability."

"I'd love to miss my chance, because I've known all about what you are for a long time now, you crude, uncouth aurophantom."

"Aurophantom?"

"Yes!"

"That's a bad joke, Granger."

"But it's right on target."

There's a rumbling sound outside, and Granger jerks fearfully in his direction. Suddenly Draco has to pull her against him to keep her from knocking over a shelving unit. He gasps, and Granger quickly jumps backwards away from him.

Draco clears his throat and points a finger at the wall behind her:

"I swear, witch, if you don't give me a proper explanation right now, I will carry you out of this den! I will not ask permission!"

"Okay! I got it! All right! All right!" she exclaims in a whisper under his scrutinizing gaze. "I've been trying to create red mercury for months now."

"What-"

"I'm looking for a formula. So far I only got an approximate one."

"You're trying to synthesize an analog of fire breath and the philosopher's stone at the same time!?! Alone?! Right here?!"

Granger averts her gaze to her toes and grates her lower lip with her teeth.

"'Damn, let's pretend you didn't hear that, shall we? I really just want my purse".

"Purse? No, wait, we're not done with the last topic yet."

"There's nothing particularly scary about it."

"Why don't I believe you?"

"Stupid prejudice?"

"Common sense. What about your purse?"

"It's by the cauldron, and that's between the centrifuge and the activated matrix for recording paranormal activity."

"Why don't-” Draco tries to remain calm.“ Can you say that again, why can't you just go out and get her?”

Granger once again shrugs and then squints warily at the wall behind her.

“Who is‘red riding hood’, Granger?

"A ghost,” she covers her eyes, touches her forehead, and says tiredly, ‘It's ’Red Riding Hood's mom.' The ghost of Jinny Bingham, a sixteenth century witch, a member of the Order of Red Riding Hoods. More accurately, well..."

"What else?"

“How can I put it?

“Just tell it like it really is."

"This is her severed head."

Loud pause.

"You're telling me that ghost head is flying around this house right now, looking for you to-"

"I'm not sure she really wants to kill me."

"It's an incredible coincidence that you and she ended up at the fire station at the same time.Don't you think?"

He must have taken her by surprise.

"Granger, what have you done?"

"The thing is, there's no mention in the church books of exactly how Jinevra died. And I-” Granger adjusts her glasses on her head, squeezing out a weak smile. "I found the chapel up north, where her husband Pitcher's journals suggested she was buried. There was a skeleton in the cemetery, but no skull? I thought that was suspicious, and then decided to apply a reassembly spell to the remains. It turned out that her ghostly head, along with the skull, had been locked in the crypt for centuries along with the treasure. And from there, it was very easy to trap her-"a touch of childish mischief in her voice. "Which I did!"

"Why?"

"I wanted to have a chat."

Draco lets out an angry hiss.

"Let me guess, the conversation with the incorporeal Jinny ended on a not-so-good note?"

She makes a few circular motions with her shoulder.

"She got angry and started spitting acid at me."

"Wonderful,” he mumbles. "What does this have to do with the fact that you're literally trying to recreate the second lost philosopher's stone? Which of course, by complete coincidence, is just as deadly a substance?"

"Her husband knew someone who knew someone who knew someone who knew... Oh, no, who was the brother of someone who knew the exact formula."

All he manages to do is blink a few times and stare at her dumbly.

"I really, really needed that information."

"You doubling down on words just makes it all the more absurd. Did I understand correctly that you first caught her and then released her yourself?"

Granger hesitates for a few seconds before nodding uncertainly. Draco was hoping for the opposite reaction.

"You're insane,” he shakes his head. 'I always knew that, but I'm definitely convinced now."

"Madness is a relative term. I'm trying to accomplish a goal."

It was pretty obvious that he was going to have to help her if he wanted to get the equipment. Damn screwt, he was going to get that purse.

Heavy sigh.

"What do we need to do to lure your bodiless thug back into the trap?"

Granger's face brightens. Draco, on the other hand, doesn't have a good feeling about any of this.

Notes:

(1) Red mercury is a discredited substance, most likely a hoax perpetrated by con artists who sought to take advantage of gullible buyers on the black market for arms. These con artists described it as a substance used in the creation of nuclear weapons; because of the secrecy surrounding nuclear weapons development, it is difficult to disprove their claims completely. However, all samples of alleged "red mercury" analyzed in the public literature have proven to be well-known, common substances of no interest to weapons makers.
(2) What the fire station looks like where Hermione lives: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Old_Kent_Road_Fire_Station,_London-14770934577.jpg
(3) Chicked ad: https://mir-s3-cdn-cf.behance.net/project_modules/max_1200/78e9c379941559.5cd6db61d7dc0.jpg
(4) Mother Damnable Mother Damnable’s Notorious Parents and her Four Dead or ‘Disappeared’ Lovers

According to the legends, Mother Damnable’s real name was Jinney – or Jinny or Jenny – Bingham. Though records of her birth have either been lost or never existed, she seems to have been born around 1600. She was the only child of a brickmaker, Jacob Bingham, from Kentish Town, which was the nearest settlement of any size to Camden. Her mother was the daughter of a Scottish peddler, who Jacob met while serving in Scotland in the army. His military service over, Jacob returned to the Camden Town area with his Scots wife and resumed his brickmaking trade. The couple and their young daughter, however, would sometimes travel around the country to peddle Jacob’s wares.

At about 16 years of age, Jinney Bingham became pregnant by her boyfriend, a man known as ‘Gypsy’ George Coulter. Her father built the couple a cottage on a patch of waste land, commonly believed to be the spot now covered by Camden Town Tube Station. (Though some say the cottage stood on the site now occupied by the – perhaps appropriately named – World’s End pub just across the road.) George’s residency in the cottage would prove a short one. Accused of stealing sheep near Holloway, he was tried at the Old Bailey and hanged at Tyburn (A notorious place of execution close to Marble Arch). Jinney next took up with a man named Darby, a heavy drinker. Their relationship soon became full of furious arguments and violent confrontations. After one particularly brutal incident, Jinney is said to have sought her mother’s advice on how to deal with her drunken lover. Darby vanished shortly afterwards. No one knew what had befallen him and no investigation was conducted into his disappearance.

But Jinney was about to lose more people in her life. Her parents were ordered to appear in court, accused of killing a young girl by means of witchcraft. The two were found guilty and hanged. Jinney, perhaps to fill the emotional gap left by their execution, began cohabiting with a man named Pitcher. As with her liaison with Darby, their relationship soon degenerated into a series of arguments and fights. Pitcher, like his predecessor, wouldn’t be part of Jinney’s life for long. Unlike with Darby, however, it soon became clear what had happened to him. Pitcher’s body was discovered – charred and toasted – in Jinney’s oven.

As there was a body, there could be an investigation and Jinney Bingham was put on trial for Pitcher’s murder. Things were looking grim for her until an associate popped up in the witness box. This acquaintance said Pitcher had a habit of hiding in the oven to escape Jinney’s savage tongue. Perhaps, having done this, he’d fallen asleep and his roasting had merely been an accident. The court was convinced and Jinney was acquitted.

Chapter 5: Make noise in the east and hit in the west

Tip 5: Ghosts live in abandoned buildings because they are bored to death with humans, so attack from behind, you have an advantage

Warehouse, Fire Station

He would never have thought cats could tear apart with a stare, but Draco honestly doesn't care how much the ginger furred mess of a cat despises him.

He continues to insist on his own way anyway:

"Not a chance."

Draco dodges the paw, causing the kneazzle to hiss resentfully at the miss. Granger smiles contentedly across from him, scratching the monster behind the ear and pulling a piece of poisonous lettuce-coloured cloth off a shelf. Draco doesn't even bother to catch the shapeless material - it slides down to his toes.

"My eyes are about to water."

"I thought you might like the green."

"It's not green, Granger."

"It's a shade of green."

His eyebrow arched.

"Do you have a problem with your eyesight?"

She glares at him:

"You need protection!"

"A wand will be enough."

"It's a class four poltergeist, able to manipulate things and reflect attacks. In addition, its saliva contains highly concentrated sulphuric acid, which if it gets on your skin will immediately burn it away. When you face it, the suit will be the only barrier, Malfoy! Besides the obvious benefits, the fabric is also soaked in a liquid that is resistant to mercury vapour."

"I can do quite well without your toys, Granger Stranger."

A tired sigh. Granger folds her arms across her chest:

"You make me weary."

The corners of his lips twitch weakly.

Draco has to admit that there is something appealing about the way Granger is convincing him to get into the poison-green uniform. He's willing to continue if only for the sake of her sighing of moral judgement again.

"One costumed clown in our pair is enough. Of course, now I see why you like those yellow rags so much."

Granger arched her eyebrows at the bridge of her nose as he continued:

"Having a heart-to-heart talk with a poltergeist is inappropriate friendliness. Did the hat happen to get the wrong faculty when it was placed on your hairy head?"

"For the record, I could have chosen Ravenlclaw or Gryffindor, and you probably only had one option available?"

"So you could end up like Uric the Odd? That's where your passion for ghosts comes from."

Granger snorts angrily, moving forward and causing him to flinch. Despite the layer of thick fabric separating them, Draco still has to put up with the sensation of her breasts making contact with his torso. A sweet scent conquers his sense of smell: goosebumps run down his neck. He tries to look straight ahead as Granger digs through the pile of hoses behind him - it seems only now that he realises for the first time that Granger is indeed a woman, not a genderless creature. It doesn't bring him relief. On the opposite, he is confused as to what context the thoughts in his head are taking over. After about five minutes that seem endlessly agonising, she does show him what she is so diligently seeking and stops rubbing herself against him.

"You're lucky I've got this place set up for my needs."There's a pair of pilot goggles dangling from her fingers, but at least they're black this time, not the colour of toxic fuchsia. "To protect your eyes from the acid."

Draco squints at the object in her hand. Merlin's balls, he has to admit, they look exactly like Quidditch glasses. There's nothing wrong with the way they look.

"Malfoy-’ Granger says out threateningly. "If you want to take my equipment, you're going to have to come my way and get your arse into a hazmat suit."

Despite the fact that Draco is no longer twelve, he shows Granger the tongue, but takes the thing nonetheless. He pulls the elastic band over her head, adjusts the lenses so they don't stick to his hair, and takes on the next piece of the outfit. Annoyed, he grabs the suit off the floor, cursing the storeroom when he crashes his forehead into Granger's shoulder and tries to undo the jammed zip.

"Finally."

The zip gives in, and the cutting sound makes Draco grimace.

"A forced measure," he grunts, squeezing into the trousers. "I swear, Granger, you should be put on the “highly dangerous mages” list after something like that."

Maintenance facility, fire station

They manage to sneak unnoticed into the room under the desillumination charms and hide behind a tall counter of potions, the colours of which make Draco's eyes water. The grumbling head is heard, flying over the cauldron and wailing about her lack of hands. Draco rises to look out and find the object he is looking for: just as Granger said, a pink beaded purse lies on a pile of books near the bubbling cauldron. By analysing the arrangement of the furniture, he finds an escape route in case of fire. The window.

"Do you remember the plan? "An erratic breath reaches him, and Draco crouches back down and pulls his glasses over his eyes. "Your job-"

"Dodge acid spit while you're trying to get your moron pack?"

"Proton pack, Malfoy."

"I wouldn't correct the mistakes of someone who would risk his life for you, Granger."

"While you are still sitting in your hiding place!"

"Doubting my willingness to throw myself into the fight?"

She snorts:

"I'm afraid you're too worried about your pretty face to fight for real."

He fails to suppress a smirk:

"Do I have a pretty face?"

Perhaps he's hallucinating (which wouldn't surprise him under the current circumstances), but a crimson blush colours Granger's cheeks. She ignores his words.

"Keep your eyes away from the cauldron. If it topples over, the whole place will blow up. The formula is unstable."

"Do you really think I didn't hear you the first time?"

"I'm not sure you're paying attention, so I'm thoughtfully repeating it."

Draco knows that the next sentence will infuriate Granger, but he says it anyway:

"Stick with me if things don't go according to plan," Draco immediately faces the sceptical look in her brown eyes. "Seriously Granger, no willful behaviour, you better watch your wool clump. I'm not going to save him if he jumps out of your improvised design in a split second."

Granger's hand adjusts the cloth cradle and the kneazzle peeks out from behind her shoulder. Draco remembers Granger struggling with the length of the hose to transfigure it into enough material. If it had been Draco's will, they would have left the cat in the storeroom until a better time before starting the mission, but Granger was clearly against it when he mouthed the idea.

An excited voice came from the right:

"Malfoy?"

"Yes?"

"Be careful."

"We're only going to trick a poltergeist, Granger. It's not the most dangerous mission I've ever had to participate in."

Granger stares at him intently, and frankly, Draco has a hard time interpreting her gaze this time: there's an unfamiliar emotion splashed in her brown irises, making warmth spill into his chest. Her hand brings the pink glasses down sharply from the top of her head - Draco immediately snapped out of his trance, shaking his head and returning his eyes to the ghost frozen above the centrifuge.

"Don't miss, Granger."

"And you keep distracting it properly."

Kneazzle meows in confirmation to her words. It sounds like a wish for good luck, so Draco doesn't even get the urge to tug his tail.

He draws more air into his lungs before leaping over the potions counter and behind the ghostly head, an aquamarine glow radiating from it. Jinevra is distracted by the details on the table, freezes, and then quickly spins through the air and flies towards him. Draco sees a narrow, twisted face, with long curls sticking out from under the bonnet, warts sprinkled across the hump of her nose, and, if you look closely, part of a bone peeking out from underneath the layered pieces of neck flesh. Ginevra's mad eyes widen at the sight of him, and suddenly the head decides to burst into hysterical laughter. She's missing her front tooth in her huge mouth. Great, he needs to distract her while Granger sneaks off to the target. Draco takes a few steps forward, but a spit lands a centimetre from his foot - sizzling. The ghost sucks in her cheeks, and seconds later, in the voice of a firewhiskey intoxicated lady, she declares:

"Ooh-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha, the charmer looks like my bloody hubby! The demon killed me and thought I'd keep the trinkets safe, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa! Stupid idiot! " she chokes with laughter. "You... Wooh ha ha ha, where did you come from, you bloody blond bedbug!"

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco manages to catch movement behind him. His heart is pounding in his chest, but he tries to remain calm and not let the formless woman know that he's nervous.

"My lady, I've heard many legends of Jinevra's beauty..." he chants sweetly, but is interrupted as he tries to remember the last name. "Ginevra Bingham. That wouldn't be you, would it?"

The head swings from side to side, almond-shaped wrinkled eyes narrowing, and Draco clutches his wand tighter behind his back. After a moment, the ghost comes close to his face, and he feels the needles rubbing his skin from its cold breath.

"Well, me!"

"Erm... You are magnificent! Your beauty is like a guiding star in the sky, my lady."

My face contorts with a grimace of rage:

"Do you think you can deceive me, you damned human beings? You think I don't know it was that thief who sent you."

"Do you, my lady? I don't know who you're talking about. I'm here for one thing only - to see you."

"Oh, we've seen you. Nasty people, greedy people," the ghost stuck out its tongue, and Draco could barely keep from wrinkling his nose. "Tasty little people!"

Spit again. Draco dodges to the side, but one drop lands on his glasses, blocking his view.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, look, ready!"

Draco straightens up, wiping the blot away with his sleeve. It smells disgusting.

"Well, since you're such a gallant-looking hubby, do you still like me?"

He has to squeeze his eyes shut to nod.

"It makes me want to taste you so badly, my darling."

Draco swallows, forcing himself to open his eyes.

Acid drips from his long, cobra-like tongue: a squirming sound, the fabric on his chest melting. Draco is leaning backwards more and more. Damn it, where the hell is Granger? Her purse is only a short distance away.

His heart is beating so hard he can hear the pounding in his ears. The ghost reeks with a deadly chill.

The tip of the fidgety tongue comes closer, saliva burning through his suit, and Draco throws his head back by force of inertia. It's a millimetre away from contact when Granger leaps out from behind the cauldron and shouts:

"Come on, Malfoy, now!"

Draco pulls out his wand: the ghost's head flies backwards off the force shield, spins round and crashes through the window. There's a loud crack that makes him want to clamp his ears shut. Shards fall - a few hit the cauldron, followed by a series of short flashes and flames rising to its height. Granger jerks back, nearly setting her hair on fire, but quickly regains her balance, adjusts the straps of her rucksack, and raises her super device above her head.

Ginevra dashes disorientatedly from one corner of the room to the other, blowing up potion jars, pushing stacks of books, and screaming in pain as she crashes into a cupboard of tools. This allows Draco to run over to Granger as she presses the button on the strange elongated device over and over again. No matter how hard she tries, the device only buzzes for a few seconds, pulls in a few scrolls, and immediately shuts off.

"Shit!"

She raises huge, frightened eyes to Draco.

"We're... Malfoy, we..."

"Granger, ah, well, fire up your morom pack!"At that moment, the head stops shaking from side to side. Upside down, it hangs in the air with its' hair down, tongue sticking out, acidic drool dripping from it. "Merlin's balls, Granger, now!"

"It won't start!"

"What do you mean it won't start?!"

Jinevra focuses an angry glare on their figures, and then looks somewhere to the right, suspiciously close to the cauldron. The ghost croaks, baring its teeth. A flick of hair, and the head flies off to a bookcase on the other side of the room. Draco tries to figure out exactly what the madwoman is doing, but his gaze locks onto the boiling, crackling cauldron.

Merlin's sake, she wants to speed up! She wants to drop that crappy cauldron so she can blow the place up!

In that split second, Draco realises that their only escape route is the same unfortunate window he spotted when he entered the room. He does all of the following actions on autopilot, feeling neither fear nor panic. His brain shuts off, and the Auror reflexes trained over the years take control.

Draco makes a quick decision: he picks up a screaming Granger in his arms just as the ghost crashes into the cauldron. The cauldron wobbles, spilling the liquid, and falls. The ringing sound of it hitting the floor makes the head bob and squeal. A metallic burgundy liquid pours from inside, gradually spreading across the floor. It almost hits them, but Draco deftly jumps onto the windowsill - just in time - the floor beneath them floods with the contents of the cauldron. As a small spanner slips off the fallen cupboard, the platinum smoothness bursts into flames. The head screams hoarsely, and Draco has no choice but to take a step into the emptiness. Granger clutches at his shoulder with a dead grip, the cat on her back screams, and Draco feels a blast wave pushing him backwards. He managed to cast the right spell and slow down the fall.

 

 

 

Notes:

Chapter title: (Chinese proverb, 聲東擊西 pinyin: shēng dōng jī xī).

Uric the Oddball - https://harrypotter.fandom.com/wiki/Uric_the_Oddball "Uric the Oddball is known to have slept in a room containing no fewer than fifty pet Augureys. During one particularly wet winter, Uric became convinced by the moaning of his Augureys that he had died and was now a ghost. His subsequent attempts to walk through the walls of his house resulted in what his biographer Radolphus Pittiman describes as a "concussion of ten days' duration.""

Chapter 6: Whoever catches up will eat it

Tip 5: Don't play or else don't lose

Old Kent Road, London

Blue-purple flames burst from the window, as if eager to catch them and pull them back into the maelstrom of fire. His feet move faster through the air, the familiar safety of the tarmac approaching with each movement.        

When Draco can finally feel the solid ground beneath his feet, Granger is no longer the flake he easily picked up under her knees and flew out the window. Adrenaline levels are dropping in his blood, and now the muscles in his arms are overstretched and his back is dragging from the weight. But the witch is in no hurry to break their ‘embrace’: her eyes are tightly closed, and her fingers are about to tear through his protective suit, so tightly she is clutching at him. 

He decides to take pity and not drop her right away, though he is tempted to throw her into the nearest bush. Still, Draco wants to taste her reaction as close as possible when the witch realises that the Auror Phantom Draco Malfoy himself has just saved her. Kneazle, which had somehow crawled from her back to her chest, meows pitifully, claws at her drool-eaten pocket, and jumps off. Lucky devil. Draco hoped the bugger would fly off somewhere between the first floor and the front porch.  

"I am expecting a passionate ‘thank you’ for the deed."

Granger pulls her glasses down to her neck, and they leave faintly noticeable pink circles around her eyes.

"Wouldn't that be humiliating for you? I thought your life philosophy centred on avoiding heroics deeds."

"Do you think you're the smartest?"

The Granger nods immediately, and there's not an ounce of doubt in his eyes. Damn Merlin!

Draco watches as she daubs her gaze on his face. The grip on his shoulder loosens - the witch is slowly coming to her senses. He hums, because Granger is apparently very comfortable in his arms since she's not terrified of their closeness. Her distracted gaze wandering from her lips to his forehead makes Draco feel uncomfortable. A hot rush hits his chest, and Granger's eyes looking at him with curiosity intensifies it. The rib of Granger's palm grazes his cheekbone, gently touching the wound at his temple with her fingertips. Their eye contact is interrupted when a head, forgotten for a few minutes, flies out of the window with a homeric laughter. A grey trail of smoke trails behind it, and Granger utters in unison with Draco,

"Shit!"

She jumps out of his arms, seaching through her purse. Fat red fluffy moster rubs against his legs, and Draco has the urge to kick the cat. He restrains himself, however. Ginevra's head wobbles from side to side. Fortunately, the ghost is trying to shake off the concussion, so he's not paying attention to them yet. It's for the best, because Draco doesn't plan on letting her filthy poisonous tongue on his face even one more time. 

"Granger, unless you want to violate the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy, we'd better get out of here fast."

"There's no way to apparate off this street.It's a long way to the next block, we won't make it in time."

 

Draco jerks his head sharply in her direction, because... What do you mean, you can't?

Granger's word was hard to believe. Not after her invention had gone stale and declined to fulfil its primary function to get rid of their possessed head, a victim of domestic violence and coincidentally the main reason why Draco had begun to think of Granger in any way other than as a mad witch on Remus's payroll. The fire station isn't a particularly secure facility to put a disaparate barrier on it. However, the only weak point in the argument is now in front of him, left arm elbow-deep in a beaded purse and hair sticking out in different directions.

"There they are!"

The bunch of keys in her hand jingles annoyingly, and a strange keychain shaped like a small circle with green and gold flecks hits her knuckles. The strap of her backpack falls off her shoulder, and Granger decides to get rid of it altogether.

"I've asked Remus and Colin to cast a hardware shield and a few other spells on this street to secure my designs"

"Of course, who else would agree to such idiocity. Of course you would! The Creevy!"

"They did a great job."

"Do you really think anyone needs your scribblings that badly, Granger?"

"Hold this."

The satchel presses against his chest, and Draco's hands automatically grab the thing, though he should have thrown it in the opposite direction. Too late! Granger hurries to the porch, lifts the blue mechanical beast by its handles and sighs heavily. Draco suspects that the keys in her hand are meant for this device.

Honestly, he's not thrilled about it.

"You'd be surprised what kind of demand my ‘scribblings’ are in with thieves. I've already found several devices based on my designs at Nasemnikus' place. I don't want this to become a pattern."

"Congratulations, your paranoia has cut off our only escape route."

The car growls like a sneaking nundu before moving in his direction. Draco is forced to back away because Granger is too focused behind the wheel of the unidentified vehicle . Such a combination is no guarantee of safety for anyone around him, and him in particular. Knizzle stops pawing at his calves, hops over to Granger and settles himself between her chin and the steering wheel. His whiskers twitch amusingly as she scratches behind his ears.

"Where do you live?"

"There's no way I'm telling you the address of my flat, you crazy witch."

A terrifying shrill screech.

Granger raises her eyebrows and hums expressively. Draco looks up.

Ginevra freezes in a cloud of dust five metres away from them. M-hmm, he's not sure he's ready to be left alone with her without the benefit of an ambush, and yes, there's a trap hidden deep at the bottom of Granger's bloody pink handbag. He's doing just fine with calculating risks, thanks to his parents.

Ghosthead sneezes from the smoke, and when he gathers himself, lets out a trill of swear words.

"Ah, you miserable idiots! Upchoo, you thought you could destroy me! Now let's see which one of us wins! I'll lick your heads and eat them. That'll teach you, you bloody idiots! Ahchoo!"

The memory of what her tongue looks and smells like a millimetre from his face makes him shiver. Common sense wins out, and so he quickly puts on his satchel and runs over to Granger, climbing into the seat behind her.

His arse dangles off the edge, so Draco has to press himself closer to Granger. So close that he almost chews on her hair.

"Bywater Street, but do you know where that is?"

"My glasses are advanced omninoculars, they have a map of London built into them."

He was expecting something like that, and so he makes the following humorous suggestion for fun.

"Your Muggle beast doesn't happen to fly like a broomstick, Granger?"

A wide, satisfied smile lights up her face.

Ginevra's head stops sneezing uncontrollably.

Draco wrinkles his nose from his curls and repeats, already hopefully rather than mockingly,

"It doesn't fly, does it?"

"Ah-ah-ah-ah, you fools want to play!" shouts the ghost, interrupted by a few spits, which, thank Merlin, do not reach them.

"One, two, three, four, five!
Mages march to stay alive.
Suddenly, out Ginevra flies,
Spitting slime right in their eyes!
Zap-zap! Oh, what a fright!
Magic sparks light up the night!!"

"Get away from us, you stupid head!"Draco snaps angrily. "No-one's going to play with you!"

Afterwards he lets out an excited whisper in Granger's ear. 

"The sooner we get out of here, the better for us!"

The engine's woof increases, and Granger's head leans closer to the steering wheel. The witch pulls her pilot goggles down and tosses them to him from over her shoulder.

"Hold on tight, Malfoy. You're going to have to shoot back if anything happens."

"What do you mean, shoot back?"

Her answer doesn't reach his ears, but a sharp gust of wind jerks his lips, hair, and head backwards. The air beats against his gums. Draco almost flies off the seat, but he learns his lesson - Granger's waist is now his only bulwark of safety.

Chelsea, London

 

Granger doesn't seem the least bit embarrassed by how badly they are skidding around the bend as they round another silver Volvo. The tyres are whistling. This is the second time they've been honked at, and the third time Draco has been called an asshole. It was always hard for him to imagine himself in such a situation: his life depending on a witch clinging to the steering wheel of a blue jalopy like the sky above his head.

His life depends on a witch clutching the wheel of a blue crappy car that's as blue as the sky above his head. At the same time, he's behind her, trying to find a single argument for why he hasn't just run away from Granger. Perhaps it's all about the fact that Remus cares for Granger as if she were his own daughter. Draco would disappoint him if he left her alone with a rabid ghost. Powerful jets of wind slap and the Thames embankment blends into a dark smear. Eyes watery from the wind, Draco resigns himself to the fact that they have just nearly crashed into a tree.

Hermione Granger is a walking disaster, but he still prefers her company over the head following them around. No matter how many times they loop through the streets of London, Ginevra always manages to find them and burst into a fit of laughter that will probably be part of his nightmare programme schedule for this month.

On their way to Draco's flat they've already broken several streetlights, frightened dozens of muggles, and most importantly, in addition to the unfortunate ghost, the Muggle police are on their backs. The howling of sirens haunts them along with the shouting of the head. They move to their own tune. Just as they pass the Saatchi Gallery, Ginevra loops between the columns.

"Granger, on the right!"

" I see it! Get the gun."

" It's not working, damn!"

"It's malfunctioning. The red button activates the particle suction."

"Where is it?!"

"Malfoy, I'm a bit busy! Find it yourself!"

Shaking fingers trying to find where to press it. Goblin and Morgana, where does this thing switch on?

"This is the first time I've ever seen this thing! How am I supposed to know?!"

They bounce as they pull out of the park onto the carriageway. Draco's stomach sticks to his ribs somewhere, while Granger calmly strokes the cat behind her ear and taps her foot to the rhythm of the tune coming from the car on the left. The green light changes to red, and as they set off again, Ginevra's head materialises over the roof of the three-storey building on the right side. The flow of cars thins as she turns onto a small street. For a while, everyone sticks to the rules.

Draco even thinks for a second that the chase is over. As if it isn't!

As soon as he manages to relax his tense leg muscles, regain his breath and clear his thought process, the ghost decides to take the next step after all. Out of the corner of his eye, Draco sees the head deviate from their parallel course, swerve and choose a perpendicular route. Granger, it must be said, notices it before he does. All of this happens as the double-decker bus approaches a crossroads, the intersection of two points, neither of which plans to stop or slow down. The closer they get, the more Draco gets a bad feeling. Granger really thinks he can outrun the ghost and slip between the bus and the white Audi!

He turns round to check the road behind them. No one.

"Merlin's bollocks, we're going to crash! Pull over!"  Draco yells as hard as he can. "Now!"

In the next second Granger spins the handle, the moped rears up before hitting the pavement, and the head, leaving a translucent haze behind it, screams and crashes into a red bus with tourists. Outraged exclamations turn to squeals. Ginevra, clutching the leather strap in her teeth, snatches the camera from the lovestruck couple. He's three turns, one avenue and a pinch of luck away from his flat. In truth, Draco wasn't sure he could beat the ghost, but at least Granger and the fat cat were sure of it. Admittedly, he has no one else to rely on.

In all honesty, Draco wasn't sure he could win the ghost's chase, but at least Granger and the fat cat were pretty sure of it. He had to admit, he had no one else to rely on.

 

---

---

   

 

 

 

Notes:

Plate-breaker: https: //aliexpress.ru/item/33000957605.html?sku_id=67076240634
What the Saatchi Gallery looks like: https: //upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/e/e6/SaatchiGallery.jpg/548px-SaatchiGallery.jpg
Baywater Street: https: //voyagist.ru/wp-content/uploads/2017/02/krasivye-ulitsy-londona-3.jpg
Hermione's Vespa: https://hotmot.ru/upload/resize_cache/iblock/d7f/1200_1200_140cd750bba9870f18aada2478b24840a/d7f2cf06d986f83d12e4c372781c1ab9.jpg

Chapter 7: A Harsh Interrogation

Tip 6: What they fear most isn’t you, but their own kind and the Muggles.

Police Station, London

“I swear to you, sir, we’re not MI6 agents!”

Hermione Granger gesticulated wildly.

“No, we didn’t try to blow up City Hall!”

The Muggle kept interrupting, over and over — how delightful.

“Let me— no, let me finish! What does Harry Houdini have to do with anything? No, we’re not related!”

The inspector turned his faded, beady eyes on Draco, who merely spread his hands and watched Granger’s cheeks take on the colour of dragon fire. She had naively assumed he wasn’t the sort to escalate situations. Only Morgana knows where she got such blind trust.

Draco yawned behind his hand, eyes drifting up to the cheap plastic-tiled ceiling. Were all Muggle “auror departments” this dull?

A narrow room, shelves groaning with paper files, and weary-looking Muggles hunched like gargoyles at desks.

Where were the duelling chambers? The bloodied, weeping recruits? The minor explosions from powder testing, the enchanted paper planes crashing into foreheads, the green-faced interns accidentally downing boil-bursting potion?

Boring. If he were a Muggle, he’d never work here.

He couldn’t be bothered to interfere — but another hour behind bars? Absolutely not. Especially not with a cellmate from the Order of Tedious Lunatics. Granger had promised she’d sort it without his help, but that hope was vanishing fast, along with the Muggle’s patience — his moustache twitched every time the witch opened her absurdly plump mouth.Wait, did he just compliment her mouth?

This was Granger’s bad influence.

Although, her lips really were... Well, never mind. 

At least Ginevra was finally where she belonged: trapped with a dozen other dangerously unhinged spirits. Draco wasn’t going to dwell on how exactly they’d captured her, or what would happen once once he got back to HQ?  Unspeakables could deal with the mess.

“Sir, I assure you, you imagined it. I’m sorry, but  what floating head in a bonnet? And my scooter can’t fly, obviously. Surely you don’t believe in that sort of nonsense? We’re just caught in a silly misunderstanding, that’s all!”

Hermione’s kneazle sniffed at the indifferent police dog snoozing nearby.

Draco idly wondered why no auror had ever tamed a Rougarou(. It would be so poetic to look at how souls, who were sold to the devil, now serving justice.

A plump middle-aged woman in horn-rimmed glasses scowled at him from behind her desk. Her pursed lips reminded him of Kingsley’s secretary at Ministry briefings. That’s what you get for strolling through town in a suit of violent green colou.

Muggles probably thought he and Granger were some sort of delusional animal-obsessed cultists. Insulting. Unacceptable. Obviously.

“You see, sir, my—” she glanced fondly at Draco and touched his knee. He flinched. “—my husband and I recently celebrated our wedding. The Vespa was a gift from him. It means the world to me. Isn’t that right, darling?”

Her what now?

Draco turned pale as parchment. Granger went on, unbothered.

By Merlin’s dangling bits, did she just call him her hubby?

“Draco loves me so much. And I love him. My kitty, Crookshanks, adores him!”

The kneazle yowled in protest, tail puffed to twice its size. The feeling was mutual.

Fuck-fuking-fantasting. She’d brought out the heavy artillery. Time to intervene before she invented children or started spouting vows of eternal love. Draco shot her a look of cold fury, his voice laced with dry menace.

“Sadly, darling, I lost your Vespa in a Quidditch bet last month. Frankly, it’s probably for the best the authorities confiscated it.”

The look on Granger’s face could’ve melted steel. The inspector blinked, baffled. Draco gave him a cheerful wink.

“Please don’t take him seriously, sir — his sense of humour is... questionable at best.”

The inspector’s red eyebrows shot up, and his mouth flattened into a line.

“My little firecracker,” Draco purred, “at least I’ve got a sense of self-preservation. Every time she drives, I remember I haven’t written a will. Honestly, Inspector — a driving ban might not be such a bad idea.”

Her fingernails dug into his knee. He winced, but kept on grinning.

The inspector flushed a violent shade of purple and reached for his belt. Before he could react, Draco’s Confundus hit him squarely. The Muggle slumped back into his chair, which spun once on its base with an undignified squeak. The secretary behind him keeled over in a faint. The dog raised its head, mildly interested. Hermione slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a shriek.

Draco sighed. He should’ve gone home an hour ago.

Bywater Street, London

Apparition left his head spinning and his knees weak, but he recovered quickly.

Granger stumbled as they landed. He caught her arm. She hissed.

“Piss off.”

The kneazle leapt from her arms, sat down to groom itself, and pointedly ignored them both. Even when Hermione scooped him back up, he let out another hiss.
Fair enough. She did need the occasional reminder of how  insufferable she could be.

He let go slowly. She folded her arms at once and squared up, like she was two seconds from hexing someone.
A tourist pointed in their direction. Draco shot him a glare, and the man flushed crimson and quickly looked away.

“You look dreadful, Granger,” he muttered, eyeing her scorched yellow suit. “Still, I suppose that means we’re back on track. No more detours — strictly business from here.”

She flexed her fingers. If eyes could kill, he’d be flat on the pavement. He braced, ready to dodge if she swung.

“I had it under control, Malfoy! I was talking him round!”

“Oh? Was that before or after he reached for his gun? Or maybe when you claimed we were newlyweds? Didn’t know marrying me was such a deep-rooted fantasy of yours.”

“Tell me — do you actually think using Confundus in front of Muggles who already suspect us of magic was a clever idea?”

“Much better than your version of psychological torture. You tried to make him doubt his own memory. Did you honestly think that would work?”

“It was working — until your revolting personality got involved!”

“Ring any bells from the Unforgivables toolkit, Granger? I thought you were supposed to have principles.”

“Are you lecturing me?”

“I’m reasoning with you.”

“No one lectures me, Draco Malfoy! You’re not my boss!”

His mouth twitched. He stepped into her space and caught her wrist. She tried to pull away.

“Technically, right now, I am your boss, sweetheart. Our mutual friend’s on holiday.”

Granger stopped fighting. Frowned.

“Remus is on leave? Since when?”

“You really think I’d show up to your death trap of a lair by choice? I needed your gear, Merlin’s bloody left nut! And now look — I’ve been arrested by Muggles, broken the Statute of Secrecy, and flown over the Thames on your bloody infernal steed!”

“It’s a Vespa, not a steed!”

“Same difference! Steed, pony, scooter — you nearly killed us three times today!”

Her eyes narrowed. Bad sign.

“Is your toy registered as an enchanted Muggle artefact, Granger? Maybe I’ll tell Pansy how I had the ride of my life on it.”

She growled, shouldered her bag and turned to leave. Her curls whipped his face as he yanked her back by the elbow.

“Not so fast! You’re going upstairs, fixing your bloody ghost-magnet, and then you can run off wherever you like.”

“I will not.”

“Oh yes, you will.”

“I won’t.”

“You will!”

“I’d rather swallow a slug.”

His jaw clenched. She lifted her chin defiantly.

“You’re coming with me one way or another, witch,” he growled.

“Willingly or not. But I’m getting your gear.”

She threw her head back and laughed — loud, wicked, and sharp. Tears sprang to her eyes. Her little nose wrinkled. She looked like a deranged, gleeful elf.

“And what will you do, oh mighty auror? Tie me up and shove me in a bag?”

“Wouldn’t be the first. That plan’s already had its test run today.”

Her cheeks flushed, but she didn’t stop giggling.

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

He smirked. Pulled her close. Spoke into her ear.

The laughter died instantly.Her chest rose and fell in sharp little breaths.

“I’m taller, stronger, faster. You play in a lab, I chase criminals. The outcome’s obvious.”

Their eyes locked. For a moment, the air turned molten.

He didn’t move. His thumb pressed into her shoulder; his nose brushed her temple as he breathed in the warm scent of her hair.

“I’ve still got my wand,” she breathed. “One spell, Malfoy, and you’ll be unconscious till evening. I wouldn’t…”

His smirk froze.

She faltered. Started patting her pockets. He watched her flail, thoroughly amused.

Her wand was in his pocket.

He’d meant to give it back...He found it in the holding cell, but then again, plans change.

Eventually, she caught on. Her voice tried to sound firm, but it wavered.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, darling. I absolutely would.”

Chapter 8: Carthage must be destroyed

Tip 7: Don’t ever let the factions join forces.

The House with the Lilac Door, London

Draco Malfoy knew a lot about the world: every combination of runes for anti-hex charms, every way to expose a kelpie(1), every method for interrogating the heads of a runespoor(2) and mastered both offensive and defensive spells to a fine art. And yet, none of this had prepared him for Granger.

He knew nothing about her.

Except, perhaps, that she had a firm, annoyingly soft arse (which he’d confirmed while carrying her up the stairs). Granger had been huffing threats into his lower back for all twenty steps, giving up the struggle around the tenth.

Her sudden silence was unsettling — and, as it turned out, not without cause. Apparently, she’d spent the entire time concocting a plan inside that cauldron she called a mind. And Draco, foolishly lulled by the illusion of control, hadn’t noticed a thing.

Careless? Undoubtedly.

Draco considered “carelessness” one of humanity’s most underrated virtues. He’d always had a talent for not giving a damn., and as a result, very little could truly worry or wound him. It had taken years of effort to convince others, and more importantly, himsel, that this indifference was an essential part of who he was. Throughout his career, he’d rarely taken missions seriously. Most of the time, he treated them everything a game. Always with a hint of smug superiority.

Once, in Russia, instead of burning the Zherdyai(3) on the spot, he swung from its branch-like arms until it tangled in its own roots and collapsed onto a cottage. The locals were not amused. Draco shrugged it off. In Romania, he and Remus had uncovered a vampire cartel. And Draco spent a month slowly poisoning the leader with watered-down, sour blood. In Scotland, he’d once downed a botched Polyjuice Potion and spent three days as an albino goblin. Nobody knew what it might do to him in the long run — but at least the ruby racket was out of business.

Danger had always felt like something that happened to other people. Draco never sought it out, but he rarely noticed it when it came knocking. Perhaps because true danger didn’t hide in the shadows of magical beasts, but in Hermione Granger’s head, just now peeking from the doorway of his bathroom. Draco Malfoy had no idea how she’d gone from his sofa to his shower, or why he was now brewing her tea and darting round the kitchen, frantically trying to tidy up. He kept telling himself he didn’t care what she thought, but his hands had other plans. Initially, he was supposed to deal with her in under an hour and send her packing. But suddenly, she’d made “demands.” Said demands included: a hot drink, a warm shower, and basic respect. The first two were achievable. The third… Draco wasn’t entirely sure he could scrub that part out of his personality.

Draco had never, in his entire life, been handed a manual on how to reject a witch whose unhealthy obsession with artefacts happened to be crucial to the success of his mission. And whose deep-seated hatred of Aurors (or perhaps just one in particular) left him torn between the urge to strangle her… or to do something rather more compromising.

That something makes itself known again the moment Granger leans further out from behind the doorframe.

Her face is cleaner now. No slime, no grime. Droplets slide from her damp curls and patter onto the tiles. A sheen of steam clings to her collarbones. Her cheeks are flushed, and behind her, the air still pulses with heat. To Draco’s horror, it dawns on him far too late that she is, unmistakably and irreversibly, naked behind that door.

He doesn't allow himself long to observe this terrifying revelation. His gaze darts away, landing somewhere between a framed family photospell and a spare broom mounted on the wall. Composure has decided not to make a return visit. He started fiddling with the mugs, pointlessly moving them from one spot to another.

"Malfoy, listen — do you, erm…"

She chews on her lower lip.

"Happen to have a spare set of clothes? Mine are full of acid holes."

Her wild beast, all lazy limbs and quiet contempt, padded out of the wardrobe and gave him a look fit for a toad. Draco tries not to imagine what his perfectly tailored auror robes will look like after it's done with them. One of the many unexpected joys of promotion. Another reason he’d never wanted this much bloody responsibility in the first place.

"Do I look like someone who keeps hidden stashes of women’s underwear in his flat?"

Granger scanned him, top to bottom, as if preparing to deliver a devastating truth.

"Well, if I’m honest—"

"Whatever you’re about to say, don’t."

"Fine. If you gave me back my wand, this would be significantly easier."

As if. He wasn’t about to give up the delightful opportunity of holding total control over a witch whose brain resembled a rhizome(4). His silence earns him a heavy, put-upon sigh. Granger begins to twist her hair into a knot and moves to vanish back into the steam, but Draco stops her.

"A bit of a nuisance, isn’t it, Granger? I can’t imagine what I’d do without my wand," he drawled, nodding pointedly at the edge of the table. "You could always take a few steps and put yourself out of your misery — once and for all."

She arches a brow. Draco turns, leaning back against the worktop with all the smugness he can summon.

"You look exceedingly pleased with yourself, Malfoy."

He spreads his arms, grin widening.

"There’s no greater joy than watching you utterly helpless."

Granger narrows her eyes dangerously.

"You sure about that?"

"More than ever."

"That sure?"

"Absolutely. In every conceivable statistical sense."

In the next second, he regrets being quite so smug.

Granger steps out from behind the doorframe and starts walking towards him — and Draco finds himself faced with an impossible choice: grab the bargaining chip, or enjoy ten more seconds of utterly motionless appreciation of her naked form.

It’s difficult to move, now that his fantasies have so rudely materialised.

He grabs the wand at the last possible moment, and they nearly collide, nose to nose.

Granger huffs in irritation at her failure to beat him to it. Draco, unable to help himself, glances downward.

“Sharp little things.”

“You’re an an insufferable bastard.”

“Is that what makes them sharp? Your righteous fury?”

“I’m cold, you idiot!”

“And yet who’s to say? Maybe it’s all in my head. Maybe they’re not even real. Would need to check, of course—”

She shoves him in the chest. Draco just chuckles, low and delighted.

“Clothes. Now.”

“You’re actually easier to tolerate without them, Granger. I’ll admit — it does add a surprisingly cheerful tone to your usual attitude.”

“Pity the same can’t be said for you.”

Draco pouts, theatrically.

“But you’ve not even seen anything. Not a glimpse.”

She shoots him a look that reads, quite clearly, it is physically unbearable to share a room with you.

He clears his throat and shifts his weight. A rare thing happens — discomfort.“I think I’ve got cramp.”

She frowns, sceptical.

“Cramp?”

“In my trousers.”

“Oh. Oh, Merlin. No! Malfoy, what—why would you even say that?”

“Because it’s your fault, obviously.”

“Obviously you deserve to suffer.”

“The cruelty. Honestly, it’s breathtaking.”

***

An hour later, during which Draco takes a second, this time cold, shower, and Granger squeezes her maddeningly appealing body into his oversized white socks and an ancient Tarapoto Tree-Skimmers T-shirt — they attempt to negotiate in his living room. Naturally, without success.

Things are going tolerably well for Draco until Granger slides off her chair and embarks on a pilgrimage to his kitchen. In his innocence, Draco had assumed that if he met all her demands — hot drink, shower, respect — she’d agree to fix the rifle and explain how the trap mechanism works.

How foolish of him. They hadn’t even got close.

“It suits you,” the witch chirps, peeling a coldo-photo off his fridge. “Pink really is your colour. Especially that shade — absolutely toxic.”

Draco snatches the image from her hand. Teddy Lupin is in it, gleefully yanking on Draco’s hair, which is magenta for some infernal reason.

“Tampering with personal property is a crime. Section twenty-five—”

“What’s this?” she interrupts, plucking a Sneakoscope from the vase where Draco had stuffed it to shut it up.

“Was it broken ages ago, or is this a fresh offence?”

“Granger, would you kindly stop touching my things? They’re suffering under your brutal handling,” he mutters wearily.

“Just test your trinket so I can get on with actual investigative work.”

“This fan-shirt of yours is enjoying full skin-to-skin contact with me. There’s no way you picked it by accident. You went looking for it, didn’t you? Is that why you took so long?”

Draco merely huffs in response. She presses on.

“Traps? What do you need those for?

‘This shop is built on a well’ isn’t exactly compelling evidence, Malfoy. It might not even be haunted. Show me proof.”

“The owner is a ghost.”

Granger shrugs and returns to rummaging through the upper kitchen shelf.

“Not exactly convincing. Anne Boleyn has a job at the London Dungeon, remember. Fully functioning member of society.”

“Longbottom’s gone.”

She freezes mid-rummage, foot dropping flat to the floor.

“Neville? When?”

“Luna filed the report yesterday. She nearly flooded the waiting room with tears.”

Granger turns, frown carving into her forehead.

“How long has he been missing?”

“Four days.”

That flicker of resolve appears in her eyes, and Draco tenses.

Oh no. This is what he’d been trying to avoid with all his carefully vague dialogue over the last half hour.

“We need to work together. Why didn’t you lead with that? It’s a far stronger argument than your architectural paranoia.”

“Because I didn’t want this reaction. Obvious, isn’t it?”

“We have to work together.”

“We really don’t. I just need the technical bit from you.”

“We’re working together.”

“I’m going to decline. You’re far too bossy, and I don’t do well with that sort of thing.”

She plants her hands on her hips, scowling.

“Take the lead if it makes you feel important, Malfoy — but I’m not letting my friend disappear for good. I’m coming.”

“Remus told me not to involve you.”

“That’s difficult to believe.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a Malfoy.”

“So?”

“It’s what you people do, isn’t it? Lie?”

“Better that than obsessing over phantom hauntings.”

“I’ll only fix the it if I come with you.”

“Honestly, Granger, what’s in it for you? I could handle this myself.”

She picks up a jar of bouncing marshmallows and studies it.

“You really shouldn’t leave these out in the open.”

“Oh, Merlin. Don’t read me a safety manual.”

“Lickers are drawn to enchanted marshmallows. They embed themselves in the fluff, then emerge at the most inopportune moment — feeding on residual emotional humiliation.”

“My marshmallows are perfectly unlicked, thank you. Kindly put them down.”

“When do we leave?”

“Granger. Listen. Are you listening?”

She nods, eyes still on the jar.

“Brilliant. You’re staying here to fix the equipment so I can take it solo tomorrow.”

“Joint mission,” she says, yawning behind her hand. “The shop needs clearing, and Neville needs to come back to Luna. But first… we need sleep.”

“I’ve only got one bed.”

She glances back over her shoulder. Whatever potion is brewing inside her curly-haired head, Draco doesn’t like the look of it.

“How badly do you want what you came for?”

Draco slumps back into his chair and pinches the bridge of his nose. So this is what she was thinking about?

He could still lift his wand and— tempting. But Remus would hit him with something worse than the Killing Curse if he so much as tried.

“Apparently badly enough to give you the bloody bedroom. That’s what you’re implying, isn’t it?”

“No Legilimency required. Well done, Malfoy.”

“None of this is going according to plan.”

“That tends to happen when you resort to trickery. Funny, that. Maybe think about your principles. Possibly your life choices.”

No, this is what happens when you deal with Hermione Granger, for the love of Merlin and whatever ghost owns her soul, Draco thinks — just as the door slams shut, leaving him alone with a narrow sofa and a fat, smug-looking Kneazle perched on the armchair.

“You’ve got quite the owner, haven’t you?”

The kneazle creaks like an old hinge.

“Utterly exasperating. No doubt about it.”

Notes:

Kelpie(1) - A kelpie was a shapeshifting water demon native to Great Britain and Ireland.[1]
Runespoor(2) - a magical three-headed snake native to the African country of Burkina Faso. Since they were very easy to spot, the Burkina Faso Ministry of Magic made several forests Unplottable for the Runespoor's use, and to avoid sightings by non-wizards.
Zherdyai(3) - a terrifying Slavic spectre—not to be confused with “zhir-dyai”, which implies the opposite. From “zherd’”, meaning “pole”: the Zherdyai is tall, skeletal, able to warm his hands in a chimney and peer into homes at night, rattling windows like a branch in the wind.
rhizome(4) — The rhizome, as theorised by Deleuze and Guattari, is a metaphor for non-linear thinking: an underground stem system that branches unpredictably, without beginning or end. Visually, it resembles a chaotic web of roots — layered, tangled, endlessly expanding in all directions.
Carthage must be destroyed — "Carthage must be destroyed" (short form — lat. Carthago delenda est, full version — lat. Ceterum censeo Carthaginem delendam esse) — a Latin phrase meaning a persistent call to eliminate an enemy or obstacle.In a broader sense, it refers to the constant return to one and the same issue, regardless of the topic being discussed.

Chapter 9: State of Emergency

Notes:

I’ve renamed the story. The original sounded too heavy-handed in English.
Original title: The Wunderhostips: Best ways to terrify wizards

Tip 8: The best way to avoid a duel with a wizard is to humiliate him first.

Remus Lupin’s Office, Auror Department

Under the headline “London Emergencies” another title bled through: “Unidentified Muggle Pony Flies Over the Thames.”

Behind it, stuttering letters formed a message beneath a blurry moving photograph. The silhouettes only vaguely resembled people, thanks to Granger’s protective gear, which had doubled as unintentional camouflage.

At around four o’clock this afternoon, in the stretch of the River Thames near Chelsea, a Muggle vehicle resembling an ungulate of rare blue colouring crossed from one embankment to the other through the air and collided with a roaring ghostly head, passing straight through it. Thirty Muggles witnessed the display of magical properties. According to the Department of Mysteries at the Ministry of Magic, the driver was war heroine and Order of Merlin recipient Hermione Granger. The identity of the second passenger remains unknown. The Auror Office of Magical Britain is currently investigating the circumstances and cause of the incident.

Draco crumpled the paper with a snarl, prompting the portrait of Rita Skeeter to let out a vile screech and mutter obscenities. He missed the wastebasket when he tried to throw it, but Theo’s wand twitched almost imperceptibly and the wad ignited mid-air, scattering ash over the burgundy carpet. It was, at least, some relief.

Draco crumpled the newspaper in anger, making the portrait of Skeeter let out a nasty screech and splutter with insults. Naturally, he missed when he tried to throw the crumpled ball into the bin. Theodore’s wand gave the faintest twitch, and the paper burned up mid-air, scattering ash onto the burgundy carpet. Small mercies.

As if his morning couldn’t get any worse: it had started with a sore back, fur on his tongue (the ginger menace cat had sprawled over him, nearly crushing his ribs), and a dream focused entirely on certain “bare” moments from the day before. Seething at the fact his head was now a kaleidoscope of indecent fantasies, Draco stormed into the bedroom, ready to unleash accusations at their main culprit.

Only, when his eyes landed on Granger, tangled in the blankets, he was horrified to find himself unable to move, or even muster a drop of sarcasm — let alone an insult. All plans to wake the witch with a declaration that she ought to have “dangerously unhinged” plastered across her forehead fell apart when she covered her mouth slightly, breathed out, and rolled onto her left side.

The golden sunlight fell across her freckled nose, turning her curls a rich oak-brown. He’d never had a woman in his bed before who was fully dressed. Especially not a former classmate. And certainly not a former enemy. She tucked her knees up in a way that was oddly endearing, and Draco realised he’d lost this duel before it had even begun. The sight of a sleeping Granger, clutching her pillow, disarmed him as effectively as an Expelliarmus.

With a sigh, he stepped back, shut the door behind him and cursed himself the moment he realised he had moved with deliberate care and slowness just so he wouldn’t wake her. How would his parents have reacted if he had turned up one evening with Granger in tow, no warning whatsoever? Merlin, what on earth was he thinking?

Draco hurried to get out of the flat before he ended up indulging in a full session of staring at the sweetly sleeping subject. Jenkins was waiting for him, and Draco managed to let off steam by arguing over who should be sent on today’s mission. Throughout the exchange, Draco lazily dabbled in sophistry, blending weak arguments with strong ones, tangling the Auror up until he was apologising, which almost made Draco forget the phenomenon of Granger in his bed.

In the end, Jenkins was packed off to deal with a bunch of riled-up Merrows in Loch Ney, while Draco shut himself in his office and ignored the persistent knocking of colleagues, hoping to savour the rest of the morning in peace. That lasted until Theodore appeared, yawning and breaking records for sheer cheek since no one was allowed into Lupin’s office without knocking except Draco, holding a fresh morning paper. That was how he learned the Department of Mysteries was in an uproar and that he would probably be getting a Howler from Tonks any moment now, once she heard about the incident from her close friend, who happened to be the deputy head of the Department’s secret service.

“You look rough… like a Matagot, maybe?” Theo crossed one leg over the other with a grimace, though there was curiosity behind the jab. “Wild night, was it?”

"Spend just one day with Granger and your circadian rhythms are all over the place. She’s like a miscast direction spell, I swear."

"Life is loving you very fiercely, my friend."

"Nonsense."

"Who?"

"All of it! The wolf’s holiday, Granger and me — a recipe for trouble."

"I must admit, the result of your collaboration frightens me — let alone what it might do to the rest of the world," Theodore says, nodding towards the ashes. "So, to avoid a live Armageddon with Skeeter there to write it all up, it’s better to send me on this mission".

Draco lets out a doomed groan as the memory of the Prophet’s front page flashes before his mind again.
"Better finish with the pigs. Jenkins said one vanished because it turned invisible. Did you catch it?"

"Five hours of chasing, all for nothing. Luckily, I had someone to help."

"An intern?"

A nod.

"Clever."

"We’ll carry on tomorrow. Did you put in a word?"

"For Merlin’s sake, Theo! I didn’t have the time. I nearly died."

"If you ask me, that’s no excuse. I covered your back in front of that red-faced harpy from the Department of Mysteries for nothing".

"She’ll find out anyway."

"I’ve bought you a few hours. Better at home than here."

"If only…" A heavy sigh. "Granger will probably be sharing with me the experience of getting my first Howler."

"Pixies’ curse," Theo says, steepling his fingers and shaking his head. "You’re going to steal her from me, aren’t you?"

"First of all, Granger’s not some precious stone to be stolen. She’s perfectly, erm… grown-up, and, uh, bea— no, clever… Sane? Definitely not! Exceptional witch? Merlin, I’ve no idea… For Merlin’s sake! Second of all, what on earth made you think that? The only thing I feel in her company is goosebumps."

"From excitement?"

"From fear."

"Right."

"I’m not the kind of person who fancied Guy Fawkes in my first year."

Theo raises his eyebrows in disapproval and presses his lips together.

"You don’t believe me."

"Because you’re lying."

He might be right by the tiniest fraction, but Draco quickly changes the subject.

"Found anything on the owner? What’s wrong with him?"

"Honestly, not as much as I’d like. As you suspected, he often visits Lincoln. like all of kind, but Cromwell told me yesterday he hasn’t seen him for about a week, whereas his house-elf has been quite happily making a living pouring drinks during non-ghostly hours. I also looked up the land registry and, alas, our ghost has reappeared there! Can you believe it? In over two hundred years, the deeds have been rewritten in his name about two hundred times."

"Two hundred?" Draco exclaims in surprise. "Rather a lot for an unremarkable poltergeist. Did you check for missing persons in that shop?"

"Honestly, not as much as I’d like. As you suspected, he often visits Lincoln — like all his kind — but Cromwell told me yesterday he hasn’t seen him for about a week, whereas his house-elf has been quite happily making a living pouring drinks during non-ghostly hours. I also checked the land registry and, alas, our ghost has reappeared there! Can you believe it? In over two hundred years, the deeds have been registered in his name roughly two hundred times."

"Of course! How insulting! Every single one of them owned Sybil’s Chest for a short spell. Quite the coincidence, isn’t it?"

Draco can only nod.

"What are you planning to do?" Theo asks, smoothing the hair at his temples. "Pay him a visit?"

"Abraham knows me well. He’ll share information."

"You’ll have to dress up."

Confusion flickers, followed by a questioning look at his friend.

"They’re celebrating the Hungry Ghost Festival(1). The theme of the evening is ‘immortality’."

"How original."

"Better than ‘post-humans’ last year. I’ve no idea whose brilliant idea that was."

House with the Lilac Door, London

On the way home, Draco carefully planned how he would start the conversation. But once inside the flat, he found Granger sitting cross-legged, engaged in a most eccentric activity: his Sneakoscope was dismantled into parts, which floated above her head alongside glowing blue matrices, while she traced circles in the air with her wand. She was clearly not in the mood for conversation. So absorbed was she that she didn’t even notice Draco appearing in the doorway.

Curled up at her right knee purred a kneazle, and by her left was a strangely smelling box from which steam drifted.

As expected, Granger didn’t respond to her name. He had to drop to one knee and snap his fingers in front of her face. Only then did she blink slowly and turn a hazy gaze on him before glancing back up ten seconds later to murmur a spell.

"You know, I’ve kept a list of things about you that get on my nerves since school — reasons to hate you — and it gets longer every time we meet."

Of course, she didn’t answer. Typical. He sat down on the floor beside her, picked up the box  and let out a startled squeak as it bit him on the finger.

"For Merlin’s sake! Where did you even get that?!"

The Chinese noodles growled, shuffled closer to Granger, and brandished a chopstick at him. Was this thing from the shop round the corner? Or had she enchanted it on purpose?

"Bitten by noodles, seriously? You been spending too much time with the Weasley twins?"

The witch closed her eyes, and Draco ran a hand through his hair before leaning back on his arms.

"Theo asked me to tell you he’s pining for you."

No answer. She probably knew anyway.

"I think I’m dreaming about shagging you. Or… not just dreaming… I don’t know."

He waited for some kind of response, but Granger seemed to be in a vacuum. Probably for the best. After what he’d just said, he wouldn’t mind an Obliviate.

"I’ve found our first lead."

At once, the components rattled and, slicing through the air, reassembled into the Sneakocscope. The device dropped neatly into her hands, and she turned her clear brown eyes on him.

"What sort of lead?"

"The owner’s house-elf works in a well-known ghost bar at Brompton Cemetery. Turns out it’s not the first time people have gone missing because of the two of them. Theo and I dug up nearly two hundred similar cases."

Granger licked her lips before handing him the thing and rising from the floor.

"I’ve fixed it."

Draco listened. The Sneakoscope was giving a faint whine now, not the piercing, deafening shriek it had before. More like cicadas singing.

"It’s still making noise."

"I’m telling you, Malfoy, we need to check the marshmallow."

He lay back on the floor. He was far too tired to hear any more of her suggestions.

"Get dressed, Granger. Tonight Lincoln’s bar is letting everyone in — not just poltergeists — as long as they’re in dress code. Ghosts couldn’t care less, but we’ll need to match our costumes."

He watched her thinking. Honestly, it was both amusing and a little sinister.

"Something terrible?"

"Something immortal."

"Clever. Cuts down on casual visitors."

"You’ll be Countess Dracula." he said.

A laugh.

"She looks dreadful. Have you seen her in the engravings?"

"No."

"Wrinkled, pale folds everywhere… I’m afraid your dreams wouldn’t be nearly as pleasant."

"What?"

Granger lowered her lashes as if she had no idea what she’d just said.

Oh, Merlin save his soul. What the hell?

Draco choked on outrage, embarrassment and half-swallowed curses, while the witch looked down at him, hands on hips, smirking.

"It’s not funny."

"I beg to differ."

His face was burning. He sprang up from the floor and fled to the bathroom.

Reason 20: ignores anything she’s not interested in.
Reason 21: weaponises the bits she ignores.

While washing his face, he heard Granger shouting something from the sitting room, but decided to gather his thoughts before facing the witch again. He regretted the delay immediately.

The moment he stepped out, a pair of plump violet lips with a familiar piercing in the lower one flew at his face, forced a faint smile, then closed in and hissed right between his eyes:

"Draco Malfoy, you irresponsible idiot, if you don’t get a grip on things in your den right now, I swear Remus will bite your bony arse the moment he gets back! Now get to work! Kisses, Dora!"

The letter exploded, making Draco sneeze.

Of course Granger had been standing behind him the whole time, watching and savouring every detail of his spectacular humiliation.

Notes:

Hungry Ghost Festival(1) — In Chinese culture, the 15th day of the seventh month in the lunar calendar is known as the Hungry Ghost Day, and the seventh month itself is often called the Ghost Month (鬼月), when ghosts and spirits — including the souls of deceased ancestors — are believed to emerge from the lower realm (Diyu or preta). Unlike the Qingming Festival (the Tomb-Sweeping Day in spring) or the Double Ninth Festival (in autumn), when the living pay respects to their ancestors, the Ghost Festival is thought to be a time when the dead visit the living.

I'll try to update the story more regular from now. On Monday and Friday.

Chapter 10: O Captain! My Captain!

Tip 9: Always fight on home ground — chances are, it’s everywhere.

Brompton Cemetery, London

The cemetery greets them with a ringing tide of silence. Suddenly every sound seems sharper: the rustle of shrubs, Granger’s quickened breaths, the muffled tread of footsteps. Out of the corner of his eye, Draco catches sight of a smoky-grey leg hopping beside a cross-shaped headstone, but is distracted by the hoarse caw of a crow bursting from the crown of a maple tree.

Slowly, they make their way across a lawn strewn with time-worn, green-stained gravestones towards the catacombs beneath the round dome. They remain silent, preferring to exchange hostile glances. Two ghosts in Victorian robes drift straight through them, grumbling about how misogynists from Abney Park(1) must to be banned from entering.

Apparently, on their last visit they’d managed to desecrate the grave of Emmeline Pankhurst(2), sending her into such a rage that she forced the local ghosts to circle the grounds a hundred times.

The moth-eaten century-old costumes are supplied by Madame Malkin’s half-sister, a relative Draco had only learned existed three hours ago. According to Granger, her shop is a veritable graveyard for vintage clothing that has lingered too long in storage.

Draco ignores the witch’s chatter about the gloves of Kwong Po (3) while brushing away cobwebs and ducking to avoid the low basement ceiling.

He comes across a tailcoat with two platinum daggers sewn into the tails, and an ivory shirt with a jabot and a hole under the arm. Excessive. Everything about this mission is excessive if he is honest, though he has long since stopped being surprised.

Granger, on the other hand, is handed something vaguely resembling a corset, and Draco takes unholy pleasure in imagining her laced into it until all the pompousness is squeezed out of her. Unfortunately, the moment she lets her cloak slip from her shoulders, giving him a clear view of her chest, his wicked vengeful mood collapses entirely and sinks into the dark desire-ridden depths of his soul.

Granger’s curl slips loose from her high coiffure, and she pins it back in place. A shiver runs down the back of Draco’s neck, creeping under his collar and making him straighten abruptly.

“You look…” Draco coughed into his fist. “Very… intriguing?”

“Intriguing?”

Draco gave an awkward shrug.

“Do I look like a hundred-year-old murderess who drains people’s blood?”

“Only their mental energy.”

“How kind of you.”

“I’ve always been a gentleman.”

Granger gave a low, sarcastic laugh.

Draco was in a foul mood, feeling hotter and more cramped than ever. His lungs were full of dust from Eloise Malkin’s forgotten cellar, and even the fresh air outside, warm with summer leaves and a fine evening, couldn’t shake the heat rolling down his neck.

“Nervous?”

When Granger covered her mouth, he caught a glimpse of her perfectly straight teeth. He ran his tongue over his own, feeling the sharpened points. The transformation spell still had three hours left.

He wanted to bite back at her, but just pressed his lips together and straightened his coat. He wasn’t supposed to snap at her. Neutral until the job was done. That was the idea. Then again, he was a Malfoy. People expected him to be rude.

“Not a bit.”

“You should be. And vampires? Ridiculous! Where did you even—” She put a hand on her hip, slouched, and took a deep breath. “Merlin, I can’t breathe. Thank goodness corsets are ancient history. If this is the price of immortality, I’m out. Lobster suit over corset any day.”

“Lobster suit?”

He realized he was staring at her cleavage. Another curl slipped loose, brushed her collarbone, and made his fingers itch to touch it. He looked away quickly and swallowed.

“Yes. They make enough telomerase to stop their telomeres shortening…”

She carried on with the science talk, and his eyes went back to that curl.

“…never seen one die naturally. Imagine that?”

He tore his eyes away and muttered, “Still don’t see what that’s got to do with tonight.”

“Merlin, Malfoy, it’s obvious! You weren’t listening, were you?”

“What’s obvious? That you want to turn into a shell?”

“They’re immortal!” She frowned at him. “You’d make a great lobster, Malfoy.”

He snorted, lifting his chin. “Vampires have the style, Granger. And nobody likes them, so we’ll draw less attention.”

“So that’s why you went for this look. Suits you down to the ground.”

“I know how to do my job, Granger.”

“Of course.”

Her tone made it clear she meant the opposite.

“I’ve taken down criminals far worse than a runaway house-elf, Granger. Half the people in that bar would be terrified if they knew who I was.”

“So you could’ve handled this just fine without me?”

He rolled his eyes and said nothing.

“Since when do killers, the dead and…” She looked him up and down, smirking. “…‘dangerous elements’ like you hang out together?”

“Sounds like you’ve missed the whole point of this party, and everything I’ve been saying for the last twenty minutes.”

“I’d rather not die just because you like showing off.”

Draco stopped dead and glanced over his shoulder, a flicker of wounded pride in his eyes.

“I can keep you in one piece, you know.”

“It’s infuriating how smug you are.”

“It’s called being right.” He sighed, laced his fingers behind his back, and strode ahead. “Honestly, I should stop caring about whatever you’re muttering. Just stay close.”

“I’d hate for you to get the wrong idea, but my expectations of you were never high. I’m not relying on you.”

A slow, dangerous smile tugged at his mouth. “Then I’ll enjoy not living up to them.”

He stopped at the foot of a staircase leading to a massive iron door and threw her a sidelong glance. “You’ve really got nothing to worry about, Granger.”

She shot him a hesitant glance before placing her cold hand in his outstretched one. Draco smirked and stepped forward, gravel crunching under his boots.

“For future reference, don’t call them the dead, or we’ll get thrown out.”

“But technically, they are…?”

“Citizens of a lost country.”

“Right.”

“Mind your manners. You did put your weapon away?”

Granger looked off to the side as if she hadn’t heard the question.

“Granger?”

“It’s in my bag.”

“Typical. Can you, just once, do as I say?”

“No.”

The Lincoln’s Rest Bar, Brompton Chapel Catacombs

Inside, between two hunched, weeping angels that looked far more like gargoyles, they were met by two little girls in plaid dresses with braided hair. The Ghost Twins stood motionless on either side of an archway woven from human arm-bones. From their pale, elder-white fingers dangled monocles, pocket watches and pipes.

As the pair approached, the children suddenly came to life, turning their heads in unison. Their eyes glowed green in the dungeon-dark, and Draco felt Granger’s breath catch. He pulled the frozen witch closer by the elbow, grinning from ear to ear.

Two small voices drifted to him, enough to make his stomach knot, but he kept his expression bright.

“Purpose of visit?”

“Invited by Sir Abraham.”

“Password?”

“Sic semper tyrannis.(4)”

Granger frowned, and Draco suspected she’d just found another question to spring on him at the worst possible moment. He jabbed her in the ribs with his elbow; she hissed something rude in his ear.

“Clan?”

“Er…” Draco stalled. “We’re—”

“We’re with Selena,” Granger cut in, clutching his bicep. “Part of her clan. She sent us herself — unfortunately, she’s busy receiving a delegation from Romania. You know how impatient Madame Bovary gets when she’s left alone!”

The twins exchanged a look and, mercifully, seemed to believe her. The murky devil-light faded from their eyes. Draco knew better than to be fooled by their innocence — locals claimed the pair had handed more than one poor soul over to the likes of Granger.

“Would you like to make use of the Ancestor Summoning service?”

“No,” Draco and Granger said together. “We’re just here to join the celebrations. Nothing more.”

The girls nodded, then turned to play a game of pat-a-cake. When they finished, hundreds of fingers behind them cracked awake, flexed, shook off their slumber, and bent at the elbows to form an open archway.

From beyond came the strains of a classical melody. Draco followed the sound, ducking so the bony knuckles wouldn’t snag his fringe. Ahead lay a long, dark, uncomfortably narrow staircase.

“Smooth work with the whole Selena thing, Granger,” Draco said, pressing himself to the wall and nodding at the drop. “Who is she?”

“Greek goddess of the Moon. Vampires keep temples to her cult. You might try reading more before planning your disguises. Useful habit, you know.”

And you might try talking less, you quarrelsome harpy.”

Granger only raised an eyebrow, more amused than offended.

“How long before you run out of nicknames and actually remember my name?”

“Well, since my erudition’s apparently lacking, I’ll let my imagination do the heavy lifting. Now move.”

“Why is the password the motto of Lincoln’s assassin?” she murmured as she slipped past, her bare shoulder brushing his chest. “I’d have thought ghosts would be the grudge-holding type, seeing as they’re doomed to wander forever.”

“I’d say Booth and Lincoln have patched things up by now. They’ve had an eternity, so you’re not far off.”

“And you know that how?”

“I thought you were better at deduction. Supposed to be a scholar — or at least a knock-off — but looks like I’m not the only ignoramus.” He caught her indignant huff in the dark. A pity he couldn’t see her red-cheeked glare. “I spoke to both of them when they came to Remus for a licence to open this place. They don’t come by often, but sometimes they drop in through the mirrors from New York. We’re headed to Lincoln now to ask him about the house-elf.”

“You’ve met the sixteenth president of America in the flesh?!”

“What’s left of it. Impressed?”

“My standards are higher than that, Malfoy. Don’t get your hopes up.”

“Your voice says otherwise.”

“You’re hearing things.”

The damp air hit their faces as Granger pushed open the door at the bottom. They stepped into a vast chamber where dozens of couples whirled in the shimmer of floating candles. There was no slime, no trails, no howls — just an endless waltz, the dancers shrouded in pale blue veils. Only a handful were still alive, little islands of flesh adrift in a formless sea of spirits.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Granger breathed. “Incredible. Such a synthesis of the physical and the intangible.”

“You haven’t by any chance seen my leg, have you?” A drifting soldier’s ghost in uniform had appeared beside them, holding up an empty trouser leg. “We parted ways at the Marne, and she’s insisted on being her own person ever since.”

“I think I saw her near the entrance, by Maria Theresa’s grave.”

“Cursed, impossible baggage!” the man swore, adjusting his helmet. “Thank you kindly, miss!”

Draco watched a smile spread across Granger’s face. He wasn’t about to admit there was something attractive about her looking happy. He needed to keep a tighter hold on himself.

“Why?”

“No reason. Just did a good deed, Malfoy. I realise that’s hard for you to grasp. Not your usual pattern of behaviour.”

“I simply respect a leg’s right to self-determination.”

“Of course you do.”

“Be honest. Do you think it talks to him by toe?”

Granger squinted, the corners of her mouth twitching upward.

“Not sure they’re all still there.“

“If I ever end up a ghost, I’m naming the runaway leg after you.”

She let out a genuine laugh, and the small knot of warmth it sparked in Draco’s chest took him off guard.

“Didn’t expect that from you, Malfoy.”

He was about to fire back when a genial voice called out:

“Draco, my dear boy, I barely recognised you under all that masquerade! How’s my good friend doing? How many more William Mumlers(5) have you put behind bars since we last met?”

“Good evening, Mr President.”

“Always a pleasure to deal with a man of the law.” Lincoln removed his hat and bowed, and Granger’s eyes went wide at the sight of the bullet hole in the back of his head. “And who is this charming companion of yours? What’s your name, my lady?”

“This is—”

“I’m Hermione Granger. His colleague.” She offered her hand, then quickly pulled it back. “Sorry, I—”

“Not at all, I had a hard time breaking the habit myself! A firm handshake is what I miss most!” he said warmly. “Would you care for a tour of our newly refurbished bar? After all these elections I’m tired of the White House hustle and delighted to be back in England. We’ve just hired a few lost hands to help with the drinks. What do you think? They cost a third of what elves do! Kept one on to streamline the process.”

A metre away, one of the hands — with a huge ruby ring on its forefinger — poured a drink over a wizards’s head and slapped him.

“Oh, dear, how awkward. Best slip away before a scandal kicks off! Did I tell you John’s(5) performing tonight? You really must stay to see him!”

Notes:

Abney Park(1) —  ppened in 1840 as a garden cemetery complete with an arboretum, Abney Park soon became a haven for adventurers of all stripes. Its non-denominational status, declared from the outset, made it a refuge for those who could not be buried anywhere else. Here lie heretics, dissenters, and adherents of rare faiths.

Emmeline Pankhurst(2)  — a British political activist who organised the British suffragette movement and helped women to win in 1918 the right to vote in Great Britain and Ireland.

Kwong Po(3) — Chinese dragonologist specialising in magical creatures who once discovered the unique magical properties of Chinese Fireball eggshell powder,
Sic semper tyrannis(4) — Death to tyrants
William Mumlers(5)   —  William H. Mumler (1832–1884) was an American spirit photographer who worked in New York City and Boston. His first spirit photograph was apparently an accident—a self-portrait which, when developed, also revealed the "spirit" of his deceased cousin. Mumler then left his job as an engraver to pursue spirit photography full-time, taking advantage of the large number of people who had lost relatives in the American Civil War. His two most famous images are the photograph of Mary Todd Lincoln with the ghost of her husband Abraham Lincoln and the portrait of Master Herrod, a medium, with three spirit guides. Mumler was eventually taken to court and tried for fraud and larceny. Noted showman P. T. Barnum testified against him. He was later acquitted by a judge, and his photography career continued.

John’s Booth(5)  — an American stage actor who assassinated United States president Abraham Lincoln at Ford's Theatre in Washington, D.C., on April 14, 1865. A member of the prominent 19th-century Booth theatrical family from Maryland, he was a noted actor who was also a Confederate sympathizer; denouncing Lincoln, he lamented the then-recent abolition of slavery in the United States.\

Hey, hopre you're enjoying the fic. Would be grateful for any feedback you have.

Chapter 11: Tartini’s Dream

Notes:

They dance to this song.

Devil’s Trill Sonata.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z7rxl5KsPjs&list=RDz7rxl5KsPjs&start_radio=1

Would appreaciate some feedback, love you all xxx

Richard Wagner(1) was a German composer, theatre director, essayist, and conductor,
Dickens stared at a compass, muttering under his breath about the absence of mirrors(2) — People claim to see the ghost of Charles Dickens in the mirror of the suite he resided in during his second tour of the United States. Read here — https://www.fabledcollective.com/mirror-haunted-by-charles-dickens/#google_vignette

Emerald Tablet(3) — The Emerald Tablet, also known as the Smaragdine Table or the Tabula Smaragdina,[ is a compact and cryptic text traditionally attributed to the legendary Hellenistic figure Hermes Trismegistus. The earliest known versions are four Arabic recensions preserved in mystical and alchemical treatises between the 8th and 10th centuries CE—chiefly the Secret of Creation (Arabic: سر الخليقة, romanized: Sirr al-Khalīqa) and the Secret of Secrets (سرّ الأسرار, Sirr al-Asrār). It was often accompanied by a frame story about the discovery of an emerald tablet in Hermes' tomb.

Francis Bacon(4) — A Franciscan friar and natural philosopher, he studied and later taught at Oxford. He was the first to speak out against scholasticism and openly criticised leading authorities of his day, such as Thomas Aquinas and Albert the Great. He rejected the idea of philosophy as a finished, closed field of knowledge. For his views, Bacon paid dearly: he spent twelve years in prison. Despite his sharp mind, the natural philosopher also believed in astrology, omens, and the existence of the Philosopher’s Stone.

Tip 10: Alcohol gives you that extra “spirit” in a fight, so don’t be shy of another round.

The Lincoln’s Rest Bar, Brompton Chapel Catacombs

 

The deeper they pushed into the crowd, the more ghostly faces Draco recognised. To his right, Richard Wagner(1) hunched among a pile of silk cushions, trying to snatch a quill that kept darting away. To his left, Dickens stared at a compass, muttering under his breath about the absence of mirrors(2).

“Is that Isaac Newton?” Granger’s voice brimmed with excitement. “The real Isaac Newton? I have to talk to him!”

Draco winced. The “real Isaac Newton”, in a curly grey wig and a worn frock coat, was trying to poke himself in the eye with a compass. Draco wasn’t about to excuse that as genius. He didn’t care what Newton had done for humanity; bad manners were bad manners. He caught Granger by the wrist before she could run off.

“Later.”

She pulled a face at him, but Draco ignored her and turned to Lincoln

“Mr President, when did the owner we talked about last show his face in your bar?”

“Oh, four days ago. Maybe five?”

Right when Longbottom vanished. Brilliant.

“Was there anything about his behaviour that struck you as odd?”

“Goodness, no. We’re quite used to Egon crying over the Emerald Tablet(3) every time he has a drink here.”

“Egon? Odd sort of name. Our records have him down as ‘Roger.’”

“Oh yes, hought he was the next Francis Bacon(4), when he could’ve just stuck to ordinary business and spared himself the bother. What we really needed was someone practical, but he kept harping on about building his own personal legendarium!”

“Sorry—did you say the Emerald Tablet?” Granger cut in, stopping him mid-interrogation. “Isn’t it supposed to be with Sir Flamel?”

“Good heavens, no, my dear. It was stolen. After he’d already completed his magnum opus.”

“Egon thought it had been ‘eaten’ by his crumbling shop? Quite the imagination, I must say. The boy’s completely lost his marbles. A house come alive, devouring enchanted artefacts? Can you picture it? As for his elf… Ah, Herr Lenin! Splendid to see you again. You say you spotted Trotsky somewhere? Perhaps it was Colonel Harland Sanders instead(4)! He makes marvellous chicken! Have you tried it? No? You absolutely must!”(14)

“Why would an ordinary antiques dealer need the chief relic of Hermeticism(5)?” Granger asked, her voice tight with urgency. “What was he after?”

“Who can say? I never gave it much thought. By the way, in two numbers’ time Tartini(6) himself will be playing,” Lincoln said with a graceful wave towards the stage, steering them through the ghostly crowd. “Relax! Drinks are on the house. I’ll be back to you in… well, shortly! I need a word with Booth before his performance. We’ll go over your questions afterwards.”

“But Mr President, we need this right now—”

“Later! Later!” Lincoln called, drifting off towards the heavy burgundy curtains, stopping over a hulking man bellowing at the top of his lungs. “Cromwell, my dear fellow, it really won’t do to stab the living right in front of the twins. Infuriates them, you know—you’re stealing their job!”

Granger let out a weary sigh.

“At this rate, we’ll be stuck here all night.”

“Keep your eyes open, Granger. The house-elf could show up any second.”

“I’m relying entirely on you as mission leader. Where’s their menu? Ah, of course—what a ridiculous little joke! An ‘invisible menu’ in a ghost bar.”

Drinks touched by ghosts didn’t look the least bit trustworthy.

Draco Malfoy did his best to avoid alcohol. For good reason. More often than not, he grew far too sentimental and whispered nonsense into Theo’s ear; more rarely, he hugged Dora so tightly she couldn’t breathe, or raced Remus on broomsticks while giving him a head start.

According to Nott, he’d once even offered to cover his weekend shift as a gesture of friendship. Naturally, sober Draco Malfoy had been ready to strangle his drunken self when he discovered that Theo’s “shift” wasn’t just guard duty, but also giving guided tours to Hogwarts fifth-years.

In short, when he was with Granger he’d forbidden himself to touch anything containing even the faintest trace of intoxicants. Who knew where his loosened tongue might lead if “drunk Draco” ever took over? For all he knew, he might come to his senses only after pinning her against the bathroom mirror, with no way back from there.

Well, there was no sign of the house-elf, and Lincoln was far too busy with empty chatter to be bothered with questions about the staff. So Draco had no choice but to wait, endure the snorting goblins nearby, and pretend he wasn’t repeatedly letting his eyes drift back to the face of one particularly infuriating witch.

There was something deeply curious about poltergeists’ unhealthy passion for drink. Draco had never bothered to find out whether it really did anything to them, but judging by the relish with which Herr Lenin was ordering his fourth glass of Ghost Whisky(7), he clearly wasn’t concerned with the effects of the spirit.

Just a few feet away, a ghostly hand missing its thumb was skewering swamp weeds onto cocktail sticks, dipping them into a glass before passing the drink to a cigar-smoking troll. The troll grinned at Draco with his single tooth and raised a middle finger with a daisy instead of a nail—Draco had no idea how to interpret the gesture. Best to ignore it.

Bats stretched their wings overhead, giving them a shake. They squeaked before wrapping themselves back up and sinking into sleep. Enormous jars packed with lumps of dark matter coiled around the bar, reminding Draco of an obscurial’s nest. Even the garland of shrivelled ears plunging into yet another martini didn’t bring on his usual wave of nausea. That’s what overtime did to him.

Draco stole a glance at a scowling Granger, studying the menu after Revealing Charm. The same loose curl had fallen into place as before,

Merlin, would she finally see brush it away or not?

“Any idea what a ‘Kiss of Amanojaku’ (9)is?” As soon as her wandlight faded, the scroll vanished from her hand. “Sounds far more intriguing than ‘freshly squeezed centaur blood with seed’ or ‘the White Lady’s (9) slippery nipples.”

“How did you even manage to pronounce that?”

“I was just curious, that’s all.”

“If you fancy an early grave, be my guest. I’ll pass.”

“Ever wondered why alcohol used to be called ‘spirits’?”

“I drink spirits, not alcohol. Which makes me spiritual, not an alcoholic.”(10)

Granger gave a light smile and hopped off the stool, its back carved with skulls that made Draco vaguely uneasy. She came to stand beside him, leaning an elbow on the bar. Their forearms brushed, and Draco shifted his hand almost without thinking so their fingers touched. For a brief instant it felt like an electric shock. Granger let out a startled breath, first glancing at their hands touching, then at Draco himself. In the half-dark her eyes seemed unusually vivid. Or Draco was just imagining nonsense.

She tilted her curly head towards his shoulder, speaking thoughtfully.

“I’ve always wondered why you never join the other Aurors at their office parties.”

“I’ve got special status.”

“Or maybe Dora just appreciated your talent for babysitting.”

His mouth twitched into a smirk and he raised a brow.

“Most women are impressed when I mention my close bond with my nephew.”

“I’m not ‘most women,’” she said firmly, shooting him a frosty look. “And I doubt you even see me as a woman, Malfoy.”

“Honestly, you’re more of a kikimora.(11)”

“You’re not my type either, Malfoy.”

“Can’t say Nott’s all that different from me in temperament, but still.”

“I don’t fancy Theodore. Not in a romantic sense, anyway.”

“Hardly a surprise, but you’re still sly enough to keep using his feelings for your own ends.”

“Don’t pretend you know my tastes and motives, Malfoy.”

“If you’re free to make guesses about mine, why shouldn’t I try the same?”

Her eyes narrowed. Draco bit his lip, watching her angry scowl. Perfect.

“At least my assumptions don’t stink of prejudice.”

“Is that so. Have you dated a troll?”

“What—”

“Anyone can claim they’re not as much of an arse as I am, in theory.”

Granger scorched him with her glare but offered no real reply. It seemed Draco had won this round of their verbal sparring. Satisfaction spread through his chest, making it easier to breathe. At least until a poltergeist violinist appeared on stage.

A slow melody rose, stirring all sorts of conflicting thoughts in him. Draco marvelled at himself. The images flashing in his head had no business being there. Granger shifted awkwardly, and he closed his eyes, trying to drive the visions away. Several minutes passed in tense silence before two questions broke through at once.

“Do you think Tartini made up that story about the devil just for the fame?”(13)

“Will you dance with me?”

“I…” She started to speak but froze instead, mouth slightly open. Granger’s eyes were the colour of honey, and that alone sent Malfoy’s thoughts into a frightening metamorphosis that made his head spin and his stomach lurch.

“Sorry?”

“Perfect.”

He tugged her by the hand.

All at once too many impossible things were happening to Draco, and he could hardly process them, let alone draw conclusions. His hand settled on her waist, while Granger’s slender left hand pressed against his chest. They stepped forward into the stream of dancers and began to spin, merging with the ghosts’ mist. One step — he pushed her away. Another — Granger came spinning back, bumping sideways into his back. A familiar sweet scent hit his nose, and Draco, though he’d never admit it, breathed it in more deeply than before.

The steps repeated again and again, but neither of them tried to break the spell. Even though he could touch her — grip her fingers, squeeze her shoulder — Granger still felt out of reach, like a mirage on the horizon in a storm. Suddenly all voices, even the music, were drowned out by her breathing. He felt her body, her quick pulse, her warmth, her heartbeat. Draco was in freefall, plummeting straight towards her. Could anything be more romantic? Absolutely idiotic.

“You’re not bad at this,” Granger whispered. “And you haven’t stepped on my toes once.”

His thumb traced the soft skin between her shoulder blades, and she shivered all over. Draco smirked and murmured, his lips almost brushing her ear.

“You’ve no idea what else I could do to you, witch.”

“A threat?”

“Why do you always twist my words, Granger?”

he looked at him, desperate and uncertain, as though she couldn’t decide whether to push him away or pull him closer. Before her head could overflow with thoughts, he scooped her up under the arms — a short, surprised squeak — and spun her above his head. After about ten seconds he lowered her again, giving her time to steady herself. Granger blinked in shock, clutching his shoulders with her fingers. A couple of curls had come loose from her updo.

Their breathing fell into sync; he could feel hers against his lips. Wisps of ghosts drifted through their bodies as they stared at each other, unable to move.

That sort of thing gets you disintegrated(15),” she said, her voice catching on a breath. “Shame I haven’t invented the spell yet.”

At last Draco brushed away the irritating curl from her collarbone, rolling the strand between his fingers before twirling and letting it fall.

“Flattered. Not everyone gets to inspire the invention of new spells.”

Granger tried to stifle a smile, but failed. Her face lit up with an open, genuine emotion. For the first time Draco realised this pure joy was something he’d remember when he closed his eyes that night.

“When you smile like that, it makes me want to do it all over again.”

“Don’t even think about it.”

Draco should have thrown in a sarcastic jab, but instead he missed his chance and asked,

“Dizzy?”

“Your fault.”

“Do your knees go weak from me as well?” he laughed hoarsely, and Granger swallowed nervously, stepping back, pulling away and lowering her gaze.

They sank into awkward silence, both struggling for the right words. Suddenly a deep line settled between Granger’s brows, the corners of her mouth falling. She pressed a hand to her rising chest and lifted herself onto her toes.

“Who are you looking out for?”

“Looks like our suspect just started his shift. Time to get back to the mission.”

---

---

 

Notes:

Hermeticism(5) — A current of thought from the Hellenistic and late antique period, akin in spirit to Gnosticism. It centred on studying texts of sacred knowledge attributed to the semi-legendary sage Hermes Trismegistus, from whom the movement takes its name.

Tartini(6) — Giuseppe Tartini was an Italian violinist and composer, regarded as the greatest violin virtuoso of the eighteenth century.

Ghost Whisky(7) — Brand of Whiskey. This spirit is made from the same bourbon mash recipe and minimally aged in a new oak barrel.

Ah, Herr Lenin! Splendid to see you again. You say you spotted Trotsky somewhere? Perhaps it was Colonel Harland Sanders instead(4)! He makes marvellous chicken! Have you tried it? No? You absolutely must!”(14) — just fun cospiracy theory lol.

In 1935 Leon Trotsky fled the Soviet Union and got himself an American passport in the name of Harland Sanders. To keep up appearances he also applied for residency in Mexico and before long was spending regular holidays in his little house in Coyoacán.
In the United States he opened a small diner. The great hero of the October Revolution badly needed money and food service was an easy way to keep afloat. Of course the proud word “restaurant” really meant nothing more than a shabby roadside shack somewhere in Kentucky.
At first Trotsky cooked everything himself since he couldn’t afford staff. The truth was he only knew how to cook chicken, but he did it well. Back in their exile days Lenin often begged him to take charge of dinner. “Nadya is a golden woman, but she cannot cook at all,” Vladimir Ilyich would sigh. After a few failed experiments Trotsky came up with a recipe that always left Lenin delighted. “Arch-delicious, my dear fellow,” the Bolshevik leader would say.
Within months Trotsky realised the place barely made money. So he tried to apply his old experience of building the Communist Party. Every town in America should have a cell of his diner, the network constantly growing and eventually spreading abroad. To keep discipline he borrowed from Soviet methods. All staff wore identical uniforms, there were regular party meetings, and the wall of honour carried the portrait of the Worker of the Month along with a certificate signed by Trotsky himself.

Nostalgic for lost grandeur he even made the logo of the chain his own portrait, an echo of the endless images of Lenin back in the USSR. The company colour was, naturally, red. Nobody in America knew the hidden story of KFC. For them it was just another place called Kentucky Fried Chicken.

 

Amanojaku’ (8) — manojaku (天邪鬼, “heavenly evil spirit”) is a demon-like creature from Japanese folklore. It is usually portrayed as a small oni or imp and is believed to have the power to stir up a person’s darkest desires, provoking them into wicked deeds.
White Lady’s (9) — A White Lady (or woman in white) is a type of female ghost. She is typically dressed in a white dress or similar garment, reportedly seen in rural areas.

Which makes me spiritual, not an alcoholic.”(11) — I had to put the joke here! Couldn't resist. Loved it, not mine though

Kikimora(12) — a female household spirit in Slavic folklore. She is usually depicted as a small, dishevelled figure, said to spin at night and make eerie creaks and knocks. Depending on her mood, she might help with the household or torment its inhabitants.

“Do you think Tartini made up that story about the devil just for the fame?”(13) — According to legend, Giuseppe Tartini once dreamt that the Devil appeared to him and offered to become his servant. Curious to test him, Tartini handed the Devil his violin. What followed was a performance so hauntingly beautiful and terrifying that Tartini himself was left in utter rapture. When he awoke he tried to write down the music he had heard, but all he could capture was a pale shadow of that infernal masterpiece. From this dream came his most famous work, the Devil’s Trill Sonata.

disintegrated(15) — Disintegration, in physics, is the process by which bodies or substances break down into individual particles. The term can also refer to the decay of complex particles into simpler ones, up to and including transitions between states and the release of the energy that constitutes the particle’s matter.

Chapter 12: The Century’s Most Dangerous Witch

Tip 12: Give them a good ‘booo,’ make a mess of things, and leg it.

The Lincoln’s Rest Bar, Brompton Chapel Catacombs

“Just don’t frighten him, Malfoy.”

“Granger, just a reminder: staff don’t lecture their superiors on how to do their job.”

“I’m only trying to help. Elves are scared of people. Particularly you.”

“People scare people. And you’ve clearly never met a pickpocket elf — they fear nothing but running out of gold.”

A weary sigh.

“It’s just… all your…” She gestures towards him, a little too low, and immediately looks away. “You’re not exactly giving off a friendly vibe, you know?”

“Am I supposed to?”

“Most of the time, talking to you feels like breathing white phosphorus.”

“…Sorry, what?”

“Extremely toxic.”

Draco bared his teeth in a grin. Less a smile than a dog showing them before it bites.

“That friendly enough for you?”

Her face froze, caught somewhere between confusion, wariness and embarrassment.

“Better let me do the talking. Step aside.”

“They’ve no reason to worry about me.”

She froze mid-step. As always, Granger’s chest rose, her cheeks flushed, and her hands went straight to her hips. The longer time he spent with her, the more he relished needling her. Why did his mind always go blank around her? A corrupcting influence.

“And why’s that?“

“Because I know the truth.”

In a few quick steps he was looming over her, meeting her gaze, his voice hard at first, then softening to a whisper.

“You’ve the power to turn anyone’s world upside down. You…” Without meaning to, his gaze fell to her lips. Damn it, his mind went blank again. “You’re the most dangerous witch of the century.”

And again, those thoughtful, curious eyes. What had he even said? Nothing but the truth. It should have stung her. That should have hurt. No, should have humiliated her. And yet… Granger’s lips were bitten, but perfectly shaped.

Suddenly she shoved him in the chest, breaking eye contact.

“At least people don’t flee the moment I walk in!”

“When did that ever happen?!”

Heat rushed to Draco’s face; he let out a sharp breath and ran a hand through his fringe. Bloody hell.

“A month ago, when you dragged Noah the elf-thief by the ear, and two days later it turned out her master had set her up.”

“You never forget a thing, do you,” Draco muttered. “Get on with it.”

She tipped her chin up with a sharp click of her tongue, while he let one corner of his mouth curl into a playful smirk, with no intention of keeping any promises. One last glittering look in his direction, and Granger swept past a wizard in a battered-brim hat and long velvet robes.

Draco had no choice but to follow, enjoying the straight line of her back and the sharp wings of her shoulder blades. Granger without her cloaks and baggy suits was a fascinating phenomenon. One that begged to be studied, noted, explored. Preferably with your fingers. A bit much. Or perhaps… Merlin and Morgana, your mind’s a filthy traitor, Malfoy. Focus. There's your suspect. Look at him. Closer.

The first thing that caught the eye was a pink bow tie at the elf’s throat, scattering glitter across his velvet-white waistcoat. He fussed about, ears twitching comically as he bickered with two phantom pairs of hands that wouldn’t pour a drop for the living. Once the quarrel was settled, he bustled over, straightened his waistcoat and smiled up at them.

“What’ll it be, madam, sir?” His squeak was enough to give Draco a headache. “Might I tempt you with our special Mobius cocktail — tequila laced with ectoplasm, generously donated by our resident ghosts? I must warn you of the side effects: some guests lose their average body density. Last time we had to call in the Healers to extract a chair leg from someone’s knee.”

Draco leaned in, his voice a threatening hiss.

“I could murder an Accomplice-to-a-Wizard-Kidnapper cocktail right now!”

“Malfoy!”

The elf’s eyes widened; with a trembling hand he set the whisky bottle down on the counter. His ears curled back in fear.

“I swear, sir, I’ve done nothing!”

“Don’t worry. No one’s planning to arrest you, we just need to—”

“Tell us where your master is. Now!”

The elf glanced at Granger, then slowly shifted his gaze to Draco, edging backwards. His hand twitched towards his wand, while Draco braced his forearms against the bar.

“You’ve got a second to answer, or else—”

“Stop pressuring him!”

“Shut it, Granger!” He jerked his head sharply in her direction. “Don’t interfere! Where’s your master, eh? Where’s Egon?”

“Sir, Loki’s been a free elf these past three days. Loki doesn’t know where master is.”

“Malfoy, just stop—”

“Talk! Or I swear I’ll bind you and dump you in that pit of junk everyone calls an antique shop, and make you show me everything yourself.”

The elf’s eyes widened further in terror, his features twisted into a ludicrous mask of fear, while Draco clenched his jaw with impatience. He could feel Granger’s disapproval prickling against his skin, but he didn’t care.

“Silent, then? Fine!”

The rest Draco recalled only in fragments. Or perhaps he chose not to. It hardly mattered.

Elf hopped up onto the bar, and Draco clambered up after him, rocking heel to toe and nearly lost his balance. Granger went pale as she glanced at the swelling crowd of ghosts, all eager for the next act, blind to the chaos around the bar.

“Cover me!” he hissed at Granger. “We can’t let him get away!”

She nodded and promptly began rummaging in her handbag. Not at all what he’d had in mind.

The moment the elf turned and saw Draco on the bar, he flinched. A bottle smashed at his feet. Glass everywhere. The elf’s mouth gaped open, and Draco fired a spell straight at him. Missed. Damn it, the little rat slipped past every flash of light. With every step forward came more shattering glasses, exploding bottles, and bursts of coloured light.

Luckily, the bar was so long it felt more like a promenade in Brighton.

By the time they reached the end, the elf had his back to a vast mirror framed in ornate scrollwork. Draco decided it was time to stop playing and start hitting.

“Malfoy!”

Draco turned at Granger’s shout just in time to see something hurtling towards him — something metallic, buzzing, disturbingly Snitch-like.

“Catch!”

His fingertips brushed the metal, but the thing slipped past and dropped neatly into the elf’s hands. They sized each other up, tension thick between them, both minds racing through the next move. Had Draco been alone, the story might have ended very differently. But tonight he wasn’t, and instead they were destined for a ban from Lincoln’s bar and a spot on America’s wizard terrorist list.

On the face of the elf — who only a moment ago looked perfectly innocent — a wicked grin spread. He glanced sidelong at the bar behind him, and Draco gave a warning shake of his head.

The heavy curtains drew back, the lights blazed on. At that very moment the elf tossed the metal sphere straight into the vessels of dark liquid twining round the bar like ivy. Next he sent a pyramid of champagne glasses crashing down, then, grinning from ear to ear, snapped his fingers and vanished into thin air.

The sphere burst open, releasing a blazing golden phoenix. It had no time to soar before it ploughed straight into Lincoln’s brand-new bar installation, the one he’d been droning on about all evening.

Every ghost craned to look, and John Wilkes Booth drifted out onto the stage, freezing there with his arms flung wide. A collective “ooh” rippled through the catacombs.

Draco threw himself forward, reaching for the device, but a familiar sharp voice shot Incarcerous at his back. Ropes lashed round his ankles. Tangled, he toppled backwards and cracked his head hard against the tiles. An explosion thundered in his ears; rainbow circles spun before his eyes, bursting like fireworks.

Someone freed him from the ropes, and then Granger was suddenly at his side, flushed and flustered. Her face blurred into two, her words a muffled echo as she helped him up. And for some reason she struck Draco like a siren, her voice enchantingly repeating: “Are you all right?”

The stench hit his nose. Time to get out of here.

Meanwhile Granger threw out a hand and announced, her voice shaking with forced bravado,

“Yes, let the… er, performance of Sir John Wilkes Booth begin! Not only the most talented singer, but also a fine murd— never mind.”

Her little speech seemed to have the opposite effect. Instead of calming the ghosts, it only riled them up. They began to close in, drifting forward like a storm cloud.

Without a second thought Draco seized Granger by the elbow. She shot him an anxious look.

“Time to go!”

”But we should apologise—”

Cromwell drew his sword with a roar and lunged towards them. “

Malfoy! Now!”

Draco didn’t wait to hear the rest. He pulled her close and Disapparated.

The House with the Lilac Door, London

They landed hard on an empty road. The street lay quiet in the night. Granger coughed, rubbing at her watering eyes as she tried to catch her breath. He nearly called her an idiot, but the sight of splinters caught in her hair and dirt smudged across her cheeks gave way to something else — a strange spark in his chest he didn’t recognise. He stepped back quickly, while Granger glanced around, lost, searching for passers-by before at last deigning to look at him.

“I… sorry?” she said quietly.

“I grabbed the wrong sphere. Instead of the concentrated benzodiazepine(1), I picked up the one with the infernal phoenix.”

“Brilliant. Wave New England goodbye.”

“Lincoln’s reach is really that strong?”

“He’s got a chair in the American Auror Office.”

“You won’t get sacked, will you?”

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose in silence, wearing irritation like a mask.

“I’d hate for you to be sacked, Malfoy.”

“You—”

“—the most dangerous witch of the century?”

He gave a short huff and muttered under his breath, low enough she wouldn’t hear,

“The worst of it is, I think I’m starting to get used to that.”

Granger gave him a faint smile, tucked back a stray curl, adjusted the bag at her hip and rummaged inside. After a moment she pulled out a bulky sack and held it out to Draco.

“What’s this?”

“Equipment?” she faltered. “I was thinking…”

“Very suspicious. It’s a trap, isn’t it?”

“No, Merlin, Malfoy! How you— how do you always— never mind!” She drew a sharp breath. “Fine. Clearly you’re better prepared than me. I fixed the engine; it’s all in working order.”

“So you’re… walking away? Really? One botched mission and that’s it?”

She let out a noisy breath and looked away.

“Yes! Happy now?”

Draco gave a tight nod and took the sack. He watched her turn awkwardly and step away, preparing to Disapparate. He should have bitten his tongue, but instead he called after her.

“Granger?”

In the warm glow of the streetlamp her eyes turned honey again, and his heart suddenly lost its steady rhythm.

“Yes?”

“Tomorrow. Ten o’clock. Sibylla’s Antiques. Bring plenty of your inventions, so I don’t have to call for backup.”

Her face lit up with a genuine smile, and all he wanted was to cup her dirty cheeks in his hands and kiss her.

Notes:

(1) Benzodiazepines are a class of psychoactive substances with hypnotic, sedative, anxiolytic (anxiety-reducing), muscle relaxant, and anticonvulsant effects. Their action is linked to an effect on GABA (gamma-aminobutyric acid) receptors. Many benzodiazepines are used as tranquilizers, and some are prescribed as sleeping aids.

Chapter 13: The Devil Tossing Stones

Tip 14: Never Waste a Good Surprise

Sybil’s Chest, Diagon Alley

Draco Malfoy hated being late, yet today he dragged himself into the Auror Department a full twenty minutes after everyone else (Theodore didn’t count, he was always late and never seemed remotely ashamed of it). Draco’s stomach growled like a Cerberus off its chain, and his hair looked as though it had been through Bombarda testing.

Creevey gave him a glare dripping with judgment before turning his frustration on parchment instead. His quill screeched so loudly it might as well have been carving the desk.

Lucky Creevey. He didn’t have a ginger menace camping under his bed, hissing like it owned the place. Draco had honestly believed that after saying goodnight to Granger, he’d be free to collapse into sleep at last. If only it were that simple.

The knock hadn’t taken long: Granger had forgotten her cat, and Draco—well, Draco forgot his common sense the moment he saw her again. His mind filled with far too many colorful scenes while she crouched in his flat, trying to lure her stubborn hairball out from under the bed.

The ridiculous back-and-forth lasted an hour. Draco spent most of it abusing his own fingers just to stop himself from grabbing the witch by the wrist and dragging her somewhere else. Preferably in the direction of his bed.

Thankfully, they were both too sleepy to argue. Otherwise… who knew? Maybe he would’ve managed to get up on time this morning. Or maybe he wouldn’t have slept at all—lost instead in far more, ahem, pleasant activities.

Something had shifted after their very first “fun” little tour of London. He couldn’t keep throwing snide remarks at her like before. His smirks no longer worked to hide how much she rattled him. Whenever an insult reached his tongue, he swallowed it down instead.

Honestly, he’d catch himself studying his reflection after Granger left, trying to figure out what was wrong. Perfect hair. Strong build. Flawless posture. And still—something was off.

It was as if the moment Granger stepped into his life, his eyes had started looking… desperate. As if his inner compass spell had glitched, the needle spinning uselessly. He was being pulled in circles, with no idea how to steady himself or stand upright again.

He hated every part of it. As if he’d ever had control.

In some ways, Draco Malfoy hadn’t changed at all: he still hated being late. Very few people realized just how much he despised the feelings of humiliation and guilt that came with it. And yet, the witch waiting for him outside that cursed antique shop today was the main reason he constantly felt off balance.

Maybe Granger was his punishment. No, she was definitely designed to exist for the sole purpose of infuriating him and, somehow, delighting him at the same time. A mystery in itself, how one person could spark such contradictory urges: from wanting to strangle her, to wanting to crush her with affection, to finally shutting her up with his lips on hers and, inevitably, a generous dose of awkwardness.

This mission with Granger was torture. And yet Draco figured he was about ready for a membership in Masochists Anonymous. She had stolen his thoughts. Worse still, she’d hijacked his dreams. Now each one was full of big words, ridiculous grins, and those infuriating curls.

Merlin, Draco was helpless.

Pathetic.

And utterly beyond saving.

The last time Draco had overslept his morning classes was back in Hogwarts, when he was sixteen (bleak, joyless memories he preferred never to remember again). He shot out of the office like a Skrewt with basilisk venom in its tail. Instead of his usual lazy stride, he jogged out, nearly knocked Mr. Duran over in the lift, and ran straight into Theodore. He muttered a crumpled “hi” and ignored the question about where he was headed. Draco didn’t know why he was running. His legs simply refused to stop.

Then he saw Granger’s back, standing before the towering, chaotic sprawl of the flea market. His feet froze to the tiles; he couldn’t make himself step forward, wave, or even reach out. It felt like trying to ask Pansy to the Yule Ball all over again. Only he wasn’t fourteen anymore.

His heart pounded in his chest. His palms  were damp and his mouth bone-dry. He scanned the boarded doors and shattered windows, already plotting an escape. He was just about to cast a Disillusionment Charm when Granger turned and looked at him.

“Malfoy?” she called over her shoulder. “Are you… alright?”

“Me?” He dropped his wand and shoved it into his pocket, awkward as ever.

“You’ve been standing there for five minutes. Is something wrong?”

“Everything’s—” he licked his lips, buying time. “Everything’s fine. Perfectly fine. Nothing new, is there, Granger? Nothing at all between us.”

Merlin. What are you even saying?

“Uh… okay. You’re late?”

“I was thinking. Too much.”

“Oh.”

Granger looked lost.Draco shifted his weight uneasily, staring anywhere but her eyes.

“I brought everything we need. Two Faraday Flashes.(1)” She held up a strange object in her hand, something that looked like a miniature camera. “Universal weapon. The Institute for Paranormal Cataclysms in Kowloon(2) sent it to me last month. Took a lot of work to clear that fortress made out of high-rise slums. The only thing is, I need to explain to you—”

Granger kept talking, and Draco kept listening. He’d listen even if she were explaining why he was a prat and how important it was to show up on time.

He nodded along, but behind his back his fingers held his wrist so tight it hurt. Merlin, Granger was saying something important, and all he could think about was the way her hair curled around her face. Had it always been this thick? Would she let him massage her scalp if he buried his hands in those curls?

“Malfoy?”

She had that habit of smiling, not the usual kind, but the one that appeared whenever she got carried away by something that mattered to her.

“Malfoy!”

“Yes?”

“If you want me to explain how it works, you’ll need to come closer.”

“Closer?”

“Yes.”

“…Alright.”

He took one long step forward, squeezing his wrist harder and straightening his back. Granger looked at him with a strange mix of irritation and amusement.

“You’re still a metre away. You won’t see anything from there.”

Another half step. A glance full of confusion in his direction, one brow arched. Draco kept what he considered a respectable distance—far enough to avoid anything personal—and Granger rolled her eyes.

“Fine,” she said, closing the space between them.Her voice faltered. “If it’s such a problem.”

She had a few freckles on her cheekbone. Barely visible.

“This button blinds poltergeists, and this one sprays salt into illusions. You can also use the ‘oni’(3) mode, but the battery drains quickly if you keep flashing…” she said. “Malfoy?”

She bit her lower lip while pointing at the lens. Damn.

“Draco?“

“Mmm?”

“Are you even following this?”

He swallowed, dragging his eyes away from her mouth.

“Absolutely.”

“Then why are you staring at me? Do I have something on my face or…?”

She blinked a few times. Granger looked completely thrown, while Draco got swept up in the warm, dizzy rush in his chest.

“Malfoy?” She waved a hand in front of his face. “Are you… alright?”

“You… you’ve actually done a lot of work.”

“What?”

“Let's go!” He snapped out of it, cleared his throat, and tore the device from her hand, his thumb brushing her wrist on purpose, before striding to the entrance.“The poltergeists must’ve dozed off while… erm, enjoying your brilliant explanations.”

He heard a hesitant laugh behind him.

Draco could only pray to Merlin, Morgana, and every saint he could recall that next time he’d have the strength not to give in to the voices in his head whispering about how thick and smooth Granger’s hair looked.

Inside, the air stank of damp. A single swaying lamp gave nowhere near enough light to show all the junk shoved into the corners. Draco had never cared for antique auctions(though after the war Narcissa often bought portraits), right up until the day she brought home a reproduction of The Crying Boy(4) for their summer house.

The painted child wept without pause, and every guest ended up pitying it. No wonder there was a fire the very next day—one that involved those same guests. Thankfully, all of them survived.

Rumors clung ti that painting, and Draco didn’t approve of his mother’s hobby, even if he could never tell her so. What mattered was that it sparked life in her eyes again, and his father seemed ready to buy her half the world if it meant banishing her melancholy. Of course, the portrait came out unscathed by the flame. The boy’s face no longer streaked with tears, but twisted into a cruel, satisfied smile, the kind even Gray(5) might have envied.

A crunch underfoot. Looked like it was the remains of a Calming Draught. Granger was clumsily shifting scrolls from one shelf to another, as if searching for something impossibly important. Clearly not Longbottom.

Oddly enough, Granger wasn’t here just out of some noble urge to save her friend. There was something else—something selfish.

Draco could tell.

“Where on earth is it…? Bloody hell. Found anything?”

“I thought we were meant to be looking for the entrance, not rummaging through someone else’s bits and pieces.”

Granger glanced back at him over her shoulder, pulling away from a cabinet crammed with papers. The lamp flickered weakly, and Draco tilted his head.

“Maybe there’s something in here. Just a thought. And I don’t owe you an explanation, Malfoy.”

She turned back to the shelves. Draco waited a moment, listening to the rustle of parchment, before stepping closer.

He inhaled sharply when he found himself just a step behind her. Sweet.

She spun round, startled, her breath hitching as her hand flew to her chest

“For Merlin’s sake, Malfoy—” She puffed a loose curl off her forehead. “What’s the matter with you today? You’re acting… odd.”

Draco opened his mouth, but his eyes dropped to her lips.

Again.

And again.

“Malfoy?”

Her eyes went unfocued, her mouth parting slightly. Probably the same look she gave a brand-new potion formula when she was puzzling it out. Draco didn’t exactly want to be a dissected bat or a loose screw on her desk, but he wouldn’t have minded being handed over to Granger for a study.

“Maybe there’s a hidden door. Or a cellar, even? Neville couldn’t have just vanished into thin air. He must’ve stopped by the potion-makes on the way. Look at that table, full of brews. Odd.”

“Ow!” Pain shot across the back of his head, snapping him out of his thoughts. “What the—what is this?”

A stone with a faded rune was in his palm. Granger bent down and picked up another one that had landed by their feet.

“This one’s Ansuz. And yours looks like…” she brushed her finger over it, “…Urd.”

“Whatever that means.”

The look on her face made him tense.

Way too much delight. That, again, never was a good sign.

“The Norns of Loki.”(6)

“The what?”

“Trickster’s runes. He’s playing with us.” Her eyes gleamed as she grabbed his shoulder. “He’s here.”

“Who is?”

“Who else? The Devil Tossing Stones!”

The floor vanished before Draco could answer, sending them both into the abyss.

Notes:

Two Faraday Flashes(1) — A ghost-catching device that works like a Faraday cage, snapping shut whenever the picture is taken. Author's idea.
The Institute for Paranormal Cataclysms in Kowloon(2) — Kowloon Walled City — a former, densely populated and largely ungoverned settlement in Kowloon, Hong Kong. Originally a Chinese military fort, it later became controlled by triads and notorious for crime, gambling, and drugs. It was demolished in the early 1990s, and a park now stands in its place.
Oni (鬼)(3) — in Japanese mythology, oni are large, fearsome, tusked and horned humanoid yōkai with red, blue, or black skin, dwelling in Jigoku, the Japanese hell. They are extremely strong and hard to kill, with severed limbs reattaching themselves. In battle, oni wield spiked iron clubs (kanabō) and wear tiger-skin loincloths (fundoshi). Despite their brutish appearance, oni are cunning and intelligent, and can even take on human form.
The Crying Boy(4) — On 5 September 1985, the British tabloid newspaper The Sun reported that an Essex firefighter claimed that undamaged copies of the painting were frequently found amidst the ruins of burned houses. By the end of November, belief in the painting's curse was widespread enough that The Sun was organising mass bonfires of the paintings, sent in by readers.( https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Crying_Boy)
Dorian Gray(5) — a young man gifted with extraordinary beauty; the central character of Oscar Wilde’s novel The Picture of Dorian Gray.
“The Norns of Loki.”(6) — a board game for two or three players (traditionally women), played on a special board divided into three equal sectors called Ætts. Each Ætt bears runes from the Elder Futhark along with the runes of the Norn goddesses and Loki himself: the First Ætt — Urd (Past or Fate), the Second Ætt — Verdandi (Present or Becoming), the Third Ætt — Skuld (Future or Obligation). At the centre lies Loki’s rune. The Ætts represent the sectors of time. The order of time (Past → Present → Future) can only be altered by the Norns themselves.

So, what do you think about the chapter?

Notes:

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