Chapter Text
“Good morning, love,” Draco groans into the hair of the witch curled against him as the first rays of sunlight slip through the cracks of his bedroom window.
That’s rule number one: always stick to general endearments — never names.
He learned that the hard way during the Great Incident of 2002, when he called the daughter by her mother’s name.
Hard to blame him, really. Both witches had painfully forgettable names, and, in his defense, he slept with them both in the same week.
The witch—Alicia,Felicia? Whatever—shifts in his arms, flashing him a wicked little look that promises they’ll both be late for work.
And late he is, again, as he drags himself into St. Mungo’s, the elevator groaning as it hauls him up to the third floor.
Last night’s activities drained him more than he likes to admit.
At least today is easy: he only needs to toss in one last ingredient and let his potion brew itself for an hour. A perfect amount of time for a quick nap.
Something he could and should have done yesterday.
But he got bored and the pub sounded infinitely more appealing.
He pushes open the door to his lab, shrugs off his coat, and slips into the traditional green robes.
Not his color — a pale, minty shade that does absolutely nothing for him — but they’re heavily warded against potion splashes.
And more importantly, he doesn’t fancy ruining his very expensive white oxford shirt with Armadillo bile.
He flips open his notebook, double-checks the dosage, and adds five careful droplets to the cauldron.
A puff of yellow smoke rises, filling the air — exactly as expected.
Good.
Someone’s going to be thrilled this bloody potion is finally finished. Granger has been pestering him nonstop for months now, tracking his progress like the overbearing know-it-all she was at Hogwarts.
He doesn’t like being hovered over, but he has to admit, without her breathing down his neck, he might have procrastinated another few weeks. Maybe months.
It started just a few days after he was hired as a potioneer for St. Mungo’s.
Granger knocked on his door — no hello, no niceties — asking if a custom potion could help a patient she was treating in the Janus Thickey Ward (JTW), one floor up from his.
When he asked if he could examine the patient, she flat-out refused with no explanation. Since then, the whole thing has had an irritating air of mystery.
If it weren’t for Granger’s relentless follow-ups, he probably would’ve buried this project at the bottom of his to-do list.
But he didn’t.
He got it done, not that he ever doubted himself, and he can’t wait to shove the results in her smug pretty face—uh face. Just smug face.
He takes his long-awaited nap and already feels the edge of his hangover receding. Once the potion finishes brewing, he bottles it into small vials, each one shimmering delicately under the lab lights.
Feeling almost like a new man, he decides to take the stairs up to Granger’s office instead of the lift.
He glances down at his handiwork on the way—a soft lilac brew, scattered with tiny silver stars—and a flicker of pride stirs in his chest.
At the top of the stairs, he takes a left turn and knocks sharply on her door where a small silver shines:
Healer Hermione Granger
Mind Specialist
There’s no answer. The door, however, isn’t properly closed. He takes that as an invitation.
She’s there after all. How rude not to answer.
Her chair is turned away from him, and all he can see is her long, dark-brown hair braided neatly down her back.
"Granger?" he calls out.
Still no answer. Just the faintest startle in her shoulders — enough to tell him she heard perfectly well.
"I’ve got the potion you asked for," he says, a little sharper than intended. Damn her for wasting his time on his not-so-busy schedule.
She whirls around so fast that he instinctively flinches, taken aback by the raw distress pouring off her.
Her eyes are the first thing he notices—red and glassy, like she’s been crying for a while. Her cheeks are still damp, and a lone tear slides down, tracing a path through the freckles dusting her skin.
He freezes. No idea what to do with himself. Should he leave? Should he pretend he didn’t see anything?
He risks a glance at the crumpled paper clenched tightly in her hand. Probably the culprit.
But she doesn’t look at him. Her gaze is locked on the tray of vials, and the longer she stares, the more ashen she grows.
Finally, her hand falls, dropping the paper onto the desk with a soft rustle, and she buries her face in her palms. Silent, except for the small, helpless tremble of her shoulders.
Something—Merlin knows what—tugs him closer.
“Hey,” he says, crouching in front of her chair, trying to catch her eye. “What’s going on?”
She lifts her head, as if realizing for the first time that he’s here. He barely has time to process it before she throws herself out of her chair and into his arms. He falls flat on his arse, but catches her without too much damage.
Her body is so limp, he’s not even sure she jumped on purpose. It’s more like she just collapsed and he happened to be there.
"Granger—"
A ragged sob rips out of her chest, deep and raw, a sound far too big for someone so small.
His arms wrap tighter around her, cradling her against him. Salazar, why does she feel so small? It’s as if she hasn’t grown an inch since Hogwarts, and somehow, she seems even more fragile now than she did back then.
He noticed it the first time he saw her again—when she knocked on his door, asking for help with that mystery patient.
Her face had sharpened, no longer childish: a delicate nose, pink full lips, a complexion that under St. Mungo’s harsh lighting looked ghostly pale, but in truth carried a soft peach glow, peppered with rare freckles.
He used to think her eyes were plain brown. They weren’t. Up close, he could see they were amber, gleaming like rich honey under the sun.
But it was her silhouette that caught his attention the most. Not in a weird, creepy way—he just didn’t remember her looking like that back at school. She wasn’t tall by any stretch, just... average. Like every other girl their age. But leaning against the doorframe of his office, it looked like a strong gust could lift her straight off the street.
Even under the baggy clothes she wore, he could see it—the thin, brittle outline of her frame. It’s as if the world grew up without her knowing.
But now, he lets her cry, frozen in place, unsure what to say or to do, beside making sure not to snap her frail body in two. Empathy isn’t really his thing—but her anguish wraps around him, tight and suffocating.
"Do you want to—"
She flinches back before he can even finish. Her gaze latches onto his, sobs tapering off into shallow breaths. Her eyes flicker to his lips, and he swallows hard.
And then, just like that, the sadness drains out of her amber eyes. What’s left behind is worse: dull, hollow emptiness.
She scrambles back into her chair, leaving Draco stranded on the floor like a complete idiot.
Granger clears her throat, smoothing down the wrinkled sheet of paper before locking it into a drawer.
Draco gets to his feet but stays close, without even knowing why. Just... because.
"Can you leave?" she asks, not looking at him, already shuffling through random files like he’s no longer there.
"What about the potion?"
"Store it. I don't need it anymore."
What the hell? After months of badgering him about it, now she doesn’t even want it? He could have been enjoying a peaceful morning tangled up with Alicia—Felicia—whatever her name was. Instead, he finished her bloody potion for nothing.
"Fine," he snaps, biting the word off as he slams the door behind him.
His brain feels thick, buzzing uselessly. Every thought loops in a circle and slams into a dead end.
This whole depressing episode drained the life out of him. No way he’s getting any more work done today.
Might as well take the afternoon off.
Come next morning, Granger’s tormented expression is the first thing that greets him—even before he manages to pry open an eyelid.
He feels bad about how he reacted. He should have stayed, offered some comfort, not stormed off like a selfish asshole just because she didn’t seem to care about the brilliant potion he had finally delivered.
But still, he isn’t sure it was his place. Sure, they had grown somewhat close over the course of his employment, but not more than two friendly colleagues. Surely someone like Potter would be better suited to console her—or better yet, her fiancé. Although, honestly, he doubts the Weasel has the emotional range to offer anyone real solace.
The morning chill bites at him as he steps out of his flat—and definitely not the thought of Granger’s stupid fiancé—making him wince.
He stops at a café on his way to St. Mungo’s. Yes, his flat is only a five-minute walk to his workplace. A happy coincidence? Not even remotely.
He just happened to like his flat. If a job offer hadn’t fallen right into his lap, he would have been perfectly content staying unemployed, living the single life, and loitering around all day.
But a job offer had fallen into his lap—or, more accurately, a cute blonde witch had, who turned out to work at St. Mungo’s and had mentioned they were looking for a potioneer. Potions had always been his best subject, after all.
One interview later, he got the job. And honestly, it had turned out a lot better than wasting away in his flat.
With two coffees in hand and a lemon croissant—Granger’s favorite—he knocks on her office door.
He waits. No answer.
If she dares make him wait like yesterday, even if she’s inside, she has another thing coming.
After a grand total of fifteen seconds (more than generous, in his opinion), Draco decides he’s had enough and tries the handle. Unlocked, thankfully.
But her office is empty.
He sighs, guessing she’s probably doing her rounds with her patients. Stepping inside, he leaves the coffee and croissant on her desk, casting a stasis charm over them.
On a bright pink sticky note, he scribbles:
Come see me when you have the chance. –DM
There. Comfort now offered, he walks quite confidently back to his office.
But he has yet to hear a knock on his door.
Right before leaving for the evening, he goes up to her office—this time not even bothering to knock, his irritation at being ignored practically crackling in the air.
He pushes the door open without hesitation.
Empty. Again.
The coffee and croissant still sit untouched on her desk, perfectly preserved under his charm.
Three days.
Three days of the same circus, and every time, her office is empty.
Where the hell is she?
Not that he’s worried. No. Maybe... perplexed. Mildly.
For the eight months he’s worked here, he doesn’t think she’s taken a single day off.
He doesn’t even know when she gets in or when she leaves—only that she’s always there.
There when he arrives.
There when he leaves.
Always.
Three days of unexplained absence, especially after what happened, is decidedly out of character for Granger.
He decides to inquire with the chief healer of the JTW—Laura. (Yes, he fucked her too. No, he has absolutely no idea whether they’re still on good terms.)
"Do I look like her fucking secretary?" she snaps the second he asks.
There’s his answer.
"But surely she must have told you how many days she took off?"
Laura spins on her heel, disdain written all over her face.
He must have really screwed things up with her.
"Why? Is she your next conquest?"
A strange tingling shoots up his spine at the word conquest and Granger in the same sentence.
He pointedly does not examine whether the feeling is good or bad.
“She’s engaged,” he says stiffly.
“It never stopped you before,” Laura replies, wiggling a finger in his face—the one sporting an engagement ring.
“Look, we—work—together. For one of her patients. Can you tell me when she’s coming back?”
"I don’t know," Laura says, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Miss Perfect just vanished without telling anyone. And now I’m stuck with all her patients and—"
"What?"
The word tumbles out before he can control it. Shit. Not worry. Definitely not worry. Just...logical concern. Because a witch as organized and disciplined as Granger skipping work—and abandoning her patients—without warning her boss is unheard of.
"Look, I’ve got double the workload thanks to her, so if you’re quite done—"
"Did you ask her fiancé? Her friends?"
"Of course not. It’s not like she’s a kidnapped child. It's not my job to—"
Draco doesn’t hear the rest. He’s already storming off the floor.
Draco’s fingers tap against his desk, his jaw resting in his palm, elbow propped up. He looks bored, but he’s anything but.
He’s trying to decide whether asking Weasley is worth the inevitable brain damage.
Because the last time he saw him, it hadn’t exactly been a heartwarming encounter.
Not that it’s any of his business what Granger is doing with someone like him.
Absolutely not his place to judge her life choices—but, honestly, she could do better.
A lot better.
Like literally anyone else. Not him, per say. Although, he would make a better option than this walking temper tantrum in secondhand robes, that’s for sure.
About two weeks ago, he and Granger had been walking up the stairs together, on their way to her office. She wanted an update on his progress with the potion, professional business.
All very innocent.
Very work-related.
They were halfway up when Weasley came barreling down the steps, face as red as his hair and growing even redder the second his eyes landed on them.
Granger made a noise—something between a gasp and a squeak—that Draco pretends he didn’t hear because acknowledging it would require acknowledging that it made his stomach drop.
He looked at her. Gone was the lively, animated Granger from a minute ago. Instead, she looked like she desperately wished the wallpaper would swallow her whole.
He didn’t spend too long wondering why a witch as fierce as Granger could shrivel up so fast.
Then Weasley grabbed her wrist. Her too-small, too-frail-looking wrist. And started dragging her up the stairs like a Neanderthal.
"Why do you always have to be with him," Weasley spat, the grip on her wrist making her wince.
And Draco?
Oh, Draco moved.
One second he was minding his own business (sort of), the next he was stepping forward, shoving Weasley’s hand off her with enough force that even surprised himself.
"Careful," he hissed, somehow finding himself positioned squarely between them, effectively shielding her.
"Mind your fucking business ferret," Weasley barked.
Draco’s fists clenched. He was this close to doing something spectacularly stupid, like punching Granger’s fiancé in the face in the middle of the stairwell.
Fortunately, for everyone, Granger stepped in.
"It’s okay, Malfoy. I’ll see you later," she said quickly, her voice tight.
"No you won’t—" Weasley started.
"Ron, we’re working together. Stop," she snapped back, a spark of her usual fire returning to her voice.
Draco stood perfectly still as they marched up the stairs, Weasley shooting him a final death glare over his shoulder before disappearing around the corner.
No.
Draco figures it’s best to skip Weasley altogether.
He’ll go harass Potter instead.
Well, it turns out Potter has about as much use as a Lumos charm in broad daylight. The prat has no clue where she’s gone or whether she’s taken some time off.
The whole thing—the complete lack of care from anyone involved—is starting to really grind on Draco. And no, he’s not going to see Weasley. Granger’s clever, independent, and surely safe wherever she is. And again, he’s not worried. He’s just… a bit preoccupied by her absence.
By Friday afternoon, it’s officially been four days since Granger has gone… missing. Not missing, because that would imply concern. No, it’s more like “curiously absent.” There.
Draco hopes the usual Friday night at the Leaky Cauldron will take his mind off it. He doesn’t do stress. It’s terrible for the skin.
“So, mate, what’s your pick tonight—red, brown, or blonde?” Theo Nott’s voice cuts through the haze of Draco’s thoughts. Fine question in a pub, if he’s talking about the beer selection. But, of course, it’s a much more demeaning and objectifying question. It’s about which woman Draco should drag back to the flat.
“Can you not?” Draco snaps, already feeling the tension over the missing Granger situation escalating his mood.
Blaise snickers beside him. “Someone’s in a mood.”
Draco slouches in his chair, sighing deeply. “Sorry, it’s just—”
He freezes, his eyes locking onto a table of Gryffindors. His heart skips a beat, a flicker of hope lighting up his chest.
Potter… Weasley… Weaslette… Longbottom…
And no Granger.
Theo turns around to follow Draco’s gaze, exchanging a knowing look with Blaise.
“Were you looking for your esteemed colleague?” Theo wiggles his eyebrows, and Draco would like nothing more than to wipe that smug expression off his face.
“Granger and I are not colleagues. We work in two different departments.”
“Mmm, funny how you immediately thought of her when I mentioned a colleague.”
Shit.
“Well, she’s the only one who’s friends with them,” Draco retorts, attempting to recover.
“Yes, sure. You’re not as subtle as you think you are,” Blaise remarks, taking a long swig of his firewhisky.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Just saying—you get bored very easily. She’s the exception to your everything’s-temporary rule. You kept this job, because of her.”
“I love my job,” Draco says, even though it’s not entirely true.
“And you also love a certain curly-haired witch.”
“How preposterous—”
“And accurate.”
“She’s engaged.”
“That never stopped you before.”
Draco feels his patience snap. Is he really going to sit here and be painted as some sort of man-whore, twice in the same week, picking up every engaged woman in his path?
He doesn’t fancy Granger. Really, he doesn’t.
"Okay, let’s settle on this — Granger and I are... friendly," he starts. "And she hasn’t shown up to work all week. That’s not like her."
Blaise and Theo both frown, which reassures him he isn’t being completely paranoid.
“As a friend,” he says, a little louder, "I have a duty to make sure everything’s fine, right?"
They nod — sincere, mildly concerned — and that’s all the permission he needs.
Justified, he throws back the rest of his Firewhisky, slams the glass down, and heads straight back to St. Mungo’s. His next totally reasonable, totally ethical step.
Resolute, he climbs the steps up to the fourth floor, glances around like he’s sneaking into a bloody vault, and slips into Granger’s office.
He locks the door behind him, casts a few wards for good measure. Probably unnecessary — it’s Friday night, nine o’clock, and the healer offices are empty.
A small, rational part of him notes that Granger would probably hex him into next week for breaking into her space. But if she’s been kidnapped—not that his brain immediately lands on the worst-case scenario, no, never—she’ll be grateful he showed initiative.
He heads straight for the drawer where he last saw her stuffing that suspicious bit of paper — the one who presumably started her emotional crisis on Monday. And of course it’s locked.
Ten minutes, twelve spells, and one particularly creative threat later, he loses patience and fires off a precise Incendio, punching a neat hole through the side.
Not exactly a masterclass in stealth, but it gets the job done. He reaches through the gap and flicks the lock open from the inside.
All this effort for nothing. The yellow paper he’s after is nowhere to be found.
But something else catches his eye.
A cardboard box with a little locket keeping the lid down.
But it’s the small label on top of it that makes his pulse hammer painfully in his ears.
He stands there, stupidly blinking down at the box like maybe the letters will rearrange themselves into something harmless.
They don’t.
Just a few words, scrawled in her handwriting.
Why No One Will Miss Me.
His knees give slightly, and he catches himself on the edge of the desk, sitting down hard in her chair without meaning to.
He’s not laughing anymore, as he officially crosses from denial into a sickening, clawing worry.
