Signum in Tenebris

by Cleonsyn

Summary:

The war ended.
But for some, the darkness never left.
Three years later, Hermione Granger is one of the Ministry's most brilliant Aurors—
on paper.
Behind closed doors, she’s unraveling.
Trapped in a quiet, poisonous relationship with Ron Weasley, she’s learned how to keep her voice down, her head low, and her pain hidden.
When a string of ritualistic murders rocks the wizarding elite, Hermione find herself assigned new partners: her old Slytherin companions and, above all, Draco Malfoy.
Cold. Calculating. Still carrying the weight of a name drenched in blood.
They hate each other but the case is brutal, relentless, and nothing is as it seems.
Each clue pulls them deeper into a world built on secrets,
and closer to the parts of themselves they’ve tried to bury.
Some truths don’t want to be found.
And some fires never really go out.

Chapter 1: Prologus

The dim glow of the streetlamps barely reached the elegant doorways lining Lexington Street, and the thick London fog gave even that refined corner of the city a shadowy, almost sinister appearance. 

The cold bit sharply, visible in the faint puff of breath curling into the mist, as eyes fixed on a single lit window on the first floor.

A sudden flicker behind the glass caught the attention of the mysterious character—a male figure, just briefly, appearing at the window before vanishing again, likely settling into the large sitting room just beyond.

It had been days of waiting. Watching.

A wry smile tugged at the lips half-hidden by the fog. 

At last, the endless nights in the cold had led to something.

With measured steps, the figure approached the grand entrance to the building, wand clenched tightly in the right hand. It was unlikely anyone would be out at such an hour—especially in a quiet place like Lexington—but the ever-present thrum of danger was hard to shake. It hung in the air, always, like a faithful companion.

A quick scan of the postbox names confirmed it: “ BOLE, L. ”—black on white, bold and unmistakable.

Found.

Even as tension coiled tighter beneath the skin, the shadowy figure couldn’t help but notice the opulence of the place. 

A gilded handrail ran along the staircase, and above, a ceiling painted with fading frescoes—perhaps from the late nineteenth century—watched silently.

How absurd that someone like Bole would end up here.

At the top floor, just outside the apartment door, a pause. A breath drawn deep. The swell of unease rising, pressing against the ribs.

Then the eyes closed. The guilt, the inadequacy—those old, buried things—were pushed away with practiced effort.

Eyes snapped open. The whisper was barely audible: “Alohomora.”

The lock clicked.

The door creaked open, just enough to let a sliver of pale light spill out. Inside, the low murmur of a television floated through the silence.

Wand drawn, the individual shoved the door wide.

And so it began.

Chapter 2: I

Summary:

Welcome back or welcome to this new Dramione!
After ‘The Mudblood's Fate!’ - my first story, u can find it on my profile - i decided right away to start with the writing of this new longfic.
It will be a bit different from the first one, still dark and slow burn but set after the war and with Draco and Hermione already adults.
Before reading, be sure to pay attention to the tags!
I will appreciate a lot your comment and your support!
It's so comforting for an author know that people follow her story!
So feel free to save it, leave kudos and comment but also to make suggestions and criticisms, everything is useful to be able to grow and improve!
Hoping you enjoy it, I leave you to read.
Ilaria.

The steaming cup of tea on Elisabeth Belamy’s desk trembled ever so slightly, sending ripples across the caramel-coloured surface of the brew, as the sound of footsteps grew louder with every second.
She would have recognised that stride even from miles away: size 11, polished black leather boots.
In her months of service at the Ministry, Elisabeth had learned one thing for certain—when Chief Auror James Thompson walked like that, trouble always followed.

Even as this thought settled in her mind, Thompson swept past her desk without so much as a glance—typical, when he was in one of his black moods—and threw open his office door with little grace, slamming it shut behind him with such force that the hinges groaned in protest.
The secretary gave a soft, exasperated sigh, brought the cup to her lips, and returned to her work.
It was not shaping up to be a good day.

 

Inside his office, Thompson tossed a copy of that morning’s Daily Prophet onto his desk and collapsed into his worn, brown leather chair, rubbing tired eyes with calloused fingers.
James Thompson had always been brilliant—top of his class at Hogwarts, appointed Ravenclaw Prefect, graduated from the Auror Academy with full honours.
The very picture of a self-made man.
And a man who never backed down.

But now, slumped in his chair, streaks of silver threading his dark hair, he silently cursed himself for finishing his last bottle of Firewhisky.
He wasn’t one to drink on duty—but today, he thought bitterly, might demand an exception.
“Comes with the bloody territory,” Shacklebolt had said with a sly smile the day he made Thompson head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement nearly four years ago.
Back in the war, Thompson had earned his reputation with strategy and skill—not to mention nerve—and, at just thirty-two, his appointment had been almost inevitable.

Nearly four years.
It felt like a lifetime since Potter and the Order had brought down the Dark Lord, and the wizarding world had begun to bloom again.
The war had not been kind to Thompson. Its scars lingered—some on his skin, most in his soul. The Death Eaters had taken his only brother, Chris.
He shook his head, trying to banish the memory, and glared up at the clock above his office door.
9:01.
They were late.
Again.

“Good morning, Elisabeth. Radiant as always. Perhaps one day you’ll grant me the honour of—”
“Mr Nott…” the secretary cut in smoothly, not even bothering to look up as the Auror strolled in. Then, noticing the tall blond figure behind him: “Mr Malfoy. Welcome. Mr Thompson is waiting for you, and I’m afraid he’s not in the best of moods…”

Malfoy cast a sharp glance at his colleague, who was now leaning dramatically against Elisabeth’s desk, and sighed.
“Theodore, whenever you’re finished behaving like a schoolboy—we’ve got work to do.”
His eyes flicked to his own watch.
9:16.
Shit. He’d be furious.
Again.

 

The two Aurors quickened their pace, heading for their superior’s office, bracing themselves for yet another telling-off.
They were used to this by now.

After the war—and the endless trials that followed—Shacklebolt himself had presented them with an ultimatum: join the Auror ranks voluntarily and prove, once and for all, that they had changed. 

Or be placed under magical house arrest, permanently monitored like so many of their former comrades who had chosen loyalty to blood and ideology over redemption.

They had, of course, accepted.

Truth be told, they didn’t mind the job. In fact, they’d grown to like it—despite the outrage it caused among the wizarding community. The idea that a former Death Eater could now be enforcing magical law left a bitter taste in many mouths.
But Malfoy didn’t care. He had grown up knowing better than to seek validation. If anything, the mistrust in his colleagues’ eyes only served to boost his sense of superiority.
The early days had been difficult, though. Cold stares. Harsh whispers. People never let them forget their past.
Still, they’d proven themselves. And despite their… unconventional methods, they’d earned Thompson’s trust—and even respect from higher up.

When they pushed open the door, Thompson was waiting, arms crossed, a scowl etched deep into his face.
The moment he saw them, his gaze hardened.
They knew they were in trouble.
Again.

“Don’t think you’re getting away with it this time,” he growled. “I’m already considering your punishment… but for now, we have more pressing matters.”

Theodore Nott exhaled in relief. He had always hated punishment—ever since their days at Hogwarts. He still remembered how many House Points they’d lost between them, how many detentions McGonagall had assigned.
That old witch.

Thompson opened the Daily Prophet and gestured for them to come closer.

“Notice anything?” he asked.

Nott, ever irreverent, smirked. “The Montrose Magpies won again this weekend? Surely you didn’t call us in to talk Quidditch, sir.

As you know, Captain Flint is an old friend…”

Draco jabbed an elbow into Theo’s ribs before he could dig the hole any deeper. He had seen the look in Thompson’s eye—and it was this close to unleashing a hex.

“Murder in Mayfair,” Draco read aloud. “The heir to the Bole family was found strangled in his home early this morning... Lucian Bole, who retired from public life after the war, had been living quietly on Lexington Street, keeping to himself and avoiding involvement with the magical world. The Ministry has opened an investigation. No motive has been ruled out at this time.”

He set the paper down and turned to Theodore, whose usual smirk had vanished.

Both men sat down in silence, lost in thought, until Thompson’s voice cut through the air.

“It’s the second murder of its kind in just a few months,” he said, retrieving a dated Prophet article from his drawer. “Same city. Same method. And again, no apparent motive.
The only difference is that while Bole distanced himself from the magical community, Baddock worked as a Quidditch commentator for The Wizard’s Voice .”

Malfoy remembered that murder in august. 
It had shaken him more than he’d care to admit.
He had welcomed Malcolm Baddock into Slytherin as a first-year. Coached him through his first matches.
A fine Beater, he thought grimly.

“…Shacklebolt wants a task force assembled immediately,” Thompson continued. “The first case might have been a fluke. But the second? Not anymore. Something is happening—and we won’t be caught unprepared. Not again.”

The reference to Voldemort’s rise dropped like ice into the room.
Malfoy and Nott rarely dwelled on their Death Eater past. But it never left them.
The Dark Mark still lingered on their arms, a reminder of shame and survival.

“…I’ve already selected the team. You’ll be working together, and you are not to discl—”

“The team?” Nott interrupted, practically shouting. “Come on, sir, surely you’re not seriously assigning us someone else. You know Draco and I work best alone. We don’t need dead weight slowing us down. And with all due respect, a task force? For two murders?”

Draco saw Thompson’s fists tighten. His eyes narrowed to slits.

“Perhaps I wasn’t clear, Theodore Nott ,” he said, enunciating each syllable of his name with slow, deliberate venom. “This operation is not subject to your opinions or interference. It is what has been decided. You will comply—unless, of course, you’d prefer to return to your estate under watchful eyes...”

The threat wasn’t even veiled.

“With all due respect, sir…” Draco offered, cautiously. “Theo does have a point. We’ve always delivered results. Why should this time be different?”

“This time, Draco,” Thompson said coldly, “we may be dealing with a serial killer. I won’t risk anything—especially not when it could be my head on Shacklebolt’s desk if things go wrong. Is that clear?”

Draco bit his tongue. He knew there was no use arguing.
James Thompson was not the kind of man to change his mind.

Not for anyone. Certainly not for him.

“And may I ask, sir, who we’re to be working with?” he asked, earning a sharp glare from Theo.

“You’ll find out soon enough. They’re on their way.”

And Draco could have sworn he saw the faintest, most sardonic smile twitch at the corner of Thompson’s mouth.

Chapter 3: ΙΙ

Hermione woke up with a jolt, drenched in sweat and breathless, as had become increasingly common since the end of the war.
Sitting up abruptly, she glanced around the dim room.
She was in her bed, in her bedroom, in her home.
In her safe place.
Or at least, it was supposed to be.

Drawn by the light of the clock on her nightstand, her eyes fell on the three glowing digits shining iridescently in the dark.
3:33.
And he still wasn’t home.

Again.

Accustomed to this destructive insomnia, she got out from under the covers and trudged wearily toward the kitchen. She made herself a cup of tea and sank into the large cream-colored sofa in the living room, her head thrown back against the cushions, eyes fixed on nothing.
More and more often, she found herself wondering where, exactly, it had all begun—or rather, when she had made her first mistake.

She and Ron, after the war, had returned to Hogwarts and had finally found the courage to confess their feelings.
Or rather… she had confessed her feelings to him , and he had, more or less, just nodded—almost resigned, as if it had all already been decided, as if it had already been written somewhere that the two of them were meant to be a couple.
Their relationship had—one could say—started off well. 

Sure, Ronald Weasley wasn’t exactly a shining example of empathy or communication, but all in all, she couldn’t complain; he made her feel… alright.
Did he?

Then came his tryout with that big Quidditch team—what were they called again… the Montrose something—and everything had changed.
Or maybe he had changed, because Hermione still tended to see herself as the same simple girl she had been back in school. The difference now was that children read fairy tales about her and people often stopped and stared at her in the street—which, by the way, made her incredibly uncomfortable.
But the real question that haunted her was: Why had Ron changed so much?
Money? Well, sure, he had started living a more luxurious life thanks to his salary as a Keeper.
Bad company?
Other… women?
Hermione couldn’t be certain, but something inside her screamed that yes, Ronald Weasley had other women.

Then why don’t you leave?
Yeah… why? 

Because she loved him… in a way.
Coward. You just don’t want to admit you’ve failed.
There it was—that buried part of her that slapped her with the truth.

Hermione Granger could not fail.
Because she was a Gryffindor.
Because all their friends were just waiting for that damned wedding invitation.
Because, after all, what other path was there but this destiny?

They were Ron and Hermione, the heroes of the magical world, Harry Potter’s best friends, the couple of the century —as the Daily Prophet had once called them.
But if all that was true, if this was meant to be her life, then why was she so profoundly unhappy?

The sound of the door slamming shook her from her thoughts.
The Redhead stumbled into the house, unsteady on his feet and reeking of cheap alcohol.
He didn’t even bother trying to hide it anymore.

Hermione stood slowly. She already knew what was coming.
“Ron, it’s four in the morning… Where have you been this time?”
“Hermione, for Godric’s sake, don’t start nagging again,” he slurred.
“Come here instead,” he added, his eyes—those once-beautiful, blue eyes—now filled with dark desire.

“Let’s go to bed, Ron. It’s late, and you can barely stand…” she tried to dissuade him, heading quickly toward the bedroom.

But he was already behind her. 

One hand grabbed the back of her neck and roughly pressed his lips against hers. 

Hermione instinctively stiffened and pulled away.
The smell of whiskey made her stomach turn. She wanted to run, but her body refused to respond, frozen in fear.

“C’mon, Herm… Why are you pushing me away? You know you want it too…”
Now fully taken by lust, his hands groped at her breasts, his tongue tracing hot lines across her shoulder, teeth marking her pale skin.

“Let me go, Ron…” she tried to break free.
“ LET ME GO! ”

Her broken cry snapped Weasley out of his trance.
Staggering back, still drunk, he looked at her with blazing eyes.
“You’re a fucking frigid bitch,” he muttered, slamming the bathroom door behind him.

Hermione stood frozen, trying to breathe deeply to calm herself.
She only managed to move once she heard the water of the shower running.
Trembling, she reached the bedroom.
The clock now read 4:42.

She laid her head on the pillow and sighed as a solitary tear rolled down her cheek.
And then, a dreamless sleep took her.

 

The October wind whipped mercilessly against Malfoy and Nott’s faces as they strode toward the Ministry.
Thompson had summoned them early that morning—they were supposed to meet the team.

As usual, the Slytherin duo didn’t go unnoticed as they walked through Diagon Alley. Both were wearing sharp suits—Draco in a black shirt, Theo in a white one.
The stares of passersby—half disgust, half fear—slid off them, bouncing off their fashionable mirrored sunglasses.

The two had spent most of the previous afternoon racking their brains over who might be assigned to their team.
The worst outcome would be ending up with some useless Gryffindor… maybe even Granger!

Malfoy shook his head at the absurdity of that thought—thank Salazar, it was completely out of the question. Granger wasn’t an Auror, and as far as he knew, she was now fully immersed in domestic life with that idiot Weasley.
Just the idea of that pathetic couple made his stomach churn.

Theodore was mumbling to himself, still upset over Shacklebolt’s ridiculous decision to assign him a partner, when they reached the Ministry’s main entrance—one of the few sensible things Kingsley had implemented was making it easily accessible.

Barely acknowledging the security wizard, they crossed the grand atrium and entered the lift to Level Two: Auror Headquarters.
Thompson had told them to wait for him in Room A—the place that would soon become their second home, though they didn’t know it yet.

The room was simple: sterile white walls, a black clock ticking away time, a large dark wooden table surrounded by half a dozen chairs, and a fireplace in the corner.
On one of the walls, a large board stood empty—except for two photographs: Lucian Bole and Malcolm Baddock’s crime scene images.

The two sat down, and moments later, Elisabeth entered, levitating two steaming mugs of coffee to them with a kind smile.

Draco didn’t know much about the secretary—in fact, he’d never even bothered to ask.
She was young—probably around nineteen—and from what he’d overheard during Theo’s desperate flirting attempts, she was a Belamy, a pureblood family that had chosen neutrality during the war rather than siding with Voldemort.
Sure, Elisabeth could have aimed much higher than a secretary position, but rumor had it—maliciously—that her father had disowned her for dating a Half-blood.
Can’t blame him, really.

Still, the girl seemed happy with her job, Draco noted—and she was rather attractive. Long blonde hair curled over her shoulders, and her eyes were a clear sea-green. She wasn’t skinny but had curves in all the right places, and the fitted blouses she wore left very little to the imagination.
Still, he’d never sleep with a girl who messed around with Half-bloods—it would be completely beneath him.

Besides, she was already Theodore’s prey.

Thompson’s entrance snapped him back to the present.
The man wore his usual uniform—khaki military trousers and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal muscled, scarred arms. His short-cropped hair had streaks of white that gave him a brooding look, and his eyes were such a deep black they barely revealed his pupils.
He looked far older than thirty-two—the war had left its mark.

After a few terse greetings, Thompson stood before the two Slytherins, hands spread on the table, gaze hard.
“I expect full cooperation from both of you. Any behavior or action that jeopardizes this investigation will not be tolerated. Am I clear?”
“We’re not kids anymore, Thompson. You don’t need to babysit us,” Draco replied coolly.

The door creaked open, drawing their attention—and when they saw who entered with Elisabeth, all the tension drained from Draco’s face.
There stood Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini. 

Old schoolmates. Old friends.
Or at least, that’s what Draco had always believed.

The truth was, while Pansy had always stood by his side—currently throwing herself into Theo’s arms—the relationship with Blaise had soured significantly during their final year at Hogwarts, when Draco and Theo had taken the Mark.

That rift had been hard for Draco to swallow.
He, Theo, and Blaise had always been a team—since first year.
Losing his best friend had wounded him more deeply than he’d ever admit.

Draco kissed Pansy on the cheek without taking his eyes off the dark-skinned Slytherin standing before him.
“Malfoy,” Blaise said, lowering his gaze.
“Zabini…”
The name came out colder—more threatening—than Draco had intended.

Sensing the tension, Pansy grabbed Blaise’s arm and led him toward the table. 

Then, with her usual flirtatious air, she looked up at Thompson, who was still watching them sternly.
“Well then, James , would you care to enlighten us on why we’re here?”

Theo barely stifled a laugh. 

Draco shook his head.
Same old Pansy.

“ Captain Thompson to you, Parkinson… And no, not yet. We’re still waiting for the last members of the team.”

“Captain Thompson…”
Draco Malfoy turned toward the door—and his jaw nearly hit the floor.
His blood froze.

Shit. Maybe he’d spoken too soon.

Chapter 4: III

As soon as the two figures who had just opened the door stepped inside, a chill fell over the small room.
Even Theo, who usually always had a witty remark ready, just stared at them, almost studying them, almost waiting for their next move.
Hermione Jane Granger and Harry James Potter stood there, close to one another, visibly uncomfortable.
Apparently, they hadn’t been informed of this forced… collaboration either.

Draco knew practically everything about the boy who had defeated Voldemor t; his life had been splashed across every wizarding paper in the world for the past four years.
Potter had skipped his final year at Hogwarts, become an Auror — what else could he possibly have done, after all? — attended every social event, every party, every celebration imaginable, and, above all, had become the forbidden erotic dream of every witch — and a fair number of wizards — from England to Peru.
Draco had never been able to stand him; he’d always found him arrogant and not even particularly attractive. The wizard hadn’t changed much since Hogwarts — same pale skin, same straight hair falling over his face.

The only thing Draco could really notice was that he had become more solid, more muscular, and had finally gotten rid of those ridiculous glasses; clearly, fame had done him some good.
Other than that, to Draco, Potter wasn’t even particularly clever — average at best; his only real stroke of luck had been meeting Granger. It was clear to everyone that without her, Potter and Weasley never would have won the war.

And speaking of the devil — there she was, staring at him: curly hair surprisingly tidy, hazel eyes scanning the room intently, her body more curvaceous than he remembered, dressed in a simple black suit with a pencil skirt that came down to her knees and a white blouse — elegant enough for a Mudblood, he had to admit, though incredibly... Muggle.

He hadn’t heard anything about her since Hogwarts: after he saw her testify at the Wizengamot trials — during which she’d even chosen to say a few words in his favor, not that he needed them — she had vanished from the scene.
She never appeared next to the Scarhead, gave no interviews, wasn’t seen in any of the famous wizarding spots around London. 

She had simply evaporated.

All Draco had ever known about her was that she had been dating the Weasel.
Other than that, Hermione Granger remained a mystery to everyone.

“Potter, Granger — take a seat. No need for introductions, I presume?” said Thompson.
Hermione and Harry made their way into the room, sitting on the opposite side of the Slytherins.
Theo, Pansy, and Draco eyed them with superiority, while Blaise greeted them with a smile.

“Harry, Hermione…”
“Hi Blaise,” the Gryffindor replied softly, smoothing down her black skirt as she sat.

Harry. Hermione.
How could Blaise have sold himself out like that?
Draco clicked his tongue in irritation, shifting his eyes back to Granger who, upon meeting his icy gaze, quickly turned her head, focusing on James instead.

“I assume you’re all familiar with Auror Potter’s career,” James said.
“Oh, of course, boss. He’s been on every edition of the Daily for four years... Hard to miss how many women he’s been with — and rumor has it, not a few. Bravo, Potter, looks like you finally woke up,” Theodore sneered.
“Oh yes, Potter. Several of my friends have raved about... your talents !” Pansy added with a wink.

Harry didn’t bother to hide his annoyed sigh.
He had never liked all that attention. Ever since he defeated Voldemort, it had been a whirlwind of handshakes, invitations, photographs, interviews, exclusive parties. The crème de la crème of the magical world demanded his presence, and he had found himself swallowed by a vortex from which, even now, he didn’t know how to escape.

“Potter takes his job very seriously, Nott. Perhaps you should start doing the same” Thompson cut in sharply.

Theodore raised his hands in mock surrender.
“Come on, boss... I meant no offense...”

“As for Miss Granger,” James continued, “she will be working with us as an external consultant, appointed personally by Minister Shacklebolt. I expect you to treat her with the respect she deserves.
After completing her N.E.W.T.s with distinction, she helped reform the Department of Magical Catastrophes and now serves as liaison to the Muggle Prime Minister in London.
She is also very active in the protection of magical creatures and has contributed greatly to the Department of International Magical Cooperation. And…”

“That’s all very nice, James …” Pansy cut in, stressing his name in an almost sultry tone. “But I fail to see how any of that is remotely relevant to our work. No offense, Granger, but if I wanted to collaborate with Muggles,” she rolled her eyes, “I’d just pop into any pub in central London, you know what I mean…” and nudged Draco, who let out a laugh.

James Thompson considered himself a patient man, but if there was one person capable of completely testing that patience, it was Pansy Parkinson .
Since her admission to the Academy — not without protests from James to Shacklebolt — she had done everything in her power to push his limits and annoy any colleague she didn’t favor.
James found her a spoiled, arrogant little daddy’s girl who — much to his dismay — possessed a sharp mind and a keen instinct for difficult cases.
To the Minister, that had made her a necessary inclusion in the task force.

“As I’ve told you dozens of times, Parkinson, it’s Thompson to you — don’t forget it.
Now, as I was trying to say before your absolutely useless and inappropriate interruption , Miss Granger also holds a specialization as criminal profiler from one of the best universities in England.”

“Profiler?” Blaise asked.

“If I may, Thompson, I’d like to explain my presence to our colleagues myself,” Hermione began.
She stood and walked to the large board on which the photos of the two murder victims had been pinned.

Draco couldn’t help but think how irritating her voice still sounded — so helpful, so damn perfect.
Nothing had changed. She had always been one step ahead of them at Hogwarts, and she had never once tried to hide it. Even now, standing proudly before her colleagues in her four-galleon suit, her body radiated confidence.
For Salazar’s sake, how he hated her.

“Minister Shacklebolt thought it useful to bring me in because, in my training as a profiler, I’ve studied serial killers — how they think, how they operate, their patterns. I understand this is a topic the magical world isn’t very familiar with, and I can understand your skepticism…”
Her gaze landed on Pansy, who listened with an indifferent expression.

“But after careful evaluation, we believe we’re dealing with a serial killer — someone who selects victims deliberately, knows how to move, and most importantly, appears to use Muggle methods. No trace of magic has been found at the crime scenes, and both known victims died from strangulation.

I’ve prepared a file for each of you with all the evidence we have so far and background on Bole and Baddock.
Thompson and I have set up this board as a starting point; we’ll need to keep track of every detail, every idea, every interrogation. Everyone must be able to work with the evidence. If there are any questions…”

“My only question is: when did you become so bossy, Granger? It’s almost… hot,” said Theodore, licking his lips.
“Nott…” Blaise shot him a sharp look.
“What? What did I say?” he shrugged.

Draco was almost disgusted by his friend, but on that point, they had always been different.
Theodore Nott was a hunter, a lover of all women — pure-blood, half-blood, even… Muggles.
He enjoyed the chase, the conquest, the seduction, only to abandon them afterward — a classic jerk.

Draco, on the other hand, was a selector. Giving a woman his attention had to mean something, which hadn’t happened yet.
Not that he didn’t have his fun — he was a man, after all — but his “prey” were always pure-blood, from good families, preferably discreet and able to disappear at the right time, with no fuss or drama.
There was no room for chit-chat or courtship. Draco took what he wanted, when he wanted it, and had always made that clear.

“You have an important job ahead of you, and in terms of organization, you have full autonomy. I expect a detailed progress report each week. The Minister has high expectations — don’t let him down,” James said before closing the door and leaving the eternal rivals to prepare for battle.

“Well then, Granger, now that you’ve self-appointed as team leader, care to tell us where to start?” Malfoy’s tone was ice cold — no emotion, not a trace of sarcasm.

Hermione felt uncomfortable; she could sense the hostility between her, Harry, and the three Slytherins sitting across from them. But she was determined not to be crushed.
She knew Blaise was at least on her side, and that, all things considered, was a good starting point.

The boy had approached her during their last year at Hogwarts, and at first, Hermione hadn’t given him much attention.
But over time, Blaise Zabini had proven himself extremely cultured and easy to get along with.
And, above all, he had shown clear disagreement with the views of his former housemates; judging by the glares he and Malfoy exchanged, their relationship must have been downright frosty.

“Thank you for the question, Malfoy. But I don’t consider myself your leader,” she said, wrinkling her nose slightly. “Actually, I believe it’s very important that we collaborate actively if we want this team to work.
It’s clear that our personal histories aren’t exactly... pleasant , but I think it’s our duty to set that aside and focus on what we’ve been called to do.”

Harry glanced at Hermione and gave her a small smile, silently showing his support.

“Hermione’s right,” Blaise spoke up. “We’re all adults now. It’s time to put the past behind us and focus on the case. Where do you think we should begin?”

“I believe we should start with the interviews. I’ve prepared a list of people close to Bole and Baddock — family, friends, possible romantic partners. We need to find if there’s any link between them, any shared detail… even the smallest clue could be relevant.”

Draco stood, approaching Hermione and sizing her up from head to toe.

“Thanks for the insight, Granger. I’ll take Bole,” he said, not even bothering to look at her as he grabbed the folder. “Nott and Parkinson are with me — unless you have any objections , of course,” he hissed, making Hermione flinch.
It felt like being back in school: the bullies towering over her, and she cowering in a corner, unable to react.

“None at all, Malfoy. Trust me, no one’s thrilled to be working with you,” Harry interjected.

“If that’s all…”
“Actually, Malfoy, if I may…” Hermione gathered her courage. “I thought it might be better if Nott worked with me and Harry. You and he both have experience with interrogations — we could use that expertise on our side…”

“Oh, darling, you can use my expertise however you like…” Theodore replied, standing up with a smirk.

“Uh,yes… thanks, Nott…” Hermione said, clearly uncomfortable. “Blaise, would you mind working with Draco and Pansy?”

The wizard was about to answer when Draco leaned in even closer to Hermione, his lips dangerously near her ear.

“Don’t take advantage of my generosity, Granger. I’m not exactly… patient . And remember — to you, I’ll always be just Malfoy.”

Without waiting for a reply, he brushed past her, bumping her shoulder slightly before leaving the room.
Theo followed him with a nod, not missing the chance to linger on Hermione’s backside, while Pansy mocked,
“Don’t take it personally, Gryffindorks. He just hasn’t had his coffee yet.”

Once the three Slytherins had left, Hermione felt the tension melt away and collapsed into her chair, Baddock’s file in hand.

“Hang in there, Hermione. We’ll get through this… together,” Harry smiled, warming her heart for a moment.
But the curly-haired witch knew all too well — the battle had only just begun.

Draco stormed down the corridors of Headquarters, fury boiling in his veins — and all because of Granger.

“Oh, come on, Draco… it wasn’t that bad. I mean, you’ve got to admit, Granger’s actually pretty…”

Draco stopped dead in his tracks, slowly turning toward Theo.

“For Merlin’s bloody sake, Theodore… could you just — for one fucking second — stop being so annoyingly… you ?” he growled, exhaling sharply before continuing his rant.
“Hermione Granger is the worst damn thing that could’ve happened to us. She’s bossy, arrogant, completely and utterly infuriating.
And no, Theo — she’s not sexy!” he added, jabbing a finger in the dark-haired man’s face before he could open his mouth.

“I’ve got to admit, I didn’t think you were still that bitter, Drackie…” Pansy said as she strolled up beside him.

“I’m not bitter, Pansy. I just can’t stand that some bloody outside consultant thinks she can waltz in and talk down to us like she owns the place. We’re the damn Aurors here. Someone needs to remind her of that.”

“Malfoy, can I talk to you?”

Blaise’s voice behind him made Draco freeze on the spot.
Theo and Pansy, sensing the tension thickening between the two men, slipped away — but not before casting a knowing glance toward Blaise, who returned it with a subtle nod.

“Zabini.”

Draco eyed him with cool indifference, though inside, a low, slow-burning anger was starting to rise. 

And Blaise could feel it — he always could.

“I’m almost touched that you still find me worth your time, Blaise... I was starting to think you’d moved on to a very different crowd,” Draco said, the barb aimed not-so-subtly at Hermione and Harry.

“I realize things have been a little… tense between us lately.”

“A little tense? Bloody hell, mate, that’s putting it mildly .”
Draco stepped closer, a flicker of rage twisting his usually composed face.

“You disappeared, Blaise. When I — when we all needed you most, you just vanished from our fucking lives…”

“You know damn well I never supported the choices you made.”

“Choices? Choices? Are you even hearing yourself? Do you really think me, Theodore, Pansy — any of us — had a choice ?” Draco’s voice was rising, trembling with old wounds.
“I needed you, Blaise. I needed my damned best friend . And you chose what? To hang around with Potter ? With Granger ? Merlin…”

“What was I supposed to do, Draco, huh? Get branded too? Fight for a bloodthirsty lunatic? Watch you all turn into fucking killers?”

“You were supposed to help us , damn it!”
Draco realized he had shouted too loudly — people in the corridor were now turning to stare at them, concern in their eyes.

Forcing himself to calm down, he ran a hand through his platinum hair and leaned in closer, voice lowered now, sharp and bitter.

“You just had to be there , Blaise. That’s all. While our lives were falling apart, while we were on trial, while we were trying to pick up the damn pieces of ourselves — and you weren’t there.”

“I know I messed up. But if you’d just let me explain—”

“There’s nothing to explain,” Draco cut him off coldly, turning his back on the other Slytherin.
“You and I are coworkers. Nothing more . I’ll work with you because Thompson says so, and I’ll help solve this bloody case — but that’s it.
As for Theo and Pansy… they’ll make their own choices, as they always have.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, your dear friend Granger has already got us on a schedule,” he added, waving the folder she had prepared with clear disdain.
“I’ll see you at Bole’s house. Don’t be late.”

And with that, Draco vanished down the Ministry corridor before Blaise could say another word.

The dark-haired wizard sighed, frustrated.
This wasn’t how he’d pictured their first real conversation after all those months.

Turning on his heel, Blaise made his way toward the courtyard.
He needed a cigarette to calm his nerves — and to refocus on the task ahead.

The interrogation with Bole’s parents was waiting, and he would do his job.
With or without Draco’s support.

That, at least, was the one thing he was sure of.

Chapter 5: IV

Hermione glanced at the elegant face of her watch. The golden hands on her wrist read 2:35 PM. She had exactly twenty-five minutes before her meeting with Malcolm Baddock’s fiancée.
More than enough.

As she walked down the Level One corridor of the Ministry, the sharp click of her black heels stood out against the purple carpet, which she had always found rather tasteless. Reaching the door she’d been looking for, Hermione stopped, adjusted the sleeves of her blouse, and read the black letters etched into the silver nameplate:

Kingsley Shacklebolt – Minister for Magic

Knocking lightly on the mahogany door, she heard Kingsley’s voice from inside, inviting her to enter.

The Minister sat behind his desk, surrounded by scrolls and folders. Upon seeing her, his face lit up with a warm smile.
“Miss Granger, please, come in—have a seat.”

Hermione closed the door behind her and settled into the plush red velvet armchair across from his desk, the fabric prickling against her bare legs.

“Minister, I apologize for the unannounced visit…”

“Oh please, Hermione, enough with the formalities. Would you like some tea? Miss Totterby brought back a delightful blend from her last trip to Asia. I’d be happy to have a cup prepared for you—”

“No, please, don’t trouble yourself...”

She noticed the edge in her own voice, and after clearing her throat, continued.
“I can’t stay long—I’ve got an interrogation scheduled with Harry and Theodore Nott in my office in thirty minutes…”

“Excellent, I see you’ve started working on the case.”

“Well… about that…” She wrung her hands slightly, trying to contain her anxiety. “As honored as I am that you chose me for this task force, I must admit I have serious doubts about how well the team is going to function. Please don’t misunderstand me—I think the individuals you selected are all incredibly capable... But this morning’s meeting didn’t exactly go smoothly. I’m not sure I’m the right person for this. Maybe someone more... compatible...”

Shacklebolt brought both index fingers to his chin, watching her thoughtfully before rising from his chair and moving toward the fireplace.

“You know, Hermione... When the war ended, the wizarding world was shattered. We’d just come out of a brutal fight. Trust in the institutions—trust in this Ministry—was nearly gone. People were scared, and for good reason. And I won’t lie to you—when I was offered this position, for the first time, I felt a weight I wasn’t sure I could carry. I think you know what I mean.”

Hermione nodded silently.
She did. She knew exactly where this was heading.

“At that moment,” Kingsley continued, “I stood at a crossroads. I could’ve stepped aside, passed the torch—after all, I had proven my worth and loyalty in the war. Or... I could take a risk. I could set aside my doubts and do what was asked of me, in spite of everything. In spite of everyone.”

“This is different, Minister... Very different. You have the experience. And more importantly, you’re not being forced to work with someone who hates you…”

“Do you know why I chose you, Hermione Granger? I mean beyond your flawless record, your brilliance, your undeniable talent?”

“I’m not sure, Minister... Because of my Muggle-born background?”

“Because I know you can see beyond. I hope, in time, you’ll understand what I mean.”

 

The meeting hadn’t gone quite the way Hermione had hoped. She now sat in her office, a cup of coffee in hand, staring into nothing, when a knock came at her door.

Harry entered and dropped into the chair next to hers, quietly observing the small office.
It was neat—just like her. 

Simple furnishings in soft tones of beige and ivory. A marble fireplace stood between two tall windows, and the pale October sun lit the room, glinting off the glass doors of the full bookshelf, filled with both Muggle and wizarding authors.

Her desk was cream-colored and meticulously organized, folders from her most recent cases arranged by date and type.
Harry’s gaze fell upon the photos neatly displayed in front of her: her parents, the three of them at Hogwarts in their first year, a picture from a summer trip to Shell Cottage, and finally, Hermione and Ginny beaming, a Quidditch pitch in the background—Ginny wearing her Holyhead Harpies uniform.

Harry’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of her face.
It had been almost two years since he and Ginny broke up—since she told him she wasn’t ready for marriage. Too young, too focused on her Quidditch career. Maybe someday, she'd even play for the Montrose Magpies.

She didn’t have time for love. Not the kind Harry wanted.

And so it ended. And he had since flung himself into one-night stands, trying in vain to forget her flaming red hair and warm brown eyes.

“Thinking about her, Harry?” Hermione asked, glancing sideways with a soft smile.

“That obvious?”

“Just a bit…” she teased, her tone light.

He wanted to ask about her, about her life—but the words caught in his throat.

“She’s doing well, Harry. She even says she’s beginning to like Wales—can you imagine? It’s been two years. Maybe it’s time you tried moving on…”

“I know, I know. It’s just... complicated.”

“Molly’s having lunch at the Burrow on Sunday. Nothing big, just family. You should come. They’d be happy to see you. Ron…” —her voice faltered just slightly at his name— “Ron would be happy too.”

Harry stood, moving toward the window, hands in his pockets, eyes lost in the passing crowd below.

“I don’t know, Herm... I’m not exactly family anymore…”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Harry Potter, must you always be so melodramatic?” Hermione scolded, affection in her voice as she shuffled some folders. “You are family. Even Percy asks about you. And we both know Percy’s idea of warmth is… limited. ”

She rolled her eyes at the mention of her notoriously dry brother-in-law.

“Alright, Hermione. I’ll think about it…”

“Think about what, Potter?”

Theodore Nott had just walked into Hermione’s office—naturally without knocking, naturally without waiting for an invitation.

“Theodore, do make yourself comfortable…” Hermione said, the faintest trace of annoyance in her voice.

Theodore Nott remained a mystery to Hermione.
The Slytherin seemed to drift through life in his own detached world, immune to judgment or expectations. A perpetual smirk on his face, wavy, slightly tousled brown hair, and cunning green eyes… Yet Hermione sensed there was more. Something hidden. A deeper, darker layer that perhaps even Malfoy hadn’t seen.

“None of your business, Nott,” Harry said coldly, stepping back toward the desk and eyeing the newcomer with thinly veiled contempt.

“Okay, Golden Boy. Maybe we got off on the wrong foot. We have to work together, remember? Might be time to pull that stick out of your ass…”

“The hell did you just say, you slimy little Slytherin—”

Hermione stood up abruptly, slamming her palms on the desk, eyes narrowed at the two men in front of her.

“When you’re both done acting like children, we have actual work to do!”

 

Malcolm Baddock’s girlfriend, Mary Jane Beever, was a sweet girl of about twenty-two with little in common with the image of a pureblood Slytherin Hermione had associated with Malcolm. She worked at a coffee shop in Muggle London and was a Squib with a huge passion for Quidditch—a passion through which she had met the boy shortly after the war.

“Please, take a seat Miss Beever, may I offer you a cup of tea?” said the Gryffindor, welcoming the girl into her office. “This is Auror Potter and Auror Nott, and I’m Dr. Granger. We apologize for the sudden summons…”

“Yes, I know who you are. I imagine the entire wizarding world does,” Mary said with a timid smile.

Hermione loathed that part of her life. She had always been extremely private, even back at school, but ever since she’d become “the saviour of the wizarding world,” “Harry Potter’s best friend”—or worse, “Ron Weasley’s girlfriend ”—every journalist and paparazzo in London and beyond had been falling over themselves to get an interview or invite her on their shows. She missed the anonymity of her Hogwarts days more than she cared to admit.

“I imagine you're wondering why we asked you here today, without warning…” Harry began. “You see, Miss Beever, we have reason to believe that Malcolm’s death wasn’t a robbery gone wrong or a random act of violence, as originally believed.

We can’t say much for now… but recent developments have led us to reopen the case, and any information you can share with us could be extremely helpful. Any detail, any memory, however small…”

Mary Jane shrugged, her eyes brimming with tears.

“I don’t know… It wasn’t an easy time. I don’t understand what could be of use…”

Theodore stood from the desk he’d been leaning against and approached her, pulling a white silk handkerchief from his pocket and handing it to her gently.

His usual mocking smile had vanished, replaced by a soft, almost compassionate look.

Hermione found herself wondering who Theodore Nott really was.

“Mary… may I call you Mary? We understand how difficult this is for you. I remember Malcolm well—he was a lovely guy…”

“Oh yes, he was. My Malcolm was a gem… so polite, so kind…”

“And that’s exactly why your help is vital, to figure out who could’ve hurt someone like him. Perhaps an old acquaintance? Trouble at work? Money problems?”

“No, I don’t think so. Malcolm didn’t have any family left… and certainly no enemies. He was quiet and well-liked, good at his job, never started fights, nothing that would’ve made me think something like this could happen…” she broke off in a sob.

“Perhaps something dating back to his time at Hogwarts… I hate to ask this, Miss Beever, but what was his stance during the war?” asked Hermione.

“Oh… well, Malcolm’s maternal uncle is in Azkaban for his unwavering loyalty to… well, to the Dark Lord,” Mary whispered. “But Malcolm was different. I knew who he was when I met him, I knew his family… and I was just a Squib. I was scared to tell him the truth about my background… But when I finally did, when I gathered the courage, he got upset—because I’d hidden it, not because of what I was. He told me it didn’t matter to him, any of it: blood, noble families… He was ashamed of the path his House had taken.

He wasn’t a proud Slytherin, let alone a Death Eater… He had such a pure, good soul… and for four months I haven’t been able to find a single reason why this happened. 

Do you think… do you think it could be connected to him distancing himself from Slytherin? From everything tied to the Dark Lord? Oh God, that would be awful…”

“It’s too early to make assumptions,” Harry said gently. “One last question—do you recall anything Malcolm said in the days leading up to his death? Did he meet someone? Did anything unusual happen?”

“Well… actually, yes. I didn’t mention it to Mr. Thompson because I didn’t think it was important, but now… A few weeks before he died, Malcolm told me he didn’t feel safe . He said he felt watched, all the time—at work, at home, even at the café where I worked. We didn’t think much of it, he was stressed about the championship, working a lot… Maybe if I had listened, maybe if I had paid more attention, he’d still be here…”

The girl burst into tears and Hermione’s heart gave a jolt. Instinctively, she got up from her chair and moved behind Mary, placing her small hands gently on the girl’s shoulders.

“It wasn’t your fault, Mary Jane. Please don’t even think that for a second. I’m sorry for bringing up painful memories… but I promise you, we’ll do everything we can to find out who did this.”

Hermione’s eyes met Theo’s—he was watching her, studying her, and then slowly nodded.

And in that exact moment, Hermione knew: Theodore Nott wasn’t an enemy.

 

Pansy, Draco, and Blaise apparated just outside the Boles’ Manor shortly before three in the afternoon. The sun was high, but it did little to warm the cold mid-October day.

“Let’s make this quick. I don’t want to waste more time than necessary,” the Blond muttered before knocking with the large dragon-shaped, gold-plated knocker.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen, miss. How may I assist you?”

Pansy tried not to let her irritation show at being addressed with such a condescending title.
She had worked hard to become an Auror—and a decent one, at that—yet people still saw her as Miss Pansy Parkinson . For fuck’s sake.

“Elf, we’re here to see your masters and we’re not ones to enjoy waiting,” she said, eyeing the creature who opened the door with a look of mild disgust.

The atmosphere inside the manor was somber. Heavy black curtains hung over the windows, and the matching dark furniture clashed with the white walls and marble floor.
Portraits of Bole ancestors lined the walls, observing the newcomers with open curiosity as they made their way toward the sitting room where Lucian’s parents awaited them.

Mrs. Bole was a blonde, austere woman with icy blue eyes and a frosty stare, while her husband was broad-shouldered, bearded, and seated near the fireplace with a pipe in hand.

“Mr. and Mrs. Bole,” Blaise stepped forward, his tone polite but firm. “Apologies for the intrusion. We won’t take much of your time—we’re here to ask a few questions about Lucian. And... our condolences for your loss.”

Once they were seated on the expansive sofas and the elf had brought them drinks, Draco reluctantly pulled out Granger’s file while Pansy readied her quill to jot down anything that might prove useful to the investigation.

“I see you’ve all climbed the ladder in the New Ministry—sons of Salazar,” Bole Sr. said, almost mocking. “I wonder what your father would think, Draco, if he could see you now...”
The jab—hardly subtle—about Lucius Malfoy rotting in Azkaban wasn’t lost on anyone.

Draco was well aware of what certain Slytherin circles still said about them: that they’d sold out, switched sides the moment it suited them, that they were traitors. 

He couldn’t have cared less. As far as he was concerned, he’d simply made the right move at the right time.

“Marcus, let’s not make this harder than it already is, please,” the blond said with a surprisingly calm tone. “We’re here to figure out what happened to Lucian, and we need full cooperation.”

Draco didn’t know much about Lucian Bole beyond what was whispered in certain circles and what little he’d observed at Hogwarts—Lucian had been three years ahead, so Draco had known his younger brother Sebastian far better, as they’d been sorted into Slytherin the same year.

Lucian had been a staunch Slytherin, heir to one of the wealthiest pure-blood families in the magical world. And while no one in his family had ever borne the Dark Mark, he had been an outspoken supporter of Voldemort and his ideology—especially when it came to blood purity.

“Lucian hadn’t been home in a while,” his mother began. “After the war, he… distanced himself. From us, from the magical world in general. He felt that, given the obvious defeat, it was best to let things settle. And he wasn’t happy with the direction our society was heading in...”

“Who could blame him?” Bole Sr. growled. “We purebloods are a minority now—halfbloods and Muggleborns holding the highest posts in the Ministry, and no one left to care about preserving our traditions... I’m sure your fathers would understand me. No offense, Zabini.”

Blaise was used to the constant reminders of his dubious parentage and hardly flinched.
His mother had been a noble pureblood, descended from ancient French and Italian wizarding lines. His father, however—well, there hadn’t been much certainty there. During his childhood, a revolving door of men had passed through his home… and his mother’s bed.

“None taken, Marcus. Did Lucian ever mention anything that might help us? Debts, a failed romance, someone with a grudge?”
Aside from being a complete bastard , the wizard thought but didn’t say.

“Nothing in particular. Though… Some time ago, in a letter to his brother Sebastian, he said he felt he was being followed . But Lucian had grown paranoid after the war—nothing worth taking seriously…”

“Well, Mr. and Mrs. Bole, I believe that’s all for now,” Pansy said, slipping her notes back into her fire-red leather handbag. “We’ll be in touch once we have any updates. Oh—and we’ll need a word with Sebastian as well. Would you be so kind as to ask him to report to the Ministry?”

Bole Sr. gave a slow nod as he heaved himself up from the armchair, while Lucian’s mother turned to Draco. For a brief, barely perceptible moment, her eyes betrayed a flicker of emotion.

“Will you find who killed him?” she asked, her voice just barely trembling.

“We’ll do everything in our power, Mrs. Bole. You have my word.”

With that, the three Slytherins headed back toward the exit, escorted by the family’s faithful house-elf.

Once out in the Manor’s courtyard, Pansy pulled her long black leather coat around her shoulders and lit a cigarette.

“Well, that was a complete waste of time,” she muttered, smoke slipping sensually from her lips.

“I don’t know… We should find out what Granger and the others managed to dig up. Then we can start putting the pieces together,” Blaise replied. Draco merely nodded, thoughtful and silent.

“Right, I’d say that’s enough for today.”

“Drackie, don’t forget tonight—Marcus is back from Montrose. Blaise, care to join us?”

Draco shot her a fiery look that even Zabini couldn’t ignore, though he tried to pretend it hadn’t unnerved him.

“Thanks, Pansy, but I don’t think I’ll make it.”

“ Shame … See you tonight, Pansy,” Draco sneered coldly, disapparating on the spot.

“Don’t take it personally, Blaise… You know how he is—he’s still processing,” Pansy said, placing a comforting hand on his arm.

“Yeah... see you around, Pans.”

And with that, he vanished as well.

 

Draco had been swirling the crystal glass in his hand for a quarter of an hour, the ice in his FireWhiskey long since melted, his black shirt unbuttoned down to the second button.

After the meeting with Granger and Scarhead and the Bole interrogation, he, Pansy, and Theo had treated themselves to a drink at their favorite spot— the White Hole , right in the heart of Diagon Alley.

The bar was impossibly in. Most of young magical London hung out there, including many of their old Hogwarts classmates. The walls were black, and the dim lighting bounced off the countless mirrors lining the space. The booths were plush, white leather, and the music—trendy but low enough not to drown conversations—was actually decent.

Draco was absolutely seething. He couldn’t stop thinking about that bloody Granger treating them like incompetent idiots—she’d even made "files for them", as if they didn’t know how to do their bloody job, as if they needed some mudblood swot to crack the case for them...

"Would you like anything else?"

Draco glanced up at the young, provocatively dressed waitress standing in front of him—dark hair streaked with fuchsia, a tight bandeau top showing off her stomach, and flared jeans so tight the lace string of her white thong peeked out.

"Another whiskey," he growled between clenched teeth, clearly unimpressed.

"Amy Rose, darling..." Theo purred, eyeing her with a wicked grin. "How about a drink on the house? Be nice to me now and I might return the favor later..." His hand grazed her backside quickly.

The witch giggled flirtatiously.

“Don’t fall for it, love,” came Pansy’s innocent-sounding voice from behind Draco. She had just arrived, wearing a short emerald green dress, her glossy black hair falling in a sharp fringe.

“He’s just going to screw you in the bathrooms. No offense, of course,” she added sweetly as she plopped down next to Theo, who gave an exaggerated eye roll.

The waitress shot her a glare but leaned in to whisper something in Theo’s ear before walking off.

“For fuck’s sake, Pansy. Do you have to ruin everything?” Theo scolded her half-heartedly, slinging an arm over her shoulders.

“Oh, come on, Theo. You can do better than that little tart.”

“Oh really? Maybe I could do you,” he shot back, laughing. 

They both knew there wasn’t a universe where that would ever happen.

“Fuck, Draco. You look like hell. What is it? Not getting laid enough this week?”

Marcus Flint had just dropped into the booth beside them, his hair still wet from his post-practice shower. After Hogwarts, he’d been picked up by the Montrose Magpies and was now one of the most famous Quidditch players in the wizarding world.

“If you knew the kind of shit we’re dealing with, you’d skip the jokes, Marcus,” Draco muttered, sipping his fourth whiskey of the evening, the alcohol starting to cloud his mind.

“He’s right, sweetheart,” Pansy chimed in, mockingly affectionate. “Today, Thompson assigned us to a task force to solve Bole and Baddock’s murders fast. You’ve heard, haven’t you? Malcolm Baddock, found strangled, and now Lu—”

“For Merlin’s sake, witch, get to the point,” Draco growled.

Pansy shrugged. When Malfoy was brooding, there was no getting through to him.

“Fine, whatever. The point is, we have to work with Granger and Potter. There, I said it. Happy now, Draco?”

“And Zabini, for fuck’s sake—Granger, Potter, and Zabini!” Draco slammed the glass down on the table.

Marcus burst out laughing, a loud, barking sound that earned him a few nasty glares.

“I mean, I agree Draco’s being a bit dramatic,” Theo said, elbowing the blond, “but we all know our drama queen here loves to play the victim.”

“You’re not funny, Nott... And I still don’t know why the hell you’re laughing, Flint—given who you get to call teammate,” Draco shot back, smirking, obviously referring to Ron.

“Honestly? I might have preferred working with him over his bloody girlfriend.”

“Weasel’s not that bad, actually. Always buys drinks when we go out. If I were Granger though, I wouldn’t be too pleased... Every time we hit a pub, he ends up wasted and locking himself in the loo with a different girl. Must be the charm of red hair...”

“What?” Pansy choked, eyes wide, her drink going down the wrong way.

At Marcus’s words, Draco seemed to snap out of his bitter daze, a wicked grin curling on his lips, a dangerous new glint in his eyes.

Weasley was cheating on the Mudblood?

Well, fuck. The night just got a whole lot more interesting.

Chapter 6: V

---

"And you're absolutely sure about this?" 

"For Salazar's sake, Draco... yes! I'm absolutely sure Weasley is cheating on Granger. Bloody hell, it's the tenth time you've asked me."

"UNBELIEVABLE. Bloody incredible!" Draco barked, bursting into a loud, drunken laugh.

"I honestly don't see what you find so funny, Drackie," Pansy muttered, fixing her lipstick. "I mean, Granger's nothing special, but being cheated on by that slimy little rodent? Sad."

"Oh, I think it’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in years. It’s actually shocking how many points Weasel's earned in my book tonight," Draco sneered, downing yet another FireWhiskey.

"Do you think we should tell her?" Theo asked, his hands trailing through the hair of some blonde who had just made herself comfortable on his lap, her head resting on his thighs while his index finger lazily traced her lips.

Melissa? No, maybe Janette...

Oh, who the hell even cared.

"If you lot decide to go all noble, leave me out of it," Marcus grumbled. "I want nothing to do with Weasel's mess."

"We could send an anonymous letter! Like... 'Hey Granger, Weasley’s shagging half of London!'" Pansy suddenly leapt up.

"God, Pansy, that's so stupid it might actually work," Theo smirked, his hands now fondling the blonde girl's chest.

"No one's telling Granger anything," Draco said coldly. "If that peasant is cheating on the Mudblood, then I say good. She's finally getting what she deserves. Pansy, Theo... not a word to Granger. Understood?"

"No one's telling Granger what, Malfoy?"

Potter and Blaise stood behind their booth, beers in hand.

Draco swore under his breath.

Of all the bloody bars in all of bloody London in the entire bloody magical world, they had to walk into the White Hole. Bloody Godric.

"Nothing that concerns you, Scarface," Draco spat, before turning to Blaise with a look of exaggerated betrayal.

"Nice to see you still know how to pick 'em, Zabini..."

"What you said about Hermione definitely concerns me, Malferret. I’d watch what comes out of that mouth," Harry warned.

"Oh yeah, Potter?"

Draco closed the distance in two drunken strides, towering over Harry by at least four inches. "Are you threatening me?" His voice slurred.

Theo, sensing the shift in atmosphere, stood and gently pulled the blonde beside him up by the hand.

"Alright, alright, no need to get aggressive. Gentlemen, please, have a seat. My lovely date and I were just looking for a more... private spot. Wait for me in the loo, darling, will you?" he said sweetly.

The girl giggled and wandered off.

"See you in half an hour," Theo murmured smugly.

"Oh please, Theodore. Don’t flatter yourself. Ten minutes, tops," Pansy snorted, sipping her drink before turning to the newcomers.

"Blaise, so glad you made it! And... Potter. Not exactly who we expected . Sit down! Potter, have you met Marcus Flint?"

"I don’t think this is a good idea, Pansy," Blaise said grimly.

"No, I don’t think it is either," Draco hissed. "It’s quite clear whose side you’re on now, Zabini."

"Draco..." Blaise shook his head.

"Forget it, Blaise. He’s drunk. Let’s just go somewhere else."

"Didn’t know you were my dad, Scarface," Draco mocked, pouring himself another drink. "Touching, really, your concern for me. You must’ve taken after your dear old' daddy."

"At least my father isn’t rotting in an Azkaban cell, Malferret."

The words hit Draco like a physical blow.

He rose slowly, his face morphing into a mask of fury. Pansy reached for his arm, trying to pull him back down, but he was immovable.

One wrong word would have been enough to set him off against Potter's jugular, the witch knew.

She and Draco had been friends all their lives, they had grown up together, and Pansy Parkinson was perhaps the only person in the world who could claim to know everything about Malfoy, to know every little facet of him; yet at that moment, as Draco stared at Harry with his stormy ocean-coloured irises, Pansy found herself thinking that she would not have known how to stop her friend.

" What the hell did you just say ?" he whispered.

Blaise stepped between them, placing a firm hand on Draco's shoulder. "Mate, calm down. You're both fired up, it's not worth it."

"You're defending him? Really? I had a feeling you were a bloody traitor, but this..."

Draco grabbed the bottle off the table, took a long swig, and wiped his mouth with his rolled-up shirt sleeve.

"Wow, didn’t see this one coming, mate. You really screwed me over. Gotta admit it..."

His finger jabbed at Blaise's chest with each word.

"Hey, Malfoy, maybe we should just—"

"Stay out of it, Marcus," Draco snarled, nearly stumbling. " Stay fucking out… This is between me and my dear friend Blaise here. Just a chat. Right, Zabini?"

He rolled his eyes and laughed.

"You're completely gone," Harry said with disgust.

"Oh yeah, Potter? Come over here, let me show you just how gone I am. Come on, let the Chosen One teach me a lesson."

"Draco, for Salazar's sake, enough!" Pansy screamed, standing up to step between them.

As she moved, a pint glass sailed past her face and shattered against the floor, glass spraying across the tiles.

"Potter, what the hell?!"

"What’s the matter, Malfoy? Cat got your tongue?"

Draco's fist landed squarely on Harry's jaw.

Blaise and Flint jumped in to separate them, but the two were already in full brawl.

"Bloody hell, Draco!" Marcus shouted as the blonde launched a second punch, which Harry ducked before grabbing Draco by the shoulders and slamming him onto a glass table. 

It shattered beneath him.

"You filthy bastard..."

"DRACO, STOP IT!" Pansy screamed, trying to intervene, only to be shoved aside as Draco launched himself again.

Patrons gathered in a circle, watching the chaos unfold.

Just as Harry cocked his leg to kick Draco square in the thigh, murmurs rippled through the crowd. A team of Aurors pushed through.

"Ministry of Magic! Everyone stand down!"

The command echoed, followed by a sharp Incarcerous . Ropes sprang from a wand, pinning Draco against a column.

Harry dropped onto a barstool, panting, his knuckles bleeding, lip split.

"What in Merlin’s name is going on here... Malfoy? Potter? Bloody hell..."

A young half-blood Auror stood there, wand still raised, staring at the wreckage.

"Ask this bastard. I’ll kill you, Potter!" Draco yelled, still high on whiskey.

"Jordan, great to see you! Nothing serious, just a friendly disagreement," Pansy said, twirling a curl around her finger.

"Nothing serious?! You demolished my bloody bar!" the owner shouted.

"Don’t worry, sir. We’ll be taking them to the station," the Auror replied.

"Oh come on, Jordan, the station? Isn’t that a bit much?" Blaise tried.

"Not at all, Auror Zabini. A night in a cell might do them both some good."

"Andrew..." Pansy purred, sauntering up to him, tongue flicking over her lips. "Don’t you think you’re being a little harsh? Maybe... turn a blind eye... for me ?"

Andrew Jordan leaned in, his mouth nearly brushing her ear.

"Montrose, Thorne..." he whispered. Then loudly: "Get them out of here. Now !"

He turned and marched out, tossing one last challenging glance back at Pansy.

" Bloody bastard. "

As Draco and Harry were dragged away, Theodore strolled out of the bathroom, shirt still undone, fastening his belt.

He looked around the wreckage.

"What the hell happened here?"

 

“Now I want you two idiots to explain to me how the hell it happened that two of my best men were arrested last night, drunk, after trashing an entire bar in front of hundreds of people—bloody hell!!!!”

The mood that morning in Classroom A of the Ministry was grim, the October downpour outside casting an even gloomier light over the already heavy air.
Blaise was leaning against the window, hands in his pockets, eyes downcast, while Hermione, Pansy, and Theo kept their gazes fixed on their two colleagues, concern etched clearly on their faces.
Draco, a cut splitting one eyebrow, sat in front of Thompson, arms resting on the desk. Next to him was Harry, sporting a huge bruise on his left cheek, his eyes darting aimlessly around the room.

“Technically, I wasn’t drunk…” the Gryffindor tried to mutter, earning a murderous glare from James in return.

“Do you even realize the consequences? Your bloody face is on the front page of every damn paper in the entire wizarding world!!!!!”
Hermione flinched—yet another one of Thompson’s outbursts had made even the windowpanes rattle.

“Do you have any idea what kind of hell I went through with the Minister this morning? What I had to do to make sure your sorry arses weren’t kicked out of this office, hmm?”

“It won’t happen again, Thompson…” Draco replied quietly.

“Oh, no, it certainly won’t happen again, Malfoy—because next time, I’ll personally see to it you’re both out of here with my own bloody hands!”
Thompson slammed his fists on the desk violently.

Then, collapsing into his chair, he closed his eyes and started massaging his temples. He said nothing for a moment, just sighed deeply to calm himself. No one dared utter a single word.

After a minute that felt like an eternity, the Auror opened his eyes again and turned to his team.
“Tell me you at least found something…”

Hermione stood up slowly and walked over to the board.
“Yesterday we spoke with Baddock’s girlfriend, Mary Jane… she’s still very shaken, but she confirmed Malcolm hadn’t had any arguments or conflicts with anyone. The only significant detail she mentioned was his distancing himself from the Slytherins during the war…”
She pinned Mary Jane’s photo next to Malcolm’s on the board.

“Do you think that could be relevant somehow?” James asked, serious.

“I doubt it,” Pansy interjected.
“Marcus Bole told us the exact opposite… Lucian was a firm supporter of Voldemort—apparently the total opposite of Malcolm.”
She attached a page of her handwritten notes from the Bole interrogation to the board.

“So, another dead end…” the Head Auror sighed.

Theo stepped closer to the evidence board, eyes scanning over Pansy’s handwriting.
“Blaise, did Lucian’s parents mention anything about him feeling watched?” he asked, his mind already turning over silent thoughts.

“Yeah…” Blaise replied, stepping away from the window and toward the rest of the group.
“He mentioned something—maybe a letter?”

“Bole apparently told his brother Sebastian he hadn’t felt safe in the weeks leading up to his murder, but their parents downplayed it. Pansy, did you manage to get that letter?” Draco asked.

“No, but we’ve summoned Sebastian for questioning this afternoon,” Pansy answered, flipping open her planner “1:45 p.m., to be precise.”

Thompson walked up to the board, studying the victims’ photos and the new evidence the team had gathered in their initial interviews.

“Right, so what we know so far is this: the two boys had very different beliefs during the war, Lucian had distanced himself from the wizarding world, and Baddock didn’t seem to have any enemies. The only thing linking them is the fact that they both felt they were being watched in the weeks before they died…”

“ And the fact that they were both Slytherins … I mean, that’s not something we should overlook, right?”

As soon as Harry said it, everyone turned to look at him. No one had noticed that detail until now, but their shared House affiliation suddenly no longer felt like a grim coincidence.
A chill ran down Pansy’s, Blaise’s, and Draco’s spines.

“Alright, start from there. Parkinson, Nott—go back to Baddock’s girlfriend’s bar, talk to the regulars. Anything they might’ve seen, anyone suspicious… don’t leave anything out. If the killer really observes his victims beforehand, someone may have noticed something. Zabini, you speak with Auror Jordan and get a list of all attacks on Slytherins in the past few months—there’s a chance we’ve missed something.
And as for you two…”
He turned his gaze to Draco and Harry.
“You’ll be conducting Sebastian Bole’s interrogation. Together. Granger, you’re going with them.”

“But, sir…” Draco started to protest, only to be immediately cut off by James.

“Prove to me you can work as a team. If you can’t—if you let me down again—you’ll leave your badges on my desk tomorrow morning. Is that clear ?” 

His tone was sharp, unforgiving.

Draco nodded, exhaling loudly, while Hermione turned to glance at Harry, clear disapproval on her face.

Getting up, Thompson headed for the door but stopped before leaving, turning back to the group.

“One last thing… Tonight the Ministry’s hosting the annual charity gala for the families of war victims. I expect to see every one of you there at 10 p.m. sharp. Potter, Malfoy—do something to cover up those marks on your ugly mugs. We don’t want to give the press more headlines.”

“Will you be there, James ?” Pansy asked, teasing.

“Get to work. See you tonight.”
Ignoring her question entirely, the Auror left the room.

 

"What the hell were you thinking, Harry Potter?"
Hermione stood tall right in front of Harry, her arms crossed over her hips and a stern expression on her face—an expression Harry knew all too well.
After Pansy, Theo, and Blaise had left the room and Draco had gone to lunch, the Gryffindor had slammed the door to Classroom A shut and was now staring at her friend as if she were about to strangle him.
"Have you completely lost your mind? I mean, do you have any idea what Shacklebolt could’ve done to you? He could’ve suspended you or, worse, fired you!"
"If you’d just let me explain..." the dark-haired man tried to reply, but Hermione jumped right back in.
"Explain? You got into a fight with Draco Malfoy, Harry. You destroyed half of the White Hole. What exactly is there to explain?"
"Yeah, but he provoked me! And besides..."
"Besides what...?"
"He talked about you, Hermione... I don’t know what he wants from you. I don’t know why he even mentioned you, but when I heard your name coming out of his mouth, I just—"
"For Godric’s sake, Harry!" Hermione shouted, exasperated. "Can’t you understand? We’re not at Hogwarts anymore—we’re not kids! Draco Malfoy hates me? Fine. I don’t care. That’s not the bloody point! You heard Thompson—how do you expect to work with him if you can’t even stop yourself from punching him in the face?"
Harry lowered his gaze, letting out a remorseful sigh, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his face apologetic.
Hermione looked at her friend and, sighing, stepped closer to him, drawing her wand and gently lifting his chin.
"Let me see that cheek..."
She cast a healing charm as Harry squirmed from the sting.
"Hold still, will you?" Hermione said with a soft laugh.

At that moment, the door opened, and Draco walked in. The tension in the room thickened instantly.
Without saying a word, the Slytherin headed for the table, sat down, and opened the Daily Prophet , giving only a quick glance to the clock—it read 1:40 p.m.
No big deal. Sebastian Bole would be arriving shortly.
Draco immersed himself in the paper, doing everything in his power to avoid any contact with the two Gryffindors in the room.
Hermione, after finishing treating Harry, turned toward the blond boy, watching him carefully, gathering the courage to speak.
"Malfoy, your eyebrow doesn’t look too good. Want me to take a look at it?" she asked gently.
The blond didn’t even acknowledge her. Harry shot Hermione a look that said Told you so.
She ignored it, clearing her throat. She was determined to get a response.
"Look, Malfoy… I know we didn’t exactly start off on the right foot, and I’m sorry about that. But I really think we should try to—"
Draco snapped the newspaper shut, his icy blue eyes locking on Hermione’s with a serious expression.
"Granger, could you not make it so difficult for me to ignore you? Thompson said we have to work together—he didn’t say I had to talk to you."
"Right, but I believe a civil relationship is the foundation of—"
"For Salazar’s sake, do you ever stop behaving like you’re still at Hogwarts? Always forcing your annoying presence onto people around you..."
Harry tried to step in, but Hermione shot him a warning glare.
"Fine, Malfoy. You want to play that game? Great . Just don’t come crying when Thompson demands your badge on his—"
"Are you threatening me, Granger?" Draco snapped, standing abruptly. "Just because I can’t touch you doesn’t mean—"

"Um… excuse me?"
The sweet voice of Elisabeth interrupted the poisonous exchange.
"Mr. Bole is here. Shall I let him in?"

Hermione cast one last fiery look at Draco before turning to invite Sebastian Bole inside. 

The young man had the same dark eyes as Lucian, but unlike his brother, his hair was a darker blond. He was nearly as tall as Draco, his muscular frame visible beneath his elegant white twill shirt, blue-toned trousers hugging his athletic legs, and a refined watch on his right wrist.
Definitely attractive , Hermione thought to herself—immediately ashamed of the Pansy Parkinson -like observation.
"Mr. Bole, please, have a seat..."

Sebastian entered the room, his gaze full of superiority. Throwing a sideways sneer at Hermione and Potter, he headed straight to Draco, greeting him with a firm handshake.
"Draco, it’s been a while... I’d have hoped for a better occasion to see you again."
"Sebastian, my condolences for your loss. Take a seat—we won’t keep you long, just a few questions."

Draco then turned to Hermione and Harry.
"This is Auror Potter, and this is Dr. Granger, Ministry consultant for—"
"Of course, my father was right. They really do hire just anyone at the Ministry now... No offense, Draco."

Sebastian looked at Hermione with disgust, and she instantly understood what the former Slytherin was thinking: Halfblood.
Determined not to let it affect her, Hermione stepped forward and placed the photo of Lucian Bole in front of the boy.
"Mr. Bole, I assume you know why you’re here. Your mother mentioned a letter your brother sent her before his passing. Would you mind sharing its contents with us?"

Sebastian let out a mocking laugh, locking eyes with Hermione as he leaned toward her, now seated across from him.
"Since when do people like you get to ask questions, Mudblood ?"

Hermione’s eyes began to sting, tears threatening to fall, but she forced them back down, fury burning in her chest.
She hadn’t heard that word since the end of the war, but every night, in the privacy of her bedroom, she couldn’t help but run a hand over the cursed scar Bellatrix had carved into her skin four years ago at Malfoy Manor.
No matter how many top Healers had examined her, no matter the countless concealment charms, that damned word still lingered, stark against her pale skin—a reminder of what she’d been, what she was, what she’d always be.

"How dare you—" Harry began, but Draco was faster.
He sat down beside Hermione and fixed a stern gaze on the Slytherin, tapping a finger on Lucian’s photo.
"Listen closely, Sebastian, because I won’t say it again. We’re the ones asking the questions here, understood? If Dr. Granger asks you something, you answer. End of discussion. There’s no room here for your personal opinions—whatever they may be. Am I clear?"

Sebastian blinked, clearly thrown by Draco's unexpected defense of Hermione. After a brief pause, he raised his hands in surrender and shrugged.
"Alright, Draco, whatever you say... but only because you asked."

Turning to Hermione, he continued:
"About two months ago, Lucian sent me a letter saying he didn’t feel safe. He said he had this weird feeling someone was following him, like someone knew his whereabouts, his flat in London…
At first, I didn’t think much of it—I mean, Lucian hadn’t been himself lately. But then he told me that one night, this summer, he looked out the window of his second-floor flat and saw someone standing by a lamppost. Watching him.
Just for a second. Medium height, a long cloak, a lock of light brown hair. As soon as Lucian spotted them, the figure vanished into the night. That’s all I know, Doctor "

 

The interrogation proceeded normally, though Sebastian Bole didn’t hold back from dropping a few more thinly veiled references to Hermione’s background.

Once they were done, Harry offered to walk him out.
Sebastian patted Draco on the shoulder in farewell, not sparing Hermione so much as a glance, and headed toward the corridor with the Gryffindor trailing behind him—barely restraining the urge to hex him from behind.

While Hermione updated the information on the board and sorted through the files, her gaze fell on Draco, who was retrieving his jacket from the back of a chair, ready to leave.

“Malfoy…”

The boy turned slowly toward her, an apathetic expression on his face—it was as if he wasn’t truly looking at her at all, as if his eyes passed through her without seeing her.

“I wanted to thank you, well… for earlier. For standing up for me with Bole. You didn’t have to, but you did, and that was… kind of you. So… thank you,” Hermione said, twisting her hands anxiously.

Draco tilted his head slightly, observing her, then began to walk toward her, slowly and deliberately. With each step he took, Hermione’s anxiety spiked.

The Gryffindor forced herself to keep her gaze steady—she didn’t want him to notice how unsettled she was, but her ears were already ringing, and her heart had started to pound against her ribs.

When Draco finally stood just a step away from her, he leaned in slightly, his face now perfectly level with hers.

With a poisonous smile, Draco shook his head, letting out a quiet scoff.

“Do you honestly think I defended you, hmm? The only reason I said what I said to Bole is because I care about my job, Granger. I never had any intention of taking your side—and I never will. Remember that. You’re no different to me than the insufferable little girl you were back at Hogwarts. Just stay out of my way, and we won’t have a problem… Was I clear enough?”

Hermione swallowed her fury, her brown eyes blazing at him as if she could set him on fire with just a look.

“ Crystal. ”

Draco turned around, casually slinging his jacket over one shoulder and heading for the door. Pausing with one hand on the doorframe, he glanced back at Hermione with a sardonic expression.

“See you tonight. And try not to be late… Doctor Granger.”

And with that, he left the office.

Chapter 7: VI

Notes:

Please note that the first part of this chapter contains a scene of domestic violence.
If reading this disturbs you, please skip ahead.
Ilaria

Hermione took one last look in the mirror, letting her eyes trace the soft lines of the midnight-blue dress she wore. The silk gown draped gracefully over her frame, hugging her curves in just the right places. The front was modest—a sweetheart neckline, long slightly flared sleeves—but the back dipped into a deep V, exposing the smooth line of her spine, where a single crystal glinted against her bare skin.

Her hair was pulled into a soft chignon, with a few unruly strands brushing her face. She wore only a hint of makeup—just enough to darken her lashes and paint her lips a delicate rose. 

She wasn’t usually one to care much for appearances, but tonight, wrapped in this gown, she felt something she hadn’t in a long time—beautiful. She brushed her fingers along her reflection and found herself smiling, thoughts drifting back to the Yule Ball so many years ago.

“You finally decided to make yourself look decent…”

Ron’s biting voice snapped her out of the memory. 

Hermione turned sharply to face him. He was leaning against the doorframe, eyes fixed on her. He wore an elegant black suit, the double-breasted jacket open, bow tie to match, white shirt pulled slightly open to reveal his sculpted chest. His flame-red hair was slicked back with gel.

He was handsome. Devastatingly so. 

But his eyes held something cruel—something dark.

“Ron, you scared me… I’m glad you like the dress…”

He stepped forward, pulling his hands from his pockets. When he reached her, he grabbed her chin roughly between his fingers. The pressure made her eyes sting as pain surged up her face.

“I wonder who you got all dolled up for, sweetheart …” he spat, his blue eyes burning with accusation.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ron. Please…” she tried to pull away, walking toward the door. “It’s already 9:30 PM. We should leave.”

“I didn’t say you could go, Hermione.”

With a sudden move, Ron lunged forward, seizing her wrist so tightly his fingers left angry, purple marks on her skin.

“You think I’m stupid, don’t you? You want me to believe you wore that little slutty dress for no reason?”

Hermione tried to break free, but he was too strong.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ron… Please… You’re hurting me…”

Hot tears spilled down her cheeks, a trail of mascara leaving black streaks across her skin.

“You really think I don’t know you’re screwing someone else? I used to think you were just a frigid bitch. But now I get it. You’re just a whore.”

Her hand moved before she could stop it—slapping him hard across the face.

The moment it landed, dread filled her. She knew what would come next.

“Ron, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—please…”

His slap came like a whip. It knocked her backward, her side slamming against the writing desk. She stumbled, brought a trembling hand to her face. Her fingers came away red—blood was dripping from her split lip.

She was shaking but held back the sobs. She knew crying would only make it worse—he’d just get angrier.

“You see what you make me do, Herm? You see what you force me to become?” he screamed, kicking the mirror—shattering it into jagged shards.

She flinched, curling into herself, trying to disappear.

Then suddenly, his tone changed. Ron looked at her with a mock softness, eyes feigning regret. He stepped closer and wiped a tear from her cheek.

“You know I didn’t mean to hurt you, right, Hermione?”

A lump rose in her throat. She wanted to answer, but no words came. She nodded instead, trying to muster a small smile, hoping that would be enough.

“If only you weren’t like this, Hermione…” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Fix yourself up. We’re leaving in twenty minutes.”

With that, he turned and walked out.

Hermione collapsed to the floor, her back pressed against the bed. And at last, she let herself cry. Head on her knees, she let the tears fall—along with the warm blood that still trickled from her lip, staining her dress in crimson streaks.

Lifting her head, she caught a glimpse of herself in the shattered mirror. 

Her stomach twisted in revulsion. Her hair was a mess, her face a mask of tears and blood. The once-elegant dress was crumpled, stained, torn along the side where she’d hit the desk.

But it was her eyes that stopped her cold.

They were empty. Hollow. Shattered.

Just like her soul.

Why was she letting Ron treat her like this?

Why did she let him belittle and destroy her?

Was it weakness? Yes.

But more than anything, it was fear.

Fear of being trapped. Fear of not being believed. Fear of losing the people she loved.

And most of all—fear of him . A soul-crushing fear that kept her paralyzed on that floor.

Fighting to gather herself, Hermione retrieved her wand. With a flick, she repaired the mirror and then tried to fix herself—the dress, her face, anything she could hide.

The healing charm stung, and she grimaced. Her wrist throbbed. Pulling up her sleeve, she saw the bruises already blooming across her skin—he’d gripped her so hard it felt like her bones had nearly snapped.

She rolled the sleeve back down and cast a Disillusionment Charm on her lip. Then, meeting her reflection in the now-whole mirror, she exhaled shakily.

The joy she’d felt earlier—the spark of self-confidence—was gone. Replaced by cold, cruel reality.

She forced on her best smile. Her shield.

No one could suspect. No one could know.

With one last glance in the mirror, she smoothed her dress and walked downstairs.

 

"So, Mr. Malfoy, what did you think of the start of this season? Personally, I found the Tutshill Tornados rather disappointing..."

Draco was growing increasingly irritated.

Ever since the Gala had begun, the head of the Department of Magical Transportation — a squat, pudgy little man stuffed into a cheap suit — hadn’t left his side for a second.

“Mr. Greystone, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m afraid Mr. Nott needs a word with me…”

“Of course, of course! We’ll have the chance to finish our conversation later!”

“ Undoubtedly …” Draco muttered through clenched teeth as he made a beeline for the drinks table.

Once there, he poured himself a glass of brandy and let out a deep sigh.

He had always loathed these formal occasions. All those pompous aristocrats, their unfaithful wives draped over their arms, their second-rate clothing, their endlessly tedious conversations.
And yet Draco knew he couldn’t avoid them — he had to show his face in public, engage, maintain connections, all while keeping a fucking smile plastered on his face.
Even though he’d been an Auror for years now and had proven himself more than capable, too many people still wanted to see him fall. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

“Just so you know, I won’t be coming to bail you out from the station tonight, Drackie…”

Pansy Parkinson had appeared at his side, as elegant as ever. She wore a stunning gown from some famous Muggle designer — black fabric shimmering with tiny gems, and a neckline that left little to the imagination, perfectly showcasing her soft curves.

At her side stood Theo, dressed in a dark green pinstriped suit, the first two buttons of his shirt undone and his curly hair falling over his forehead.

“Pansy… radiant as usual.”

“Oh, spare me, Draco. I threw on the first rag I found. How did Sebastian’s interrogation go?”

“Nothing new… aside from Bole’s barely-veiled slurs at the Mudblood.”
A slight smirk tugged at Draco’s lips as he recalled how furious Granger had been.

“Speak of the devil — is that Granger?” Theo said, eyes wide. “Bloody hell… I have to admit, she looks hot tonight.”

He had just finished pointing toward Hermione, who had entered the ballroom clinging to Weasley’s arm.

Draco glanced her way with feigned disinterest, though his eyes lingered — a little too long — on the bare line of her back. 

Hermione moved with confidence, smiling and shaking hands left and right, but there was something different in her eyes. Something… almost sad.

Draco took a sip of his brandy, letting the amber liquid burn his throat as he stared at her.

“She couldn’t be attractive if her life depended on it,” he said coldly — though the conviction in his voice was questionable.

“If it were up to me,” Theo added in a low growl, “she wouldn’t be going home with Weasley tonight… And to think that idiot’s cheating on her too…”

“Will you shut the fuck up, Theo?” Draco hissed, elbowing him hard in the ribs.

“We should go say hello,” Pansy sighed “Just for peacekeeping.”

“We should just ignore her,” Draco snapped — but he didn’t have time to finish his sentence before Theo was already calling out to her.

Hermione whispered something into Ron’s ear and approached the trio of Slytherins, trying her best to mask her discomfort.

“Gods, Granger, you look absolutely stunning tonight… Why don’t you ditch that idiot of a boyfriend and come home with me?” Theo said with a slow grin, handing her a glass of champagne.

“Thanks… I guess,” Hermione muttered, clearly confused. “Parkinson. Malfoy.”

She looked up at Draco and caught him staring — his ice-blue eyes locked on her.

“Granger,” Pansy greeted. “Enjoying the Gala? Personally, I find the decorations terribly tacky — all this crystal, and the catering, for Salazar’s sake, it’s practically—”

Hermione tried to listen to the Slytherin’s ramblings, but Draco’s stare burned like fire.
She could feel his gaze on every inch of her skin, like he was trying to read her, trying to uncover something she was hiding.

Uneasy, Hermione quickly said her goodbyes and returned to Ron, who was now seated with Harry, Neville, and Padma Patil — his third drink already empty on the table in front of him.

“Not much of a talker, our Gryffindor, wouldn’t you say, Draco?”

“Yes… it was almost like she wanted to escape,” Nott noted.

“Draco? You there?”

Pansy’s voice snapped the blond out of his thoughts.

Ever since Granger had come over, Draco had noticed something odd about her face, something he couldn’t quite place.
Then, he had looked into her eyes — even with makeup, they were red, like she’d been crying.

He found himself watching her with more attention than he should have, drawn to her somehow, as if something about her was pulling him in.
For a moment, Draco wondered what the Mudblood witch was hiding… then shook his head and cursed himself for even thinking it.

Why the hell should he care about Granger? 

Or whatever the hell was going on in her life?

Taking another sip of his brandy, he tried to focus on Pansy and Theo’s conversation — until they were interrupted by the arrival of Thompson.

As usual, the man wasn’t wearing a formal suit, but an elegant pale blue shirt that hugged his muscular arms, with tailored black trousers that clung tightly to his legs.
Pansy’s gaze couldn’t help but linger on the prominent bulge beneath his waistband, clearly outlined in the snug fit.

When her eyes finally made it back up, they caught on his expression: those deep black eyes you could lose yourself in, the full lips, the faint shadow of stubble across his sharp jawline.
The open shirt revealed veins along his pale throat, a glimpse of his chest, and with one hand, he brushed a rebellious lock of hair from his face.

God he’s the sexiest thing she had ever seen.

Biting her lower lip, Pansy sauntered toward the chief, swaying her hips as she reached for a glass of champagne, letting her breasts brush his arm ever so slightly — and a shiver shot up her spine.

“James…” she purred, raising the glass to her lips in a slow, sensual gesture.

“Parkinson…” he replied, his gaze involuntarily dipping to her cleavage.

Trying to compose himself, Thompson straightened up again, locking eyes with her.

“Can I get you a drink, boss? Whiskey, tequila… we’ve got everything you want,” Theo chimed in, raising two bottles in either hand.

“Whiskey, thanks, Nott.”

“Drinking on duty, Chief?” Pansy teased, her voice low and loaded with mischief. “ You’re full of surprises, James Thompson … I wonder what else you’re hiding…” she added, licking her lips.

“For fuck’s sake, Pansy, get a grip,” Draco muttered, rolling his eyes.

“Believe me, Parkinson…” James leaned in close — and she could smell the faint scent of his cologne on his skin, “There’s a lot I’m hiding… I’m just sorry you won’t be lucky enough to find out. Nott. Malfoy. If you’ll excuse me.”

And just like that, the Auror walked away — his departure followed by the stifled laughter of the two Slytherins behind him.

“And your sister, how is she? Merlin, it’s been ages since I last saw her!”
Harry ignored the sharp pang in his stomach triggered by Neville’s question to Ron, keeping a falsely serene expression and a smile plastered across his lips.

“Who, Ginny? Yeah, her and that little team of hers aren’t half bad... the Holyday Inns... or whatever the hell they’re called,” Ron slurred, downing his sixth drink of the evening, his shirt nearly completely unbuttoned and his jacket long forgotten somewhere.

“Holyhead Harpies, darling …” Hermione corrected gently, trying to mask her embarrassment over her boyfriend’s obvious drunkenness. “And you, Neville, how have you been?”

“Can’t complain… Mr. Kowalski promoted me to Head of the Office for the Regulation and Management of Sentient Creatures…”

“Neville, that’s amazing! It’s what you’ve always wanted!” Hermione exclaimed, placing a hand on her friend’s arm. He responded by laying his own hand atop hers.

Ron shot Hermione a fiery glare, and she quickly pulled back, leaning into her chair.

“And you… are you alright, Hermione?”
Seeing Neville’s kindness, Hermione had to bite back her emotions.

She wanted to stand up and scream — scream that no, she was not okay. 

That she was trapped in a toxic relationship, that the Ronald Weasley everyone still believed to be the sweet Hogwarts hero had turned into a monster, and that all she truly needed was their help.

But none of that came out.

“Yes, I… I’m fine, Neville…”

“Hermione… I heard you’re working with Draco Malfoy. Merlin, that must be awful…” Padma chimed in, her voice annoyingly shrill.

“He’s… particular. ”

“He’s a prick,” Harry snapped. “What? It’s the truth, Herm. He’s a bloody prick…”

Harry’s voice was barely audible under Padma’s giggling, as if he’d just delivered the joke of the year. Hermione couldn’t understand what was so damn funny.

But there were two things she failed to notice that evening.

The first: the entire time under the table, Ron’s hand had been resting beneath Padma’s skirt.
The second: for the past couple of months, her sweet friend Padma had had no qualms about sharing a bed with Ron whenever hormones — and opportunity — allowed.

But Hermione didn’t know that. Not yet.

“I think I’ll go get some air…” Padma said, giving Ron a look that said far more than words.

“I’ll join you, if my lovely better half doesn’t mind …” said Ron, taking Hermione’s hand and planting a sloppy, lascivious kiss on it.

Something stirred in Hermione. A suspicion. A terrible doubt.

No… It couldn’t be.
Padma would never…
Ron wouldn’t…
Would he?

Shaking her head to rid herself of the thought, she turned to Harry.

“Could you get me some water?”
Once he was gone, she exhaled deeply.

Neville leaned closer, concern etched on his face.

“Hey… are you sure everything’s okay? You seem… off.”

“Don’t worry, Neville, really. I’m just tired. Work, Ron, training… He’s… a lot.”

“Hermione, I care about Ron, but I have to ask — are you sure everything’s okay with him? If something’s wrong, if you need help…”

Hermione sprang to her feet, a wave of panic twisting her stomach.

“I… I need the bathroom, sorry Neville…”

“ I’m just sorry you won’t be lucky enough to find out. . You arrogant, pompous, bloody—”
Pansy Parkinson stormed into the women’s bathroom like a thunderclap, tossing her purse onto the marble counter and lighting a cigarette.

“ I won’t get the privilege… Oh, if I only could—”

“Pansy… I don’t think you’re allowed to smoke in here…”

“What the hell—? For Salazar’s sake, Granger… It’s you… You nearly gave me a heart attack,” the brunette muttered, settling herself on the wide windowsill. “Guess it’ll just have to stay our little secret, what do you say?”

Hermione stepped toward the sink, turning on the cold water. The moment it touched her skin, she shivered, struggling not to break down into tears.

“You’ve got a face like thunder, Granger… What’s wrong? Did Weasley flop again?” the Slytherin asked, exhaling smoke in thick curls.

“Pansy, please. Not tonight… In fact, you know what, I’ll just go. That way you won’t have to suffer my annoying presence any longer…” Hermione said, making for the door.

“Oh, come on Granger, don’t be like that… Bloody Godric, you’re seriously—”

Pansy reached out and grabbed her arm, trying to stop her — but Hermione recoiled with a yelp of pain, jerking her arm back.

“Granger, what the fuck—?”

“It’s nothing. Really… I just need to go…”

“Hold on, let me see your arm—come on…”

“No, no, really. It’s not—”

“Granger, I said stop.”

“Pansy, please, don’t—”

But Pansy already had her grip on Hermione’s wrist, pulling up the bat-wing sleeve of her dress.
Her breath caught.

“What the hell are these?” she asked sharply, eyes locked on the bruises ringing Hermione’s wrist.

Hermione yanked her arm back as if burned, her panic rising fast.

“I told you to drop it, okay? It’s… it’s none of your damn business!”

“Those are bruises, Granger. Actual, fucking bruises. He did that to you , didn’t he?”

“What? No, oh God, I— I don’t even know what you’re talking about… I must’ve bumped into something…”

“Do I look like an idiot to you? Granger, this is serious. You have to do something, do you understand?”

“You… you should just mind your own business, alright, Parkinson? Since when do you care about me ? Since when does it matter to you what happens to me? Godric, I don’t even know why I’m still standing here talking to you—” Hermione snapped, storming toward the door and wrenching it open.

“Where do you think you’re going? No, hey, get back here—don’t think you can just ignore this! Do you hear me, Gran—”

“Parkinson. Granger.”

They both froze. Thompson was standing in the corridor, expression grim. Behind him stood Draco, Blaise, and Harry.

“They’ve found another one. We have to go.”

Chapter 8: VII

The Auror team had just disapparated onto Wey Road in the small town of Weybridge, about thirty kilometres from London.
The cold was biting, and a light mist was rising from the vast grounds of the manor before them; the wrought-iron gate stood open, and the three-storey house was painted white, with elegant, wide windows and small French balconies.
Hermione immediately transfigured her elegant dress into something more practical — black boots, jeans, and a lilac sweater — urging Harry to do the same, while Draco checked his watch with a look of growing impatience.

“Have you tried contacting him again?” he snapped roughly at Pansy, who was clutching her beige fur coat tightly around herself.
“I’ve already sent him two Patronuses. If you’ve got a better idea… I don’t see any blasted owl in this place Salazar forgot existed,” the witch replied, glancing around uneasily.
“Bloody hell…”

“Where the hell is Nott, Malfoy?” James demanded, shifting his gaze to the two Slytherins in front of him and crossing his arms firmly over his chest.
“We’re trying to find out, sir…”

“Damn it, I don’t have time for this rubbish. Find him, and fast! Auror Burke, any updates?”

A young woman in her thirties approached James, clutching a folder of notes and dressed in her Auror uniform. She nodded quickly in greeting before turning to Thompson.
“Thank you for arriving so swiftly. We were called by neighbours alerted by the sound of breaking glass and screams. Surrey is a quiet county — everyone knows everyone — so this struck them as very odd for this time of night.
The body found belongs to a young male, about 22 years old, blond hair, dark eyes, average build.
He was discovered lying in the sitting room; there are no signs of a struggle on his body — the killer must have stunned him before killing him. The mediwizard is still examining the body. If you’d like to follow me…”

“Do we know the victim’s identity yet?” Harry asked Burke.
“No, but the house belongs to the McLaggen family.”

 

Hermione followed Auror Burke inside the large estate, her eyes absorbing every minute detail.
The house was enormous and tastefully furnished, with priceless antiques attesting to the McLaggens’ wealth; the grand sitting room was bathed in daylight from several crystal chandeliers, on the mahogany table lay a newspaper opened to the sports section and a half-full glass of liquor, while a fire still crackled softly in the hearth.

On the floor, surrounded by photographers and Aurors, lay the young man’s body. The moment Hermione’s eyes landed on him, her stomach twisted with nausea.
“It’s Cormac, sir. Cormac McLaggen,” Harry whispered, his voice barely audible as his gaze drifted over the lifeless form of his former housemate.

“Are you sure, Potter?” James asked.
“Absolutely.”

Cormac lay prone, his hands near his head, face turned to one side — his brown eyes lifeless, as if still staring at the Aurors nearby. He wore silk magenta lounge pants, his chest bare.
Hermione couldn’t take her eyes off him.

Despite their history, despite McLaggen’s less-than-gentle behaviour towards her in their years at Hogwarts, she couldn’t help but think how young he was, how he had a family, friends, maybe even a girlfriend. 

Most of all, she thought that only minutes ago, Cormac had been alive, sitting at this very table in his elegant home — and now, his body lay cold and broken on the floor.

“You alright, Granger?” Blaise asked, approaching and resting his hands briefly on her shoulders.
“What? I… Yes, thanks, Blaise. I’m fine…” Hermione said, though her voice lacked conviction.

Draco watched the scene with a faint look of disgust, clicking his tongue in annoyance at how much his friend seemed to care for Granger.
Turning his gaze back to the crime scene, the Slytherin noted the crowd — photographers had been called in, and more Aurors buzzed about, searching for clues.
A bloody mess.

“Sir, I don’t think all these people are necessary. We risk contaminating the evidence…”
James nodded — for the first time seeming to agree with his colleague.
“Auror Burke, we need this scene cleared. Only essential personnel may remain; the rest must leave. We’re already too many here, and my team needs to work.”
“As you wish, Captain Thompson,” the Auror said irritably, moving off to recall her team.

Once the room was cleared, only a photographer, one Auror to secure the perimeter, and James’ group remained — although the captain could hear voices coming from the rooms adjacent to the sitting room.

“Hey, lad,” James called to the young Auror guarding the scene. “Where the hell is the mediwizard?”
“Were you looking for me?”

From the sitting room doorway appeared a blonde girl, her long hair tied in two braids, wearing a heavy silver cotton dress beneath her pristine white mediwizard robes.

“Luna!” Harry exclaimed. “What the hell—”
“Harry, Hermione,” the girl greeted warmly, stepping forward and extending her hand to James.
“Luna Lovegood, sir. I was contacted by the Ministry to examine the body.”

Hermione studied the young witch in front of her, realising just how much Luna had grown into a woman.
Her face was still beautiful, but the kind, dreamy gaze had been replaced by serious, attentive eyes. Even her frame — once thin and frail — had filled out with gentle curves, visible even under the loose dress.

“Lovegood… long time no see… Captain.”

Theodore Nott had just entered the sitting room, his shirt unbuttoned down to the third button and his hair a tousled mess.

“Where the hell have you been?” Draco hissed angrily. “Pansy and I have been trying to contact you for an hour.”
“I was busy… if you catch my drift ,” the boy said with a wink, causing his colleague to roll her eyes in irritation.

“Nott, thanks for gracing us with your presence… We’ll settle this later. 

Dr Lovegood, you were saying?”

“If I may…” the Ravenclaw began, bending down towards Cormac and pointing at the boy’s neck.
“Based on the Diagnostic Spell we cast, the victim died within the last hour and thirty minutes. We detected no magic traces nor abrasions, unfortunately, but the interesting thing — why I asked Auror Burke to call you all here — is this…”

Luna’s finger rested on a large reddish bruise on Cormac’s neck. Everyone’s eyes sharpened immediately: a clear sign of strangulation.

“Same mode as the other two murders…” Pansy commented. “Do you think it could be the same hand?”
“Victims’ build, sex, and age match… We’ve collected tissue samples from the neck and under the nails. Maybe this time the killer slipped up,” Luna said, standing.

Harry stepped forward, arms crossed, eyes fixed on Cormac.
“It makes no sense… McLaggen has no connection to the other victims. Why kill him? Why him? Why like this?”

“I know at least ten people who’d have loved to see him like this, Potter,” Theo remarked, and Blaise nodded in agreement.
“Theodore’s right, Harry. We all know Cormac’s history: gambling, debts, unsavoury company…”
“But he wasn’t… He wasn’t…”

“What, Potter?” Pansy pressed.
“He wasn’t a Slytherin, for Godric’s sake. He never had contact with Voldemort… We can’t compare him to Maddock or Bole. He was different. Why do this to him? Maybe we’re wrong, maybe he isn’t…”

A low, dark laugh escaped Draco — almost a threat.
“Let me get this straight, Potter… You think your friend here can’t be a victim of the killer just because he’s a blasted Gryffindor? Do you really believe Malcolm and Lucian deserved it?” Draco sneered, stepping dangerously close to Harry.
“Draco…” Pansy tried to calm him.
“No, please, Pansy, let me finish… Come on, Saint Potter, enlighten us how only Slytherins deserve to end up strangled on their own bloody floors…”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Oh, sure… You didn’t mean that. I suggest you watch your mouth, Scarface… It might lead to misunderstandings.”

“Malfoy, enough,” Thompson reprimanded sternly, and Draco, with one last huff, stepped away from Harry, hands shoved into his pockets, his murderous glare still fixed on the Gryffindor.

“As much as I dislike his manners…” Hermione began, “I think Malfoy might be right. So far, we’ve focused on this Slytherin angle. Maybe there’s something else we’re missing. Perhaps we should revisit the previous cases more carefully… don’t you think?” she finished, offering a tentative smile to Draco.

The blond simply stared for a moment, then quickly looked away, nodding.
Why the hell was that witch agreeing with him now? And why did it secretly make him feel almost satisfied?

“Dr Lovegood, any witnesses?” Thompson asked, eyes on his watch — it was 11:45 PM.
“One, sir, but there’s been a complication…”
“What kind of complication, Lovegood?”

“Fuck, this is just ridiculous.”
The first light of dawn illuminated Draco’s face, a steaming cup of coffee in his right hand.
After meeting Luna the night before, the young Aurors had examined the scene until 3 a.m., only to be sent home by Thompson.
Just to be called back to the office, unwillingly, at 5:35 a.m.
While Hermione, Harry, Pansy, Theo, and Blaise, still half-asleep, sat on the small wooden chairs in the Ministry of Magic hallway, Draco paced back and forth in front of them like a caged animal.

“We found a witness, a fucking witness, and the investigation gets blocked because of that damn Creature Care Office’s damn politics… Fuck!”
“Technically, it’s the Office for the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures, Malfoy…”
“Technically, I don’t give a single damn, Granger…”
Hermione wrinkled her nose, annoyed, rolling her eyes.
Typical Malfoy, since Hogwarts days… When he didn’t get what he wanted, when someone got between him and his goal, he just went ballistic.
Damned Slytherin.

“Draco, calm down please… You’re giving me a headache…”
“I’m not the one giving you a headache, Theodore… Maybe if you stopped drinking like a sponge and dragging every witch in bloody London to the bathroom, at this hour you wouldn’t have one.”
“I wasn’t drinking like a sponge, okay? And Guendoline was coming from France, you know, for cooperation with the International Magical Cooperation Office… And last night her pretty mouth definitely cooperated with mine…”
“Jesus, Theodore, keep those details to yourself…” Pansy begged, busy fixing her lipstick.

Suddenly, the door opened and Neville joined the group in the hallway, closing the door behind him.
“So?” Hermione asked, standing up and approaching her friend.
“They’re still arguing… The case is complicated. The elf is a witness, that’s for sure, but his condition? We have to be cautious…”
“For Salazar, you’re kidding me, right? That damn creature could be the only one who can help us solve this case, and we have no way to question him? You’re telling me a murder investigation is less important than some damn house-elf? Come on, mate, there must be something you can do…”
“Look, Draco, I know you’re nervous, but my hands are tied…”

Hearing the Gryffindor call Draco by his first name, Hermione cast a suspicious glance at the boy and, turning, saw Harry watching the scene with surprise too.
What the hell were those two hiding?
Promising herself she’d investigate later, she focused back on the group in front of her.

“Listen, Longbottom…” Pansy purred, “There must be something we can do while Minister Kowalsky and Thompson figure out how to handle this, right?”
“Right now, no, Parkinson… Also because the creature is currently in our infirmary, so even if we wanted to visit…”
“You said infirmary?” A sly smile spread across Draco’s face, his mind already racing as he jumped up from the chair.
“Yes, infirmary. But, Draco, don’t even think about it! You don’t know the password and if Kowalsky catches you, I’m screwed! Fired on the spot! Done for!”
“Oh please, Longbottom, he’d never fire you… No one else would do your job, no offense… I promise you won’t even notice, I’ll be super fast, just two questions.
And if I go alone…”
“What? No way, Malfoy!” Harry interrupted. “We all know how that poor creature would end up with you…”
“Potter, darling , we’re talking about a house-elf… Not that important, Draco’s right…” Pansy huffed.
“I’ll go with Malfoy, okay?” Hermione said, raising her voice above the others. “You all know how much I care about magical creatures; the elf will be in good hands with me.
Neville… Please, this is our only chance…”

Neville shook his head several times before lowering his gaze in surrender.
“Alright, alright… But be careful not to get caught, clear?”

 

Hermione and Draco walked the corridors of the fourth floor, confident steps and eyes alert to every movement.
The girl kept repeating to herself the password Neville had just told them, knowing that if they got it wrong, the alarm would trigger and the whole Ministry would be after them within two minutes.

“Granger, could you stop making all that noise? You sound like the bloody Sorting Hat…” Draco whispered, throwing her a sideways glance.
“Sorry…” she said, nervously rubbing her hands.

At the large infirmary door, Hermione approached, trying to muster all her confidence.
“ Pro magnitudine Godric, ” she whispered, and the large glass entrance opened, revealing a row of identical white beds.
“Bloody Gryffindors…” Draco muttered under his breath, pushing past Hermione with little grace.

Once inside, the blonde’s nose was hit by the smell of medicines and potions that made him nauseous; the infirmary was pristine white, with several cabinets full of books on magical creature care and management along the walls, and the cold light made the room feel chilly and impersonal.
At the last bed, at the far end, lay the creature they were looking for: a small elf, still quite young, wearing a white coat and bandages wrapped around her tiny hands.

“ Bingo !” Draco exclaimed, striding quickly to the bed with Hermione following close behind, trying to stop him from doing something stupid.

“Who are you?”
A voice behind them made their blood run cold, and turning around, they faced a boy slightly younger than them, blond hair and freckles sprinkled across his face, wand held loosely in his trembling right hand.

“We’re… friends of Neville!” Hermione said gently. “He sent us… We were looking for a book on the management of… acromantulas…”
Draco looked at Hermione with a mix of questioning and disbelief, but before he could intervene, the boy stepped closer.

“I know who you are. You’re Draco Malfoy! You shouldn’t be here, security… Security intruders on this level…”
“ Stupeficium !”
The spell that flew from Draco’s wand instantly knocked the young scholar down, sprawled awkwardly on the floor.

“Malfoy! What have you done???” Hermione yelled, rushing over to check if the boy was okay.
“Calm down, Gryffindor… A simple stupefy has never killed anyone. Now, if you don’t mind, we have work to do…”

Hermione stood up, struggling to contain the rage rising inside her; she shoved past Draco and headed to the little elf who had meanwhile hidden behind a pillow, trembling.
Draco followed, clearly irritated, and arriving at the bed, snatched the pillow from the creature’s tiny arms, locking eyes with the elf.

“Listen carefully, creature… We know you witnessed your master’s murder, so now we need you to tell us exactly everything you saw, clear?”
The little creature shrugged, thin ears folded back, and large black tear-filled eyes.

“Tippy is very sad for her master, but Tippy didn’t see anything… Tippy is very confused…”
“Tippy will end up badly if she doesn’t answer the question…” Draco hissed, drawing his wand and pointing it at the elf’s face.

“Auror Malfoy, may I say a word?” Hermione said coldly.
Draco snorted loudly, stepping back from the bed to join Hermione a few steps away.

“Can I understand what the hell you’re trying to do, Malfoy?”
“I don’t follow, Granger… Don’t you see I’m trying to interrogate her?”
“Interrogate her? For Godric’s sake, you’re terrifying her…” Hermione growled.
“Terrifying her? Oh, sorry, elf champion , I didn’t realize we were here to make her feel comfortable, I thought we had a bloody mission… But please, Dr. Granger, enlighten me with your secret techniques…” 

Saying this, Draco made way for Hermione with an ironic bow as she shrugged and passed him.

Hermione returned to the bedside and, sitting down, handed the pillow back to the elf who clutched it to her chest.
“You’re Tippy, aren’t you? I’m Hermione, Hermione Granger… Auror Malfoy and I are here to find out who hurt your master. I’m sure you loved Cormac very much, right, Tippy?”

The elf cautiously approached Hermione, almost studying her.
“Tippy loved master Cormac very much, Tippy has been with him since he was very small…”
“Of course, of course you loved him, Tippy! Maybe… maybe you’d like to tell us what you saw? So we can find the culprit?”

The elf pulled her big ears over her face and burst into sobs. 

Draco sighed loudly, earning a sharp glare from Hermione.
“See, Granger, all fucking useless!”

Suddenly, the elf released her ears and, wiping tears with her coat, began to speak much to Draco’s astonishment.
Could the Mudblood really have succeeded where he had failed?

“Tippy was working upstairs when she heard glass breaking in the living room where master Cormac was left; Tippy ran downstairs but when she arrived, it was too late. Master Cormac was already there, lying on the floor. Tippy tried to help but…”
The elf started rocking back and forth, and Hermione reached out to stroke her bald head.

“Tippy, it’s not your fault… But please, concentrate… Did you see or hear anything else?”
“A figure in a cloak, Tippy saw it jump out the window… And then a phrase, said by master Cormac. He said, ‘ You… What are you doing here ?’ and then that awful noise…”

“ What are you doing here …” Hermione repeated, her mind already racing to find possible connections.

“Granger, we have to go. The boy is waking up…” Draco said, bringing Hermione back to reality.
She quickly got up but was stopped by the elf who put her tiny hand on Hermione’s arm.

“Miss Hermione, will you find who hurt master Cormac?”
“Yes, Tippy, I promise.”

With that, Hermione joined Draco, who was already casting an Obliviate on the young boy lying on the floor.

“Don’t look at me like that, Granger…” Draco said annoyed. “Did you really think I’d risk our mission?”
“No, Malfoy… At this point, I don’t even know what to think of you anymore…” Hermione replied, passing him and exiting the room.

 

As they walked down the corridors of Level Two, heading towards Classroom A, Draco felt Hermione’s eyes on him, studying him like a lab rat.
At one point, fed up with the situation, he stopped and looked her straight in the eyes, a sharp grimace on his face.
“Got something to say, Granger?”
Caught off guard, the girl stumbled over his feet for a moment, then recovered and sighed, studying the Blonde.
“If I asked you a question, would you answer?”
“Do I have any other choice?” he asked, rolling his eyes.
Seeing she looked a little hurt, he gestured for her to go on.
“I couldn’t help but notice that you and Neville seem pretty close... and I wanted to know…”
“You want to know since when an ex-Death Eater and a Gryffindor can talk without trying to kill each other, right?” he replied sarcastically, starting to walk again.
Feeling suddenly stupid, Hermione followed him silently.
For the first time, Draco spoke in a calm, sincere tone, without sarcasm.
“When we got into the Academy, Theo and I didn’t have it easy; I mean, we were carrying the weight of being... well, you know.
Longbottom was kind to us, despite everything. And over time, we became friends—if you can call it that. All things considered, he’s alright... for a Gryffindor.”
Draco smiled, remembering the time he and Neville got kicked out of their poker club for using enchanted cards, but immediately turned serious when he noticed Hermione staring at him.
“Was that a smile, Malfoy?” she teased, then whispered, “I’m sorry it wasn’t easy for you in the beginning…”
“Please, Granger, I couldn’t care less about your sympathy,” he said sarcastically. “And you and Blaise? I noticed quite a... closeness,” he added, trying to mask the irritation in his voice; the loss of his friend was a raw, painful wound.
“Me and Blaise? Oh God, no! There’s nothing between us. He’s very nice and… not nice, I didn’t mean nice…”
“Hey, relax, Gryffindor… I meant how you two got closer… For God’s sake, I know the only one who can get into your bed is that loser Weasley.”
Hermione’s hand suddenly darted to the bruises on her arm when she heard Ron’s name—fast enough for Draco to notice.
Looking at her with a questioning glance, Draco wondered silently if he should warn the Mudblood what kind of man she was dealing with.
But, after all, that wasn’t his business.
“Oh... right... Well, Blaise got closer to us, I think, during our last year. He’s really nice and helpful, it was easy to become friends with him… but I guess you know that… although lately, I’ve seen you two a bit distant, maybe?” Hermione ventured, then realized she might have pushed too far.
Draco’s face stiffened; the conversation was getting deeper than he wanted.
“I guess you’ll have to ask your friend Blaise about that, Granger,” he said sharply, ending the topic.
The two walked side by side in silence, both lost in their thoughts until they reached Classroom A, Draco’s watch showing 6:42.
It was early, but not too early for what he intended.
“Granger, I have something to do. Tell Thompson I’ll be back in an hour,” and with that, he vanished.
The girl could only stare at the empty spot where Malfoy had been seconds before, thoughtful.
Then, shaking her head, she opened the door to Classroom A and stepped inside.

Climbing the gray, foul-smelling stairs, Draco felt his legs weaken with each step.
He knew what he had to do, and he knew he wouldn’t face any obstacles, but still, he couldn’t calm down, his heart pounding in his throat.
Crossing the long stone corridor lit by small windows, he stopped in front of a large bronze gate, a gold plaque hanging on it:
“Azkaban – Dangerous Prisoners Section”
Malfoy couldn’t help but notice how much the place had changed since the war ended: where once stood rotten wooden torches, now there were neon lights; the Dementors were gone, and even the cells, once damp and dark, were now white, with real beds, toilets, and doors instead of bars.
A big change, he had to admit.
Taking a deep breath, Draco knocked on the large door, and behind it came a croaky woman’s voice.
“State your name, please.”
“Auror Draco Malfoy, badge 09483.”
“Purpose of your visit?”
“Meeting with the prisoner Lucius Malfoy.”
And hearing his father’s name, Draco felt a shiver of terror run through his body.

Chapter 9: VIII

As he made his way toward cell 75 at the end of the corridor, Draco tried to summon in his mind the last time he had seen his father. But the memory felt distant, blurred—almost as if it belonged to another life, another version of himself.

The last time he had laid eyes on Malfoy Senior had been three years prior, during the trials that followed the end of the war. Even then, despite being offered the chance to cooperate in exchange for a reduced sentence, Lucius had remained steadfast. He had refused to take a single step back, clinging to the very ideals that had led him there.

Draco could still remember the look of disappointment in his father's eyes when he found out his son had chosen to accept the offer of those he still considered enemies.

Collaborate with the Ministry?
Become one of them?
There was no greater disgrace for Lucius Malfoy’s son.

And so, from that moment on, they had cut all ties. The only letter Draco had ever sent him was to inform him—two years ago—of Narcissa’s illness.
A letter Lucius had never even bothered to answer.

So Draco moved on. He shut the door on his past, focusing on the future—on the family business, on work.
But more than anything, on his mother.

Narcissa’s illness had struck him like a blow to the chest, especially because no one seemed to understand what was happening to her.
Some Healers spoke of dragon pox, others of a blood curse, and still others of a Muggle disease with no known cure.

The truth was, whatever had befallen her two years earlier, the woman was now a mere shadow of herself—confined to a sterile room at St Mungo’s, alone.
Draco had paid the clinic handsomely to ensure she received the best care and most attentive treatment, but he knew—deep down—that it wasn’t enough.

What his mother missed were the simple things: walking through Diagon Alley, sipping tea under the open sky, sitting in the rose garden at the Manor.
And those… even Draco couldn’t buy.

So, despite how much it pained him to see her in that condition, he used every free moment to visit her. He would sit beside her in that comfortable yet sterile hospital room, sometimes for hours.

And he would talk to her.

He spoke of his work, because he knew how proud it made her.
He told her about Theo and Pansy’s constant bickering, because he knew it made her laugh.
He even spoke about the MudBlood and about how much he hated working with her. 

But most of all, he talked about the future—about what they would do once she was out of the hospital, the places he would take her.

A future Draco knew, deep down, she would likely never see.

Trying to push away the suffocating thoughts and the weight pressing on his chest, Draco looked up—and, to his surprise, realized he had already arrived.

Cell 75 stood before him.

The large white iron door seemed to beckon him forward, and the Slytherin had to summon all his courage not to turn back and flee from that cursed place.

With a deep breath, he placed his right palm on the cold, polished surface of the door and whispered the password under his breath.

A metallic click—sharp and unpleasant—echoed from the heavy lock, and before he could even register what was happening, the door swung open, revealing the cell inside.

The room was white—completely, disturbingly white.
No windows.
No paintings.
No color.
Nothing.

In one corner, a narrow iron bed with a thin mattress and a blanket. In another, a toilet and sink.
And along the back wall, a small table with a single chair.

Seated there, hunched over and with his back turned, was a man scribbling something onto a piece of parchment.

Lucius Abraxas Malfoy.

Though the man now appeared almost harmless—reduced to half the figure the Death Eater had once been—Draco still couldn’t suppress a shiver. His father’s presence radiated a malice that put him deeply on edge.

“Father…” he managed to whisper.

At the sound of that voice—of that word, long forgotten during his endless days in solitary confinement—Lucius raised his shoulders slightly, set down the quill, and turned toward Draco. He made no move to stand.

The icy blue eyes of the elder Malfoy met his son’s, and a flicker of surprise crossed his face. His features shifted into a slightly tilted, questioning expression.

Draco couldn’t help but notice how prison had marked him.
His once-blond hair had begun to grey, and his formerly imposing figure now seemed fragile, diminished.

The boy even allowed himself a fleeting moment of pity—until he caught the barely veiled hatred in those pale irises. Then he was reminded, with crystal clarity, of exactly who he was facing: Voldemort’s right hand, a Death Eater, a killer.

Struggling to contain the tension in his shoulders, Draco dragged a chair over and sat down across from his father, crossing one leg over the other in a gesture of confidence.

“Please, make yourself at home, Draco…” Lucius muttered with clear disdain, eyes locked on him.

Draco didn’t reply. He merely reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a small notepad.

“Tell me, my son, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Lucius asked with a sneer. “Is this a social call? Pity I wasn’t warned—I would have tried to look a bit more… presentable .”

“I see that years in Azkaban haven’t dulled your wit, Father,” Draco said coldly.

“Oh, come now. Allow me a little humor…” Lucius said with mock lightness. “I thought I’d never lay eyes on my beloved son again—and yet here you are. Immaculate. Polished.”

“There seems to be a rather accusatory tone in your voice, Father… Just like the last time we spoke. I had hoped these years might offer you some time to reflect.”

“How dare you lecture me about reflection?” Lucius growled. “Have you forgotten everything I did for you? Everything I made you into? Have you forgotten our ambitions, Draco?”

“ Your ambitions, Father…I followed you blindly, like a dog follows its master just to find his way…” Draco spat, no longer able to hold back the rage.

“I gave you power—”

“You branded me!” Draco shouted, yanking up his sleeve to reveal the Dark Mark etched into his pale skin—the permanent stain of his mistakes.

“I was sixteen, for Salazar’s sake! A bloody child! And you asked me to kill. To torture. For your cursed cause—for your damned hunger for glory.”

“I had an ideal, damn you!”

“And look where that ideal got you, Father! Just look around!”
Draco leapt to his feet and kicked the chair across the room. It crashed into the door with a deafening clang that rang in his ears like a bell.

All the hatred and resentment he had buried for years now surged to the surface like a black tide, crashing over Lucius with unrelenting force.

“Do you have any idea how hard it was? The trials, the bloody lawyers… They stripped us of every last Galleon. And then Mum… she needed you. I needed you. I needed a father—not a damn Death Eater!”

Draco turned to the wall, running a hand through his hair, breath ragged, fighting back the tears burning at the corners of his eyes.

He would not cry. Not here. Not in front of him .

Steadying himself, he turned back and sat down again. Lucius was watching him silently, arms crossed.

Draco had hoped his outburst might have moved something in him—sparked some shred of emotion.
But he knew all too well: for Lucius Malfoy, only two things ever mattered.
Honor. And power.

Everything else had no place in his life. Or in his heart.

“I won’t waste your time, Father,” Draco said coldly, pulling three photographs from his notepad and sliding them across the table.
“These are the reason I’m here.”

Lucius glanced at them without touching them: Bole, Baddock, McLaggen.
Three names, three faces—three corpses.

“Three murders. No leads. No motive,” Draco continued. “But we know two of them were known associates of former Slytherins, and the third… well, the third had his hands in all sorts of filth—prostitution, potion smuggling, Muggle drugs. Crimes that, as you surely know, now run rampant in the ranks of the Dark Lord’s loyal remnants.”

Lucius said nothing, his face unreadable.

“That’s why I’m here,” Draco added, leaning forward. “Because if someone’s targeting purebloods… people connected to the old regime… then this might not be random.”

“I don’t follow,” Lucius replied vaguely, casting a sidelong glance at the photos.

“Oh, please, Father…” Draco scoffed. “Don’t insult my intelligence. I know perfectly well that nothing happens in Knockturn Alley without you hearing about it. Just as I know about Goyle senior’s regular visits to this cell.”

Lucius raised an eyebrow, but did not interrupt.

“You’re informed, even in here. You always have been. So don’t pretend that these deaths haven’t made their rounds in pureblood circles—that no one’s talking. I’m not buying it.”

Lucius gave a cold, thin-lipped smile.
“A Malfoy remains a Malfoy, even behind bars. That’s a lesson you should never forget.
But I still don’t see what you want from me. What are you hoping to get?”

“Something. Anything,” Draco said bluntly. “The Auror team is fumbling in the dark, and Thompson wants a lead. If you won’t help me, then do it for your old friends. If this killer is choosing his targets for a reason—if he’s moving through the world of the Ancient Families—then none of them are safe “ He hesitated “Maybe I’m not safe either.”

Silence.
Lucius’s eyes dropped, his expression unreadable—thoughtful, even.

Draco waited.

Nothing.

He exhaled sharply, shrugged, and stood up.
“Useless. Bloody useless, ” he muttered, pulling on his coat, pushing the chair aside and walking toward the cell door, ready to leave that sterile white hell behind.

But then—

“Go speak to Borgin, at Borgin&Burkes.”

Lucius’s voice cut through the silence like a blade.

“If he asks who sent you… I never said anything,” Lucius added with a sly smile.

“Of course,” Draco replied flatly, turning halfway back.

“Draco…Everything I ever did—I did for you.”

“ I wish I could believe that ,” he whispered—more to himself than to his father.

And with that, he turned and slammed the heavy door shut behind him, footsteps echoing down the corridor as he strode away from the cell—and from Lucius Malfoy.

 

"Wait for Me in the Classroom"

"Where are you going, Theo? Thompson’s already furious over last night’s little scene—it’s not smart to keep him waiting. Even if he is ridiculously sexy when he’s riled up..."
Pansy and Theodore had just stepped out of the second-level lift, still groggy, and were heading toward their office.
After Hermione and Draco had disappeared down the Ministry corridors toward the infirmary, the two Slytherins had taken the opportunity to chat with Neville until duty had called them back to base.
Thompson had summoned everyone for a meeting at 7:30 a.m., and although Pansy’s favorite pastime was pushing his buttons, she knew their boss was walking a dangerous tightrope.
After the third murder, with the team still groping in the dark, the magical press was breathing down his neck, and Shacklebolt wanted answers—answers James didn’t have, that none of them had.
This was definitely not the time to screw around.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes…”
“Theodore…”
“Pansy… ten minutes, okay?” said the Slytherin in his usual boyish tone.
She shrugged and headed toward Classroom A.

Left alone, Theo glanced around to make sure no one was watching. Running a hand through his still-tousled curls from the night before, he walked briskly to the first office down the hall.
When he reached the door, he flung it open with a wicked smile—
Only to have it vanish the moment he realized the room was empty.

Shit. How was that possible? It was already 7:22... She should definitely have been there by now…

“Looking for someone, Mr. Nott?”

A voice behind him made him jump and turn, startled.
“Elisabeth... What the f—” he blurted, then quickly recovered his usual sly grin.
“Actually, yes, my dear. .. I was looking for you ...” he said, leaning against the doorframe and blocking her way in.

“You know, I was wondering why a beauty like you would deprive the world of her presence last night at the Gala. Needless to say, I searched... intensely .”
“I’m flattered, Mr. Nott,” Elisabeth teased. “Though I heard you made quite the conquest overseas... France , was it? Doesn’t sound like your search was that intense...”

She brushed past him indifferently, heading to her desk.
Salazar, how her stubbornness and sharp tongue turned him on.
Elisabeth Belamy was his forbidden fruit—the only woman who’d dared resist him. 

The only one who, in all these years, had never fallen for his charm.
Theo couldn’t explain why, but even though he could have any witch in the magical world, he always found himself back in that office, in front of that blonde, begging for a scrap of her attention like a lovesick puppy.

As the secretary took off her coat and began pulling folders from her bag, Theo’s eyes traveled over every inch of her body, slow and deliberate.
She wore a crisp white blouse that hinted at a lace bra beneath, and a pair of high-waisted trousers that hugged her firm backside.

“You wound me, Elisabeth…” Theo murmured, pretending to be hurt.
Detaching from the door, he slithered toward her slowly, like a snake stalking its prey.
“I can’t help but wonder what kind of man you think I am… what opinion you've formed of me... What goes on in that pretty little head of yours, Elisabeth Belamy?”

He whispered the last part just an inch from her face, gently brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her warm skin.
A shiver ran down Elisabeth’s spine. She quickly stepped back, retreating to the small table with the coffee machine.

“I don’t have any opinion of you, Mr. Nott...” she said, pouring steaming brown liquid into her mug and walking back to him.
“Absolutely none.”
“Then go out with me!” Theo cut in, stepping in front of her and towering over her by a good six inches “Just one date, Elisabeth. Nothing more.”

She shook her head, brushing past him to place the mug on her desk.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mr. Nott...”
“Mr. Nott, Mr. Nott… please, call me Theodore. Is it my looks? Is it because we work together? For Salazar’s sake, Elisabeth, it’s been two years. I don’t get it, I really don’t—”
“It’s not your looks, Mr. Nott...”
“Theodore,” he corrected firmly. She rolled her eyes.
“It’s not your looks, Theodore ,” she sighed. “It’s… your reputation .”

She placed the folders on her desk and looked him straight in the eyes while he frowned in confusion.
“You’re attractive, funny, charming… But I don’t want to be yet another girl you sneak into the White Hole’s bathroom, you understand?”
“Elisabeth, come on, it’s not what you think…” he said defensively.

“No, Theodore, it is ,” she interrupted. “And that’s fine, really. Just… not for me. I’m looking for something else, I need something else. Not another one-night notch on your wand…”

Seeing the disappointment in his expression, she added, “We can be friends, if you’d like.”
“Friends…” he echoed, clearly unconvinced.
“Yes, Theodore Nott… friends.”
She offered him a soft smile and sat down at her desk.

“I think Thompson’s waiting for you…”

Theo shook his head, cast one last look her way, and headed for the door.
Before stepping out, he turned once more.
“If you ever change your mind…”
“Have a good day, Mr. Nott .”

“I’d really like to know what the hell went through your mind, Malfoy, when you stupefy a goddamn scientist into the Ministry wall! How? HOW , for fuck’s sake!”

The day had started exactly like the previous one.
Everyone seated around the table, rain tapping persistently against the windows, and Thompson— furious Thompson—yelling at them once again.

“Less than twenty-four hours, Draco. Less than a fucking day and we’re already back at it. How many warnings do you need before you realize we’re not at bloody Hogwarts anymore? Want to get yourself fired? Lose your job?”
“What was I supposed to do, boss? Sit there while you and Kowalsky wasted precious time arguing?”
“You were supposed to obey a fucking order !” James roared, slamming his fist on the desk.

Draco clicked his tongue, tempted to snap back, but wisely kept his mouth shut.
He knew he was in no position to argue.

“And you, Nott…”
Thompson turned his bloodshot eyes on Theo, who tried to shrink into his seat with no success.
“Two hours. You vanished for two fucking hours . You do realize you’re an Auror, don’t you? You have responsibilities ! You’re not some hormone-riddled teenager anymore!”

“Boss…” Blaise interjected meekly. “If I may… We weren’t on duty last night… And Draco’s idea—”
“Malfoy’s idea was mine , Captain Thompson,” Hermione cut in, immediately regretting it and silently cursing herself.

“I was the one who convinced Neville to let us into the infirmary…”
“Hermione, what the fuck—”
She shot Harry a death glare, and he immediately fell silent, raising his hands in surrender.

“Auror Malfoy and I thought it was imperative to question the witness right away, and in fact—”
“Dr. Granger…”
“Please, Captain, let me finish… Our instincts were correct. Tippy told us something very important—she distinctly heard Cormac say ‘You… what are you doing here?’ before being killed. Which means—”

“It means Cormac knew his killer!” Pansy exclaimed.
“Exactly! And if it really was the same person who murdered Bole and Baddock, then we can narrow it down. We need to focus on someone who had reason to know all three of them!”

“Someone from Hogwarts… A student?” Harry asked.
“A student, or someone who was at school with them…”
“You realize how many people have gone to Hogwarts over the years? That’s like finding a needle in a haystack,” Theo muttered.

“We don’t need just anyone who went to Hogwarts,” Draco said seriously, rising to his feet and moving to the whiteboard.
Grabbing a marker, he scribbled down dates beneath the three photos:

Malcolm Baddock: 1994–1998
Lucian Bole: 1988–1995
Cormac McLaggen: 1990–1997

“We’re looking for someone who attended Hogwarts between 1995 and 1998,” he concluded, turning back to the others. Thompson now watched him in silence, arms crossed.

“It’s still a lot of people…” Harry said.
“But it’s a start,” Hermione replied.

“And in the meantime? What do we do? Sit around hoping we’re on the right track?”
“Not exactly, Potter. Boss, if I may,” Theo spoke up, eager to redeem himself.
“Auror Burke informed me that his team has finished cataloging all the evidence. I think it would be useful to revisit the crime scenes—maybe we missed something.”

“Very well. Looks like your brains are finally kicking in.
Parkinson, Nott, Potter—you’ll handle the crime scenes. I want every photo , every object reviewed. Look for connections.

Zabini, Granger, Malfoy—you’re going to Hogwarts. I’ll speak with the Minister and Headmistress McGonagall myself. Find the student records from the years we need and bring them here. Start going through them.
In two days, I want a full report on my desk. Understood?”

The team nodded, though Hermione couldn’t help but shiver again at the sound of her name being paired with Malfoy’s .

“If there’s nothing else—”
“Captain… If I may…” Hermione cut in, a bit nervous. “Given the recent issues with magical communications, I’d like to propose a solution.”

She placed her briefcase on the desk, opened it, and pulled out six small black boxes, placing one in front of each of her teammates.
Draco, Pansy, and Theo looked at the strange objects as if they might explode, while Harry stifled a laugh.

“You think this is funny, Potter?” Draco growled. “I take it you’ve seen these before—must be one of your little Muggle friend’s toys.”
“Hermione, darling , what… What is this supposed to be?” Theo asked, tapping it with his wand.

“This is a cell phone . It’s very common in the Muggle world—it lets you contact people, like a Patronus or an owl, only faster.”

“A…cell…what?” Pansy asked. “No offense, Granger, but I don’t think I need these Muggle contraptions—”

“Let me show you.”
Hermione flipped open one of the phones with a click, revealing the keypad.

“I created a phone number for each of you. This way, when we need to reach each other, we’ll know how. The numbers are saved here...” She held up the contact list. “Blaise and Harry already know how to use them, they can help the rest of you.”

“It’s a good idea, Granger.”
“A good idea? Are you mad, boss? These are Muggle things, we don’t need them, we have—”
“Magic, Malfoy? Shall I remind you that last night, you failed to contact Nott?”

“But this is—”
“If you want to blame someone, blame him. The phones stay. End of discussion. Now get back to work. I want results in two days.”

With that, Thompson slammed the door, leaving the team to their confusion—and their mission.

 

“Granger.”

Malfoy’s cold voice snapped her out of her thoughts.

Hermione, alone now in the empty Classroom A, had taken a few minutes for herself. She sat cross-legged on the large desk facing the chalkboard, eyes fixed on the photos of the three victims.

For the first time since the investigation began, the team actually had something to work with.
It wasn’t much, and the path ahead would be hard—but to Hermione, it finally felt like the fog was beginning to lift, like a thread had been revealed, waiting to be followed.

“Granger…”
“Malfoy! You scared me,” she said, quickly sliding off the desk and smoothing down her black suit with a sigh.
Being alone in a room with Draco always made her uneasy.

“About earlier—”
“Malfoy, you don’t have to thank me for telling Thompson it was my idea to question Tippy. I didn’t agree with you at the time, but I’ll admit you were right—we did manage to uncover something.”

“You… you don’t get it, Granger.”
Draco took a step closer, a mocking little laugh escaping his lips.

Now they stood face to face. He towered over her by several inches, those icy blue eyes burning into hers with sharp disdain and biting sarcasm.

“I wasn’t thanking you, Granger. Not at all. What I was trying to say—before you interrupted me, as usual—is that I don’t ever want to see you take my side again.”

Hermione recoiled, as if the words had physically struck her. Draco stepped in even closer, his mouth now inches from her face, his warm breath brushing the shell of her ear.

“I was just trying to help…”
“Help? Right…” he scoffed “Listen carefully. I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but I’m not Pansy, or Theo, or Blaise. Your little goody-two-shoes act doesn’t work on me.
Your Muggle trinkets, your color-coded folders, your bloody compulsive need to fix everyone—it doesn’t work on me, Granger.
I don’t need some bleeding-heart Gryffindor rushing in to defend me.
I don’t need anyone to defend me. Is that clear?”

Hermione stepped back, stunned—hurt giving way to fury. 

Her amber eyes were glowing now, fiery with restrained rage.

“You… you… You’re such a bloody bastard, Malfoy…” she hissed, trying to storm past him.

But Draco caught her by the chin, tilting her face up toward his.
His touch was light—gentle, even—but it burned on her skin like molten fire.

Hermione could see the veins in his forearm under pale skin, the faint tension of muscle beneath his shirt, a hint of blonde stubble shadowing his sharp jawline.
And his eyes—icy, yes, but also dark, impossibly dark.

“Careful how you speak, Gryffindor,” he murmured, voice low and dangerous “Or I might not be so gentle next time…”

His finger lingered a moment too long along the curve of her jaw, tracing the edge of her cheek with an almost reverent slowness.
Then, as if something snapped inside him, he pulled away.

Draco gave her one last look—like he was asking himself what the hell he had just done, what the hell she had done to him—
And then, like a storm breaking loose, he turned and vanished from the room.

Chapter 10: IX

“Do you really think you can leave me here, Malfoy?”
No answer.
“Are you planning to ignore me? Oh, brilliant! Very mature…”
As Draco strode quickly toward the lift, Hermione’s commanding voice echoed down the corridor, the sharp click of her heels striking the marble floor with each determined step.

He had hoped he’d shaken her off. Hoped she would retreat to her office to lick her wounds and sob on Potter’s shoulder after their rather unpleasant exchange just minutes earlier.
But unfortunately for him, exactly one second after he’d walked out of Classroom A, Hermione had chased after him like a tempest, and now she was hot on his heels, her voice loud enough to carry all the way to the street.

Draco knew running or trying to shake her off was pointless. It wouldn’t work. 

So, with a heavy sigh, he stopped abruptly and turned to face her, hands planted firmly on his hips, his expression far from friendly.
“Do you intend to make the entire bloody Ministry hear you, Granger?”
“Oh, I’m sorry if my voice is disturbing your peace,” she snapped sarcastically. “But maybe if you hadn’t decided to act like a child, I wouldn’t have had to chase you down this damned hallway!”
She caught up to him, stopping less than half a metre away.

“Listen, Malfoy,” she began, eyes locked on his, her tone steely. “I don’t care what you think of me, got it? I don’t care if you see me as a burden or if your little bully tantrums are meant to put me in my place. In fact, rest assured you won’t hear another word of support from me ever again. But regardless…”
“Good! Thank Salazar for that!” he shouted, cutting her off.
“ Regardless …” she repeated, her irritation flaring, “Thompson assigned us a job, in case you’ve forgotten. So whether you like it or not, you and I have to work together. Period .”

She punctuated that last word with a confidence she hadn’t even known she had. Adrenaline surged through her like wildfire. Stepping closer, she jabbed her finger toward him, pointed and defiant.
“I don’t care that you’re a pompous tyrant, Draco Malfoy. I’m going to finish this mission—with or without your help.”

“Oh, look who brought out the claws. Doctor Granger,” he said, closing the gap between them in one step, his furious blue eyes locked on hers. “Careful though… you might hurt yourself.”
“Are you threatening me again, Malfoy? You’re pathetic! You know what? Why don’t you take your precious threats and shove them up your—”
“Is there a problem here?”

Blaise’s stern voice cut through the air like a blade, instantly diffusing the static tension between them. Hermione took a step back, lowering the finger she’d still been pointing at Draco, and turned to face her friend with a reassuring look.

“Don’t worry, Zabini. Your dear friend and I were just having a little chat…” Draco spat bitterly in Blaise’s direction. “Though I didn’t realise he’d become your personal knight, Granger. I’m sure good old Weasley would be thrilled to hear about it…”
“What are you implying, Draco?” Blaise asked, taking a step toward him.

Hermione stepped in between them, placing a hand on Zabini’s arm.
“Blaise, don’t—he’s not worth it…”
“Draco, can I have a word? In private.”

The two Slytherins faced each other at close range, Zabini’s dark eyes boring into Draco’s icy stare.
“As you wish, mate ,” Draco replied coolly.
Then, abruptly, he turned to Hermione.
“I’m heading to Hogwarts this afternoon. Since you’ve made it clear I can’t shake you off, be at The White Wyvern by one o’clock. Not a minute later, Granger, or I’ll leave without you.”

“The pub in Knockturn Alley?” Hermione asked, trying to mask her unease.
“ Scared, Granger ? If you’re not up for it, you can always stay here…”
“One o’clock, Malfoy,” she repeated icily before turning to leave, casting a concerned glance at Blaise. He gently brushed her shoulder, reassuring.

“You two are quite the pair, Zabini. Tell me, have you shagged her yet? I suppose the Weasel wouldn’t mind, given how he spends all his evenings…”
“What?”
Shit.
“What?” Draco repeated, eyes narrowing.

“What did you just say?”
“I didn’t say anything, Zabini…” Draco deflected. “And anyway, weren’t you here to talk? So talk—I’m listening.”

“I came to clear the air, Draco.”
Draco curled his lip into a sarcastic smirk.
“Clear the air? And what exactly do we need to clear up, Blaise? Shall we start with how you abandoned me? Or maybe how you suddenly decided that our group—no, that my company wasn’t good enough for you anymore? Go on then, tell me what the fuck you want to ‘clear up’.”

“Want to hit me, Draco? Want to punch me?” Blaise asked, stepping dangerously close. Draco took a single step back. “Go on then—do it! If that’s what it takes to get this rage out of your system, do it! Hit me!”
“Oh, sure. So you can run crying to Saint Potter—or worse, to the Mudblood.”
“This isn’t about Harry or Hermione, Draco, for fuck’s sake! And it’s not about Pansy or Theo or Marcus either. This is about you and me. I’m not letting this end like last time.”

Draco shook his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips.
“Three years, Blaise. Three fucking years. Not a letter, not a single word. Do you have any idea how betrayed I felt? And now what—what do you expect from me? That I pretend nothing happened? That I forget three fucking years of silence?”

“I’m not asking you to forget those years, Draco… I’m asking you to try and understand me.”
“Oh sure, I’m supposed to understand you! But where the fuck were you when you were supposed to understand me? When you were supposed to understand how my father was controlling me? When my mother—”

He stopped short, the words choking in his throat. He swallowed hard.
“I know about your mother, Draco…”
“You, what? How…? Oh, of course—Pansy. I should’ve known. Bloody witch…”

Draco looked down. The fury had faded from his eyes, replaced now with a quiet sadness that clouded their icy blue.
Blaise approached slowly, almost cautiously, as if afraid the other boy might lash out again. Standing before Draco, he placed a hand gently on his shoulder.

“Don’t blame her, alright? Just… don’t tell her I told you. For Salazar’s sake, she might kill me…”
Draco let out a quiet, reluctant laugh, and Blaise saw it—a crack in the armor. A glimmer of hope.

“I know I fucked up, okay? There’s no reason in the world why you should forgive me. Shit, mate, I was a complete bastard.”
“But if there’s even the smallest chance—if any part of you still thinks of me as your brother—please, listen to that part.
You’ve already lost so much, Draco. Let me earn your forgiveness… let me try.”

“You’re not going to give up, are you?” Draco asked, trying to sound resigned.
“Not a bloody chance.”

 

“ Friends … She said we could be friends. Can you believe it? She turned me down, you get that? Bloody unbelievable…”
Theo was straddling a chair in Classroom A, a cigarette between his lips, the table in front of him buried under crime scene photos. The clock read 11:34.
“And for what? My… reputation. Seriously, do I really have such a terrible reputation?” he added, slapping his palms on the table.

Pansy shot him a murderous glare, her dark eyes practically smoldering.
“Theodore, would you be so kind as to shut that godforsaken mouth of yours for one bloody second? In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m trying to work. Something you should be doing too, by the way!” she snapped, burying her face back in the file she was reading.

“Alright, alright… Merlin, you’re grumpy today…”
Theo lazily picked up one of the black-and-white photos taken the night Bole was murdered.
“I just wish she’d explain what she means by ‘reputation’…”

Pansy slammed McLaggen’s file onto the table with a loud thud. Getting to her feet, she walked over to Theo and plopped down next to him, crossing her legs.
“Alright, Nott, here’s the deal,” she said, glancing at the clock. “You have exactly ten minutes to unpack your little heartbreak. Then we’re going back to work. Got it?”

“Thanks, Pans… I always knew you were one of a kind.”
“ Nine minutes , Theodore Nott.”

“Okay, okay…” he replied, raising his hands in mock surrender and blowing a puff of smoke into the air.
“The thing is… I just don’t get it. Why would she reject me? No one’s ever rejected me, Pansy. No one! ” he groaned, burying his hands into his curly hair.

“Can I be brutally honest with you?”
“Will it hurt my feelings?” he pouted, childishly.

“You’re a slut, Theodore Nott. No—wait. You’re the king of sluts.”
“Thank you…?”

“We all know it. We love you for it. And it’s great, really— if your goal is to shag every rich little bimbo this side of Diagon Alley. But Belamy? She’s a whole different level, darling.
If you want even the tiniest chance with her, you need to prove to her that you’re not the poster boy for magical one-night stands.”

“I’m not sure if that was an insult or a compliment…”
“Does it really matter?” Pansy muttered, lighting a cigarette.

“Look, I’m probably the worst person to give relationship advice. But maybe… I don’t know, buy her flowers? Chocolates? A… cat?”
“A cat ?”

“Merlin help me, I have no idea what these innocent types are into…”

Theo went quiet, thinking, while Pansy returned to her seat and resumed flipping through the files.
“Do you really think I should get her a cat?”

“Who are you buying a cat for, Nott?” asked Blaise, entering the room with a raised eyebrow.

“Don’t ask, Zabini… Just… don’t,” Theo replied, close to despair.

“Alright, mate, whatever. Anyway, I’m looking for Potter. The boss wants us to talk to Lovegood—she’s waiting on autopsy updates.”

“Shouldn’t you be at Hogwarts? With Draco and Granger?” Theo asked.
“Looks like they’ll have to go without me,” Blaise said, and for the first time, there was a hint of concern in his voice.

“ Speaking of Granger …”
The boys turned to Pansy, who seemed hesitant, as if afraid to speak.
“Look, I know it’s not my business and maybe I shouldn’t even care, but… I think Weasley might be… violent. Towards her.”

“Come on, Pansy… Weasley’s no saint, but violent ? Have you seen him?” Theo scoffed.
But the look on Pansy’s face made him swallow his sarcasm.

“What makes you think that, Pansy?” Blaise asked, and Pansy noticed how tight his jaw was, how his fists were clenched.

“At the Gala the other night… she had bruises. Marks around her wrist. And when I asked her about them, she panicked. I felt it, Blaise—something’s going on. She’s hiding something. And I’m pretty sure Weasley is the reason.”

“That’s a serious accusation, Pans… You know that, right?”

“I know, Blaise. But what if I’m right? If he is hurting her… shouldn’t we—shouldn’t we do something?”

Blaise didn’t answer immediately, thinking carefully.
“I’ll talk to Potter, alright? Don’t worry, I won’t mention the Gala. I’ll just… try to figure out if he knows anything. And if it is true…”

“Yeah, Blaise. If it is true… then what the hell are we supposed to do?” Pansy asked, her voice a mix of anger and fear.

“Well, it’s simple…”

The two Slytherins turned to Theo, who had just spoken.

“We make Ron Weasley disappear.”

 

Draco flung open the door to Borgin and Burkes, his expression twisted in disgust.
It had been years since he’d last set foot in that wretched shop, but nothing had changed. The place was still as dingy and dark as ever. Dusty shelves, thick with cobwebs, held magical objects of every kind and origin. The musty stench hanging in the air made the whole place feel even more depressing—suffocating, even.

His eyes swept the room until they landed on the staircase that led to the upper floor. Suddenly, Draco’s mind flooded with memories he had spent years trying to bury in the furthest recesses of his consciousness.
First among them: the day he had taken the Mark.
It had happened right here, in this filthy little den.

He still remembered the faces of the Dark Lord’s followers, the gleam in his aunt’s eyes, the triumphant cries of Goyle Sr.
He remembered his father’s iron grip holding him in place.
He remembered Voldemort’s yellow eyes.
And the searing pain of the wand burning through his flesh.

He remembered the stench of his own scorched skin, the blood running down his arm, and the black ink of the Mark carved into him—forever.
And then… his mother’s tears. Endless, silent tears trailing down Narcissa Malfoy’s terrified face.

Draco clutched his stomach, the memory so vivid it nearly made him gag. He forced himself to breathe.

“Mr. Malfoy… What a pleasant surprise, after all these years.”
The rasping voice came from behind the counter just ahead. Borgin looked even filthier than he remembered, wrapped in a tattered cloak, his teeth yellowed and his hair grayer than Draco had last seen.

“Borgin,” he spat. “It’s Auror Malfoy now.”

“Forgive me, Auror Malfoy… I had heard whispers of your new… occupation . Though I’m afraid not all of them were exactly flattering…”

Draco pulled out his wand, aiming it straight at the merchant’s face. Borgin flinched and recoiled into his robes, trembling.

“Watch your mouth, old man. I’m still a Malfoy.”

“No offense intended, Auror Malfoy. You know how it is… In certain circles, old pure-blood ideals die hard.
But tell me, how can I assist you today? Perhaps looking for a poison? Or maybe a rare, cursed artifact? Quite a few of your colleagues find my wares… fascinating.”

Draco chose to ignore that last bit. 

He knew—regretfully—that despite the Ministry’s post-war cleansing, there were still some within its ranks who didn’t shy away from dark magic.
But that wasn’t his problem. Not today.

“I’m here for information, Borgin… and, lucky for you , word has it you might actually be useful for once.”

He tossed a stack of crime scene photographs onto the counter—Baddock, Bole, McLaggen.
“Ring any bells?”

“Every bit of information comes with a price, Auror Malfoy…” Borgin said, extending a slimy hand.

“You bastard son of a bitch,” Draco muttered, flinging a handful of Galleons in his direction. “Talk.”

“Well now… Some months ago, I was visited by a rather peculiar customer. I never saw his face—he wore a heavy cloak—but the voice was clearly male.
He made a rather unusual request… Asked for a rope.
But not just any rope—he wanted one laced with dragon heartstring. Very rare. Almost impossible to find. Took me weeks to track it down.
Its main feature? Completely resistant to spells. Indestructible. No traces, no residue. A perfect weapon.
Then, when poor young Bole’s body was found… I connected the dots. What a tragic end… such a respectable family.”

“Your idea of ‘respectable’ is laughably warped, Borgin. What else?”

The old man tilted his head, clearly waiting. 

Draco rolled his eyes, pulled out another handful of coins, and dropped them into the wrinkled palm.

“You’re playing with fire, old man. Now spill. Everything.”

“The man was young. Likely still a boy. White, English, very well spoken… And he clearly wasn’t short on gold. Paid over two thousand Galleons. All at once.”

Draco frowned, sliding the photographs back into his coat pocket.
“Who else have you told about this?”

“No one, Auror Malfoy. Here at Borgin and Burkes, we know exactly where to place our loyalty. I remember a time when you did too…”

“Times change, Borgin. You’re lucky this place is still standing—for now. Thanks for your helpful cooperation. Needless to say, this conversation never happened.”

“Of course… Might I ask one last thing before you go, Mr. Malfoy? That young woman, the one who’s been spying on us from the window for the past ten minutes… is she with you?”

Draco spun around toward the grimy glass, eyes narrowing as he caught the vague outline of a figure lurking behind the curtain.
Turning back to Borgin, his face darkened with fury.

“Still got that back door?”

 

Hermione had been standing by that window for ten minutes now.
Watching Draco speak with Mr. Borgin, her thoughts drifted back to sixth year at Hogwarts.
That had been the first—and only—time she’d ever set foot in Knockturn Alley.
The unease she’d felt back then was the same twisting sensation she felt now.

This place, this shop, this whole damn street... it was all soaked in memories of Voldemort’s rise, Dumbledore’s death, the war… and Draco’s betrayal .
Draco… right. Where the hell had he gone?

She was still squinting through the dirty windowpane, trying to make out the shop’s interior, when she felt the sharp press of a wand tip between her shoulder blades—and a firm hand at her side.

“I could’ve killed you just now, Granger…” a voice whispered against her ear, warm breath making her whole body shiver.

Spinning around, she found herself face to face with Draco, his wand now aimed at her stomach.
“Malfoy, what the—”

Her chest was heaving. She knew she’d been caught.
Knew she was in trouble.

“Were you spying on me?”

“Spying? I—I don’t know what you’re talking about, Malfoy…” she stammered, trying to play dumb.

Draco slowly dragged his wand upward, stopping the tip right at the hollow between her breasts, just visible beneath her blue blouse.

“Don’t bullshit me, Granger… You know I hate being fucked .”
He drew out the last word with venom, and Hermione’s face flushed red with embarrassment.
Draco noticed—and smirked.

He had found the Mudblood’s weak spot. And he fully intended to make her pay for her audacity.

He stepped closer, pressing his palms to the wall behind her, caging her with his arms. 

His breath was hot against her neck, sending a jolt down her spine. His body pinned her to the brick.

“Didn’t they teach you not to eavesdrop, Gryffindor? If we were still at Hogwarts, I’d have had to find… a way to punish you .”

Hermione felt her knees buckle slightly, her breath quickening. She tilted her chin upward to meet Draco’s eyes—dark pools of hunger and something else she couldn’t quite name.
Then, just as suddenly, he pulled away.

The old Draco Malfoy was back, cruel and cold.
Hermione seized the chance to put some distance between them, adjusting her blouse, trying to compose herself.

“What were you doing here? I thought I made myself perfectly clear—”

“I just happened to see you. I wasn’t spying if that’s what you think, Malfoy. And for the record, you’re the one sneaking around dark shops, not me. I have nothing to explain.”

“Unlike you, Granger, I’m actually doing my job.”

“Your job… Sure, Malfoy. Like you were ‘working’ back in sixth year—in the Room of Requirement?”

The moment the words left her lips, Hermione regretted them.
She wanted to swallow them whole.
She wished she had a Time Turner to undo the last five seconds.

But it was too late.

“Malfoy, I didn’t mean—”

He shot her a look of pure ice, and though he said nothing, she could feel the rage simmering beneath his skin.
He turned on his heel and began walking. Hermione followed, head low, guilt heavy in her chest.

He walked fast. She struggled to keep up but didn’t dare speak. Her damn mouth had already done enough damage for one day.

Outside the pub marked The White Wyvern , Draco finally turned to her.
His voice was flat.

“Try not to draw attention to yourself, if that’s even possible.”

And with that, he pushed open the creaking door and disappeared into the darkness within

Chapter 11: X

The White Wyvern was exactly what Hermione had expected: dark, cramped, and grim.
Heavy dark curtains covered the windows, keeping out the pale October sunlight, and the inside was lit only by the flickering candles on small tables and the occasional torch along the walls.
The air was stale, saturated with cigarette and cigar smoke that clung to the furnishings—and to Hermione’s clothes.

She followed Draco as he strode confidently across the room, careful not to meet the eyes of any patrons lest she draw unwanted attention. The Blond, on the other hand, was his usual cocky self—confident steps, the occasional nod to familiar faces.
When he reached the large mahogany bar, he perched on one of the tall stools and gave Hermione a silent look, inviting her to sit.
She sat down stiffly, her black skirt riding up slightly and exposing her pale thigh, making her feel instantly self-conscious. She didn’t dare look around, but she could sense the leering gazes of the few patrons seated at the tables.
A shiver of disgust ran down her spine.

“Draco, it’s been so long! Can I get you anything?”
The warm voice came from a young woman—brunette, just a bit older than Hermione and Draco. Her dark curls framed a round face, and the floral dress she wore clashed horribly with the establishment’s gloomy atmosphere.

She was holding a small child, about three or four years old, with bright green eyes and a small gap between his front teeth.

“Evelyn… how’s our little champ?”
Draco broke into a wide smile, taking the toddler’s chubby hand in his own. The boy clung tighter to his mother and gave Draco a cheeky grin.
Hermione stared at the Slytherin, stunned. 

She hadn’t expected to see Malfoy being affectionate to a child.
Actually, she hadn’t expected to see Malfoy be affectionate at all.

“Thomas Goyle… say hello to Uncle Draco, go on!” the woman said kindly as she set the boy down. 

Once his feet touched the floor, he took the opportunity to dash off—though not before sticking out his tongue at Draco.

Hermione quickly turned to Evelyn, confused.
Goyle. Thomas Goyle… Could it be? No, surely not …

“I didn’t expect to still find you here, Evelyn…” Draco muttered, glancing around with distaste.
“It’s been four years since Gregory’s death. It’s time his family gave you what you’re owed.”
His fists clenched as he spoke, his eyes shadowed with sadness.

“You know how it is, Draco… To the Goyles, Thomas is nothing but a youthful mistake. An inconvenience. And without their help, I’ve got to find my own way to survive.

The pay here’s decent, and Madam Marney treats me kindly enough…”

“But this isn’t a place for you, Eve…” Draco said, gently taking her hand. “And it’s definitely not a place for Thomas. You know Gregory wouldn’t have wanted this.”
“What Gregory would’ve wanted doesn’t seem to matter much anymore, does it, Draco?” Evelyn replied, holding back a lump in her throat.

Draco let out a long sigh.
“I’ll transfer something to your Gringotts account tomorrow.”
“No! You know I can’t accept that!”
“That wasn’t a question, Eve,” he said softly, but firmly.
Evelyn shook her head in resignation, wiping away a lone tear with the corner of her apron.

“Bloody Slytherin… You’ve always been so stubborn,” she said, brushing her hand over his. “Now move over, you haven’t even introduced me to your friend!
Forgive him, dear, he’s terribly rude! I’m Evelyn—Evelyn Baxter. And you are…?”

“Hermione. Hermione Granger!” the Gryffindor replied with a warm smile, extending her hand to meet Evelyn’s.

“Oh… Granger, you’re… I mean… that Hermione Granger? I didn’t know you two were… I mean, I thought after Hogwarts…”

“Oh no, for Godric’s sake, no!” Hermione said quickly, her cheeks turning crimson. “I’m just… I mean, we’re… well…”

“ We’re colleagues , Evelyn. Nothing more than colleagues,” Draco cut in coldly, shooting her a frosty glare.
“Alright then… nothing more than colleagues …” Evelyn echoed with a teasing smirk. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Firewhisky, thanks.”

As Evelyn moved toward the drinks counter, Hermione couldn’t take her eyes off her—her mind whirling with questions.

“You do realise you think loudly, Granger?”
Draco’s voice snapped her back to the present. She turned her brown eyes from Evelyn’s back to his annoyed, bored face.

“I was just thinking… the boy’s name is Thomas Goyle… does that mean he’s… Gregory’s son?” she asked hesitantly.

“Brilliant deduction,” Draco sneered. “Nothing gets past you, does it, Gryffindor?”

“I… I didn’t know Gregory had a girlfriend. Or a child…”

“You lot weren’t the only ones who lost people in the war, Granger,” Draco said coldly.

His words struck her like a slap to the face.

Since the war had ended—since the Order had triumphed and Voldemort had been defeated—all anyone had spoken of were their losses.
There had been ceremonies to honour the fallen, their photos lined the Ministry walls, streets in Diagon Alley bore their names. 

The whole wizarding world knew their heroes—those who had died for the Greater Good.
Everyone knew Fred, Lavender, Tonks, Remus, Sirius…

But what about the other side?
How many lives were lost on that side?
How many Slytherin boys had died in the war?
How many of them had truly had a choice?
How many, like Gregory Goyle, had simply ended up on the wrong side?

It was the first time Hermione had ever considered it, and the first time she felt small—naïve, even.

Draco started speaking again, almost to himself.
“When Gregory died, he and Evelyn had been seeing each other for about six months.
She got pregnant in April 1998.
His family didn’t find out until after the war. I’m sure you can imagine their reaction…”
A bitter smile twisted Draco’s lips.

“And Gregory knew… about his son, I mean?” Hermione asked gently, afraid she might be prying too much, afraid of seeing Draco shut down again.

His gaze was locked on the empty space in front of him, distant and still.
“Yes… yes, he knew. He really loved her, you know? Evelyn.
I told him to run away with her that day. To get out. 

Away from the war. From Voldemort.
But he refused…He didn’t want to leave me and Blaise behind, in that damned Room…”

Hermione immediately knew what he meant.
She still remembered the searing heat of the Fiendfyre licking at her skin.
The panic. The screams.
Goyle falling into the flames.
Draco’s tears.

“Stubborn idiot… If only I’d been more convincing, if only…”

“It wasn’t your fault, Malfoy…” Hermione whispered instinctively—but she didn’t even get to finish the sentence.

Draco whipped his head toward her, his icy blue eyes burning with rage. The sadness from before had vanished, replaced with pure fury.

“Do you think I’m stupid, Granger? Do you think I don’t know Gregory died because of me? I carry the weight of what I’ve been every single day of my life. Every. Bloody. Day .
So go on, hero of the wizarding world—look me in the eye and tell me one of my best friends didn’t burn in that cursed fire because of me … if you’ve got the guts.”

He spat the words in her face, his fist clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white.
Once again, he had transformed—once again, he’d shown her a hidden piece of himself only to snap back into the cold, cynical, cruel Draco Malfoy.

He was like a volcano about to erupt.
Like the calm sea before a storm.
Unstoppable. Unpredictable. Incomprehensible .

“Your Firewhiskies, dears…”
Evelyn placed the two glasses in front of them, and her arrival seemed to soothe the Slytherin’s nerves.
Releasing his fist, Draco picked up the drink and took a slow sip of the amber liquid before turning to Hermione, who was still staring at him in confusion.

“Not drinking, Gryffindor?”

“What? Oh, I… I’m not sure…” Hermione faltered, turning the glass in her hands. “It’s only 1:30 in the afternoon… and technically we’re on duty… I don’t think it’s ethically appropriate…”

“For Salazar’s sake, Granger, do you ever stop being a schoolmarm?” he groaned, rolling his eyes and downing his drink in one gulp. “We’re not at Hogwarts anymore—McGonagall can’t dock you any points…”

Hermione glanced back and forth between Draco and the Firewhisky, then cautiously raised the glass to her lips and took a sip.
A rush of heat bloomed in her chest, her throat began to burn, and she couldn’t help coughing loudly.

“Knew it. Bloody Gryffindor—you’re such a goody-goody…” Draco laughed, making no effort to hide his amusement.

Then his expression sobered, and he called over to Evelyn, who returned quickly.

“I wish this were just a social visit, Eve. But we’ve got a mission to carry out. We need to get to Hogwarts,” he said, almost apologetically.

“No worries, Draco, I know you can’t say more. Follow me—the Floo’s this way.”

 

“Lovegood?”

Harry and Blaise had just entered the autopsy room on the lowest level of the Ministry—a new wing entirely commissioned and built by Shacklebolt, who believed it essential to integrate known magical knowledge with Muggle technological and scientific advancements.
A brilliant move, according to some.
An unforgivable act, according to others.

The large room was very cold, the temperature hovering around 10 degrees Celsius. Several iron beds were scattered about, the walls were green, and there were no windows. Around the room were also various refrigerated cells.
To Blaise, the place was simply creepy.

“I’m here, Zabini, just give me a mo—Oh, Harry, you’re here too!”
Luna Lovegood walked toward the young men, elegantly removing a pair of black latex gloves. She wore a white lab coat, and underneath it, a violet medical uniform with a deep neckline—onto which, much to their dismay, both Aurors’ eyes simultaneously drifted.

Her hair was tied in a long braid, and the Ravenclaw wore a pair of black-rimmed glasses that gave her a rather intellectual—and, judging by the dazed looks on their faces, also sexy—appearance.

“Luna…” Harry greeted her, feeling awkward like a schoolboy on his first day at Hogwarts.
What the hell was wrong with him, for Merlin’s sake?

“Welcome to my kingdom... I imagine it’s a bit overwhelming at first…”

“Yeah, Lovegood… I’d say overwhelming isn’t exactly the right word…” Blaise muttered, glancing around.

“In any case, you’re here on Thompson’s orders, right? He told me you’d be coming,” Luna said, picking up a stack of handwritten papers and placing them on a small table in front of Blaise and Harry, who approached with serious expressions.

“As we suspected, the autopsy on McLaggen’s body unfortunately didn’t reveal anything new... We only know that, as with the other two cases, the cause of death was strangulation and that—at least apparently—no magic was used.
No signs of defense, no abrasions or bruises on the body… However, there is one interesting thing!” she said, turning to retrieve a small glass vial from the table behind her—apparently empty.

“Here it is!” she exclaimed, holding it up.

Harry and Blaise exchanged a confused look, unsure how to respond.

“No offense, Luna… but, well… that vial looks empty to me…” Harry ventured, trying to mask the uncertainty in his voice.

“That’s because you’ve never been a good observer, Harry…” the Ravenclaw teased gently, stepping closer to him and holding the vial up to his eyes.

“Look here—if you focus carefully, you’ll notice a small trace of skin… barely anything, in most people’s opinion, but just enough for a full analysis.
Isn’t it the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”

Luna rested her hand on Harry’s arm and looked him straight in the eyes. Their gazes met, and for a second, locked.
Harry felt a chill stir in his stomach.
Yes, it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
But he wasn’t sure he was talking about the vial.

“Not to interrupt you two…” Blaise cleared his throat, eyeing Harry with a questioning look, “But I still don’t see how this is useful, Lovegood…”

Luna stepped away from Harry and returned to the table with the notes.

“You’re right, I should explain better… The epithelial tissue we found was located under the victim’s fingernail and, if we’re lucky, could belong to the killer.
By analyzing it, we could extract all sorts of data, helping us reconstruct a more precise profile: sex, age, ethnicity… all of which could be very useful!
I’ve already sent the sample to the lab, marked as top priority…”

“That’s amazing, Luna!” said Harry—with a bit too much enthusiasm, earning a sharp glance from Blaise, who remained stoic and rational.

“And how long will that take, exactly?” asked the Slytherin.

“Hard to say, Zabini… at least one, maybe two weeks. These procedures are still completely new in the magical world, and the need for Muggle staff complicates things considerably…”

“I understand… I had hoped for something quicker, but I realize it’s not easy…”

“I’ll keep you updated if anything comes up sooner. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more concrete information…”

“You’ve already done a lot, Luna, really,” Harry smiled at her. “And it was nice seeing you again the other day, even if the circumstances weren’t ideal. After the Battle, we lost touch… I didn’t think I’d get the chance to see you again… and I didn’t know about your interest in… well, um…”

“In the dead, Harry?” she said, laughing. “You can say the word, you know? I won’t faint! In any case, yes, many things have changed… but I suppose the war changed all of us, didn’t it?
And it was nice seeing you again, too, Harry… really… even under these circumstances.”

A silence fell between the two of them—awkward, palpable.

“Well… I should get back to work…”

“Yes, of course… Sorry, Luna… we’ve already kept you long enough. Blaise, shall we?”

“Oh, definitely, Potter… Let’s go,” Blaise said, giving Luna a slight nod and shaking his head in resignation.

The two young men exited the autopsy room, heading toward the large elevator.
As soon as the doors closed, Blaise leaned against the wall of the cabin, staring at Harry with a look that was equal parts smug and sarcastic.

“So?”

“So?” Harry echoed, looking him up and down.

“Are you really going to pretend nothing happened, Potter?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about…”

“Oh, I don’t know… maybe the fact that you and Lovegood were about to conceive a child right in front of me?”

“ What ? I seriously don’t know what you mean, Zabini… Luna’s just a good friend. A good friend I hadn’t seen in a long time…”

“Oh, sure, Potter… a good friend you hadn’t seen in a long time . If you say so…” Blaise replied, looking away and falling silent.

“And in any case…”

“Merlin, I knew it…” the Slytherin said, bursting into laughter.

“In any case, nothing could ever happen between us. We’ve been friends for too long, and besides, she’s also Ginny’s friend and…”

“Harry, for Salazar’s sake, it’s been two years. Two. Years . It’s really time you move on with your life, mate…”

“Yeah…” Harry sighed, walking toward the elevator doors, which had just opened. “That’s what Hermione keeps telling me too…”

“Speaking of Hermione, Harry…”

“Potter! I was just looking for you!”

The sly face of Shacklebolt greeted the two young men as they stepped onto Level Two of the Ministry.

“I hope I’m not interrupting, Harry… May I have a word?”

“Sorry, Blaise… can we finish this later?”

“Sure… sure…”

“Zabini, forgive me, I didn’t see you there…”

“No problem, sir. I was just heading back to the office…” said Blaise, walking away—only to be stopped by the Minister’s voice behind him.

“I hope to see you next week at Hogwarts…”

“Next week, sir?” Blaise asked, surprised.

“The alumni ball, Zabini—had you forgotten?”

Blaise tried his best to hide the lack of enthusiasm he felt at the idea of the event, forcing one of his most fake smiles.

“Of course, sir… I’ll be there.”

 

Pansy walked briskly toward Thompson’s office, the sound of her 12-centimeter heels echoing down the corridor of Headquarters. A spent cigarette dangled between her fingers, and her hips swayed with serpentine grace.

Once at the door, she threw it open without knocking—as usual—and stopped on the threshold.

James stood facing the fireplace, phone pressed to his ear, a glass of brandy in his left hand.

“I already told you I’ll come… there’s really no need to keep asking…”

Silence.

“I’m not angry, okay? Just… you know how I feel about these things,” he said, downing the brandy in one swift gulp and setting the glass on the mantel.

More silence.

“Fine, whatever… I don’t feel like arguing right now. I have to get back to work. Goodbye, Caroline.”

With that, he ended the call and shoved the phone into his pocket with a frustrated gesture.

Exhaling sharply, James rolled up his sleeves, revealing toned arms laced with scars.

Pansy let out a soft sigh, then lit her cigarette with studied indifference.

“Knock knock?” she said sarcastically.

James spun around, his eyes narrowed into slits.

“How many damn times have I told you to knock, Parkinson?” he said, walking slowly toward her.

Once in front of her, he plucked the cigarette from her lips and tossed it to the floor, stamping it out with his military boot.

“And how many damn times have I said there’s no smoking in here?”

“Well, someone’s in a great mood today, James…” she said breezily, brushing past him and heading to his desk.

She sat down on it, crossing one leg seductively over the other.

“I’m here on official business, though I know that surprises you…”

James moved closer, stopping a few steps from her and crossing his arms over his chest with an irritated look.

“Well?”

“The crime scene photos… The ones from McLaggen’s house are unusable. Bad lighting, too many people—total mess. Nott and I were wondering if the house had been reopened already after the murder…”

“No, it’s still under seal.”

“Great. Then if possible, we’d like to do a site inspection. Take some better photos, collect new evidence… assuming you’re okay with that, James .”

“If you think it’ll help…” he replied, sounding more resigned than anything else.

“Perfect!” said Pansy, hopping off the desk and stepping dangerously close to him. “Care to come with me, boss? You know… in case things get dangerous…”

“I’m sure you know how to protect yourself just fine, Parkinson,” he said, rolling his eyes. “And didn’t you say you’d be bringing Nott? Can’t imagine what could possibly go wrong…”

“Alright then… since you’re not a fan of the idea,” she replied, feigning offense.

“Oh— almost forgot . Will you be at the alumni ball? Maybe with this… Caroline ?”

Pansy fought hard to suppress the wave of jealousy surging inside her.

Who the hell was this Caroline?

Why didn’t anyone know anything about her?

Why didn’t she know anything?

“Was that a hint of jealousy I heard in your voice, Parkinson?” said James, a mocking smile playing on his lips.

And as he said the words, the Auror realized that deep down, a small— very small —part of him was enjoying this.

Pansy Parkinson was his nemesis: bold, shamelessly impertinent, disrespectful, spoiled.

Everything he was not.

Everything he didn’t respect.

Everything he had always tried to avoid.

And yet, somewhere deep in his subconscious, something pulled him toward her.

A magnet. An inexplicable force. A dark, irrational desire.

One he should control. One he must not give in to.

At any cost.

“Just so we’re clear,” he said, taking slow, deliberate steps toward her, “my phone calls… are none of your business. Just like my hypothetical relationships are none of your business.”

He stopped right in front of her, towering over her by several inches.

James smelled of tobacco and white musk, and Pansy found herself biting her lip involuntarily, her breathing suddenly quicker…

“And in any case, if it’s really troubling you…” he continued, leaning in close to her ear, “I don’t think you’ll have any trouble finding a date for the ball, Parkinson… I’m sure plenty of men would do anything to have you all to themselves,” he whispered into her neck—his voice almost angry.

As if he wanted to kill those men.

As if the very idea of someone else possessing her body was utterly unbearable to him.

A shiver ran down Pansy’s spine, and she struggled to stay composed, despite the way James’s proximity excited her beyond reason.

Their game was dangerous.

Forbidden, wrong, foolish, and dangerous.

But neither of them seemed willing to stop.

Pansy rose onto her toes, placing a hand on his shoulder and locking eyes with him—her gaze fixed on his lips.

“And yet there aren’t many I’d grant that honor, James…”

Hearing his name from Pansy’s full lips sent a jolt through the soldier’s body. Suddenly, he snapped out of it, as if burned.

What the hell was he doing?

Why had he let that little snake nearly trap him?

Turning abruptly, James strode to the window and threw it open, letting in the biting October air.

Air. He needed air.

“Well, good for them, Pansy… Makes your choice easier, I suppose.”

She looked at him bitterly—almost disappointed—then turned toward the door.

Before walking out, she shot him a final, angry glance.

“I’ll need a photographer too, sir …”

“It’ll be arranged,” he replied coldly.

Then, just before she stepped out, he added:

“Parkinson… Caroline is my sister. Just so you know.”

A triumphant smile spread across Pansy’s face as she exited the room.

James, however, didn’t see it.

Chapter 12: XI

Hermione carefully brushed the remaining soot from her coat, trying to regain her bearings after the brief journey through the Floo Network. Her stomach was in knots, and her head wouldn’t stop spinning.

Looking up, she took a moment to orient herself, observing her surroundings: an open courtyard, grey brick paving beneath her feet, and the golden autumn sun catching on the nearly bare treetops.

They were standing in Hogwarts’ Central Courtyard.

This place—this Castle—had the uncanny power to evoke the very same emotions in her that little Hermione Granger had felt over ten years ago, when she had first set foot inside the school.

The ancient walls, the stillness of the trees, the Black Lake in the distance… everything felt like home.

Memories began to flood her Gryffindor mind, one after another, each as vivid as a scene etched on celluloid film.
The Sorting Ceremony. Her first meeting with Ron and Harry.
Snape’s dark, oppressive lessons. Her utter inability to ride a broom. Nights lost in the library.
Dormitory whispers, the Yule Ball, Quidditch matches—everything returned in perfect, bittersweet detail.

Her eyes lingered on the towering spires of Hogwarts: the Owlery, Gryffindor Tower, the Clock Tower.

And then that one—the Astronomy Tower—rising high above the rest, solemn and isolated.
The tower where Dumbledore had died. The tower where it had all begun .
That memory too was carved into her bones.

The chaos, the confusion of her classmates. The Death Eaters breaching the walls.
Their flight through the castle with Harry and Ron.

It played before her again, unfiltered, raw.

And woven into those memories, like a shadow from a distant war, was Draco.

His wary glances during seventh year.
His disheveled appearance.
His mind clearly somewhere else.

The hollow eyes, the gaunt and haunted face of those final days.

Instinctively, Hermione turned to look at him—and caught him staring at the very same spot.

What was he thinking about?

What thoughts were twisting in that storm of his?

Was he truly as unreadable as he pretended to be?

She wanted to ask. She wanted to know. But Draco had been right about one thing:
they were colleagues. Nothing more.
And that’s all they would ever be.

“It hasn't changed much, has it?” Draco broke the silence, his voice cool as he continued to look around.
“I know McGonagall made sure the reconstruction kept things exactly as they were. It was a very specific request. I suppose she thought it might help things feel... normal again.”

“Nothing will ever be normal again, Granger.”

Cold. Inevitable. Brutally honest .

Draco turned and started walking across the courtyard, heading for Professor McGonagall’s office on the first floor of the Defence Against the Dark Arts Tower.

After becoming Headmistress, the professor had chosen to keep her former office rather than move into the Headmaster’s suite in the upper towers—a more conventional choice, surely.

Officially, the reason had been practicality: she refused to haul her thousands of books across the castle.

Unofficially—the truth she never voiced aloud—was that she couldn’t bear to set foot in that office.
Not since Dumbledore’s death.
Not since the lights had gone out for the final time.
No one had touched a thing since. The portraits remained exactly where they had always been, silent, waiting for a return that would never come. The clocks had stopped. The books were layered in dust. Heavy black curtains kept out the light.

That place had become a shrine, known by all but visited by none—as if afraid that simply entering it would be a desecration.

That’s why Minerva had stayed where she was.

That’s why she could barely stand to pass the door.

That’s why she’d chosen the more modest space.

And it was to that modest office that Draco and Hermione now made their way.

Reaching the door, Draco paused, eyeing the gold nameplate reading “ Professor Minerva McGonagall ” gleaming against the dark wood.
A smirk tugged at his lips, something equal parts amused and nostalgic.

How many times had he been sent here?

Too many to count.

He, Blaise, Theo, and Gregory had basically been residents of that office, especially in their later years.
They’d been the old Professor’s personal headache, the reason Slytherin bled House Points every week.

He could still feel it—that rush.
The freedom, the recklessness, the twisted thrill of it all.
God, it had been so damn good.

Until it wasn’t.

Until the Triwizard Tournament. When everything changed.
When it became clear to all of them: Voldemort was back.
And with him, their youth, their innocence, their joy—all gone.

Shaking off the darker memories, Draco knocked twice on the door.

McGonagall’s crisp voice called them inside.

The office looked exactly as both of them remembered.
A fire crackled in the stone hearth, the walls lined with hundreds of books in all shapes and sizes. In the center of the room sat the Headmistress’s desk—not just a professor’s desk anymore—with two plush red velvet armchairs placed before it atop a floral-patterned rug.
As soon as they entered, McGonagall stood and greeted them warmly, arms outstretched and a genuine smile on her face.

Minerva McGonagall looked almost exactly the same as she had four years ago.
Only a few white streaks through her dark hair hinted at the passage of time.
She wore her usual elegant black robe, a dark green cloak draped over her shoulders, and her hair swept up in the customary tight bun.

“Hermione, my dear… it’s been far too long. What a joy to see you again. Mr. Malfoy,” she added, turning to Draco and offering her hand.

“Please, call me Draco, Headmistress.”

“Then only if you call me Professor,” she replied, smiling.

“I’m glad to see you both again,” she continued, “though I know your visit isn’t purely social. Kingsley mentioned something briefly…”

“Unfortunately, we can’t say much, Professor,” Hermione replied, trying to keep her voice even. “The investigation is confidential. But we do appreciate your help. It’s always a joy to return to Hogwarts.”

“I’m sure it is, dear. Now then, as per your request, I’ve had all the student records from 1995 to 1998 pulled, sorted by House. I’ve also asked Filch to prepare a list of every staff member employed during those years—it should be ready by this afternoon.

You’ll find all the documents in the Library—I thought the silence might suit your work better.
As for the rest… well, I hope we’ll get the chance to speak more informally over dinner tonight.”

“Dinner, Professor?” Hermione asked, caught off guard.

“Oh yes, dear, in the Great Hall! Word of your arrival spread like wildfire, though no one knows why you’re here, of course. Everyone’s eager to see you!”

“I’m sure Granger will be thrilled to meet all her adoring fans tonight, Professor…” Draco said dryly. “As for me, I don’t think my presence is necessary. I’ll return to the Ministry as soon as possible.”

“The invitation was extended to both of you, Draco,” she said, matter-of-fact. “You’re both my guests, and you’d be surprised to know just how many people are happy to see you again.
I’ve already informed Captain Thompson you’ll be returning tomorrow.

Dinner may run late, and Filch has already prepared your rooms in the Central Tower so you can rest and resume work in the morning.”

“Our rooms? You’re not seriously making us sleep here ,” Draco protested.

“And why not, dear? The Floo Network shuts down at night—for safety. And as you well know, Apparition is forbidden within Hogwarts…”

“But Professor—” Hermione tried, a flicker of panic rising in her throat.

“No ‘buts’, Miss Granger. I insist. Tonight, you’ll dine with me. Tomorrow you may return to your duties. I’m quite certain a night in your old school will do you both some good. After all, Hogwarts is your home too. It’ll be like the good old days, won’t it?”

Draco ran a hand down his face, exasperated.

That bloody woman had cornered them. Again.

Hogwarts is your home too.

It’ll be like the good old days.

Yeah.
Good old days, my ass.

Him.
Stuck overnight at Hogwarts.
In the Central Tower.
With the bloody Mudblood.

What the fuck could possibly go wrong?

 

Hermione was sitting at a table in the Library, a quill in one hand and a sheet full of cross-outs and scribbles in the other.
All around, scattered over the large wooden table, were dozens and dozens of leather-bound folders containing hundreds—if not thousands—of student names, all organized by house, year of enrollment, and student number.
The Gryffindor was sitting sloppily, legs crossed and shoulders hunched over the tomes, a frown of concentration on her face and a curly lock of hair falling in front of her eyes. She was wearing a powder-pink sweater with a heart-shaped neckline and a pair of baggy jeans—the result of transfiguring her elegant black suit—which had proven much more comfortable to work in but, at the same time, much uglier to look at, as Malfoy had pointed out a few minutes earlier, calling them “ disgustingly Muggle. ”

The research wasn’t easy, made even harder by the fact that Hermione didn’t even know exactly what she was looking for.
After all, those were just a string of names—letters without meaning.
She hadn’t even heard of most of those students in her entire life.

Draco, on the other hand, was working meticulously, noting down names, graduation years, current jobs, and residences of everyone he knew—starting, of course, with the Slytherins.
Naturally, it was much easier for him, considering that most of his former classmates were now locked up in an Azkaban cell...

“Malfoy, do you happen to know what Lisa Turpin is doing these days?” Hermione asked, looking up at the blond and pushing the lock of hair away from her face.
“Who?” he asked, annoyed.
“Lisa Turpin. Ravenclaw. Long dark hair… She was in Potions with you…”
“And why should I know anything about this Turpin girl, Granger?”
“Well… Back in the day, people said you two had a thing, I thought maybe you kept in touch…”
Draco stared at Hermione with a confused look before breaking into a mocking grin.
“Do you have any idea how many girls I slept with during my years at Hogwarts, Granger? You really think I could remember all of them? Or care what they’re doing now? For Salazar’s sake, I didn’t even remember ever hearing this Laura Turpin’s name…”
“Lisa…” Hermione corrected, visibly embarrassed.
“Laura, Lisa… Same thing. Don’t waste my time with this crap, okay?” Draco rolled his eyes and went back to his list.
“Alright, Malfoy…” she replied, irritated, then muttered, “A simple no would’ve been enough…”
“In any case, our serial killer is a man. So you can stop wasting time and focus on something actually useful,” he added indifferently.
“And how do you know that?” Hermione asked suspiciously, eyeing him.
Draco slammed his pen down in annoyance, raising an exasperated gaze toward the witch.

“Because, while you were busy spying on me earlier, I was questioning Borgin about our serial killer, Granger. And it just so happens that he told me how, months ago, a young man came into his shop and asked for a special rope made of dragon heartstring—the same kind that’s probably being used in the murders…”
“And exactly when the hell were you planning on telling me this, Malfoy? When did you think you’d share your discovery with your team? In case you forgot, we’re working together!”
“Maybe if you hadn’t accused me of plotting against the magical world—again—I would’ve told you straight away, Granger,” Malfoy shot back angrily, leaving Hermione speechless.
Touché, bitch.

Hermione lowered her gaze back to the sheet and crossed out Lisa’s name before moving on to the next one, when a series of whispers from behind broke the silence of the library.
“Do you think that’s her?” a boy’s voice whispered.
“Of course it’s her, stupid! Who else could it be?” replied a girl sharply.
“Hey, you two, no one ever taught you it’s rude to disturb people who are working?”
“Malfoy! What the hell are you doing? Is that any way to talk to kids?”
Hermione shot the blond a glare, and he huffed in response, getting up to fetch a volume from another table.

The witch turned around and saw two curious young faces peeking out from behind one of the large shelves.
The boy looked about twelve or thirteen, with straight blond hair and bangs constantly falling into his face, forcing him to brush it aside with his hand. The girl, slightly younger, had long curly hair and a nose sprinkled with freckles.
Their house crests were proudly displayed on their robes.

“You can come closer, kids. I promise we don’t bite…” said Hermione with a smile. “Not even him…” she added, gesturing to Malfoy, who had just sat back down across from her.
“Miss, I’m sorry we bothered you… But, um, we were wondering if… if…” the boy began awkwardly, before his friend elbowed him.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Adam, I’ll ask! Okay? Miss, I’m Lucie Wilson from Ravenclaw and he’s Adam Gary from Gryffindor, and we were wondering if you are Hermione Granger! See, Adam? That wasn’t so hard,” she blurted out.

“Well, Granger, someone here does resemble you…” muttered Draco without looking up.

“Lucie, Adam, nice to meet you. Yes, I am Hermione Granger, and that is Draco Malfoy,” she said, gesturing toward Draco, who just shot her a sideways glare.
“Ah! I knew it! I told you it was her! My cousin told me so much about you, Miss Granger!” said Lucie excitedly.
“Your cousin?” Hermione asked, intrigued.
“Susan, Susan Bones! Oh, it’s such an honor to meet you, Miss Granger! My mum used to read me the fairy tale book based on your story every night before bed!”
“Well, that’s truly fascinating…” Draco muttered through gritted teeth.
“ Malfoy… ” Hermione warned with an icy glare, to which the boy raised his hands in surrender.
“So… so you know Harry Potter too?” Adam asked, voice full of awe.
“Of course. Harry and I still work together to this day!”
“Wooooow,” the two kids said in unison, their eyes sparkling.
“Harry Potter is my hero, Miss Granger. I dream of becoming like him one day…”

The loud slam of a book snapped their attention to Draco Malfoy, who had just stood up from the table, disgusted expression on his face and an unlit cigarette between his fingers.
“Okay, this conversation is officially nauseating. Granger, I’m leaving you to your fans. I seriously need a break…”
“What? You’re not going to leave me here!”
“Oh, believe me… You’re doing just fine! Enjoy your five minutes of fame, Gryffindor…”

And with that, Malfoy spun on his heel and left the library, stifling a mocking laugh at the girl glaring daggers at him.
Turning to the two young students in front of her, who were staring at her as if she were a Quidditch star, Hermione sighed in resignation before breaking into a smile.
“Well then, kids… any other questions?”

 

Draco was waiting near the entrance of the Great Hall, hands shoved into the pockets of his black trousers that contrasted with the pale blue shirt he wore. His hair was slicked back with gel, save for a single platinum strand that had fallen over his forehead.

He stared ahead with an air of bored indifference, apparently unfazed by the swarm of students heading to their tables for dinner—though many glanced at him curiously, whispering under their breath as they passed.

Most of them looked at him with a mix of fear and unease; only a small group of Slytherins dared offer a greeting, to which he responded with a silent nod.

Even without hearing them, Draco could easily imagine their questions.

Is that really Draco Malfoy?
What’s he doing back at Hogwarts?
Isn’t his father locked up in Azkaban?

Same old story.

The students' whispering filled the air with a low murmur, broken only by Filch’s shrill voice shouting at them to hurry along and take their seats.

That cursed old git—how old was he by now anyway? Impossible to say.

A smirk tugged at Draco’s lips as memories resurfaced of all the times he and the others had been chased down the corridors by the cantankerous caretaker: the time they’d transfigured Mrs. Norris into a vase, the time he’d snuck into the Slug Club banquet, or when Goyle had taken down every painting in the Slytherin common room and hid them around the castle.

Draco even remembered the time he’d served detention with Granger—the night Hagrid had led them into the Forbidden Forest during their first year. Probably the only blemish on the spotless academic record of the perfect Gryffindor.

And speaking of that perfect Gryffindor— where the hell was that damned witch?

He glanced at his watch, which now read 7:35 pm, irritation brewing. 

Just then, the sharp click of heels echoed from the corridor, drawing his attention upward.

Descending the stairs of the Central Tower was Hermione, and for a moment, Draco was completely taken aback by the sight of her.

She wore a simple yet elegant black dress, form-fitting with three-quarter sleeves and a V-neckline that subtly hinted at the curve of her breasts. A pair of black heels—far too high by her usual standards—elongated her figure. Her hazel eyes were accentuated by dark mascara, and a deep bordeaux lipstick brought out the fullness of her lips. Her hair was pinned in a soft, low chignon, with two loose curls framing her face.

Draco did his best to hide his surprise, though tearing his gaze away from her—especially from the way that dress clung to her figure—was proving more difficult than he’d anticipated.

“Sorry I’m late, Malfoy. Have you been waiting long?”

“I wasn’t waiting for you at all, Granger.”

Sure you weren’t. Liar.

“I was just starting to think you’d gotten lost in the castle… But clearly, you were just busy getting dolled up…”

His voice remained cool and composed, but his pale blue eyes betrayed something more predatory as they roamed her body freely.

“Well, I didn’t know what to wear. It’s just dinner in the Great Hall, after all…”

“Yeah, well… let’s just say you look rather—”

“Hermione Granger? Is that really you ? By Godric, you look absolutely stunning.”

Draco’s sentence was cut off by a male voice behind them, and when he turned—clearly annoyed—he found himself face-to-face with a tall, muscular man in a crisp white shirt and grey trousers that clung to his strong legs.

Seamus Finnigan.

“Seamus? Oh my God, I haven’t seen you in ages!”

Hermione threw her arms around her former classmate, and Draco’s lips curled in a scowl as Seamus’s hand hovered dangerously close to her backside.

“What are you doing here? McGonagall didn’t say a word to me!”

“Oh well, Minerva needed a new flying instructor after Madam Hooch retired… My career with the Falmouth Falcons ended with a bad injury, so I figured—why not come home?” he said, grinning.

“Those who can't do, teach… “ Draco muttered to himself, earning a sharp glare from Hermione.

“And you? What brings you here? Is Ron with you?” Seamus asked, glancing around suspiciously.

Draco noticed Hermione’s hands tremble ever so slightly at the mention of the redhead’s name, her expression tightening just like it had at the Ministry gala.

What the hell was she hiding?

“What? Ron…? Oh no, he’s… he’s not here.”

“Well then, I suppose the good ol’ Ronald won’t mind if I keep his girlfriend company tonight…”

“Actually, I’m not alone, Seamus. I’m here with Malfoy—on work.”

“You and—”

“Yes, Finnigan, me,” Draco cut in coldly. “You probably didn’t notice, since your eyes were so… intensely focused elsewhere.”

He took a step forward, planting himself beside Hermione—far, far too close.

“Yeah, I heard the rumors…” Seamus said, his gaze frosty. “You’re an Auror now, huh? Quite generous of the Minister, considering your… past .”

Hermione saw Draco’s fist clench, his jaw tighten. The tension between the two men was practically radiating off them, and she feared things might spiral out of control at any moment.

“My past? What surprises me more is that you were chosen to teach anything at all, Finnigan—considering the utter lack of intelligence you’ve always displayed.”

“Okay, boys… I think Professor McGonagall is waiting for us. Maybe… maybe we should just head in for dinner!” Hermione said quickly, stepping between them and gently grabbing Seamus’s arm.

The Gryffindor shot one last menacing look at Draco before turning back to Hermione with a smug grin.

“Of course, my dear. Shall we?” he asked, extending a hand toward her.

Blushing, Hermione rested her hand on Seamus’s arm—unable, however, to ignore the fiery glare Draco shot at both of them as they walked away.

By Godric, this evening was already turning out to be very , very complicated.

 

Halfway through dinner, Draco had already envisioned at least a dozen devilishly creative ways to end the life of that smug peacock sitting next to Granger—the one who, for the past two hours, hadn’t stopped talking about himself, his damned Quidditch career, and every glorious memory he apparently shared with the Gryffindor.

Not that Draco cared who Granger gave her attention to.
Of course not.

But Finnigan’s voice grated on his nerves like few things could, and conversation with the other guests was proving—if possible—even more unbearable.

When he had arrived in the Great Hall with the two Gryffindors, Draco had immediately felt the atmosphere shift.
A heavy silence had fallen over the students.

His entrance had been accompanied by curious eyes, whispered murmurs, and discreet fingers pointed in his direction—eyes that followed him all the way to the long Professors’ Table, where he took a seat beside Granger.

And if the students’ reaction had been understandable, that of his fellow staff members was no better.
Hagrid, after wrapping Hermione in a warm hug, had simply given Draco a long, silent once-over without even bothering with a greeting.
Professors Flitwick and Slughorn had managed only a hesitant wave before immediately leaning toward one another to whisper.
The only two who had greeted him warmly were Professor McGonagall and Professor Sprout.

Fucking fantastic.

Thankfully, Finnigan’s grating voice—he was in the middle of recounting his gruesome injury to Hermione—was finally silenced by the gentle clink of a crystal glass.

Professor McGonagall had risen to her feet and was lightly tapping her fork against her goblet, calling for attention.

“Students of Hogwarts,” she began. “As you’ve surely noticed, tonight we have two very special guests among us. They hardly need introductions, but I ask you nonetheless to give a warm welcome to Miss Hermione Granger…”

A deafening cheer erupted in the Great Hall.
The entire Gryffindor table shot to its feet, applauding as Hermione rose and waved shyly at the students.

“…and to Mr. Draco Malfoy.”

As soon as McGonagall pronounced his name, the room fell into a chilling silence.
Only the Slytherin table responded with enthusiastic applause and shouts.
From the other tables, a growing murmur of discontent began to spread.

Hermione felt a tight knot twist in her stomach as she glanced toward the blond sitting beside her.
Draco appeared calm—almost pleased—but she could feel the anger simmering just beneath the surface of his skin.

“We are glad to welcome you back to Hogwarts—your home,” McGonagall continued, casting Draco a quick glance as if silently offering an apology.
“And I, personally, am proud to see how far you’ve come.”

Suddenly, a boy of about sixteen stood from the Gryffindor table, finger pointed straight at Draco.

“Far? He should be rotting in Azkaban!”

“Shut your damn mouth, Bennet!” a Slytherin girl yelled across the hall, quickly backed up by one of her housemates.

“Yeah, Bennet—stuff it, will you?!”

“Or what, Yaxley? What are you gonna do, huh? Everyone here knows Malfoy’s a damn Death Eater—and you Slytherins are just following in his footsteps!”

“I swear, you’ll regret that—”

“Horace! Seamus! Control your students !” McGonagall’s voice thundered over the rising chaos.

“Oh, come now, Minerva,” Seamus replied with feigned calm, his tone laced with poison. “They’re just expressing their opinions. After all, Malfoy’s old ideas aren’t exactly a secret…” He turned and looked directly at Draco, eyes gleaming.
“The only difference is, he’s one of the lucky few walking free—despite the Dark Mark burned into his arm…”

Draco shot to his feet. His hand flew to his wand.
He was going to curse him.
No—he was going to kill him, fuck the consequences.

But as his eyes met the terrified faces of Hermione and the other professors, Draco froze.

He shoved the wand back into his pocket, scraped his heavy chair back with a loud screech, and stepped toward Seamus—so close the Gryffindor could feel his breath on his skin.

“Count yourself lucky we’re not alone, Finnigan,” Draco growled, voice low and trembling with rage. “Otherwise, you’d already be on your knees, begging your precious Godric to make me stop torturing you.”

With that, he turned and stormed out of the Hall like a tempest.

And Hermione did the first thing that came to mind.
The most impulsive, irrational, absolutely avoidable thing.

She got up and followed him.

Chapter 13: XI

Hermione had just left the Great Hall, her eyes scanning the castle corridors in search of the furious Slytherin who had disappeared only moments earlier, when a voice called out behind her.

"Hermione, where are you going? Don’t tell me you’re thinking of chasing after him!"

She turned to see Seamus, hands on his hips, his expression caught between outrage and disbelief.

"Come on, let’s go back inside! It’s not worth ruining your evening over Malfoy."

"I just need to check if he’s okay, Seamus. Go back to the table—I’ll join you in a minute."

She started to walk away, but his mocking laugh stopped her.

"You can’t be serious. Bloody hell, are you actually worried about that damn Slytherin?"

"I’m not worried ... But what happened back in the Hall? Are you out of your mind? For Godric’s sake, Draco isn’t exactly a saint—but he didn’t deserve that , and you know it."

"All I know is you’re defending a bloody Death Eater! What the hell is wrong with you, Hermione? Whose side are you on now, huh? You’re siding with him ? We’re talking about Malfoy! The same Malfoy who tried to kill Dumbledore, who let Death Eaters into Hogwarts, who—"

"He was just a boy , Seamus! They all were—him, Theodore, Pansy... Have you ever stopped to wonder what they’ve become now? What they think ? Whether they regret it? Whether they lost anything during the war?"

This morning I met Gregory Goyle’s son… For Godric’s sake, he’s only four! Four , Seamus! And he’ll never even know his father!"

"They brought it on themselves, Hermione! They had a choice. And they chose the easy road."

Hermione rolled her eyes and stepped closer to him, her voice low and hard.

"Oh, sure—go on, roll your eyes. Pretend it’s not true. Keep defending them if it makes you feel better. What, did a few days working with those damn Slytherins turn you into one of them? Do you honestly think Malfoy would choose you if he had a say? That they see you as an equal? That they ever will?"

"There is no them , Seamus!" Hermione snapped. "The war ended three years ago! It’s time to move the hell on!"

"Move on?" he shouted, stepping closer, jabbing a finger toward her chest.

"You’re telling me to move on, Hermione? Have you already forgotten what they did to you? What Malfoy did to you? Have you forgotten Sirius? Dumbledore? Fred ?"

"Don’t you dare bring up Fred, Seamus Finnigan. I warn you. You know damn well what his family and I have been through. How dare you say that?"

Her voice trembled now, thick with hurt.

"I was there for Ron every single day after Fred died! I wiped his tears. I sat with him through every sleepless, haunted night."

"Oh, is that what you did? Good for you, Hermione. Just more proof of how terribly you choose the people you trust."

The words landed like a slap.

Hermione froze, staring at him in disbelief. Her eyes searched his, but he wouldn’t meet them.

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing, okay? I didn’t mean anything. Bloody hell, I’m just furious ..." he muttered, running a hand down his face in frustration.

"I’ve known you for ten years, Seamus Finnigan. Do you really think I don’t know when you’re lying?"

Tell me what you mean. Now ," she said, grabbing his arm.

He flinched like he’d been burned.

She had him cornered, and they both knew it. Part of him wanted to tell her everything. To scream out what the rest of the wizarding world already knew—that Ron had always betrayed her, never respected her, never deserved her.

But he couldn’t be that person. He wouldn’t be the one to rip open that wound.

"What I mean… is that there’s a lot you don’t know, Hermione. Too much. And I can’t be the one to tell you. But I can tell you this: Be careful. Because what you’re living—what you think you have—it’s not what it seems."

Seamus stepped closer, brushing a fingertip down her cheek. She pulled back sharply, a tear trailing down her face.

"I... I have to find Draco," she whispered, struggling to contain the sobs rising in her throat.

She turned toward the stairway and began walking toward the castle’s courtyards, pain and rage flooding through her veins like molten fire.

"You’re going to get hurt, Hermione..." Seamus called after her. "You’re going to get hurt ..."

 

Draco glanced at the watch on his wrist.

11:40 PM.

It had been more than three hours since he’d practically fled the Great Hall.
More than three hours since he’d sat down on a rock by the edge of the Black Lake, staring at the ripples that broke the dark surface.

Since his very first year at Hogwarts, that spot had been his sanctuary—the only place where his restless heart ever found peace.

It was where he’d come after losing his first Quidditch match.
Or after his first detention.
Or after that stupid argument with Blaise over who should ask Daphne Greengrass to the Yule Ball.

But most of all, it was where he had spent the better part of his sixth year, after Voldemort had ordered him to kill Dumbledore.
After he had realized there was no way out.
After the light in his future had been brutally, irreversibly extinguished.

Draco remembered those days with painful clarity.
The fear of failure, of disappointing everyone, of putting his family and friends in danger.
The disgust at what he had been forced to become.
The rage at the way people looked at him.

And now, nearly six years later, he felt that same rage pulsing through his veins as he sat—once again—on that damned rock.

He grabbed a stone and hurled it into the depths of the Lake, watching the widening ripples distort the water in hypnotic waves.

Why was he so angry?

He shouldn’t be. Not really.
He knew how people would react when he came back to Hogwarts.
He knew what they’d say, how they’d look at him.

And yet, a small, foolish part of him had hoped this time would be different.

He had truly believed that all his efforts, all his sacrifices, all the work he had done to redeem himself, to cleanse his name in the eyes of the world, would finally matter.

But that dinner in the Great Hall had thrown the truth in his face with the brutal clarity of a hex.

He wasn’t Auror Malfoy .

He wasn’t the boy who had paid for his crimes.

He wasn’t the former student coming home.

He was Draco Malfoy .
The Slytherin. The Death Eater.
The boy who betrayed Dumbledore.
The one who betrayed them all.

And that— that —was all he would ever be.

Standing up, he made his way toward the Central Tower.

All he wanted now was a hot shower and to collapse into bed, praying that sleep would bring even a sliver of the peace he was so desperately craving.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he reached the door and turned the key in the lock.

The room he stepped into was large but modestly furnished—a fireplace with a sofa and a tall bookshelf, a central table surrounded by a few chairs, and two doors at the back leading to separate bedrooms: one for him, the other for his incessantly irritating colleague.

The space was dim, lit only by the flickering fire still alive in the hearth.

Draco closed the front door behind him, shivering slightly as a chill breeze swept across the room. Turning, he noticed a small wooden door that led out to a balcony.

The Mudblood must have left it open before going to bed.

As he stepped forward to shut it, something made him pause.

The terrace was not empty, as he’d expected.

Standing at the edge of the balustrade, her hair loose and tangled in the wind, eyes red from crying, was Granger .
Her bare arms were marked by goosebumps from the night air, her skin pale in the moonlight.

She hadn’t seen him. Not yet. She was facing away, lost in her own storm.

Draco could have turned around and left, pretended not to see anything, locked himself in his room and let that terrible night end without any more drama.

But something inside him—some unexpected flicker of compassion—pushed him to step out onto the balcony, a lit cigarette between his fingers.

“If you’re thinking of jumping, Granger, I wouldn’t recommend it. This tower overlooks the Black Lake—you’d probably just end up taking a freezing swim.”

No reply.
Hermione remained perfectly still, her gaze locked on the dark stretch of water in front of her.

Draco clicked his tongue, irritated.
“Bloody hell, Granger… If I’d known all it took to finally shut you up was dragging you back to Hogwarts, I would’ve done it years ago.”

She turned around.
Her mascara had run down her cheeks, and her eyes were still swollen from crying.

“McGonagall asked me to pass along her apologies, Malfoy. For what happened tonight. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” she said, stepping toward the small door, determined to go back inside, shut herself in her room, and block out the entire world until morning.

“What happened?” he asked, moving to lean against the railing, legs crossed, one hand in his pocket and an expression of cool indifference on his face. Smoke curled from his lips in slow spirals.

“Nothing important. She was just upset about—”

“What happened to you , Granger. You look like shit…” he said, flicking the cigarette stub off the tower and stepping away from the rail.

“It’s not a big deal. Seamus and I had a… difference of opinion.”

“I’m honestly surprised you waste time with that idiot, Granger. Hogwarts has to have better options.”

“Oh? Are you referring to yourself, Malfoy? I didn’t take you for the jealous type…”

Jealous.
Jealous of her?

Bloody hell, the witch was clearly losing her mind.

“In your dreams, Granger. Anyway, what happened? Did your friend get a little too handsy?” he asked with biting sarcasm.

Hermione shot him a glare that could kill.

“Oh, come off it. Don’t look at me like that. It was obvious to everyone that if he’d had the chance, he would’ve shagged you in the broom closet. Who knows, Granger… maybe you’d have even liked it…”

He was faking indifference, but something in his voice cracked around the edges as he spoke.

“You’re disgusting, Malfoy. Truly. And to think that I… God, what an idiot I am!” she snapped, turning on her heel.

In a flash, Draco stepped in front of her, blocking the doorway with one arm.

“You what?” he asked, tilting his head, looking her up and down.

“I’m freezing, Malfoy. It’s freezing . Move and let me in!”

“ You. What. Granger ?”

Hermione met his gaze with fire in her eyes.

“I defended you, Malfoy! When Seamus stopped me, I was looking for you ! I wanted to make sure you were okay, because I felt sorry for you!”

“I don’t need pity from someone like you , Granger,” he said coldly.

“Someone like me ? Oh, do tell! What exactly am I, Malfoy?”

She slammed her fist into his arm.

“A Gryffindor? A mediocre know-it-all? Or maybe just a filthy Mudblood ? Come on, Malfoy, say it. Hurt me. Seems like that’s everyone’s favorite pastime lately.”

“Oh, please, Granger… stop wallowing in self-pity. What the fuck do you know about being hurt?”

Draco stepped closer, dangerously close, and gripped her wrist tightly.

“You. So righteous. So fucking perfect . So wrapped up in your flawless little life…”

“Perfect life? God, Malfoy, is that really what you think? You haven’t got a clue how far from perfect my life really is…” Hermione yanked her arm away violently.

“Oh no? Want to deny it? Ever since the war ended, you’ve been the golden fucking heroine… Everyone worships you—kids, Ministry officials, your precious friends…”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You think I don’t see the way they look at you? They idolize you. Bloody hell, even Blaise and Theo do! What the hell do they all see in you, Granger? You’re so damn ordinary . So irritatingly ordinary.”

“You think it’s all so easy, don’t you, Malfoy? You think it’s all sunshine and roses? Well, newsflash—it’s not!
My whole life is one big fucking lie. Everything around me, everything I feel, everything I believe in…”

“Oh, please, Granger… What are your great problems, then? Weasley not fucking you right?”

“No, you bastard, he—!”

Say it.
Say it, Hermione.
Tell him what you go through every day.
Tell him how he humiliates you, how he threatens you, how he hurts you.
Say it.

“He… disrespects me.”

Draco narrowed his eyes, studying her face.

What was she talking about?
Could she know about the cheating?
No. It was something else.
It had to be something else.

Unless… Was it possible Weasley abused her? That he hurt her?

Could that stupid bastard be hiding something darker?

No. Impossible.

“Then why don’t you leave, Granger? Huh? I’ll tell you why. Because you love being the savior of the Wizarding World! You love being the Golden Girl! Weasley’s perfect girlfriend! Potter’s fucking best friend! You planned all this down to the last detail, and now you’re swimming in this shit.

And you know why? Because it’s the only life you know ! Because you’re too scared to be anything else !”

“I’m scared? Me ?! At least I don’t pretend to be some cold, heartless bastard who doesn’t give a damn about anything!”

“I don’t—”

Draco tried to answer, but Hermione cut him off, her voice a rising storm.

“Oh yes, Draco Malfoy, you do pretend! You think I didn’t see your face in the Great Hall? You think I didn’t notice the rage in your eyes? Or the way your hand trembled? You think I don’t know how much it hurts you when they remind you of who you were?”

“I don’t need reminding, Granger. I know who I was. I know what I chose to be…”

“You’re lying to yourself, Draco! Can’t you see it? How long do you think you can keep hiding behind your mistakes? When will you face them? When will you lower that damned mask ?
You’re not a monster, Malfoy. You’re not a—”

“What, Granger? Not a fucking Death Eater?”

Draco yanked up his sleeve and stepped toward her, the Dark Mark etched across his pale skin.

“Let me break it to you, princess . That’s exactly what I am!”

Hermione looked down at the mark, her expression softening as she reached out, as if to touch it.

Then, without looking away from him, she slowly pulled up the sleeve of her dress.

“You remember this, don’t you?”

Draco’s breath caught in his throat as his eyes landed on the word carved into her arm: Mudblood.

“I remember you, Malfoy. That day at the Manor. I remember your empty stare. I remember your fear, your disgust for what was happening…”

“Stop,” he whispered.

“I remember how you tried to help us, how you didn’t give up Harry, how you wanted to stop your aunt…”

“Stop,” he said again, barely audible.

“I’m not this tattoo, Malfoy. And neither are you. I know there’s good in you. I see it, every single day. In the way you treat Pansy and Theo. How you looked after Evelyn. Or little Thomas…
You’re not evil , Draco. If you’d just open your mind, if you’d only let people see what—”

“I said shut up , for fuck’s sake!”

Draco’s roar tore through the night like thunder splitting the sky.

Hermione recoiled, frightened, a single tear tracing down her cheek.

Draco let out a heavy sigh, leaning his full weight against the wall and letting the wind brush over his face, eyes closed.

The silence between them was thick—almost unbearable—broken only by the distant cry of a hoopoe and the whisper of wind through the trees.

Then, suddenly, Draco spoke.

His voice was calm, but low—heavy with pain, as if it cost him something just to speak.

“Do you want to know what I remember from that day at the Manor, Granger?” he asked, opening his eyes and staring into nothing.

“Your screams. Your fucking screams echoing in my brain. Night. After night. After night.”

Hermione wiped her tears, looking at him with an expression full of sorrow.

How could she know?

How could she even begin to imagine?

“They tortured me that night, you know? My aunt Bella... for hours. They knew I had betrayed them. They knew I’d chosen to say nothing...”

“Malfoy, I—”

But Draco wasn’t listening. He was finally letting go of the weight that had been crushing his chest, bleeding it out through his words.

“I still remember the pain of the Cruciatus. I can still feel my bones shattering, my tendons tearing... the taste of my own blood in my mouth...”

Hermione wanted to reach out.
She wanted to tell him she was sorry, that she never wanted him to suffer for what they had done.

She wanted to thank him. For not turning them in. For saving their lives.

But the words got stuck in her throat.

Frozen.

Suddenly, Draco let out a bitter, broken laugh.

“Do you ever think about what could’ve been, Granger? Who we could’ve been, who we might’ve met... without this fucking war, without all the death...?”

He turned to her, his pale blue eyes locking onto her warm hazel gaze.

“Who would you be now, Granger? If you hadn’t become who you are? Maybe someone important... maybe desired. Not that you’d need that.
So many men want you already... Weasley, Finnigan, even Theo.
And still, you—nothing. So annoyingly perfect, so good, so...”

Draco reached out and gently tucked a stray curl behind her ear, his fingertip lingering against her skin.

Warm. Soft. Forbidden .

Hermione held her breath as something stirred deep inside her—a slow burn spreading through her whole body and settling low in her belly.

Their faces were close.

Incredibly close.

Stop.

Fuck. Idiot. Stop.

What the hell was he doing?

Why did Granger’s lips suddenly look so full?

Why did her hair look so soft?

Why did it smell like vanilla?

And why—why the fuck—was he still leaning closer?

Hermione could smell his cologne.
Lavender and bergamot.

She could see the tiny flicker in his pupils, the way his eyes were focused—hungrily—on her lips.

Was she going to stop him?

Why couldn’t she move?

Why wasn’t she running?

His face inched closer, centimeter by centimeter. Their mouths were nearly touching.

Hermione could feel his warm breath against her skin.

Then—suddenly—a thunderclap tore through the sky, shattering the silence of Hogwarts and the moment between them.

Hermione stepped back, flustered, while Draco stared at her like he’d just been jolted awake.

What the fuck had he done?

Had he lost his mind?

Had he really just almost kissed Granger?

Fuck, this place was driving him insane.

He had to leave.

Get as far away from her as possible.

Backing toward the door, Draco slipped back into the apartment, striding quickly to what served as his room and locking himself inside.

Once the door was sealed with a spell, he collapsed onto the bed, yanking open his shirt, legs crossed, face buried in his hands.

Fucking idiot.

Stupid, bloody idiot.

What had that damned witch done to him?

It had to be a spell. Maybe that cheap wine Filch had served them.

That had to be it.

The only explanation that made any sense.

Or maybe... maybe it was pity?

Seeing her cry.
Hearing her talk about Weasley.
The idea that that bastard might hurt her...

Yeah. That had to be it.

But Hermione’s words still echoed in his head:

You’re not a monster. I know there’s good in you. If only you’d let people see it.

Bullshit.

All of it. Fucking bullshit.

He was a bastard. He always had been.

And honestly? Sometimes he was glad he was.

Lying back on the mattress, he closed his eyes, head spinning.

He wouldn’t let her get close again.

Never again.

He wouldn’t let her manipulate him.

With those thoughts still raging in his mind, Draco drifted into sleep.

But that night, in that tower, neither of them slept peacefully.

Their dreams were filled with the Black Lake, the silhouette of Hogwarts, and a starry sky.

With hands almost touching.
With ink and scars.
With blood.
With wounds.

And with kisses laced in venom.

In the air the scent of vanilla, lavender, and bergamot lingered.

Chapter 14: XIII

Notes:

Hello everyone!
Here is my last chapter for this week!
From tomorrow I’ll be at the beach so I’ll have to take a little break in the publication but I’ll come back next Sunday with the fourteenth chapter!
I leave you with a surprise ending... I can’t wait to read your theories!
A kiss, Ilaria

"Elisabeth... how about a glass of FireWhisky? Just you and me, tonight?"
No. No, that wasn’t going to work.
"Hey, sweetheart... Be ready by 8. I’ll come pick you up myself..."
For Salazar’s sake, that was even worse.

Theodore Nott had been standing outside Elisabeth Belamy’s office for at least twenty minutes, trying to gather the courage to knock. A sunflower in his right hand, and in his left, a cinnamon-dusted Americano kept warm with a Heating Charm.

“Alright, fuck it, mate, pull yourself together. You’re not letting some girl turn you into this. You’re Theodore bloody Nott! You’ve got the entire damn Wizarding World at your feet!”
He was talking to his own reflection in the window glass, a scene that looked even more ridiculous from the outside than it did to him.

“Now you walk in there, knock, and ask her out! You’ve got this, dammit. You’ve fucking got this!”

"Got what exactly, Theodore Nott?"
He spun around sharply—And there she was. Elisabeth.
Looking at him with a puzzled expression, a paper grocery bag in one hand and her office keys in the other.

Theodore barely managed to stifle a breath of awe.
She was wearing a fire-red dress with a flared skirt, and the color made her aquamarine eyes shine even brighter, like twin gemstones caught in the morning light.
Fuck, she was divine.

"Elisabeth! You here too! Wow, what a coincidence!" he blurted, trying—badly—to sound casual.
"Well... yeah, Theodore. This is my office."
‘You here too?’ What the actual hell was that supposed to mean?

“Oh, right—of course. Your office. I knew that. Obviously.”
Theo let out an awkward, strangled laugh, a thin sheen of sweat forming on his forehead.

Still watching him with that same perplexed expression, Elisabeth unlocked the door and gestured for him to come inside.

The window was open, and the crisp October air had a calming effect on the Slytherin’s fried nerves. Finally, he remembered how to breathe again.

“Are you… sure you’re alright? You seem a little off…” Elisabeth asked, setting the heavy paper bag on her desk and stepping closer.

“Me? Oh yeah, totally fine. Great, even! I just—uh—I brought you this!”

Summoning every scrap of courage he had left, even though he felt completely ridiculous, Theodore pulled the sunflower carefully from where he’d hidden it inside his jacket.

The moment she saw it, Elisabeth’s face lit up, a smile curling across her soft, full lips.
She took the flower from his hand with delicate fingers, and for just a second, their skin touched—
And something electric shot through both of them.

“This is… for me?” Elisabeth asked softly, and Theo thought he might actually die right there on the spot from how devastatingly beautiful she looked.

Trying to regain his composure, Theodore adopted a lazy, nonchalant smirk.
No way he was going to let himself look like some lovestruck schoolboy. Not in front of her.

“Yeah, it’s nothing, really… just a little something.”

“But… how did you know I liked sunflowers? I don’t think I’ve ever told you…”

“The photo on your desk. The one with your mum—you two were in a sunflower field. I figured you might like them. Oh—and I almost forgot. Your coffee.”

He handed her the warm paper cup. Elisabeth brought it to her nose, inhaling deeply, and then looked up at him in amazement.

“Wait… this is—”

“Black coffee, no sugar, two dashes of cinnamon.”

She stared at him, stunned, like he’d just pulled off a miracle.
“You always stop at that café around the corner. Bribing the barista for your order wasn’t exactly hard,” he added, flashing a cocky grin.

“Wow, Theodore Nott… I’m—actually impressed. I didn’t expect you to…”

“Look, Elisabeth… I know what you think of me, alright? And I know my… reputation precedes me. But I like you, okay? I really like you.”

“Theo—”

“No, please—let me finish. I know what everyone says, and I know what you probably assume. That I’m just looking to add you to some list of one-night trophies. But that’s not what this is. Just… have dinner with me. Tonight. Just the two of us.
One dinner—and then, if you want, you can ditch me forever.”

“I don’t know…” she murmured, her rational mind slowly losing ground to something warmer, deeper.

“Come on… You’ll have fun. I promise.”

Elisabeth let out a long sigh. Then, finally, she gave in.

“Alright, Theodore Nott. One dinner. But—”

“Yes! Fuck yes, I knew it!”

“But don’t let it go to your head, alright?” she warned, though there was a teasing smile playing on her lips.

Theodore stepped closer, the cinnamon from her coffee mingling with the floral perfume in her hair. He brushed his fingers lightly along her arm, then leaned in toward her ear, his voice low and magnetic.

“Don’t worry, Miss Belamy… I promise you won’t regret it.”

A shiver ran down Elisabeth’s spine.
Theo turned and made for the door, then paused, casting one last glance over his shoulder.

“I’ll pick you up at 8. Be ready.”

“You don’t even know where I live!” she laughed.

“Oh darling, a man like me has his ways.”

And with a final wink, Theodore left her office—
A wide, glowing grin lighting up his face.

 

Hermione had just woken up and stepped out of her room, settling into one of the chairs in the small sitting area, her gaze lost in the fire, and her notes scattered across the table in front of her.
She had barely slept at all that night.
But it hadn’t been the sound of thunder that had kept her awake.
Nor the wind howling through the trees outside.
No.
What had kept Hermione Granger awake that night was the thought of what had happened the evening before, churning inside her like a caged animal.
But really… what had happened?
What was that sensation she had felt when Malfoy had brushed her skin with his cold fingers just hours earlier?
What was that warmth that had bloomed low in her stomach at the mere trace of his scent?
She had to be losing her mind, surely.
Otherwise, why on earth would that arrogant, stubborn, and absolutely not attractive Slytherin make her feel that way?
Granted, she wasn’t entirely blameless either.
What had gotten into her?
Thinking she could have a real conversation with Malfoy, maybe even understand him.
Pure madness, that’s what it had been.
The pure madness of one night at Hogwarts.
And that’s where it should have stayed.
There should be no further contact between her and the boy, at least nothing beyond strictly professional; no more late-night conversations, no more personal questions, no more makeshift therapy sessions.
And yet…
Something had happened, she knew it. She couldn’t lie to herself; for a moment, on that balcony, beneath the starlit sky of what had once been their home, Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger had shared a connection. 

A bond. 

A moment of real vulnerability.
Hermione had even been on the verge of confessing to him everything she lived through behind the walls of her own home—all the violence, all the fear—but she had stopped. She had seen something in Malfoy's eyes, a flicker of curiosity, a desire to know more, but in the end she had pulled back.
She wasn’t ready—not like that, and not with him.

Suddenly, the very subject of her thoughts appeared in the sitting room, wearing tailored jeans and a black sweater, his platinum hair still tousled from the night before; the dark violet shadows under his eyes made it immediately clear to Hermione that he hadn’t slept either.

“Good morning.”
Her greeting was met with silence—Draco didn’t even glance at her.
“I said… Good morning ,” she repeated, annoyed.
“Granger,” he muttered, sitting down in the armchair in front of the fireplace, eyes locked on the Daily Prophet he had just opened.

Don’t look at her. Don’t you dare look at her.

“Sleep well?”
Draco looked up at her, eyes narrowed.
Oh great, now the witch was making jokes.

“Divinely, Granger. But judging by the terrible state of your face, I can’t say the same for you…”
The corner of his lip lifted into a smug grin when he noticed she looked genuinely stung by the jab.

“I was thinking maybe we should talk about last night…”
“There’s nothing to talk about, Granger,” Draco said, flipping through the paper with feigned indifference.
“Okay… but maybe…”
Draco snapped the newspaper shut and threw it on the floor before rising abruptly and stepping toward Hermione.
“There is no maybe , Granger, because there is absolutely nothing to talk about! And now, if you don’t mind, we need to get back to work. I want to return to the Ministry as soon as possible, so don’t waste more of my precious time…”

Draco turned on his heel, but Hermione's voice—firm, following him—forced him to stop.
“Are you seriously going to pretend that nothing happened? You moved closer to me , Malfoy! Have you forgotten? Don’t you think I deserve some kind of explanation?”
“For Salazar’s sake, you’re delusional…”
“Fine, Malfoy, treat me like I’m crazy. Deny everything! I know exactly what happened, and so do you… You can’t just pretend like nothing occurred, like—”
“I’m sorry, Granger, I must’ve misunderstood,” Draco interrupted, stepping closer and lifting her chin with a finger. “Is that regret I see on your face? Is this whole pathetic scene because I didn’t sleep with you?”
“What? No! That’s not it at all, Malfoy… How could you even think—” Hermione started to defend herself, backing away, but Draco cut her off with a cold, venomous glare that pierced straight through her.
“What, hmm? I wasn’t the one who came looking for you , Granger… I wasn’t the one who tried to psychoanalyze you , who poured out all that nonsense about goodness and connection, who moved closer to you …”
“Well, I wasn’t the one who tried to kiss you !”

Hermione’s shout hung heavy in the silence that followed, the two now facing each other with fury burning in the space between them.

“Listen to me, Granger,” Draco said, stepping closer again, this time with a threatening tone. “I don’t know what the hell you think happened last night, but never — never —in this life could I even think about coming near you. Got it? Never. So get these pathetic ideas out of your head. And don’t you dare bring it up again. Am I clear?”

Hermione could feel the sting of tears pricking her eyes, but she would not give that bastard the satisfaction of seeing her cry.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, she met Draco’s gaze with defiance.
“Crystal clear, Malfoy. And since that’s how things are, don’t you dare come near me ever again!” she said, storming out of the room, slamming her shoulder into him on her way out.

“There’s no danger of that, Granger!” Malfoy shouted after her.
Yeah, no danger at all.
Not a single damn bit of danger.

 

Pansy and Theo had been standing outside McLaggen’s house for quite some time, waiting for Thompson to show up. It was already 11:30 AM, and it was strange—he wasn’t exactly the type to be late.

"Can I ask why you’ve had that idiotic look on your face for the past ten minutes, Theodore?" Pansy asked, eyeing her friend, who had been staring into space.

"Huh? Did you say something, Pans?"

"Oh, for Salazar’s sake... you're in an even worse state than I thought. Does this, by any chance, have to do with a certain blonde we both know?"

"It might… It might," Theo replied, trying to sound mysterious.

"Is this a pathetic attempt at being cryptic? I know you're dying to talk about it. But I’ve decided not to give you the satisfaction of begging. In fact, you know what? I’ll just sit here and stare at you silently."

Theodore crossed his arms, pretending to be offended.

Rolling her eyes, Pansy finally gave in.

"Alright, alright… if you insist ! Please, Theodore Nott, tell me what’s got you so giddy today!"

"It just so happens that Miss Elisabeth Belamy finally agreed to go on a date with yours truly," Theo said with a triumphant grin.

"Wow. I’m impressed. So the cat idea worked after all!"

"No, Pansy… That idea was total crap. But she did like the flowers…"

"How painfully cliché," Pansy muttered, rolling her eyes. "So, do you know where you're taking her?"

"I was thinking The White Hole," he said thoughtfully.

"Sweetheart, not to burst your romantic little bubble... but taking Belamy to The White Hole is definitely not the way to end up between her legs, I’m afraid."

"Hey! I’m not just trying to get between her legs, okay? She’s... different."

"Okay, Romeo … Merlin, this side of you gives me the creeps," Pansy said with a grimace. "Alright, here’s what we’ll do. I’ll arrange for a reservation for two at The Ivy, got it? It’s in Muggle London… so try not to draw too much attention to yourself."

"Shit, Pansy… you’re the best. I seriously don’t get why that idiot Thompson hasn’t—"

"Nott."

Thompson’s icy voice cut through the air behind them, and Theo turned just in time to find himself face to face with James’s furious expression.

"Boss! Fancy seeing you here…"

"Be grateful I don’t have time for your bullshit right now, Nott. Parkinson—here’s your photographer."

Thompson gestured toward the small boy standing beside him. He was thin, not very tall, with brown hair and a freckled face.

To Pansy, he looked like a lost little mouse.

"I… I’m Luke Holmes."

"Darling, could you speak up a little? Relax, Nott and I don’t bite… unless you ask nicely ," Pansy winked, and the boy’s cheeks turned crimson.

"Luke… Luke Holmes, ma’am."

"Did you study at Hogwarts, Luke? Your face looks familiar…" Theo asked, scrutinizing the boy.

"No, sir. Ilvermorny. I graduated last year."

"An American, huh? Now that’s interesting… I’ve always had a soft spot for Yankees," Pansy purred, moving in closer and giving the boy a feline gaze.

He shrank into his shoulders even more, and Pansy let out a laugh.

Poor little virgin.

"Parkinson… A word?"

James's voice was cold, commanding, and Pansy knew better than to argue.

Motioning for Theo and Luke to go inside, she walked over to James, hands clasped behind her back and a languid look on her face.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"Mind telling me what the hell you're doing, Parkinson?"

"I’m not following, boss… I was simply welcoming our new colleague," she replied innocently.

"A welcome? It looked more like you were trying to seduce him, for fuck’s sake."

"Me? Seduce him? Oh, no, boss. That would be terribly unprofessional…"

"Don’t play games with me. I’m warning you."

"James, I would never ... Not to mention, I’ve always imagined someone a bit more… manly by my side."

Pansy stepped closer to him, tilting her face up toward his, eyes wide with fake innocence.

James’s body stiffened at her closeness, his arm muscles twitching, eyes locked on her lips.

He should have pulled away.

His behavior was absolutely unprofessional.

And yet, despite his brain screaming at him to move, his body refused to obey—his feet felt anchored to the ground.

"Parkinson…" he whispered, trying to sound stern.

Pansy brushed her fingers lightly along his arm, lingering over one of his scars, slowly.

"Someone more experienced… Someone who can challenge me even privately … You catch my drift?"

James grabbed her wrist, pulling her closer.

Leaning down, he brought his mouth near her ear, his beard grazing her lobe.

"You’re playing with fire, Parkinson…"

" Then burn me , James… I know you want to."

He lingered on her face for a few more seconds, his dark eyes burning with both lust and rage—rage for what she made him feel, rage for not being able to resist her the way he wanted to.

"You don’t know a damn thing, Pansy Parkinson…"

And with that, James disapparated, leaving the girl alone—with a knot in her throat and his scent still clinging to her skin.

Draco and Hermione had just returned to the Ministry and had gone straight to Room A, after receiving an urgent message from Theodore and Pansy claiming they had “critical updates to share with the team.”

Their morning at Hogwarts had been—unsurprisingly—filled with tension and awkwardness. Draco had spent his time analyzing the Hogwarts staff list Filch had given him, while Hermione had finished going through the list of Ravenclaw students.

Even though they’d worked at the same table, an uncomfortable silence had hung over them the entire time, broken only by the sound of turning pages and the scratch of a quill on parchment.

When it was finally time to leave—after they both promised McGonagall they'd attend the much-anticipated alumni ball —Hermione had practically thrown herself into the Floo Network without so much as a glance at her colleague, which had left the blond Auror fuming.

Now, back at the Ministry, Hermione was chatting amiably with Potter, while Draco glared at them from across the room. Blaise was chuckling at the scene, clearly amused, when Pansy and Theodore walked in, wearing matching triumphant grins.

“Colleagues… Big news! Looks like Pansy and I may have just cracked the case!”

Draco rolled his eyes in irritation and lit a cigarette, watching the pair with a bored expression.

“Nott, for Merlin’s sake… spare us the theatrics.”

“Alright, alright, no need to be grumpy,” Theo said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Pansy, the floor is yours.”

Pansy stepped forward, approaching her seated colleagues, who were now eyeing her with a mix of curiosity and impatience. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a large, round object and placed it in the middle of the table.

“Is that… Is that what I think it is?” Harry asked, standing up and leaning in for a closer look.

“It’s a bloody egg,” Draco muttered.

“Oh no, my dear…” Theo replied, shaking his head dramatically. “This isn’t just a bloody egg. This is a Hungarian Horntail egg. One of the rarest dragon breeds in the entire Wizarding World. A single one of these can go for over five thousand Galleons on the black market.”

“And it just so happens,” Pansy added, “that McLaggen was hiding it under his bed—along with a suspiciously large sum of money.”

Blaise had gone quiet, his attention now fixed on the crime scene board. 

Something didn’t sit right with him. Something in those black-and-white photographs had caught his eye.

“So what’s your theory, exactly?” Hermione asked.

“Simple, Granger,” Theo said, crossing his arms. “McLaggen was mixed up in the illegal trade of magical creatures… and someone decided to make him pay. His death isn’t connected to Baddock and Bole at all.”

“Okay, but how do you explain the strangulation? No signs of struggle? The other similarities with the previous murders?” Harry pressed.

“Well… we haven’t exactly figured that part out yet,” Pansy admitted. “But there’s definitely an explanation. Maybe the killer wanted to throw us off. Maybe—”

“Wait a second.”

Everyone turned to Blaise, who was still standing by the board, his eyes fixed on a photo from Bole’s crime scene.

“Look at this.”

He grabbed the photos of the three victims—Bole, Baddock, and McLaggen—and laid them out on the table, side by side.

“See anything?”

The others stood and gathered around, scrutinizing the images with renewed focus.

“If you’re talking about the rope marks, Luna already mentioned those,” Harry said, but Blaise cut him off.

“No, no, not that… Look closer.”

Draco let out an exasperated sigh toward his friend—until his eyes landed on the barely noticeable, almost invisible detail Blaise was pointing at.

Something small.

Something seemingly insignificant.

So minor, it had escaped everyone’s attention—until now.

“Potter,” Draco said, his tone suddenly sharp. “Get the cataloged evidence boxes. Now.”

Chapter 15: XIV

Notes:

Hey, i'm back! To make it up to you, I'm leaving you with a chapter that's a little longer than usual! I hope to update again in the next few days!
I've read all your theories and they're all fantastic!
I hope my idea doesn't disappoint you!
Let me know your thoughts on the mysterious killer!
Kisses, Ilaria

“Don’t touch that.”
“But I don’t think it’s—”
“For fuck’s sake, Theodore, I said don’t touch it!”

Theodore sat down with an offended huff, shooting his best friend a resentful glance while Pansy gave him a look of clear disapproval.

The group had been staring at the three pieces of evidence—small, seemingly innocuous items—for the past ten minutes. Yet no one had dared to touch them, afraid of damaging something critical or compromising the investigation.

“What do you think they are?” Hermione asked.

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” Theodore muttered, rocking back in his chair. “Honestly, I don’t see why you’re all so fixated on three scraps of paper…”

“I don’t think it’s just paper… It’s reflective. Almost glossy. And the edges are burned, and—”

“Okay, okay, we get it, Blaise,” Theodore cut in, dragging himself off the chair and walking toward the others, eyeing them with barely contained skepticism. “So what exactly is your theory? Based on practically nothing , mind you. That the killer is playing some kind of game? Trying to send us a message? Because I really don’t see what the hell these bloody scraps are supposed to say .”

“Think about it, Theo—it can’t be random,” Pansy said as she pulled out the crime scene photos and placed each one beside the corresponding fragment they had retrieved from the evidence boxes.

“The first piece—the one with the folded corner—was found near Baddock’s shoes. The second,” she continued, pointing to the next, “was closer to the head. And the third—”

“The third was near the sofa, Pansy, remember? I found it. And that’s the first inconsistency,” Theodore declared, still unconvinced.

“Why the hell are you so determined to argue, Theo?” Draco asked sharply.

“Why? Because you’re all focusing on nothing , Draco. We found a bloody dragon egg hidden under the bed of a murder victim. Am I seriously the only one capable of putting two and two together?”

“That doesn’t explain the other two deaths…” Harry interjected calmly. “And the fact that we found three nearly identical scraps of paper—”

Theodore cut him off with a loud, exasperated sigh.
“For Salazar’s sake, you too now? I give up. Seriously, all of you buy into this theory? Granger, even you?”

Hermione leaned closer to the three fragments lying on the table.
At first glance, they looked like bits of torn white paper—edges scorched, no bigger than a coin.
No writing. No symbols. Just…nothing. Trash, really. Something you’d step over in the street without a second thought.

But something deep inside her told her this was the key. That the real trail, the real clue to unlocking everything—they were right here. In these three meaningless, silent scraps.

“I don’t know if this theory is valid yet, Nott,” she admitted slowly, “but something in me says this isn’t random. In criminal psychology, serial killers are often categorized as organized or disorganized. The disorganized ones are sloppy. Easy to catch. They leave behind obvious evidence. They make mistakes. But the organized ones…”

Her finger traced along McLaggen’s photo as she continued.

“Organized killers are the most dangerous. They’re meticulous, methodical—almost surgical. They don’t leave traces. They follow the same modus operandi every time. They don’t get caught. And most importantly… they’re the least suspected.”

She looked back up.

“I think our guy falls into that second category. And I think these fragments aren’t random. I think he’s trying to leave us a message.”

“But why risk exposing himself like that? Isn’t it dangerous?” Pansy asked.

“Because he wants to play with us,” Hermione replied without hesitation.
“If these really are clues—if there’s a pattern behind all of this—then he wanted us to find them.
That’s why he left them behind, again and again. Because he knew we’d notice eventually.
It’s a twisted game. He wants us to feel close. He wants us to think we’re about to solve it.”

“What a psychopathic bastard… So what now? Should we try something magical? See if the paper reacts to anything?” Blaise suggested.

“No,” Draco cut in.
“If Granger’s right, then chances are he knew we’d try that. He may have placed enchantments or protections on them. We’d risk destroying the evidence.”

“Okay… then what do we do?” Pansy asked. 

All eyes turned toward Draco.

“I don’t know,” he muttered. “I don’t fucking know.”

His fist came down hard on the table, startling Hermione.
He was furious. His pupils darted restlessly between the photos and the paper fragments in front of him.
How could this case be throwing him off so badly?
He was one of the best Aurors in the entire Department. He had cracked dozens—maybe even hundreds —of cases more complex than this.
So why the hell was this bastard pushing them all to the edge?

He needed to think. To break out of his own patterns.
If the killer really was playing mind games, Draco couldn’t let himself be the next pawn.

“Alright. Here’s what we’ll do,” he said, straightening up. “Granger, take the fragments to Lovegood in the lab. Use your bloody Muggle techniques—just get something out of them. Anything.”

He turned to the others.

“You lot—divide up the lists Granger and I brought back from Hogwarts. There are four—take one each. We’ve already started filtering names, but we need more intel. Find their addresses. What they’re doing now. Where they live. Who they’re sleeping with for all I care. Anything. Even the tiniest clue could help.

Start eliminating those who couldn’t have done it—those abroad, in Azkaban, dead.
And focus on what we do know: he’s male, young, and apparently familiar with the Muggle world.”

“And you? What are you doing, Draco?” Blaise asked, already flipping through the Ravenclaw registry.

“I need to see someone,” he replied.

 

Draco walked briskly down the white corridor, the scent of healing potions and medicinal herbs filling his nostrils and causing the familiar tightness in his throat.
As he passed each room, he paused briefly, greeting every patient he encountered with a polite nod.
He knew all their faces by now.
He knew who they were, where they came from—he had memorised their stories, their relatives, their tragedies.
The long-term ward at St. Mungo's had become a small world of its own, a place where all the patients were bound by a single, desperate hope: to heal, to leave, to escape the place many of them had been forced to call home.

His mother’s room was wrapped in the soft fragrance of fresh flowers—Draco made sure she received a new bouquet every morning. They added a bit of colour to the otherwise sterile space, just like the rest of the hospital.
The small window overlooked the hospital's main courtyard. Beneath it stood a desk cluttered with books and a tidy writing set. Beside the large bed was a small wardrobe, where Narcissa kept her clothes, in the unlikely—almost impossible—event that she might one day be allowed to leave her room.

“Mother…”
The woman, lying on the bed with her gaze fixed out the window, turned her head toward Draco—and the moment she saw him, her ice-grey eyes lit up with a soft warmth.
She beckoned him to her side, gently taking his right hand in hers.
“Draco, darling… I wasn’t expecting you today.”
“I had a few minutes free before…”
His words faltered and died in his throat. Narcissa looked at him with concern.
“Something’s troubling you. You look worried, Draco, that’s not like you…” she said, brushing his cheek with her delicate hand.
“Nothing serious, Mother… But tell me, how are you feeling today? Did you get the flowers?”
The woman gestured toward the bedside table, where a crystal vase filled with violet tulips stood tall.
“They arrived right on time this morning, as always… You shouldn’t go to so much trouble, but thank you—they’re lovely.”

“Has the Healer been in yet? Any news?”
Narcissa’s gaze dimmed slightly, her shoulders lifting in a small, defeated shrug.
Only now did Draco truly notice how frail her once-strong figure had become—slight, almost skeletal, a pale echo of the woman she used to be.
A sharp ache twisted in his chest.
Time was running out, relentlessly—and the diagnosis still hadn’t come.

“I wish I had better news, Draco… but no.”
Draco rose from the bed in frustration and moved toward the window, pulling the curtain aside and fixing his eyes on the courtyard below, where patients sat talking quietly.
At the corner of his eye, a single tear escaped and rolled down his cheek. He wiped it away quickly.
He didn’t want his mother to see him like this—he had to be the strong one.
He had to keep it together, pretend everything was fine.

That was his role.

“I’ll send a few owls. I have friends in Scotland—one of them mentioned a Healer they know, a real expert apparently… I’ll ask him for a consult.”
“Draco…”
“It won’t take long—people will do anything for the right amount of gold…”
“Draco…”
“I’m sure we’ll have an answer by the end of the week—”
“Draco. Look at me.”
His mother’s quiet plea snapped him out of his trance.
He turned from the window, and the expression he saw on her face made his stomach clench—a cold shiver ran beneath his skin.
“My love… I think it’s time we consider another path.”
“I don’t understand what you mean, Mother…”
But he did. Of course he did.
The mere thought of it terrified him.

“There’s a new centre in Essex… The place is surrounded by greenery, and the rooms—oh, Draco, you should see them—they’re lovely. There are lots of activities, and the staff specialise in cases like mine… I could move there. The cost isn’t outrageous, and for the short time…”
“Money’s not a problem.”
“Money is a problem, my darling. How much has my care here cost you already? How many private Healers have you flown in from Merlin-knows-where, only to hear the same thing every time?”
“You don’t know that! This time could be different… It might actually—”
“I’m dying, Draco.”
Her words fell like ice, freezing the air in the room.
Draco couldn’t find the strength to respond—the fear that surged through his veins kept his words locked in his throat.

“That’s the truth, my love. Everything you’ve done for me these past two years—I could never repay you, not even in a lifetime. But I’m tired, Draco… and you’re tired too.
And if I can spend the time I have left in peace… then I choose to do so.”

“So that’s it? You’re giving up? Throwing your life away?”
“I know you’re angry, but if you’d only try to understand—”
“Understand? Understand what, Mother? That you’re choosing to die? To let yourself be locked away in some centre for the dying? And me? Do I not matter?”
His last words came out as a whisper, fuelled by the fire of his grief and fury.
Narcissa recoiled slightly, a tear slipping down her pale cheek.

“Mother, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I’m doing this for you , darling… So you can live your life— really live it.
So you won’t have to worry about me anymore, or the debt, or the illness…You deserve to be free, Draco. Finally free.”

“Madam Malfoy, forgive the interruption—it’s time for your bloodwork. Oh, Mr Malfoy—I didn’t see you. I can come back in five minutes if you prefer…”
Draco turned to the young Healer who had just entered, his ice-grey eyes brimming with rage and sorrow.
“No, I was just leaving…”
As he walked toward the door, his mother’s voice called him back.

“Draco…”
He turned, meeting her gaze—two deep, silver pools.
“Promise me you’ll think about it.”
He clenched his fists, jaw tight, and turned back toward the door.
“See you tomorrow, Mother.”
And with that, he stormed out of the room.

 

“Two visits in two weeks—I must be truly blessed…”

Returning to Azkaban that day didn’t affect Draco the same way it had the first time. He had entered and stormed down the corridors toward his father’s cell with determined fury, hardly thinking, hardly even processing.

He hadn’t allowed himself to be unsettled by the things around him: not by the bleakness of the walls, not by the suffocating airlessness, not even by the disturbing cries of the prisoners echoing through the stone.

He had walked straight ahead, without looking back, without faltering—focused solely on his target.

And now he was here, sitting in front of his father, his expression devoid of feeling, a notebook clutched tightly in his right hand.

“I’m not in the mood for sarcasm today, Father,” Draco said tersely.

“You’ve been to see your mother.”

Draco looked up at him, eyes widening, caught off guard.
Lucius hadn’t asked a question—it had been a statement.
He knew.

“You… how—?”

“You said it yourself, Draco. Nothing happens without me knowing about it. And Narcissa is still my wife. It shouldn’t surprise you that I keep myself informed.”

“Your wife… You have a twisted idea of what family means, Father.”

“Mind who you’re speaking to, boy. I advise you not to provoke me.”

Draco resisted the urge to step back. Even after all these years in prison, his father still had the power to intimidate him.

“Don’t mistake me for a heartless man, Draco. I would have wanted to be by your mother’s side, especially now—”

“Oh, would you? And exactly when did my mother and I stop being your priority, Father? Was it when you started your shady dealings? Or maybe when Voldemort returned? Or when the sole purpose of your miserable existence became pleasing that mad?”

“A man does what he must for his family, Draco. One day, when you’re a father, you’ll understand. And in any case—”

Draco shot to his feet, rage in his eyes as he glared at the man across from him.

“I don’t think you’re in any position to be giving lessons on fatherhood, Lucius. And you’ve got no right to speak her name! I didn’t come here for a bloody family reunion. I came for answers. And since our conversation so far has been completely useless, I think I’ll take my leave—”

He turned to go, but Lucius grabbed his arm.

“All right. All right. What do you want to know?”

“Cormac McLaggen. Was he involved in dragon trafficking?”

“McLaggen?” Lucius scoffed. “For Salazar’s sake, don’t be ridiculous… that boy was a small-time player. Sure, he may have closed a few notable deals, but I can tell you without a doubt he wasn’t involved in that kind of trade. Why are you asking about him? I thought the Ministry had already decided where they stood on him.”

“Pansy and Theo found a Hungarian Horntail egg in his house—along with a significant amount of Galleons. It opens up a new lead. If we can trace the dragon trade, if we can find a link to the other two murders—”

“Bole and Baddock? They were never involved in illegal trades. And as for McLaggen, I’ll say it again: that idiot never had a part in dragon trafficking.”

“Then how do you explain the bloody egg in his home?”

Lucius fell silent, thoughtful, while Draco watched him impatiently, waiting for something—anything—useful.

“There are two ways to get your hands on a Horntail egg,” Lucius finally said. “The first—and easier—way is through those who run these trades. But that requires contacts. And a request like that would definitely raise suspicion in that world. Or…”

“Or?” Draco pressed him.

“You go straight to Hungary. The regulations there are far looser than in England. Costly, of course…”

“But if that’s the case, why bother hiding it in plain sight? Unless…” Draco stood suddenly, bringing a hand to his chin, thinking hard. “Unless it was all staged. A setup. A distraction. I… I have to go.”

He rushed toward the door, a theory forming rapidly in his mind. He had to speak with his team—immediately.

“Draco…” his father called after him. “If it was a setup—if someone wanted you to find the egg… it means they want your attention. Be very careful, do you understand? Be careful .”

Leaving his father’s cell, Draco shivered involuntarily. That final warning had rattled him more than he wanted to admit. A creeping sense of danger crept into his chest.

He shoved it aside.

He had a plan. He had to find his team. Now.

 

Hermione sat upright at one of the tables of the Leaky Cauldron, surrounded by the chatter of patrons and the clinking of cutlery and glasses that filled the air; the pub was exactly as she remembered it—chaotic, warm, welcoming.
At the tables around her, many Ministry workers were taking their lunch break, young couples flirted over glasses of Butterbeer, and noisy groups of friends caught up over shared meals.

As her hazel eyes wandered across the crowd, a warm and familiar voice pulled her from her thoughts.
"Hermione, hey! I’m here!"

She stood up immediately and threw her arms around the girl who had just arrived: Ginevra Weasley.
The redheaded Gryffindor was still in her Quidditch uniform and had gracelessly tossed her kit bag under the table. She looked almost exactly the same as she had at Hogwarts, apart from her now even longer hair and the freckles on her face—more pronounced thanks to hours of outdoor training.

The two girls sat facing each other and Ginny ordered two Butterbeers while the innkeeper handed them menus.

"Wow, Miss Granger… So elegant! I didn’t realize this was a formal occasion," Ginny teased, glancing at Hermione’s tailored suit.
"Oh, come off it, Ginny," Hermione replied with a frown, taking her friend’s hands. "You know the Ministry expects a certain decorum...But you! For Godric’s sake, it feels like I haven’t seen you in forever! You have to tell me everything!"

"Oh please, I’ve only been gone a couple of months! And Wales isn’t that bad… Same old story. I train a lot, but the girls are great, and we have fun! But enough about me… I heard you’re working with Malfoy?"

Hermione was taken aback by how Ginny knew about her new assignment but decided not to dwell on it—Ron had probably told her.

"Yeah… He’s… complicated . And the case is taking up a lot of our time…"
"You’re investigating McLaggen and the others? Merlin, what happened to them is awful… That must be tough on you, love."
"It is..." Hermione sighed, sipping her Butterbeer. "It’s frustrating. Every time we think we’re close to solving it, everything gets complicated again… But I can’t complain. The team works well together."
"Oh sure… Theodore Nott, Pansy Parkinson… And of course, Malfoy. Sounds like the dream team," Ginny joked.
"They are not that bad… And Harry’s there too, you know. He’s really good at what he does."

A sudden silence fell between them.
Ever since their breakup—ever since Ginny had decided to move on—the subject of Harry Potter had remained untouched. Until now.

"How… How is he?"
"Fine, I think… He’s trying to move forward. He still asks about you, Ginny. I think you two should talk… You’ll see him at the alumni dinner anyway."
"Right… about that dinner…" Ginny nervously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Oh no, please don’t tell me you’re not coming..."
"No, Hermione, that’s not it… It’s just that… I won’t be coming alone."

Hermione placed her Butterbeer down, the glass clinking against the wooden table, and stared at her friend, eyes questioning.

"What are you trying to tell me, Ginevra Weasley?"
"Well… I’ve been meaning to tell you for months but didn’t have the courage, you see, I—"

"For Salazar’s sake, love… Couldn’t you pick a less crowded pub? Did…Did I just walk in at the worst time?"

Both Ginny and Hermione turned their eyes to Blaise Zabini, who had just arrived at their table. Ginny’s expression was embarrassed and anxious. 

But Hermione’s… Her expression was blazing with fury.

" Love ?" Hermione repeated, her hazel eyes locked on her friend.

"Yes… That’s what I was trying to tell you, Hermione. Actually, before you arrived…" Ginny said, turning to Blaise, who took her hand.
"I thought you’d already told her," Blaise muttered nervously.
"If only you had given me the time, Blaise…" Ginny replied, trying to hide her embarrassment.

"Well… since the damage is done… Yes, Hermione, Ginny and I have been seeing each other for a few months now… Seven, to be precise."
"I don’t think we need to be that precise, love…" Ginny said, lifting her gaze to Hermione, who still hadn’t taken her eyes off them.
"Hermione, please… Say something…" Ginny pleaded.

"Seven months? Seven months?? Really, Ginevra? And in all that time it never occurred to you that maybe you should have told me you were dating my bloody colleague??"

"I didn’t know you were working together yet… We met by chance, at a match… One thing led to another and… and we fell in love… I was trying to find the right moment to tell you, I swear… It’s complicated… And you’re Harry’s best friend—"

"And yours, for Godric’s sake, Ginevra! I’m your best friend too… At least I thought I was…"

"Hermione, please… don’t blame her. She wanted to tell you, she really did…"
Hermione spun toward Blaise, her finger jabbing the air near his face.

"You—Don’t you dare say another word, Blaise Zabini! How could you keep this from me? How could you keep it from Harry? He’s your friend! He trusts you!"

"Please, just let me explain—"

Hermione stood up abruptly, stepping away from the table.

"I… I don’t want to hear it. I need time. Yes. I definitely need time."

"Hermione, wait, please. You’re not going to tell Harry, are you? Not like this… He can’t find out this way…"
"Well, maybe it’s a bit late to start worrying about Harry, don’t you think??" Hermione snapped. "But no, I won’t tell him. You two will. But don’t think for a second he’ll take it well… Goodbye, Ginny."

"Hermione, please—"

She didn’t even look back. She stormed toward the exit of the pub, shaken to her core.
She wasn’t angry because Ginny had fallen in love with Blaise—no, she was happy for them, deep down.
But she felt betrayed by their friendship.

Why hadn’t Ginny told her? Didn’t she trust her? Was she afraid of her judgment? Hermione had always been there for her—supportive, loyal.

So why had she been shut out?

And why haven’t you told her your secret?

Her own subconscious struck her like a blow to the face.

Right. Because she hadn’t had the courage to confide in Ginny either, to ask for help…

"It’s different… It’s completely different…" she muttered to herself.

And just as she exited the pub, letting the door swing shut behind her, her body collided with something solid. She looked up and found herself face-to-face with her worst nightmare: Draco Malfoy.

"Watch where the fuck you’re going, Granger… And what the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at work."
"Checking up on me, Malfoy? I’m just finishing my lunch break… And I could ask you the same thing."
"I’m looking for Blaise."

Hermione shot him a furious, almost demonic look.

"Ah! So you knew too! Seems like I’m the only one left out of the loop!"

"Left out of the loop? For Salazar’s sake, Granger… What the fuck are you talking about?" Draco asked, clearly annoyed.
"I’m talking about Blaise and Ginny, Malfoy! And how apparently all of you decided to keep it a secret from me!" she spat, eyes narrowed.
Draco burst out laughing.

"No offense, Granger, but who the hell Ginny shags isn’t my problem… And if Blaise managed to get into her knickers, good for him. If she weren’t a Weasley, I might’ve shagged her myself."

"You’re disgusting… Is that all you ever think about? Can you really not—"

"Not what, Gryffindor?" he said, grabbing her chin and tilting her face up to his. "Because last time I checked, you were the one craving my attention the other night…"

Rage bubbled in Hermione’s stomach, but the moment his fingers touched her skin, a jolt shot through her entire body, leaving her breathless.

"Oh really, Malfoy?" she said, stepping even closer, his blue eyes flicking down—barely—to her soft lips. "Funny… because I seem to remember it going quite differently. In fact, it felt like—"

"Hermione, what the hell are you doing?"

Ron’s angry voice cut through the moment. Hermione immediately stepped back from Draco, her eyes darting around in alarm.
Ron stormed over and stopped just inches from Malfoy, towering over him in both size and height.

"Looking for trouble, Malfoy?" he growled.
"Weasley… I suggest you don’t take another step. Wouldn’t want the Montrose Magpies to lose their precious goalkeeper," Draco hissed with a mocking smirk.

Ron turned to Hermione and grabbed her roughly by the arm, leaning in close to whisper in her ear.

"Why were you talking to him, Hermione? How many times have I told you to avoid this kind of shit? What do you think people will say when they see you with him ?"

"We… we were just talking about work, Ron… really…" Hermione murmured, lowering her gaze.

Draco stood silent, watching. But inside, his thoughts were storming.

Why wasn’t she fighting back? Why was she looking away?
Where the hell was the fierce, sharp-tongued Granger?

A strange feeling stirred in his chest.

"I’d appreciate it if you left my fiancée alone, Malfoy," Ron said, still gripping Hermione’s arm.
"Maybe you should be the one to let her go, Weasley…" Draco muttered, taking a step forward—until Hermione shot him a deadly glare that made him stop.

"What the fuck did you just say, Snake?"

"Ron… Please, let’s not waste time on this nonsense, okay?" Hermione said, stepping in between them and placing a hand on his chest. "Let’s not ruin the day, alright? Ginny’s inside. I think we should—"

Ron shoved her hand away and turned to her with a scornful look.

"I know Ginny’s inside, Hermione. Don’t tell me what to do. Now come on!"

And with that, he brushed past her, flung open the door to the Leaky Cauldron, and stormed inside.

Hermione turned back toward the pub, but the weight of Draco’s gaze burned into her skin.

He was still there. Still watching her.
His expression unreadable… but his icy blue eyes betrayed something she couldn’t place.

Confusion. Doubt. Worry.

"Granger… Are you—"

She didn’t let him finish.

She knew what he was going to ask. And she couldn’t let him.

Because if she let Draco break through the armor she’d built over the years, everything would come spilling out like a flood.

"See you at work, Malfoy."

And with that, she turned her back on him and went back inside.

 

As Theodore walked through the streets of Muggle London, the wine from dinner lightening his thoughts and Elisabeth clinging to his arm, he still couldn’t quite believe how well the evening had gone.
Despite the initial awkwardness, the two of them had gradually relaxed—helped along by the several bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon ordered throughout the night—and Elisabeth had turned out to be an even more extraordinary discovery than Theo had anticipated.
He had already known she was intelligent and undeniably beautiful, but she had also proven to be approachable, witty, cultured… Talking to her was easy, enjoyable, and time had slipped by without him even noticing.
To his great surprise, Theo had also uncovered a hidden facet of Elisabeth Belamy—one she kept well-guarded from most: her sensuality, her innate, effortless allure.
And that had sent him completely over the edge.

When they reached the elegant but modest building on Kensington Road, Elisabeth stopped and pulled her keys from the small purse at her side.
“Well… This is me.”
A hint of nervousness settled between them.

“It was a lovely evening, Theodore Nott… I’ll admit it.”
Theo reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“I told you you’d enjoy yourself, Miss Belamy… Happy to have been your entertainment for the night,” he said, with a mock bow that made Elisabeth burst into laughter.
Her laughter hit him straight in the chest, and his eyes dropped helplessly to her lips—full, red, inviting.

For Salazar’s sake, he could die right there.

Elisabeth stepped closer, her hand gliding sensually down his arm, and Theo’s muscles tensed in anticipation.
“You know, Theodore Nott… I think if you wanted to, you could… well… you might ki—”

He didn’t let her finish.
He crushed his lips against hers hungrily, his hands tangled in her blonde hair, his body pressing tightly into hers.
She melted into him, clawing at the bare skin of his arm, her kiss fierce and breathless.
When she gently bit his lip, Theo growled in pleasure, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze—those sea-green eyes now clouded with lust.

“Do you… do you want to come up?” she whispered, her lips brushing his.

Theo froze for a second, caught off guard.
Of course he wanted to. But he also knew Elisabeth wasn’t the kind of girl to take just anyone home on the first night.
If she was offering… if she was letting him in like this, he needed to be sure.

“Elisabeth… Are you sure about this?”

“I want to trust, Theo… I want to trust you. ”
At those words, the last shred of his control vanished.
He scooped her into his arms and kissed her again, deeply, completely.

As they climbed the stairs to her apartment—unable to keep their hands or lips off each other, like two teenagers swept up in first love—Theo felt something stirring inside him.
Something he had never known before.
This wasn’t just another one-night stand. This wasn’t just another quick orgasm in the back of a club. No.
That was different. She was different.

And while half of him was alight with joy, something else—quieter, unfamiliar—began to seep into Theodore Nott’s veins.

Fear.

 

Chapter 16: XV

Notes:

I'm back!
Sorry for the long absence, but between work and my last university exam, I haven't had much time to write. But starting today, I'll be more consistent and plan to update at least two or three times a week.
This chapter was also very difficult to write; I've corrected it many times, but I hope you enjoy this version.
TW: There's a domestic violence scene at the beginning of the chapter. If that bothers you, feel free to skip to the next scene!
As always, thank you for reading and your many comments! You have no idea how much joy it gives me to read them and know that you like the story!
Best regards, Ilaria

“So you finally decided to come home…”
Hermione had just returned from the office, and the moment she opened the door to their London flat, she found Ron standing there, arms crossed over his chest, still in his Montrose Magpies uniform, staring at her with a look somewhere between cryptic and furious.
“Ron… God, you scared me… I was just finishing up reviewing some witness statements. If I had known you were home, I would’ve come back earlier…” Hermione said, removing her trench coat.
The way he was looking at her sent a chill down her spine, but she was determined not to let it show.

“I told you at lunch I’d be home tonight… but clearly you were distracted. By something— or someone. ”
Hermione picked up the grocery bags and brushed past him, setting them down on the kitchen table and starting to unpack them.

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Ron…”
Ron gave a low, almost menacing laugh as he stepped toward her, stopping just behind her.

“You think I’m stupid, don’t you?” he whispered in her ear. “Or maybe you’re just trying to take me for a fool…”
Hermione tried to pull away, but he grabbed her arm, forcing her to turn and face him.

“You and that bloody Malfoy… I saw you, you know?”

“Ron, you’re mistaken… I don’t know what you think you saw, but Malfoy and I are just colleagues…”
Weasley grabbed her by the neck, yanking her face just inches from his, while Hermione struggled to break free.

“Bullshit!” he shouted, his face twisted with hatred and rage. “How long have you been fucking him, huh? Answer me, damn it!”

“Let me go, please… I haven’t done anything…”
He pinched her lips so hard he broke the skin, blood beginning to trickle down her chin.

“I can smell his fucking scent on you…”
Fear froze the blood in Hermione’s veins as Ron’s grip tightened, making it harder and harder for her to breathe. For a moment, Hermione considered closing her eyes, surrendering, letting all the pain, the humiliation, the heartbreak finally end.

But something inside her had changed.
She was not the same girl anymore.
And Draco’s words—the ones he’d spoken to her on the balcony of their shared room at Hogwarts—echoed ruthlessly in her mind:
“Now you’re swimming in this shit. And you know why? Because it’s the only life you know! Because you’re too scared to be anything else!”

No. Not this time.
She wouldn’t let Ron crush her again.

Gathering all the courage and strength left inside her, Hermione pressed her palms against Ron’s chest and shoved him backwards, his back slamming into the cabinet behind him.
She darted out of the kitchen, lunging for her handbag and spilling its contents onto the floor in a frantic panic.

“Hermione, get back here, now!”
Ron’s voice thundered behind her, and as she heard his footsteps approaching fast, Hermione snatched up her wand and pointed it straight at him.

Ron looked amused.
“Come on, Herm… Put that thing down. Don’t be stupid.”

Her hand trembled and hot tears streamed down her face.
“Ron, please… don’t come any closer…” she whispered.

“Sweetheart, come on… It’s me. There’s no need for this…”
He stepped toward her with each word, and Hermione kept backing up until she felt the wall pressing cold against her spine.

“We can fix this, right? Pretend none of it happened. I love you, Hermione. You know that, right?”

“This… this isn’t love, Ronald. You have to understand that. You need to let me go…”
His eyes held a flicker of confusion—maybe even regret—but Hermione could feel the hate simmering just beneath the surface.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Hermione! You know you’re supposed to be with me. You know no one else would ever want you… It’s always been like this. You really think you can change it now? That anyone would believe you? You pathetic little fool…”

“Shut your mouth!”
A Stunning Spell flew past Ron’s face, missing him by inches. His eyes were wild as smoke rose from the tip of her wand.

With every word Ron had spoken, every poisonous jab, every insult, Hermione’s fury had built into a storm, drowning out the last trace of fear or pity for the boy standing before her.

“That’s enough, Ronald! Enough ! You’re right—I’ve been a fool. For years, I let you treat me like I was nothing. I endured your moods, your disappearances, I turned a blind eye so many times…”

“Oh, I’m so sorry for working my ass off trying to give us a better life—”

“Working, Ron? You really expect me to believe all those nights out were for work? Look me in the eye, Ronald Weasley. Look me in the eye and tell me there was never been any other woman.”
Her voice cracked with pain as Ron dropped his gaze, unable to meet hers.

A silent confirmation of every suspicion she’d ever had.

Clamping a hand over her mouth, Hermione fought the urge to vomit, the taste of blood now mixing with the bile rising in her throat.

“They were right… they were all right…” she whispered to herself, lowering her wand. “I have to get out of here… I have to leave…”

She sprinted into the bedroom and yanked a few clothes from her wardrobe.

“Where do you think you’re going, huh? Who’s going to believe you? You can’t leave me, Hermione. You know it too. You’re alone. You’re nothing without me. No friends, no family… I gave you everything, I loved you—and this is how you repay me? Leaving me? What, to be some Death Eater’s whore?”

“You broke me, Ronald. In every way a woman can be broken. You humiliated me. Betrayed me. You made me weak. And you know what?”
Hermione stepped closer, confronting him face-to-face, her eyes blazing with fury.

“Now that I look at you, I see you’re not even half the man Draco Mal —”

Ron’s slap came fast and hard, hitting her square across the face and sending her staggering.
Gripping the edge of the bed, Hermione saw crimson droplets splatter onto the white wool blanket.

She turned, locking eyes with Ron, whose expression was now full of guilt, of pain.
He stepped forward, but Hermione recoiled, squeezing her eyes shut, fighting back the tears.
Breathing heavily, she pushed everything out—pain, fear, shame—until her mind was clear.

She opened her eyes and stared at him with loathing.

“Goodbye, Ronald.”
And with a loud crack , she Disapparated—her destination clear as day in her mind.

 

“Quirzy! Where the hell is my tea?”

Pansy’s shrill voice echoed throughout the Manor.

“Bloody useless creature… Quirzy, you better be brewing it right now or you're in for a truly unpleasant quarter of an hour…”

As she made her way toward the kitchens, her attention was caught by someone pounding insistently on the front door. She sighed, irritated, and went to open it.

The clock read 11:12 PM. Who the hell could it be at that hour?

“I’m coming, for Salazar’s sake… No need to be so bloody—What the…?”

As soon as she opened the door, the Slytherin found herself face-to-face with Hermione, wrapped in her coat, her face still stained with blood and tears.

“Granger… What the fuck…”

“I… I didn’t know where else to go…”

Pansy stepped aside, motioning for Hermione to come in, guiding her into the large sitting room where the fire crackled warmly in the hearth.

Quirzy had just brought the tea, and Pansy poured two cups, handing one to Hermione, whose hand was still trembling. The Slytherin watched her in silence, her dark eyes scanning the cut on her lip and the bluish finger marks now blooming on Hermione’s pale neck.

“I’m sorry for showing up unannounced…” Hermione said, setting the cup down on the table and wrapping her arms around herself. “It’s just for tonight… I promise I’ll figure something out tomorrow…”

“It was him, wasn’t it?” Pansy asked, struggling to keep her anger in check.

Hermione lowered her gaze, shame etched across her face.

“That bastard… Does Potter know? Don’t tell me he knows and isn’t doing anything! He’s still at your place, isn’t he? We need to call someone—Maybe Draco and Theo! They could bring him to the Ministry and—”

“No!” Hermione shouted, immediately regretting the outburst. “I… I don’t want them to know. I don’t want anyone to know…”

“Granger, you have to report him! You can’t let him get away with this! God, just look at you… look at what he did to you!”

Pansy pointed toward the large mirror beside the fireplace, and when Hermione turned to face it, her breath caught: her face was pale, her chin crusted with blood mixed with black streaks of mascara from the tears. Her hair was disheveled, but what disturbed her most were the bruises on her delicate neck, Ron’s violence branded on her skin as a haunting reminder of the night.

Sighing, Hermione turned back toward Pansy, trying to hold back the tears threatening to fall freely.

“It’s… it’s not that simple…”

“Are you afraid of him? You’re safe here. He can’t get to you…”

“No, it’s not that… I’m afraid of what comes after… If this got out—if it became public—what would his family think? And Harry… It would devastate them. I can’t allow that…”

“ Can’t allow that? Granger, do you hear yourself? Ronald Weasley is a fucking bastard and deserves to be punished! I’m sure Potter and those damn Weasleys would agree. And if not—fuck them, understood? You can’t let him do this to you, can’t let him—”

“ I’m alone, Pansy … Don’t look at me like that, it’s true… I’ve always been alone. Too weird for other kids, too bookish, too mature. Then Harry and Ron came along, and his family… For the first time, I wasn’t invisible. I mattered to someone. And now, if I report Ron… I’ll lose it all again… I just need time to think, to figure out what to do… I… I shouldn’t have dragged you into this, Pansy, I’m so sorry… But I couldn’t go to Harry… And if Blaise had seen me, he would’ve told Ginny, and I couldn’t let that…”

Hermione sobbed as a lone tear slid down her exhausted face, and Pansy, against all odds, found herself feeling something like compassion for the girl so different from herself who now sat before her, broken.

Sighing, Pansy rolled her eyes and reached out, taking Hermione’s hand.

“Alright, Granger… I’ll keep your secret. For now . But promise me you’ll think about it, okay? And promise me you’ll stay the hell away from that filthy worm…”

“Pansy… Not even Theo and Draco can find out…”

“But if I even tried to—”

“Pansy… Please…”

“Alright, alright, Gryffindor, whatever you say… Now get up, let’s clean you up… You look like absolute shit, you know that?”

Hermione wiped away her tears with the palm of her hand, allowing herself a small smile.

And as Pansy led her to the bathroom, Hermione found herself thinking that maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t quite as alone as she’d thought.

 

“A black coffee… and a cherry muffin…”

“Anything else, Dr. Lovegood?”

“No, thank you, I—”

“Another black coffee. And put it all on my tab, thanks Albert.”

Luna turned toward the mystery man who had just offered to buy her breakfast, and her wide smile blossomed the moment she saw his face.

“Harry, you didn’t have to!”

“Please, I insist.”

Harry grabbed the two paper cups and handed one to Luna, who had already taken a bite of her muffin.

“Heading to the office too, Luna? I’ll walk you.”

He stepped aside to let her go ahead. She was wrapped in a blush-colored coat, her golden curls loose down her back that morning.

“How are the investigations going? Blaise told me about the Hungarian Horntail egg…”

Blaise had been talking to Luna?

Jealousy twisted in Harry’s gut as he forced down a gulp of coffee, feigning indifference.

“Yeah, Hermione thinks it might be a red herring… And the lab results?”

“Nothing yet, but I spoke to the Department Head just yesterday… The samples have already been analyzed, and they’re expecting to have results very soon.”

“Splendid. That’s… fantastic,” Harry said, looking down as they walked.

The silence between them grew awkward, and Harry found himself too nervous to break it. Luna’s presence always managed to throw him off.

“So…”

“Are you busy tomorrow night, Harry?” Luna asked, her grey eyes on him.

“What, me? No! Completely free…”

And absolutely desperate…

“I mean, yeah, maybe something with the lads, but nothing I can’t move around…”

“The Daily Prophet announced a new exhibit opening tomorrow. It’s on exotic magical animals from the sub-Saharan continent… I thought I’d check it out. Want to come with me?”

“Wow… Yes, of course! I… I love exotic animals, you know… They’re so… foreign…”

Foreign? What the hell where you thinking? Idiot.

Luna raised an eyebrow, bemused, then smiled again.

“Perfect. I’ll owl you later with the details!”

“Will… Will Blaise be there too?”

“Blaise? No, why would he?”

Harry shrugged, looking away to hide how ridiculous he felt.

“No, I mean… nothing, forget it…”

“You’re odd today, you know that?” Luna said, stepping closer and planting a kiss on his cheek. “And I must say, I don’t mind it at all. See you later, Harry Potter.”

“See you later… Luna,” Harry whispered, an idiotic grin spreading across his face and his heart pounding in his chest.

 

“My beloved colleagues, what a wonderful day to you all… The sun is shining in the Muggle sky of London today…”

Draco brought a hand to his face, rubbing his eyes the moment Theo made his dramatic entrance into Classroom A.
“For Salazar’s sake, Nott… Spare me the agony, will you?”
“Sorry your mood is so grey, Draco… Mine is positively rosy. Rosy like Elisabeth’s sweet-smelling skin…”

Blaise grimaced, casting a confused glance at Draco, while Harry barely managed to stifle a laugh.
“Ah, so that’s what’s behind your ridiculous happiness, Theo… You finally managed to screw Belamy.”
“Bite your tongue, Draco,” Theodore hissed through his teeth before his smirk returned. “Elisabeth and I simply had a delightful evening… The fact that it ended in her bed is purely incidental.”

“Wow, Theo… I’m almost moved. I never thought you had such a romantic side.”

Pansy had just walked in, followed closely by Hermione — and all eyes in the room snapped to them, stunned and disbelieving.

“Pansy?”
“Yes, Draco?” the girl snapped.

Hermione, trying to ignore the stares from her colleagues, walked to the table and sat down quietly, pulling her notes from her bag.

“Hermione… Are you alright?” Harry whispered, leaning toward her — but she instinctively pulled back.
“I… Yes, yes, sorry, Harry. I just didn’t sleep well…”

Harry sat beside her, shaking his head, clearly concerned. Hermione turned to him to reassure him — and met Draco’s icy blue gaze across the room. He was watching her intently, as though he could see straight through her.

Her hand shot to her neck, but Pansy gave her a subtle nod; the disillusionment charm she had cast that morning was still holding.

Draco’s eyes moved between Pansy and Hermione, restless. Something was off — those two witches were hiding something, and he was going to find out what.

“Ladies and gentlemen… Good morning.”

Thompson’s arrival brought everyone back into line.

“Sir…” Draco muttered, dragging his eyes away — for now.

“Dr. Lovegood just updated me on the laboratory samples; analysis should be complete within two or three days. As for your team, I presume there have been some developments?”

Hermione stood and walked to the chalkboard where the three fragments from the crime scenes were displayed.

“After careful consideration, we believe the three fragments weren’t random… but a message. We’re still evaluating how best to analyze them — a Revelio charm could destroy them. Plus, the type of parchment concerns me… With your permission, I’d like to submit the pieces to the Department of Muggle Artifacts Misuse. Given the unconventional nature of the killer’s methods, I believe their input could be invaluable.”

“Very well, Dr. Granger. And the egg?”

“Well, regarding the egg…”
“The egg didn’t come from the British black market.”

At Draco’s words, the entire team turned to him.

“Clarify, Malfoy,” Thompson said.

“I’ve done my research, sir, and I can confirm the egg wasn’t bought in the UK. I’d bet it came from Hungary — and that would’ve cost a fortune. A transaction that size must’ve left a trail…”

“And where exactly did you conduct this ‘ research’ , Malfoy?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.

Draco turned to him, barely hiding a smirk.
“Nothing illegal, Potter, don’t worry… And in any case, I’m not the only one keeping secrets around here. ”

Though he didn’t look at her, Hermione knew Draco’s words were aimed at her. Instinctively, she hunched her shoulders.

“So what are you suggesting, Draco?” Blaise asked.

“If that kind of money left a trail, there’s only one place we’ll find it: Gringotts .”

“Oh sure… Because those damned goblins would rather die than hand over information,” Theo scoffed.

“Unless they’re forced to…”

Pansy looked up at Thompson with a mischievous smile.

“If you got the Minister’s permission, James, the goblins would be required to cooperate.”

“A permit to dig into Gringotts accounts? Forget it. Shacklebolt will never agree. If word leaks, we’ll have the press up our arses and an angry mob at our door. No chance.”

“Didn’t think you were the type to give up so easily…” Pansy murmured. “You always struck me as… hard and commanding .”

Theo choked on a laugh. Hermione lowered her gaze, mortified by Pansy’s barely veiled innuendo.

“Parkinson… You’re on thin ice.”

“Sir… If I may, as questionable as Pansy’s methods may be, I believe she’s right this time,” Draco interjected.

Thompson sighed deeply, then shook his head in reluctant defeat.
“You’re absolutely sure about your theory, Malfoy?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Fine. I’ll speak with the Minister. He and Professor McGonagall are meeting with me shortly to discuss security for the Alumni Ball.”

“Security, sir?” Blaise asked.

“The Headmistress is concerned. There’s a killer on the loose, and all clues point toward former Hogwarts students… The atmosphere is tense. Still, the Minister insisted — the Ball will happen. And I expect you all to be there.”

“Sir, I—”

“Dr. Granger, it’s not optional. You won’t be there in any official capacity, but the Minister requested the full team’s presence to ensure maximum security… In case the killer decides to act.”

“I… I understand…” Hermione replied faintly, even though inside, panic had started to churn her stomach.

How would she do it?
How would she face Ron?
And Harry?
And everyone else?

Her breath caught — the room felt smaller. Pansy shot her a glance and discreetly gestured for her to breathe.

There were still a couple of days left. They’d figure it out. Together.

“Alright, I’m glad to see you’re finally making progress. Unless there’s anything else…”
“Sir… If the Minister agrees, may I accompany you to Gringotts? I’m confident my methods are far more… persuasive.”

Thompson narrowed his eyes at Pansy.
“Would saying no even matter, Parkinson?”
“Highly unlikely.”
“Fine. Meet me in my office in an hour. And don’t be late.”

 

“Stop.”
“I can’t. Thompson’s expecting me—”
“Pansy… If you don’t want me to stupefy you, I suggest you stop. Now.”

Pansy rolled her eyes but halted mid-corridor, turning to face Draco Malfoy, arms crossed, eyes scanning her for answers.

“Alright, Draco. But I don’t have much time. What do you want?”
Draco smirked.
“Pansy, darling, don’t play games with me… You know exactly what I want. Why the hell did you and Granger arrive together this morning?”

“Didn’t think you cared about my friendships, Drackie… And in any case, it’s none of your business.”

“Friendships? Please, Pansy, don’t insult my intelligence. You’re hiding something — and I will find out what.”

Pansy stepped closer, eyes wide and innocent.
“Funny…You know Draco - as much as I am your dearest and most wonderful friend and life partner - my acquaintances have never been of interest to you so I can’t help but wonder if all these questions are really about something else… Or maybe… someone else ?”

Draco shrugged, lips curling into an amused sneer.
“Pansy, I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you know exactly what I’m talking about, Draco Malfoy. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you look at Granger every time she walks into a room.”

“You’re delusional, witch,” he said coldly. “Granger isn’t on my mind. But you’re on my team — and if something’s happening behind my back, I have every right to know.”

“Like how you informed the team about your little trips to Azkaban, Drackie?”

Draco froze, eyes wide.
“How the hell do you—”

“You said it yourself… You’re not the only one with secrets around here .” Pansy smiled slyly. “But don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.
As for Granger — even if I wanted to tell you something, I can’t. She made me swear to keep my mouth shut. And as difficult as that is… I intend to keep my promise.
So if you want answers, Drackie, I’m afraid you’ll have to ask the source directly.”

“Fine. That’s exactly what I’ll do.”

Draco turned sharply, storming off toward Classroom A — but Pansy’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Draco… Be gentle with her, alright? She’s not what she seems.”

“Don’t worry, Pansy. I’ll be gentle… Very gentle.”
He strode off again, eyes burning with a single goal:

Find Hermione Granger.

Chapter 17: XVI

Notes:

New chapter posted :)
As always, i wanna thank u for views, comments and kudos!
U are very adorable with me, i don't know if i deserve this!
In any case, if u like complete stories, i remember u that u can find my other Dramione completed on my profile!
See u soon, very soon.
Kiss
Ilaria

Draco threw open the door of Classroom A, then turned on his heels to slam it shut behind him.
A triumphant smirk spread across his face.

The object of his brief but determined search stood right in front of him, staring back with a confused — and almost frightened — expression.

“Can I help you, Malfoy?”

Hermione tried to mask her unease, hastily organizing the scattered papers on her desk. But her mind was spinning.
What the hell did Malfoy want now?
And why in Merlin’s name was he staring at her like that — with that sly, knowing grin?
Could he possibly know…?
No. Pansy had sworn to keep quiet.
Then again… trusting a Slytherin…

Draco sat down on the edge of the desk, right beside her, arms crossed, the challenge in his smile lighting up his sharp features.
“Granger…”
“Malfoy…”

“You know, Granger, I think you and I got off on the wrong foot. Not your fault, really — I don’t blame you. But I think you’re slightly underestimating who you’re dealing with.”

Hermione stifled a laugh, finally locking eyes with the Slytherin, who didn’t seem the least bit amused.
“I’m sorry, Malfoy, but I truly have no idea where you’re going with this. And I was just about to meet with my colleagues from the Department for Improper Use of—”

As she stepped toward the door, Draco sealed it with a non-verbal spell.

“Ah-ah. Not so fast, Doctor…”

He slid off the desk in one fluid movement and started walking slowly toward her, step by step, forcing Hermione to instinctively shrink in on herself.
“You’re scaring me…” she whispered.

“Oh, but you shouldn’t be scared of me, Granger…” Draco murmured, coming to a halt behind her, his breath grazing the shell of her ear. “You just need to tell me what I want to know…”

A shiver ran down Hermione’s spine — but she didn’t have time to figure out whether it was fear or something else entirely. Because in the blink of an eye, Draco was in front of her again.

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“You’re hiding something, Granger. A secret. Something you haven’t told anyone…”

Hermione tried to step back, only to find the edge of the wooden desk pressing against her thighs. Malfoy kept closing in on her.
Each word, a step.
Each breath, a shrinking distance.
He was hunting her, like a predator — relentless, focused.

And she, without even realizing it, had become the prey.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business…”

“You see, despite your arrival on the team… and despite Thompson — for some inexplicable reason — thinking he needs you… I’m not an idiot, Granger.
You might fool the others. You might act like this shy, innocent little girl — but I’m not buying it. There’s something off about you. Something I intend to expose… whether you like it or not.”

On instinct, Hermione raised her hand to stop him — and her palm landed squarely against Draco’s chest.
His hand immediately shot forward, as if to shove hers away. But the moment his fingers touched her skin, a jolt of adrenaline surged through him, sharp and sudden, crashing into his chest like a wave.

Instead of pushing her away, Draco found himself slowly tracing his thumb along the back of her hand — his eyes traveling downward.
To her curls. To the deep hazel of her eyes. To the curve of her lips.

So close. Far too close.

Close enough to taste.

Time between them had frozen. The only sound was their breathing — quick, uneven, almost in sync.

There was only a breath between them now. A heartbeat separating Draco’s lips from Hermione’s  lips that trembled ever so slightly.

They were still. Motionless. Caught in a strange, magnetic silence.

But then Draco’s gaze dropped to her neck.

And Hermione recoiled.

She stepped back sharply, fear flashing in her eyes as her hand flew to the marks Ron had left there the night before.
Had he seen them?

Had Pansy’s spell worn off?

No. He couldn’t find out. Not him.

If he did… he’d tell everyone.
The entire wizarding world would know.
Harry. Ginny. Ron’s family…

She had to stop him. She had to say something. Anything.

Looking up at him, her eyes pleading, Hermione stepped forward.
“Malfoy, please… let me explain—”

“Why did you and Pansy arrive together this morning?”

The question hit her like a bucket of cold water.
She froze mid-motion, staring at him in disbelief.
And then, uncontrollably, she burst into laughter — loud, startled, almost hysterical.

“All this questioning…” she gasped between fits of laughter, “just to ask why Pansy and I arrived together?”

Draco stood motionless, watching her.

It wasn’t fake laughter.
Granger was actually laughing — really laughing.

And for a second, Draco realized it was the first time he’d seen her look genuinely happy.

But that fleeting warmth was quickly consumed by the slow-burning fury that came with being mocked. By her. By that infuriating Gryffindor girl who dared to laugh in his face.

“Oh, I amuse you, do I, Granger? Really?”

“I… I’m sorry, Malfoy, but honestly, this is borderline ridiculous,” she said, regaining her composure, stifling the last traces of her laughter.
“In any case, I don’t really see how it’s any of your business. Pansy and I are two grown women, in case you hadn’t noticed — and we’re free to spend time with whoever we like…”

“Oh, of course,” Draco said scornfully. “And I’m supposed to believe that, out of nowhere, you and Pansy just decided to become best friends after hating each other for a lifetime?”

“As it happens, I’ve found Pansy to be quite pleasant company, Malfoy. And as hard as it might be for you to grasp, people grow up. They change. They see things from different perspectives…”

“Oh, don’t give me that, Granger. You and that damned witch are obviously hiding something…”

“You’re paranoid! You know what? There’s no point in talking to you… Actually, I’ve decided not to waste another second of my day. Goodbye, Malfoy.”

“Don’t you dare walk away, Granger. I’m not done with you—”

As Hermione stormed toward the door, Draco grabbed her left wrist. A grimace of pain twisted her face, and a single tear slipped from her eye. She yanked her arm back abruptly, but not before Draco caught sight of something strange — a faint shimmer, a subtle flicker.

The trace of a Disillusionment Charm.

Draco narrowed his eyes, his cold gaze shifting from her wrist to her face.

“What the hell…?”

“I have to go. I have to go now…”

“Don’t insult my intelligence. I can spot a Disillusionment Charm from a mile away. What the fuck are you hiding?”

“You’re insane. You’ve completely lost it. Where the hell is my wand—?”

“Oh, I’m insane now, am I, Granger? Alright, then…”

A calm, almost beatific smile spread across Draco’s face as he pointed his wand at her.

“Malfoy, please, don’t—”

“ Finite Incantatem .”

“Draco, what the fuck—why did you seal the damn door, are you mental?”

As Draco’s spell washed over Hermione’s skin, Theo, Harry, Blaise, and Pansy stepped into the room.

For a moment, the air seemed to freeze.
An icy, surreal stillness blanketed the group like a ghost.

All eyes were on Hermione.

Her split lip. The violet bruise discoloring her pale skin. The tiny crusted droplets of blood.

And then — the marks.

Five long, crimson welts stretching across her neck like claw marks.

Hermione felt exposed.
Naked.
Stripped of the carefully built armor of secrets she’d constructed over the last four years.
Her eyes darted to Pansy, who stared back with a remorseful, almost guilty expression.
Then to Theo and Blaise, who couldn’t tear their gazes away from her injuries — as if she were something fragile. Something in need of protection.
Then to Harry, whose eyes blazed with fury.
And finally, to Draco.

He stood frozen, still gripping his wand, staring at her with wide, shocked eyes.
And on his pale face — unmistakable guilt.

“I didn’t mean to…” he began, but Harry’s voice cut through the room like a blade.

“Hermione, what the fuck happened to you?”

Harry rushed to her, his hands gripping her shoulders, shaking her as if to wake her from a trance.

“Hermione, look at me! Who did this to you? Was it him? Was it you, you fucking Death Eater?!”

Harry spun toward Draco, wand raised, fury boiling just beneath his skin.

“I swear I’ll kill you. This time, I swear to fucking Merlin, I’ll kill you—”

“Put the wand down, Potter. Don’t be stupid…”

Pansy drew her wand in a flash and stepped between Draco and Harry, her stance steady, unwavering.

“Get out of the way, Parkinson. Now. ”

“Potter, I don’t want to hex you. But if you don’t lower that wand right now, they’d better start prepping another bed at St. Mungo’s.”

“Alright, alright, everyone just fucking breathe,” Theo said, stepping in. “Potter, come on. You know damn well Draco didn’t do this. Put the wand down.”

“Oh yeah?” Harry snapped, shifting the aim of his wand from Draco to Theo. “Then who did? You? Or maybe you, Parkinson? No…” he sneered, cruel and bitter, “We all know the only one capable of something like this… is Malfoy. You sick, twisted bastard…”

Harry lunged forward, fist drawn back, ready to strike — but a voice from behind stopped him cold.

“It was Ron.”

The scream tore from Hermione’s throat like something broken, choked by held-back sobs and burning tears now freely streaming down her face.

“It wasn’t him… it was Ron…”

Harry lowered his arm slowly, turning toward her, his face crumpling with anguish.

“Hermione, what are you—”

But she couldn’t answer.

She was already crying, already running toward the door, her shoulder slamming into Draco as she passed.

He lifted his head to look at her, as if waking from a dream.

“Granger, I…”

Hermione spun around, her eyes burning with fury.

“Are you happy now?”

And with that, she was gone — Harry right behind her.

 

Hermione pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders, the bitter London cold seeping deep into her bones as she stared at the shop window in front of her.

It was already past six. She should’ve been heading back to Pansy’s by now, but something inside her just… wouldn’t let her move.

Now that her secret had been exposed — now that Draco had revealed to everyone what she had fought so carefully to hide for four long years — Hermione felt hollow. Alien. Out of place.
How could she possibly face her colleagues again?
The look of pity in their eyes still burned on her skin like open flame.

“I knew I’d find you here…”

A voice behind her made her sigh heavily.

“Hatchards. The oldest bookshop in London — your safe harbor. You told me that back in second year, remember? ‘If one day I go missing, Harry, check Hatchards first…’ ”

“What do you want, Harry?”

Hermione turned toward him, tears still staining her pale cheeks.

“Hermione…”

“Please, don’t look at me like that. Not you.”

Harry exhaled, his eyes drifting involuntarily to the bruises on her neck. She quickly pulled up her scarf to cover them.

“How long…” he dared to ask.

“Does it really matter?” she replied, her laugh bitter and hollow.

Harry stepped closer, carefully taking her hand.

“I should’ve seen it…”

“You couldn’t have.”

“No, but I should have. You’re like a sister to me, Hermione — one of the most important people in my life. And I didn’t see anything . I was too wrapped up in work, in my life, in Ginny… If I’d just looked more closely, paid attention to the signs—”

“Harry, this isn’t your fault. It’s no one’s fault. I’m the one who kept up this perfect version of my life. Maybe it gave me the illusion of control, you know? Pretending everything was normal, pretending I had it all together…

How stupid is that? And I only realize now how utterly foolish I was to think I could sweep it all under the rug like dust — live inside this disgusting lie I built for myself…”

She sighed, wiping away a tear with the sleeve of her coat.

“Where is he?” Harry asked, his voice hardening.

“I don’t know… Home, maybe. Or at the Burrow…”

“I need to talk to him. He needs to explain what the fuck is wrong with him. I swear, if I had him in front of me right now—”

“No!”

Hermione’s sharp voice cracked through the air like a whip.

“Hermione, what—?”

“You won’t do anything, do you hear me?”

Harry stared at her, stunned.

“You’re not seriously going to let him get away with this. Herm, this isn’t just a fight. Ron’s my best friend — but he has to pay for what he did to you. He can’t be walking free. He deserves a trial, consequences—”

“And then what, Harry? Huh?” she snapped. “End up on every front page? Lose his job? Destroy his life? What about Ginny? Or George? I can’t even imagine what Molly and Arthur would go through… I won’t let that happen. In time, they’ll know only that things ended between me and Ron — nothing more. They won’t suffer because of me. Am I clear?”

“Hermione, I understand you're trying to protect them — but this isn’t about them . It’s about you . It’s about justice. You can’t ask me to just stand by and do nothing. You have to report him. And if you won’t, then I—”

“Harry James Potter!” she shouted, her voice trembling. “You’ll do nothing , do you hear me? Nothing! ”

Harry took a step back, almost as if struck.

“If someone’s going to do something, it’s going to be me . And until I decide, until I find the strength to do it… no one does anything. Not you, not those bloody Slytherins, not even Pansy —”

“What the hell does Parkinson have to do with any of this?” he asked, suspicious.

“Well… I’m staying at her place now. Just for a while…”

Harry rolled his eyes, throwing up his arms.

“Parkinson? Seriously ? I’m your best friend, Hermione! And you confide in Parkinson ? Bloody hell, I can’t even—”

“I couldn’t put you in the middle, Harry. I couldn’t ask you to choose—”

“ Choose? ” Harry’s voice rose, hurt flashing across his face. “You think I’d need to choose ? Hermione, there aren’t sides here, okay? How could you even think that? As if I’d ever be on his side . As if this is somehow your fault—”

“But it is , Harry!” she cried, her voice breaking as tears streamed down again. “It is ! Every lie I told, every time I looked away, every time I lowered my head… I accepted it! Do you understand? I let it happen! I could’ve walked away, I could’ve fought back — but I didn’t ! Because admitting I failed, admitting my life wasn’t perfect, admitting I was weak …

God, Harry… It would’ve destroyed me. I’m such an idiot… Just a stupid, broken idiot…”

She broke down completely, and Harry wrapped his arms around her in a strong, protective embrace.
Her body shook with sobs — all the ones she’d held in for so long, hidden behind masks and perfect smiles.
All the pain. All the anger. All the exhaustion from pretending to live a life that wasn’t hers.

And now it was all pouring out, draining from her, as she buried herself in the arms of the one person who had never once failed her.

They didn’t know how long they stayed like that. A minute. An hour. A lifetime.

At some point, Hermione pulled away, her tear-reddened eyes locking with his. Harry brushed her cheek gently with his hand.

“It’s not your fault, Hermione. It never was. It isn’t, and it never will be. I’ll do as you ask — I won’t say a word. Not until you’re ready. But please… remember this for me: it’s not your fault.”

Hermione took his hands in hers, a faint, grateful smile lighting her tear-streaked face.

“Walk me back to Pansy’s, okay?”

“Hermione… you could stay with me instead…”

“Harry…” she said softly, gently scolding him.

“Alright, alright… I’ll take you back to Parkinson’s. This time. ”

 

The music at The White Hole that night couldn’t drown out the thoughts spinning inside the heads of the four young men seated on the last sofa in the back of the bar, each nursing a glass of firewhiskey, lost in their own troubled minds.

“Fucking hell, it’s unbelievable…” muttered Flint, taking a long sip of his drink.
“Yeah…” Blaise sighed. “Yeah...”
“I mean, I knew he was hot-tempered, maybe the occasional slip-up... but this? Fuck, this is beyond anything I could have imagined…”
Theo downed his drink in one angry gulp, slamming the empty glass onto the table.
“You know what pisses me off?” he growled. “That bastard didn’t even get a taste of what he deserves. He’s out there, untouched, while she—fuck, I can’t even think about it...”
“Someone ought to teach him a lesson,” Marcus spat. “Fucking animal…”

“Maybe we should handle it ourselves, right, Blaise?” Theo sneered. “I’m pretty sure I still have that old Death Eater cloak stashed somewhere... Throw on a mask, wait outside his house one night and—bam! Beat the shit out of him. I want to hear him scream for his mummy.”
“Fuck yes! Theo’s right!” Flint bellowed, pounding his fist on the table.
“We don’t need to kill him, alright? Just scare the living shit out of him. Maybe rough him up a bit… nothing too serious. I mean, we’re respectable men now, aren’t we?”

“Theo, cut the bullshit,” Blaise snapped, glaring. “And even if I wanted to— which I don’t —it wouldn’t be that simple.”
“And why not, Blaise? Just because you’re banging the Weasley girl now?”
“Watch your mouth, Nott,” Blaise growled, slowly lowering his glass in warning.
“Fine, fine… Still, I’m pretty damn sure that once Ginny Weasley hears what her sweet brother’s been up to, she’ll be the first to kick his sorry arse all the way to Montrose.”

“Oh, I cannot wait for that day…”
“Marcus, Theo… Ginny knows nothing , and as far as you're concerned, that’s how it’s going to stay,” Blaise said firmly.

“What?” Marcus blurted. “You seriously want to cover this up? No fucking way, man! He needs to pay. The whole bloody city should know what kind of man he really is.”
“I spoke with Potter earlier,” Blaise said coldly. “Hermione was crystal clear: no one is to find out. We already fucked up by telling you .” He pointed sharply at Marcus. “No one says a word until she decides it’s time. Understood?”

Marcus and Theo slumped into the sofa, exchanging annoyed glances.
“Fine, fine… Mister Keep Your Fucking Mouth Shut …” Theo muttered bitterly. “But what about waiting for him outside his house?”

“Where is Granger now?”
The voice came from Draco. He hadn’t spoken a word until then, just sat there, staring into his drink like it held all the answers.

“At Pansy’s. Why?” Blaise immediately regretted the response when Draco stood and threw a handful of coins onto the table.

“No. No, what the fuck are you doing, Draco? You’re not seriously going to her, are you?”
“See you at the office tomorrow.”

Theo shot up.
“Draco, listen mate, I know your intentions are good, but I really don’t think this is—”
Draco turned on him, and Theo froze. He’d seen that look only once before, when Gregory died.

Guilt. Raw, bone-deep remorse.

With a heavy sigh, Theo sank back down and grabbed his glass in resignation.
“Alright, Draco. See you tomorrow.”

 

Draco knocked three times at the door of the Parkinson Manor and noticed, to his own surprise, that his hand was trembling ever so slightly.

“I don’t fucking believe this…”

Pansy Parkinson’s face, the moment she opened the door and saw him, twisted into pure rage and outrage.

“With what bloody nerve do you dare show your face here, Draco?”
“Pansy—” he began, but the furious witch cut him off immediately.

“Do you even realize the shit you pulled today, Draco Malfoy? Not only did your little stunt stop me from getting to Gringotts with Thompson— which is already fucking serious on its own —but what you did to Hermione? What the actual fuck were you thinking? How could you even begin to come up with such an idiotic, reckless, completely—”
“She was hiding something, Pansy, alright?! How the fuck was I supposed to know it was that ? How could I have guessed?” he barked, defensive.

“Oh please! As if someone hiding something from you isn’t reason enough! But you’re Draco Malfoy , right? Everyone must fall at your damn feet and confess their deepest secrets…”

“I thought it had to do with the mission, Pansy…”
“Bullshit. That’s complete and utter bullshit, and you know it!” she snarled, jabbing her finger at him from the doorway. “You knew damn well this had nothing to do with the mission, or with me, or even with you ! You did it on purpose! You did it because ever since you and Granger got back from Hogwarts, you haven’t been able to get her out of your bloody head!”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about—”
“You’re damn right, I don’t! Only you and she know what happened that night, but I know something did! But you know what? That still doesn’t fucking justify it!”

“I’m not trying to justify anything, Pansy. I just… I need to see her—”
“To what? Check on her? Let me save you the trouble—she’s miserable . Potter brought her home and it took me two hours to calm her down!”

Potter? Why the fuck had Potter stayed with her that long?
Draco pushed the thought away and focused on the storm pouring out of Pansy’s mouth.

“She even made me let her fucking cat Apparate into my house just to feel better. A cat , Draco. In my house. So if you think for one second you can—”

“I fucked up, alright?” Draco interrupted, voice hoarse and raw. “I know I did. I made a mistake. A colossal mistake —” he rushed to say before she could cut in again. “But I just want to apologize. That’s it. Five minutes. Then I’ll go. I swear.”

“Draco…”

“Please, Pansy. I know you’re furious, but… just let me do this.”

She hesitated for a moment, then rolled her eyes dramatically and stepped aside.
“First floor. Second door on the right.”

Draco nodded silently and stepped inside, heading for the stairs—until her voice stopped him again.

“Draco… screw this up one more time , and I swear St. Mungo’s won’t even need to prep a bed… because I’ll fucking kill you myself. Got it?”

Chapter 18: XVII

Notes:

Hello everybody!
New passionate chapter!
As always, i read and i'm very glad for all your comments and kudos!
I didn't expect you to like the story like this but this can only please me!
Good lecture!
A kiss, Ilaria

Draco had been standing in front of the door for five long minutes now, arm suspended mid-air, searching within himself for the courage to knock.

What the hell was he going to say once inside that room?
What useless excuses could his Slytherin mind possibly come up with?
Forgive me, I’ve been an arse? No.
Or rather—yes, he had been. But there was still too much pride in him to stoop so low as to admit it.

I suppose I owe you an apology, Granger?
No, no. Too smug. Too him.

Oh, screw it. He’d come up with something. He was Draco Malfoy, after all—not some timid schoolboy.

With a sharp knock, Draco composed his best poker face. But all his grand intentions crumbled the second he realised that no one was answering from the other side.

“What the fuck…”

He knocked again—once, twice—then, irritated, decided to open the door himself.

The room was lavish. Far too lavish for someone like Granger . A large four-poster bed took up most of the space, one side of the room opening onto a small terrace through a grand set of glass doors, while the other was occupied by a desk cluttered with ancient tomes and scattered parchment.

His attention was abruptly drawn downward by something brushing against his leg.

Draco looked down, and a disgusted sneer twisted his face.

“What the bloody creature are you supposed to be?” he muttered, addressing the furry orange blob now rubbing itself against his leg, leaving long ginger hairs all over his expensive— very expensive—jeans.

“He’s not a ‘bloody creature’, Malfoy. He’s my cat. Not that I expect you to appreciate his presence.”

Hermione’s icy voice caught him off guard. She had just entered through the terrace door, a thick cream shawl around her shoulders and a phone still in her hand. Her face was marked with the unmistakable trace of tears.

“Crookshanks, come here,” she said, sitting on the bed and motioning the cat over with a hand.

“This thing is called Crookshanks ? Now it makes sense why he’s so unpleasant to look at.”

Hermione’s glare could have turned him to stone. And for the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy felt… vulnerable.

“What are you doing here, Malfoy? Come to insult my cat? Looking for another creature to take your cruelty out on?”

Draco stepped back as if the words had struck him physically.

“Okay, Granger. Maybe we started off on the wrong foot—”

“ The wrong foot? ” she hissed, jumping to her feet. “ The wrong foot?? Do you even realise what you’ve done to me? What gives you the right to show up here now, huh? What face do you think you're wearing?”

“If you’d just let me explain—”

“Explain? Oh, for Godric’s sake! Of course! Please, Mr Malfoy , do enlighten me,” she snapped, offering him a mocking bow.

“Don’t take the piss, Granger. Don’t you dare—”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, Malfoy! On the contrary—I desperately want to hear your explanation. Because all day, while my heart was in pieces, a single question kept ringing in my head: Why? So please, tell me. Tell me why you decided to interfere, to stick your nose with morbid curiosity into things that weren’t yours. Tell me why—what cursed, fucking reason you had to ruin my life!”

“You think I ruined your life— me ? Really, Granger?”

The two of them were shouting now, faces inches apart. Crookshanks had darted under the bed, terrified by the tension in the room.

“Oh, I think you’re confused, princess! ” Draco spat, suddenly grabbing her arm and yanking up her sleeve to expose the purplish fingerprints Ron had left on her wrist. “I’m not the bastard who did this to you.”

Hermione yanked her arm back, eyes shining with unshed tears, her breath shallow and furious.
And then—Warm tears began to fall. She tried to stop them, but they wouldn’t. They just kept coming.

She felt hurt. And humiliated.

Humiliated to be crying in front of him .
Him —the one who had mercilessly ripped away the armour of secrets she had so carefully built around herself.
Him —the one who had torn open Pandora’s box, revealing to everyone how wretched, how pathetic her life truly was.
Him —who was now looking at her in the one way she had always secretly wanted to be looked at: with concern, with care, with… tenderness .

And it only deepened the black hole of anger in her chest.

Draco exhaled slowly, shaking his head and lowering his gaze.

“What are you even doing here, Malfoy?”

He let out a bitter laugh.

“I suppose I needed to see how you were. To apologise. I didn’t mean to… It’s clear I couldn’t have known… this ,” he said, lifting his eyes to her face.

“No. I imagine you couldn’t,” Hermione replied, cold as steel. “I’m very tired. I need to rest. If you’ll excuse me—”

“What are you planning to do?”

“I don’t follow…”

“Don’t play dumb, Granger. What are you going to do… about him? ”

Draco spat the last word like venom, and Hermione noticed the tight fists at his sides, knuckles turning white.

She pulled the shawl tighter around her, avoiding his gaze.

She couldn’t look him in the eyes.

Couldn’t face that pale, tormented expression filled with compassion she hadn’t asked for.

“I suppose I haven’t thought about it yet…”

Draco arched a brow, clearly surprised. The compassion in his eyes was swiftly replaced by fury—blue irises darkening like a storm cloud.

“You’re not seriously thinking of going back to him, are you? God , Granger, you can’t be that stupid—”

“How dare you—”

“What, huh? How dare I what? Call you stupid? Because that’s exactly what you’d be if you even considered going back to him—”

“It’s not that simple…” she muttered, eyes downcast.

“Not that simple?” he echoed with a cruel sneer. “You taking the piss again, Granger? Not that simple how , exactly? Leaving someone who’s abused you for years? Oh, and let’s not even get started on the cheatings and—”

Hermione’s head snapped up. She stepped into his space until their faces were nearly touching.

“What did you just say?”

Draco faltered.

Shit. He’d said too much. Way too much.

“Nothing. I didn’t say anything, alright?”

“You knew .”

It wasn’t a question.
It was an accusation. Cold. Direct. Final.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“You knew. ” Her voice cracked, almost pleading. “How… how?”

She needed to know.
How many knew?
How many had always been aware—behind her back—that her relationship was a lie? A joke?

“Marcus… Marcus Flint…”

Hermione exhaled sharply, eyes closing, bile rising in her throat.

“How many?” she whispered.

“How many what …”

“How many people know, Malfoy?”

He shrugged.

“I don’t know, Granger. Probably just his team… But in the Quidditch world, rumours travel fast. You know that.”

It all came crashing down.
Her relationship—destroyed.
Her colleagues—aware.
And now… now, the terrifying truth that half the wizarding world might know how Ron had humiliated her.

It was too much. Even for her.

“You should’ve told me…” she whispered.

“We’re coworkers, Granger. That’s all. It wasn’t my place—”

“Right. We’re nothing but colleagues…” she repeated under her breath, lifting her eyes to his. “Then why are you here, Malfoy?”

He looked at her. Hard.
But didn’t answer.

“Tell me, then. Why are you here? Why didn’t you just leave me alone? Why do you care what I think, or what I do, or what happens to me?”

With each question, Hermione took a step forward, her fists beating against his chest in helpless fury.

“Couldn’t you have just ignored me? Pretended I didn’t exist? For years, I endured your insults, your hatred, your contempt—and now? Now what the hell do you want from me? Huh? What?! Look at me! ” she screamed, desperate.

“I don’t know, okay, Granger? Fuck! I don’t know why I’m here—I didn’t mean for any of this! But you… with your bloody secrets! How the hell was I supposed to know? How could I have imagined that son of a bitch was doing all of this to you?”

“This isn’t about him—”

“It is about him!” Draco roared, his voice shaking the windows. He grabbed a vase from the desk and hurled it against the wall, shattering it.

“Malfoy!” Hermione shouted, startled.

Draco closed the distance between them, one hand reaching up to her face, gently brushing his fingers over the still-fresh cut on her lip.

“It is about him,” he said, voice raw. “Because for what he did to you, Granger—I would fucking kill him.”

There it was. The truth.
If Draco Malfoy had Ronald Weasley in front of him, he would destroy him.
Piece. By piece. By piece.

But no matter how freeing the confession was, no matter how the touch of Granger’s skin stirred feelings he’d never dared acknowledge, Draco knew the truth:

This was dangerous. He had to leave. Now.

Hermione laid a hand over his, closing her eyes and leaning into the touch.

For the first time in years, she felt… safe.
And she wanted more.
So much more.

“Draco…” she whispered, instinctively drawing closer to him.

He looked down at her.

She was beautiful. Her eyes, her nose, her lips. Beautiful.

And she was close. So damn close .

Then, in a blink, Draco pulled away.

“I can’t… I—I just can’t.”

He turned and rushed toward the door, flinging it open, pausing just long enough to glance back at Hermione—her expression a mix of confusion and hurt.

She had opened up. She had chosen to trust him. She had laid down her walls.

And he’d run.

“Granger—”

She glared at him, cold and sharp.

“You’re just a fucking coward, Malfoy.”

And with a nonverbal spell, she slammed the door in his face.

 

Pansy was sitting on the large leather sofa in her living room, ready to enjoy a hot cup of tea after a long, stressful day, when a flood of thoughts hit her.

It had been more than forty minutes since he’d left the Manor—or rather, since he had run away without even looking back.
Bloody idiot Malfoy.

Pansy wanted to rush to Hermione, to ask her what the hell had happened, but she knew the girl needed rest.
It was past 11 p.m., and the Gryffindor’s day had been utter shit.

And speaking of shitty days—her thoughts were interrupted by loud knocking against her front door.

Bloody Godric, this was becoming a habit.

Who the hell could it be at this hour?

Harry? Unlikely. He’d probably Apparate straight into Granger’s bedroom.
Draco again? Merlin, she wasn’t ready for another drama scene.

Dragging herself off the couch, she stormed to the door and flung it open with irritation.

“Can someone tell me who the fuck—?”

Her eyes widened in disbelief the moment she saw who was standing there.

James Thompson. Wearing a black hoodie and grey sweatpants.

If possible, he looked even sexier than he did in uniform.

“Boss… I didn’t… I wasn’t expecting you ,” said Pansy, completely thrown off, her usual composure lost.

“Were you expecting someone else, Parkinson?” James asked, clearly annoyed.

“What? I—no. Of course not.”

“Can I come in?”

Pansy stepped aside, motioning for James to follow her into the living room. She still couldn’t quite believe what was happening.
Was this a dream? Or was he really standing here, in her flat, in the middle of the night, unannounced?

“Would you like some… tea?”

“Why didn’t you show up today?”

James’s tone was sharp, direct, and unmistakably authoritative.

Pansy instantly understood this wasn’t a social call.

“I had… some unexpected things come up. I’m sorry I didn’t warn you, sir. It won’t happen again. I hope the trip to Gringotts wasn’t in vain…”

James was watching her carefully, scrutinising.
Something didn’t add up.
Where was her usual snark? Where was the infuriating Pansy Parkinson he knew so well?

“You’re hiding something, Parkinson… I wonder why,” he said flatly.

“Is that a question from my superior, James ? I wasn’t aware my private life was open to interrogation,” she snapped back, finding her footing.

James smirked in satisfaction, slowly stepping closer.

“So I was wrong to think you’d lost that infuriating spark…”

Pansy could feel the heat of his body, he was so close— too close. Close enough to—

Suddenly, a sound of running water from upstairs caught James’s attention.

Pansy glanced toward the stairs. Hermione must’ve been taking a shower.

“You’re not alone,” James said, trying - and failing - to hide his displeasure.

“No, it’s just—”

“I don’t care who you sleep with, Parkinson!” he cut in, voice tight with restrained anger.

Why the hell was this pissing him off so much? Why did the thought of her being with someone else send his mind reeling?

“What the…?” she started to reply, hurt, but James didn’t give her the chance.

“I only came to check why you didn’t show up today. But judging by what I’ve seen, clearly you were… otherwise occupied . I don’t think I need to remind you how serious our work is, Parkinson.”

“You—how dare you…”

Pansy stormed toward him, stopping just in front of where he stood, towering over her by a few inches.
James leaned in even closer, his face inches from hers.

“Watch your tone, Parkinson…”

“Oh yeah, James? Guess what… I don’t give a fuck! You barge into my home, at night, uninvited, and then you have the nerve to insult me? To imply I’m screwing someone upstairs?” she shouted, jabbing a finger angrily at his chest. “You know what, Thompson? Even if I were shagging someone, it wouldn’t be your business. Hell, even if I decided to shag the entire fucking wizarding world, it still wouldn’t be your business!”

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Pansy…” James hissed, grabbing her finger in a tight grip as she kept pressing it into his chest.

“Oh, I’m terrified , Captain Thompson! Want to know what really pisses me off, James? It’s the fact that even though I could have any man in London, the only one I want is you , you arrogant, infuriating bas—”

Before she could finish, James grabbed her face and crashed his lips onto hers, kissing her with a hunger that bordered on violent.
His other arm wrapped tightly around her waist, pulling her hard against him.
Pansy’s heart skipped a beat—but once she realised what was happening, she threw her arms around his neck, burying one hand in his hair, pulling him even closer.

James kissed her like he hated her, like he needed her, like he wanted to devour her.
His tongue demanded entrance, his rough hands roaming possessively over her body, his unmistakable erection against the thin fabric of his grey sweatpants.

The moment he realised it, James suddenly tore himself away, breathless, eyes wide in disbelief.

What the fuck had that witch done to him?
Why the fuck had he lost control like that?

Pansy stood there, stunned, her chest heaving, her lips still tingling.
“James… What the fuck was that?”

“I’ll see you at the office, Parkinson,” he muttered before Disapparating on the spot.

Pansy collapsed onto the sofa, fingertips grazing her lips, a thousand thoughts spiralling in her head.

 

"Another sunflower, Theodore Nott?" Elisabeth shook her head, a fond smile tugging at her lips "Merlin, I honestly don’t know where to put them anymore..."
The October morning sun was casting golden rays across Elisabeth Belamy’s office as she organized her desk. Sitting on top of it was yet another bouquet of flowers.

Her secretary had counted six so far—not even counting the ones Theo had made sure were delivered to her flat.

"What can I say, Belamy, I just like seeing you smile," Theo replied, moving closer, his hands finding her waist.

"Theodore… someone might see us," Elisabeth murmured, even as his lips ghosted along the sensitive skin of her neck, already clouding her judgment.

With a silent non-verbal spell, Theodore locked the door behind him. He gripped her shoulders, spun her to face him, and lifted her up by her thighs, settling her onto the desk as he slid effortlessly between her legs.

One hand tangled in her curls, tilting her head back gently, he pressed heated kisses along her neck. Elisabeth leaned into him, biting his lower lip playfully, drawing a soft growl from the Slytherin.

"Salazar help me, Belamy… you're going to drive me insane," he whispered, voice thick.

"Maybe that’s the plan, Theodore Nott… To make you lose your mind and have you all to myself," she whispered back, her voice trembling ever so slightly.

Theo paused and pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes—serious, searching. Something in her words had struck a nerve.

Elisabeth, catching the shift in his expression, immediately looked down, regret already pooling in her stomach.

"I—I was joking, Theodore. I know this thing between us isn’t—"

He cupped her chin with his fingers, gently but firmly lifting her gaze.

"You do have me, Elisabeth. All of me. Don’t you get that? This… This matters to me. You matter. I—I think I—"

She placed a single finger over his lips, silencing him with a soft, sad smile.

"Don’t say things bigger than yourself, Theodore Nott… I’ve learned the hard way how heavy words can be."

Theo sighed, glancing away.

"I’m not lying, okay? I mean it—I feel something real for you. I know you're scared. Hell, I’m fucking terrified too. I’ve never felt anything like this in my life, and I’m scared I'm going to fuck it all up, like I always do…But whatever this is between us—it’s eating me alive. I want to change. For you. Come with me to the Alumni Ball. I want everyone to see us together. I want everyone to know you’re mine. "

Elisabeth reached up, brushing a tear from her cheek as she stroked his face gently.

"What did I ever do to deserve you, Theodore Nott?" she murmured, pulling him into a passionate kiss.

Theo wrapped his arms around her, hands slipping beneath her slip, caressing her slowly, with a reverence that made her whimper softly into his ear. 

It nearly drove him mad—he needed her. Right there. Right then.

Fumbling with the belt of his trousers, Theo kissed her like a man possessed, his mouth hungry, his hands desperate. But just as he was freeing himself from his slacks—The sudden slam of the door made them both jump.

Theo froze, pants halfway down, panic in his eyes.

"Bloody Godric, Nott. Is this really the time?" drawled a familiar voice. "Sorry, Elisabeth, but I’m afraid I need to steal your man."

Muttering curses under his breath, Theo yanked his pants up and glared daggers at the blond Slytherin now casually leaning against the doorframe.

"Fuck, Malfoy! Ever heard of knocking? For fuck’s sake… Sorry, sweetheart. But looks like this arsehole needs me. I’ll see you tonight, yeah?" he said, kissing her quickly as she playfully slapped his behind.

"Go work, Theodore Nott. He’s all yours, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco smirked at Elisabeth as he dragged Theo through the corridor, the latter still adjusting his shirt.

"Well, well. Looks like someone’s getting serious..."

"Oh, shut it, Malfoy. What about you? How did it go with Granger?"

Draco shot him a deadly glare, which only made Theo snort.

"Mmh, judging by that look, your little apology didn’t go quite as planned..."

As they entered Room A, they found Hermione and Pansy organizing evidence—and the atmosphere dropped several degrees.

Hermione glanced up, gave Theo a quick nod, and completely ignored Draco, who responded with an annoyed click of his tongue.

"Pansy," he said curtly, intentionally not acknowledging the Gryffindor.

"Pansy, darling … you’re glowing this morning," Theo teased, trying to defuse the tension.

"Bite your tongue, Nott. Hermione, I need coffee," Pansy snapped, stalking out of the room.

"What the fuck… Pansy, come on!" Theo called after her, following her down the hall and leaving Hermione and Draco alone.

The air between them was thick, charged—almost crackling.

"Can we talk?" Draco asked.

"Talk? Sure, Malfoy. I’m listening," Hermione replied coolly, not even bothering to look at him as she kept sorting through the documents.

Fucking witch. Fucking, damned witch. 

"I suppose I owe you an explanation. Not that I usually waste time on such things, but I understand that your— female —mind might be wondering..." he said, his tone sharp.

Did she want to play bitch? Fine, he could have been more so than her. 

Hermione looked up, arching a brow and standing up, arms crossed tightly.

"An explanation? For what, exactly? For barging into my room uninvited? For running off like a coward? Or maybe for barely veiled threats to my ex-boyfriend?"

"Oh, trust me, Granger… That is the one thing I’d do all over again. And enjoy it just as much."

Hermione shook her head, irritated—though something about the way his voice still held that edge of fury made her pulse spike.

"In any case, Malfoy, I don’t need any explanation. I don’t even know what I was expecting from you—but whatever it was, it died last night."

Draco felt the weight of her disappointment stab at him like a cursed blade—sharp, relentless.

"Fine, Doctor ," he muttered, stepping closer, lowering his gaze to meet hers. "I’m thrilled you’ve come to that conclusion. Truly. Thrilled."

"Anything else, Serpent?"

Sparks danced in the air between them. Their eyes locked like two storms about to collide.

Draco opened his mouth, ready to bite back, but a voice at the door cut him off.

"Hermione."

She turned, eyes going wide in shock, instinctively stepping back.

Draco’s head snapped toward the newcomer. His jaw tensed. Fist clenched.

"You."

Chapter 19: LITTLE ADVICE

Good evening (or good morning) everyone! 
I haven't disappeared, I'm still here! 
I ask your immense forgiveness for the delay of this chapter!
It's progressing but unfortunately a bad summer flu knocked me out
I plan to update soon though, Sunday or Monday at the latest!
A kiss

Ilaria

 

 

Chapter 20: XVIII

Notes:

Hello! I'm finally back!
I apologise again for the long break, but unfortunately, this month has been really complicated! To make it up to you, I've left you with a longer chapter. I hope you like it!
From the next chapter onwards, the search for the serial killer will once again become the dominant part of the story... while the Grand Ball approaches!
As always, I enjoy reading your comments and am always happy to receive them!
See you soon (I promise)!

Hermione Granger thought—though with a certain silent satisfaction—that she had already found herself, in her short but intense life, in so many uncertain and dangerous situations that nothing could truly scare or unsettle her anymore.
Or at least, that had been her belief.

A belief that shattered the exact moment she found herself standing between Malfoy and Ron, caught in the crossfire of their furious glares. They had been facing off for several minutes now, not a single word exchanged between them, only a silence thick with rage and tension.

Draco, who hadn’t moved an inch away from her, kept his glacial eyes fixed on Ron’s face, watching every tiny movement like a lion ready to strike its prey. The redhead, on his part, was staring back at the Slytherin with pure disgust etched on his features.

Hermione decided it was time to step in, to put an end to the silent duel that had dragged on far too long.
“Ron… What are you doing here?” she asked, turning toward her ex-boyfriend.

Ronald’s gaze shifted from Draco to her, and for a moment, his blue eyes softened; he was looking at her with tenderness—that same tenderness Hermione had begged to see in his eyes during all the years they’d been together, and which he had consciously, cruelly denied her.

Something trembled deep inside her, and she unconsciously took a tiny step toward him. For the first time in years, Hermione saw again the boy she had once fallen for—the sweet, slightly clumsy boy who had been her partner at Hogwarts, the one who had made her heart race for the very first time.

But even that smallest movement didn’t escape Draco. His sharp eyes darted from Weasley back to her, a flicker of irritation flashing across his pale, aristocratic face.
What the fuck did that blasted Granger think she was doing?
Was she really letting herself be swayed by a pathetic lovesick look?

“What Granger really meant to ask, Weasley,” Draco drawled, his voice dripping with menace, “is why the fuck you thought it was a good idea to drag your sorry arse here. And more importantly, what idiotic delusion made you think you’d be walking out of this Ministry on your own two legs…”

His words, low and threatening, sent a shiver down Hermione’s spine. She looked at him, torn between irritation and concern.

Ron smirked, stepping closer to Draco, his broad shoulders tense under the brick-colored jumper, the result of years of Quidditch training.
“Not sure I heard you right, Malfoy… Are you trying to stick your nose into things that don’t concern you? Because in case it slipped your mind, I’m here to talk to my girlfriend. So if you don’t mind…”

Hermione tried to slip between them, but Draco was faster. In a single stride, he stood toe-to-toe with Ron, his expression mocking.
“Your girlfriend, is it? How ironic, considering what you dared to do to her less than two days ago, Weasel.”

The smirk on Draco’s lips vanished, replaced with raw fury.
Ron’s brows shot up, surprised by the comment, and his eyes flicked to Hermione. She could feel every emotion crashing inside him— anger, disappointment, resentment, betrayal.

And for the briefest moment, she almost felt sorry for him.

“I don’t know what you think you know, Malfoy, but let me repeat myself. What happens between me and Hermione is none of your fucking business. So I’d suggest you step aside before you regret it…”

Draco’s retort was cut short when Hermione pushed herself between them, facing Ron.
“Ron, this isn’t the place to talk…”

“Hermione, please, I know I fucked up, okay? But you can’t just disappear without giving me a chance to explain…”

“Oh, God, Ron… And what exactly is it you think you can explain?” she asked, crossing her arms and swallowing down the lump in her throat. “I think our last conversation was clear enough…”

“Fine, I’ll admit I might’ve made a mistake with you—”

“A mistake?” Hermione snapped. “A mistake? Ron, you betrayed me! You humiliated me in every possible way, you—”

“I know, I know… And I swear I regret it…”

Ron stepped closer, brushing her cheek with his cold hand, but Hermione flinched at the touch, as if burned.
“But I love you, Herm… Damn it, it’s always been you and me, remember? That has to mean something…”

Hermione’s chest tightened as she looked into Ron’s eyes. 

It was true—they had always been together, since Hogwarts. Ron had been the first boy to challenge her, the first to make her heart race, to teach her jealousy, the dizzying disorientation of falling in love.
He had been the first boy to make her a woman, in every sense of the word.

Could it be she had been too hasty? Had she cut things off too quickly?
And what if…?

She almost reached for his hand, but then the image of Ron tangled in bed with other women hit her like a punch to the stomach, stealing her breath. 

The sting of his slaps still burned on her skin.

Snapping her hand back, Hermione stepped away, her eyes blazing with contempt.
“You ruined everything, Ronald. And that’s all that matters.”

She turned to leave when his cruel voice lashed out at her back.
“It’s because of him, isn’t it? That fucking Death Eater…”

“What the fuck did you just say, Weasley?” Draco hissed, while Hermione spun around, rolling her eyes, pain etched into her face.

“I told you already, Ron—you’re completely insane!”

“I’m insane, Hermione? You think I don’t know you’re screwing him? How long’s it been, huh? Weeks, months? God, I never thought you’d sink this low…”

Draco took a long stride forward, squaring off with Ron.
“Clearly it’s not getting through that thick skull of yours, Weasley. You’re leaving. Now.”

“Malfoy… please…” Hermione tried to intervene, but her words were drowned out by Ron’s cruel laugh.
“You know what, Malfoy? You’re right. She’s not worth it… You can keep my leftovers.”

Hermione barely had time to process the words before Draco moved—lightning fast. He seized Ron by the shoulders and slammed his fist squarely into his nose. Blood poured instantly as Ron staggered back, clutching his face.

“How dare you, you bloody bastard?” Ron snarled, wiping the blood from his face and leaving a crimson smear on the wall where his hand had pressed. Without pausing to catch his breath, he hurled himself at Draco, seizing him by the collar of his shirt and shoving him back with all his strength.

“Malfoy, Ron—enough!” Hermione screamed, but her voice was drowned out by the violent crash of Draco’s body slamming against the desk, curses spilling from his lips.

In the impact, his arm had smashed against the wood, tearing his shirt. A thin trickle of blood ran down his forearm, making the Dark Mark etched into his skin look even more sinister.

“Want more, Death Eater? Come on then, try me…” Ron spat.

“I’ll make you regret ever being born, Weasley…” Draco’s voice was low, venomous.

He lunged again, but Ron struck him across the face, splitting his brow and leaving blood dripping into his eye. Draco didn’t flinch. Ignoring the searing pain, he retaliated with a brutal punch to Ron’s stomach that nearly made the Gryffindor retch. Ron staggered backwards, clutching his abdomen, fighting to keep the bile down.

The two men now faced each other, panting, fury sparking between them like lightning, while Hermione tried in vain to break through their hatred.

“You know, Malfoy?” Ron jeered, his lip curling. “Didn’t think you’d fight this hard. Well done, Hermione—you’ve made yourself his whore.”

Hermione’s face went deathly pale at his words, a lone tear streaking down her cheek.
How could he? How could Ron still find new ways to cut her open? To destroy her? How much hatred could one man pour onto her?

And the instant her tear splashed against the floor, Draco’s hands clamped around Ron’s throat, his knuckles digging into the other man’s windpipe, choking the breath from him.

Ron’s face began turning purple, but Draco didn’t loosen his grip. His eyes were wild, feral, untouchable. 

Hermione’s desperate cries meant nothing. Ron’s frantic nails gouging his skin meant nothing. Even Theo and Pansy rushing in, drawn by the screams, meant nothing.

Draco Malfoy had become a predator—and Ronald Weasley was his prey.

“Draco, fuck—let go! Draco, Christ!”

Theo threw himself at them, managing—by some miracle—to wrench Draco off Ron. The redhead collapsed to the floor, wheezing, clutching his throat as he fought for air.

Theo grabbed Draco’s face, dragging his gaze towards him, desperate to pierce through the frenzy.

“Draco, hey—look at me. You’ve got to calm down, alright? Look at me, for fuck’s sake.”

But Draco didn’t look at him.
His ice-blue eyes were locked on Hermione—on the tears streaming down her face, on the terror carved into her features.

She was afraid. Afraid of him.

The realization struck him like a blow to the gut, and for a fleeting moment, Draco Malfoy felt like a monster.

“Hermione, are you alright? You filthy son of a bitch—don’t you dare! Expelliarmus! ”

Pansy’s spell blasted Ron’s wand from his hand just as he’d drawn it, ready to strike Draco from behind.

“You bitch, I swear I’ll—”

“Ron, what the fuck?”

Harry and Blaise had just burst into Classroom A, and the scene before them was nothing short of chaos.
On one side: Ron, doubled over, his nose bleeding freely and vicious red marks ringing his throat.
On the other: Hermione trembling, with Pansy holding her close in an awkward attempt at comfort.
And away from them all: Theo and Draco, smeared in both their own blood and Ron’s, Draco still glaring at the redhead like he could kill him by sheer will.

“Harry—thank Godric you’re here… That bastard Malfoy tried to kill me, you’ve got to do something—”

“What the hell are you doing here, Ron?” Harry cut across him sharply, his gaze darting to Hermione. “Did he hurt you?”

Ron struggled to his feet, staring at his friend with disbelief, betrayal in his eyes.

“What the hell am I doing here? Have you lost your fucking mind? Did you even hear what I just said?”

“No, Harry, I… I’m fine,” Hermione whispered, her voice trembling.

Harry stepped towards Ron, his jaw tight, anger blazing in his eyes.

“Leave. Now.”

Ron glared at him, spitting blood onto the floor.

“You too, huh? I see the Death Eaters have already brainwashed you…”

His furious gaze swept over to the others, and Pansy immediately lifted her wand, eyes narrowing in challenge.

“Don’t drag them into this. You’re the problem here, Ron. You—and everything you’ve done to Hermione all these years.”

“You don’t know a bloody thing, Harry.”

Harry seized him by the collar, yanking him close.

“No, Ron—you’re right. I didn’t know a thing. But now I do. And if you ever go near her again—”

“Harry, leave it,” Blaise cut in, a steadying hand on his friend’s shoulder. “He’s not worth it.”

Ron whipped his head towards Blaise, sneering through gritted teeth. “Stay out of it, Zabini! You think shagging my sister makes me want your help?”

Harry froze where he stood, ice flooding his veins. His wide eyes darted to Blaise’s.

“…Is it true?”

“Harry—I can explain—”

Ron broke into a savage laugh, his eyes snapping back to Hermione.

“So this pack of idiots is why you left me, eh? You stupid little slut—”

Draco tore free from Theo’s grip and slammed Ron against the wall, pinning him by the shoulders.

“Listen to me, Weasley, because I’ll only say this once. Call her that again, and I’ll kill you. Touch her again, and I’ll kill you. Even think about her the wrong way, and I swear, Weasley, your dear mummy won’t recognize your mangled corpse. I’ll break you down until you beg for mercy like a sniveling child. But believe me, you bastard, I won’t stop until I’ve destroyed you. Piece. By. Piece. ”

“Malfoy. Take your hands off him. Now.”

The thunderous voice of James Thompson silenced the room. Everyone spun towards the door.
The Head Auror stood there, stern and unyielding, his gaze flicking from Ron’s bloodied face to Draco’s battered form.

James raised an eyebrow and gestured to Agent Jordan, who entered swiftly.

“I warned you, Malfoy… not another fuck-up.”

Andrew Jordan approached nervously, and Draco, to everyone’s surprise, extended his hands willingly, strangely compliant as he braced himself for the cuffs.

The weight of everything that had just happened crashed down on him like a bucket of ice water as the shackles tightened around his wrists.

“Boss, you can’t really do this… Malfoy has nothing to do with it, it’s Weasley’s fault, he’s the one who—”

“Not another word, Nott,” Thompson barked. “Or I swear to God you’ll be keeping your friend company in a bloody cell. As for you, Mr. Weasley, you may leave… for now. But believe me, we’ll be seeing each other again. Very soon.”

Ron didn’t need to be told twice. He Disapparated, but not before shooting one last hateful look at Hermione, who cautiously stepped toward Thompson.

“Chief, please, let me explain—”

“There’s nothing to explain, Dr. Granger. Auror Draco Malfoy is relieved of duty, effective immediately. Jordan, take him away.”

“No, no, James—you can’t! He didn’t do anything, it wasn’t his fault!” Pansy shouted, clutching James’s arm. He answered her with an icy glare.

“Remember your place, Auror Parkinson. I’ve already tolerated far too much of your collective bullshit. In case it’s slipped your minds, we’re dealing with a bloody triple homicide. I don’t have the time—or the patience—for your personal disasters. Bring me something solid, or your badges will be on my desk within a week. Now fuck off!”

Thompson stormed out, followed by Jordan and Draco—who, since being shackled, hadn’t lifted his eyes from the floor. His blue gaze was utterly void of expression.

“Malfoy…” Hermione whispered, but the blond didn’t so much as glance at her before disappearing from the room.

Pansy slammed her fist against the table while Theodore’s eyes darted between the others.

“We can’t let them lock him up. We have to do something, fuck…”

“Theo, you heard Thompson. He won’t budge. The best thing we can do—for Draco, too—is get back to work,” Blaise muttered, turning toward Harry, who glared at him with pure venom. “Harry, I—”

“Go fuck yourself, Zabini,” Harry snapped, turning his back on all of them and storming out.

Hermione collapsed into a chair, burying her face in her hands, her body trembling with exhaustion.

“This is my fault… all my fault…”

“Hey, cut that crap, Granger. We’ll get him out of there. I swear on my own damned name—Pansy Parkinson.”

 

“You’re making a massive, bloody mistake!”

A storm in the shape of a woman burst into Thompson’s office, slamming the door shut before planting herself in front of his desk, arms crossed furiously over her chest.

“You know damn well Draco has nothing to do with this mess!”

James shot up from his chair, fists slamming hard against the mahogany desktop.

“Parkinson! How many fucking times do I have to remind you this is my goddamn office?”

“I don’t have time for this shit, okay? You have to let him go!”

James laughed bitterly, stepping closer to her, bracing his hands against the desk.

“In case you’ve forgotten, I’m the one in charge here. I make the decisions. I decide who’s in and who’s out.”

Pansy closed the distance, jabbing a finger in his face.

“You know damn well Draco only did what had to be done! That bastard Weasley hit Hermione, did you know that, Chief? She was so terrified when she came to me the other night she couldn’t even sleep—I had to stay with her! He’s the one you should be locking up, not Draco!”

“I’m sorry for what happened to Dr. Granger, but—”

“Sorry? Sorry? No, James, if you were really sorry that son of a bitch would be rotting in a cell right now! And what do you do instead? Suspend Draco? You know how much this job means to him, how hard he’s worked his arse off! He’s one of the best fucking Aurors you’ve got!”

“And you think I don’t know that, Pansy???” James roared, startling her enough that she stumbled back a step, his sudden outburst cutting through her fury.

He pressed his palms against his eyes, drawing a deep breath as if trying to steady himself.

“I’ve known Malfoy since the day he entered the Academy, for fuck’s sake! I trained him. I gave him a chance. But now my hands are tied. I warned him—I tried everything. He left me no choice! And on top of it, the damned Ministry is breathing down my neck. The whole bloody press is demanding answers. And what are you lot doing? Playing children’s games while I’ve got a fucking serial killer to catch. My head’s the one they’ll put on a spike if this case doesn’t break!”

“And locking one of your best men in a cage—how the hell is that going to help? Let him go, James… please…”

“I can’t. Not this time. Christ, he nearly killed a man—inside the bloody Ministry.”

Pansy exhaled sharply, holding his gaze, and James could feel the weight of her fury and disappointment.

“I’m sorry your attempt was wasted, Pansy Parkinson. But Malfoy stays in that cell until trial—or until someone pays his bail. As for the rest of you—you’d better get back to work. Fast. Before—”

Pansy tilted her head, a sly smile tugging at her lips.

“Did you just say bail? ”

James sneered. “Don’t delude yourself, Parkinson. The sum’s more than even you could scrape together.”

Her smirk deepened, curling at the corner of her mouth.

“Oh, James. Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t plan on paying Draco’s bail myself. But I know for a fact I can convince someone else to do it for me.”

James’s mocking smile twisted into a grimace of annoyance as he stepped closer to her, slowly.

“What the fuck are you talking about, Parkinson?”

Pansy caught the growl in his voice, the anger that made it rough. And though part of her thrilled at it, the sting of being abandoned the night before burned hot inside her, fueling her defiance.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t catch what you’re implying, James. And in any case—it’s none of your fucking business. Not after last night.”

“About last night, perhaps we should talk—”

“Should we, James? And where would you like to begin? With the fact that you broke into my house? Or that you kissed me? Or maybe with the fact that right after, you ran away like a goddamn coward?”

“I wasn’t myself last night, I don’t know what—” James tried.

“Oh, of course! That’s your excuse? You weren’t yourself? Bullshit. Look at me, James. Look me in the eyes and tell me you didn’t feel anything. Tell me you didn’t want me as badly as I wanted you last night.”

He held her gaze, and though every part of him screamed to admit the truth—that yes, he wanted her, wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything—his rational mind clawed its way to the surface.

Pansy Parkinson was unpredictable, uncontrollable, dangerous.
Together, they were dangerous.

Two flames destined to consume each other.

And though he wanted her so badly it drove him insane, James did the only thing guaranteed to drive her away: He decided to break her heart.

“Last night was a mistake, Parkinson,” the man spat, his voice cold, merciless, suffocating everything his heart was screaming. “A colossal mistake. And believe me when I say I will never, ever repeat it.”

The moment Thompson’s words cut through the air, Pansy felt the sting of tears burning behind her eyes. She clenched her fists sharply, her nails biting into her palms, piercing the skin, forcing herself not to cry.
She could feel the sharp pain slicing her flesh, the warmth of blood trickling across her fingertips—but that wasn’t what hurt the most. 

It was her heart. Torn apart, shredded, ripped mercilessly by the very man who, just hours before, had held her in his arms.

Mustering every ounce of strength, Pansy forced an expression of indifference onto her face. She would not let him see her pain. Not him. Not the only man for whom she had ever lowered her defenses.
A mistake she would never make again.

“A mistake…” she hissed, her voice like ice. “Fine. At least we finally agree on something, Thompson. And just so you know—if I ever catch you at my place again, I swear what Draco did to Weasley will feel like a caress compared to what I’ll do to you.”

With that, she spun on her heel, marching out and slamming the door behind her, tears finally streaming freely down her face. 

James, left alone in the office, seized the bottle of Firewhisky on his desk and hurled it against the wall, shattering it with a guttural, inhuman roar.
He had done it—he had pushed her away.
But at what cost?

 

“May I come in?”

Hermione slowly pressed down on the handle of Shacklebolt’s office door and found it, surprisingly, unlocked.
She stepped inside, glancing around the dim room, an overwhelming sense of defeat sinking into her chest.
The Minister was nowhere to be seen. Her desperate errand had been for nothing.

She stopped by the wide window, staring out as the scene from earlier replayed before her eyes like film reels she couldn’t shut off.
Ron’s arrival. His eyes blazing with hatred. His sneering words. And then Draco—his hand wrapped tightly around Ron’s throat, his fury consuming him.
That dangerous, destructive rage.

If Theo hadn’t stopped him, Draco would have killed Ronald Weasley. Of that, she was certain.
And he would have done it for her .

A storm of emotions churned inside Hermione, coiling through her veins, clouding her mind.
Why? Why would he risk everything for her?
Why go so far—even to murder?
And, worst of all—why wasn’t she afraid?
Why did the thought of it send a shiver of something dangerously close to desire down her spine?

Draco Malfoy had revealed himself to be ruthless, terrifying, lethal .
And yet, deep in her heart, Hermione knew.
She knew he had only been trying to protect her.
And that thought consumed her like a parasite gnawing from within.

“Miss Granger… What brings you here?”

Kingsley’s deep voice startled her, dragging her back from her thoughts. Hermione jumped to her feet, smoothing her dress nervously with trembling hands.

“Minister…”

“Tell me, are you here for an update on the case?”

“I… I’m afraid it’s something more personal,” she whispered, wringing her fingers together.

Shacklebolt studied her carefully, tilting his head.
“There’s something troubling you, Hermione—I can feel it. And I suspect I already know why you’ve come.” He turned, pouring himself a cup of tea before extending another steaming cup in her direction. “This is about Draco Malfoy, isn’t it?”

Hermione lowered her gaze.
“Yes, Minister. I… I’m here to ask you to reconsider Draco’s suspension. I know what he did was serious, but—”

“Hermione…” Kingsley’s voice hardened. “Mr. Malfoy assaulted another wizard inside the Ministry. You know we cannot allow that to pass unnoticed. Not here. He will face trial, and the Wizengamot will decide.”

“I know,” she pleaded softly. “I know he must stand trial. But please—don’t take his work from him. Don’t strip him of this case. It means everything to him. Everything he’s done, everything he risked—it was to protect me.”

“Protect you, Hermione?”

She swallowed hard, then raised her wand, murmuring a Revealing Charm. 

In an instant, the faint red marks reappeared across her pale throat—the bruises left by Ron’s hand. 

The marks she had so carefully concealed. The marks that had started it all.

Shacklebolt’s lips tightened into a grimace, his dark eyes sweeping over her skin.
“It was Mr. Weasley who did this to you?” he asked quietly.
Hermione could only nod.

The Minister sighed, stepping toward the window, clutching his teacup like an anchor.
“I suppose that explains quite a lot.”

“I know what happened can’t go unpunished,” Hermione said quickly, her voice trembling with urgency. “But I also know how vital it is that this case is solved. And believe me, Minister, no one—no one—can see it through better than Draco Malfoy. Please…”

Kingsley looked skyward, shaking his head.
“Very well, Hermione. I will consider it. But for now, Mr. Malfoy will remain in a holding cell here at the Ministry until further notice. If the Council rules in his favor, he will be reinstated immediately. However—”

Hermione’s lips curved into the beginnings of a smile, but Kingsley cut her off, his tone grave.
“However, once this case is closed, both he and Mr. Weasley will face trial. And if Malfoy is found guilty… I will have no choice but to strip him of his position as Auror. Permanently.”

“But—”

“Hermione,” he said, almost gently. “My hands are tied. I’ll inform you as soon as there’s a decision on his reinstatement.”

Hermione bit her lip, nerves fraying, and rose from her seat. She set her cup carefully on the Minister’s desk.
“Thank you for your time, sir…Truly.”

Closing the door behind her, Hermione leaned against the frame, her forehead resting on the cool wood.
Then, in a sudden surge of determination, she straightened and strode down the corridor, her path clear, her destination the only place she wanted to be.

Chapter 21: XIX

Notes:

Here I am with the new chapter!
Personally, I LOVED writing it—not only because our two idiots are finally getting closer, but also because (deep down) I have a soft spot for Lucius Malfoy!
As always, I’m so happy to read your comments, and it really means a lot to me that you’re enjoying the story!
By the way, I also have a TikTok page where I post reels about the fic, if you’d like to take a look :)
U can find me as Cleonsyn Author!
See you soon, Ilaria :)

“Are you sure this will work?”

Pansy’s emerald-painted nails had been drumming on Miss Flyer’s desk for over twenty minutes. The middle-aged clerk peered at her slyly from behind her bottle-bottom glasses, clearly enjoying herself far too much.

“Pansy… are you certain this will work?”

The girl turned her head slowly towards Theo, who was slouched beside her, annoyance etched across her features.

“I don’t know, Theodore… care to ask me one more time?”

He raised his hands in surrender, sinking even deeper into the uncomfortable red velvet armchair.

“Well then, Miss Parkinson…” began the woman across from her, only to be cut off by Pansy’s sharp voice.

“Auror Parkinson, if you please.”

The woman smothered whatever barbed reply she’d been ready to deliver, replacing it with a sickly sweet smile.

“Of course… Auror Parkinson. As I was saying to you and your colleague, I’m afraid I cannot possibly grant your request at this time. Interviews with prisoners—particularly those housed in this section—may only be authorised with prior approval, which of course ought to have been requested well in advance. Not to mention—”

“I am perfectly aware of how procedures work, Madam Flyer,” Pansy cut in, her tone like ice, “but as it happens, this is an exception more than justified. Now… Auror Nott and I have been more than accommodating in providing you with our full credentials—ID numbers, rank, years of service—not to mention we have been sitting in these damned chairs for the better part of half an hour. Wouldn’t you agree it would be far simpler if you just authorised our visit, Mrs Flyer?”

The woman’s name left Pansy’s lips like a strangled hiss. The Slytherin was running out of patience fast, and that old hag was about to discover firsthand what it meant to cross Pansy Parkinson.

“I assure you, I do understand—”

“Oh, she understands ? How lovely. Did you hear that, Theodore? She understands.”

“As I was saying,” the clerk continued, a flicker of smugness in her tone, “while I may sympathise with your situation, there is absolutely nothing I can do—”

Pansy shot to her feet, slamming both palms down on the desk.
“Now listen to me, you miserable—”

“Pansy, Pansy, calm down…” Theo cut in smoothly, stepping closer to the desk and unbuttoning the cufflinks of his shirt sleeve with deliberate ease. “Come now, there’s no need to get worked up. We’re all just doing our jobs, aren’t we, Harriet? May I call you Harriet, dear? I do think it makes everything feel so much more… personal .”

Theo’s lips curved into a lazy, suggestive smile as he leaned towards the woman. To Pansy’s disgust, Harriet actually giggled, shifting forward eagerly to meet his gaze.

“You see, Harriet, the truth is that my colleague and I find ourselves in rather… unfortunate circumstances. We’re working on a case of the utmost importance—a task force established by the Minister himself—and, as it happens, the prisoner in question is one of the very few who can provide us with essential information. Vital, in fact. And you wouldn’t want to disappoint the Minister, would you, Harriet?” he asked, lowering his head to look up at her with feigned innocence.

“Mr Nott, of course not, but you see the regulations—”

“Oh, come now, my dear… Regulations are meant to be bent, don’t you think? And besides, this could stay between us… a little secret, just for the two of us…”

Theo reached out, letting his fingers trail lightly along her plump arm. Harriet stared at him as if under a spell.

“I… I suppose, under the circumstances, I could make an exception,” she whispered, her eyes never leaving him.

Theo turned triumphantly towards Pansy, who merely rolled her eyes, snatched up her leather jacket, and strode past him towards the iron gate that marked the entrance to the Dangerous Prisoners Wing of Azkaban.

“Not to interrupt your riveting exchange, but I don’t have all day to waste here… unlike some people,” she muttered through clenched teeth.

With a snap of the mechanism, the gate swung open. Harriet cast Theo one last, lingering glance before waving them through.

“Cell 75, Mr Nott,” she called after them as they disappeared down the corridor.

“ Cell 75, Mr Nott …” Pansy mocked under her breath, her voice dripping venom. “Bloody old hag! As if I needed her damned permission…”

“Oh, come now, Pansy, don’t be so harsh. Poor Harriet was only doing her job,” Theo smirked, earning a murderous glare from his companion. “And besides, as you can see, sometimes all it takes is a little charm.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t just witness that pitiful display, Theodore… Just thinking about it makes my skin crawl.”

“What can I say? Clearly, I haven’t lost my touch—even now, as a happily committed man.”

“Right… I wonder what Elisabeth would think of your pathetic little performance just now…” Pansy shot back with a sneer.

“Hey, don’t be cruel, all right? Might I remind you the only reason we’re here is—”

Theo broke off as Pansy suddenly stopped dead in her tracks. Turning, he found himself staring at a gleaming white door, the number 75 painted starkly in black across its surface.

Lucius Abraxas Malfoy’s cell.

“Well… looks like we’re here,” Theo murmured, his voice low, doing a poor job of masking his unease.

“Oh, please, Theo—don’t give me that face. This is our only chance to get Draco out of that cell. And Godric be damned if I fail.”

Pansy whispered the password and the door swung open. The two Aurors stepped inside to find Lucius Malfoy seated on his bed, a book in hand, his expression one of cold concentration.

The moment the cell door creaked, Lucius placed the book beside him, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the intruders, a mix of disdain and faint surprise etched across his face.

A shiver ran down Theodore’s spine.
He remembered Lucius all too well—one of the Death Eaters present the day his father had forced him to take the Mark. He could still see the mocking look Malfoy had given him when agony twisted his features under Voldemort’s wand. He remembered, too, Lucius’ detached calm as he watched Charity Burbage murdered, the merciless cruelty that had always clung to him.

And now, though older, worn, and stripped of his grandeur, Theodore knew Lucius Abraxas Malfoy remained one of the most dangerous men he had ever stood before. 

A man still worth fearing.

“Well, well… look who’s still alive,” Lucius drawled, rising to his feet and approaching them slowly.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Theo muttered, forcing himself not to meet his gaze.

“Oh, young Nott… I heard your father was sent off to a maximum-security prison in Wales. How tragic.”

Theo’s fists clenched, but Pansy placed a hand on his shoulder, stepping forward with a sharp smile.

“Lucius…”

He gave her a long, assessing look, his gaze sweeping from head to toe.

“So you too, Pansy, chose a different path.”

His eyes dropped to the Auror badge clipped to her tight trousers, disgust curling across his features.

“I had heard whispers, of course… But you know how vicious rumors can be. Not that I ever thought poorly of you, my dear.”

“I suppose your little spies all over Knockturn Alley had nothing to do with those whispers?” she shot back.

“What can I say, Pansy? Old habits die hard.”

She smirked. Lucius Malfoy was exactly as she remembered him: a bastard to the core.
And yet—for reasons she couldn’t quite place—she couldn’t bring herself to hate or fear him.

Perhaps because, beneath the arrogance and absence of warmth, he had always shown her a strange kind of consideration, even since she and Draco were children. Almost as if he respected her… almost as if, in some twisted way, he saw in her the daughter he never had.

Lucius knew she had always urged Draco to reach out to him, that she had stood by his son through everything—especially once he was locked away in Azkaban. And for that, perhaps, he was quietly grateful.

“You know, Lucius,” Pansy began, her voice losing its edge, “I’d truly love to linger here for a friendly chat… but something far more urgent requires your attention.”

“I imagined this wasn’t a social visit,” he replied smoothly. “If this is about that tiresome investigation you’re working on, I’m afraid you’ve wasted your trip—”

“It’s Draco, Mr. Malfoy,” Theo cut in, his voice hard.

The moment he heard his son’s name, Lucius Malfoy’s icy gaze snapped to Theodore. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and a troubled expression ghosted across his face.

“He is… Draco is…” Lucius faltered, unable to finish the sentence.

Sensing his concern, Pansy stepped forward.
“Draco is fine, Lucius…” she said, then continued after catching the nearly imperceptible sigh of relief he released. “But he’s found himself in a rather unpleasant situation… And you’re the only one who can help us.”

Lucius folded his arms across his chest, a sly smile tugging at the corners of his hard features.
“Well, well, now that is an unexpected piece of news. And am I permitted to ask for details?”

“Well, Mr. Malfoy, at the moment Draco has been suspended from duty and is being held at the Ministry because… well, you see…” Theo struggled to find the words, but Pansy was quicker.

“Let’s just say he might have tried to kill Ronald Weasley.”

“Oh…”
Lucius’ expression hovered somewhere between surprise and admiration.

“Exactly. Nothing that bastard didn’t deserve,” Pansy muttered, rolling her eyes. “But you know how the Ministry is, Lucius… so precise, so rigid. Obviously Theo and I fought it, but those bastards have set bail at a figure far beyond our reach…”

“I see, Pansy… So you’ve come to ask me for money. And here I thought you were seeking the advice of a poor old man,” he sneered.

“We’re here to ask you to get Draco out of that bloody cell, Mr. Malfoy…” Theodore cut in, his patience fraying. “But judging by your reaction, it’s clear our visit was a waste of time. Pansy, let’s go—”

“Now, now, young Theodore, not so fast…” Lucius drawled, giving him a sidelong glance before turning back to Pansy. “And what exactly is the amount of this so-called bail?”

“Well… um… ten thousand galleons,” Pansy murmured, trying to sound vague.

“TEN THOUSAND GALLEONS? For Salazar’s sake, witch, do you have any idea how much bloody money that is?” Lucius roared, then visibly calmed when Theo’s hand shot toward his wand.

Raising his palms in truce, Lucius grew pensive.
“I know it’s a fortune… but it’s for Draco. You know he doesn’t deserve to rot in that cell! To lose his career! He’s fought too hard to get where he is—”

Lucius raised a hand, silencing her.
“Let’s suppose I mercifully agreed to pay his bail… How do you plan to get him reinstated?”

“Granger already went to speak with—” Theodore bit his tongue, cutting himself off, but not before Pansy shot him a murderous glare.

Bloody idiot. Stupid, bloody idiot.

The moment Lucius heard Hermione’s name, a twisted grimace of confusion and disgust marred his face.
“I… I don’t think I heard you correctly, Nott.”

“He didn’t say a thing,” Pansy interjected quickly, but Lucius surged forward, jabbing a finger toward Theo.

“Why in Merlin’s name would Hermione Granger be pleading with the Minister himself on Draco’s behalf, hmm?”

“Lucius, it’s complicated—”

“You think so, Pansy? I think it’s painfully clear. Draco beating that filth Weasley within an inch of his life, and that… wretched Mudblood interceding for him. Do you truly take me for a fucking fool? For Salazar’s sake, I knew Draco had changed… that he’d grown weak… But this? Not a single miserable galleon will leave my pockets for him, do you understand me, Pansy?”

“He’s your son…” she began, but Lucius cut her off, his fury blazing.

“My son? My son would never have lowered himself so far as to defend the likes of her, never! Draco is no longer even worthy of the Malfoy name. I swear, if I only had the chance—”

“What?” Theo exploded, the rage he’d been restraining now bursting free like a flood. “If you had the chance, what? The war’s been over for years, Malfoy, and those fucking delusions of yours died with your Lord. Do you really think you have any right to speak about Draco’s life? After branding him like a dog, after condemning him to a war that wasn’t his, after abandoning him—alone, without a family—while you rotted away behind these damned bars?”

Pansy realized Theodore wasn’t talking about Draco and Lucius anymore.
He was talking about himself.
About his own father—the man who had always treated him with cold indifference, who hadn’t even stood by him when his mother died, who had handed him over to Voldemort for a scrap of power, who had fled the battlefield and left him alone once more.

Her heart clenched.

“Draco is a free man now… and he worked himself to the bone to get where he is! And you know what? He doesn’t need your damned money. Keep it, spend it, burn it—we’ll get Draco out of that cage without you. And you’ll live forever with the regret of not helping your only son.”

Theodore spat the final words into Lucius’ face, and the man staggered back as if struck by the weight of the accusation.

Pansy stepped forward, her voice softening with a trace of sorrow.
“Lucius… please. I know there are things you don’t accept, but the world… the world has changed since then. We’ve changed. Draco has changed. You know he doesn’t deserve this. Four years have passed—it’s time to turn the page, even for you. I know you care for Draco. I know you do…”

Lucius let out a heavy sigh, turning his back on them and lowering himself into the chair by his desk.

Theo shot him a glare of pure rage, then turned to Pansy. She had never seen her friend like this before. It was as though the Theodore Nott she knew had vanished, swallowed whole by darkness.

“We’re leaving. Now.”

Theo seized her by the arm, dragging her toward the exit, when Lucius’ voice rang out behind them.
Turning back, they saw him holding a scrap of paper in his right hand, scribbled over in ink.

“Take this to Borgin. He’ll know what to do.”

Pansy’s face softened into a contrite expression.
“Lucius… thank you.”

Lucius only inclined his head, his gaze shifting toward Theo, whose expression was still carved from anger and ice.

“I truly hope you’re right, Theodore Nott. For all our sakes.”

 

“Hey… Hey, Jordan… I want some water! Did you hear me?”
Silence.

“Bloody idiot…” Draco muttered under his breath.

It had been more than five hours since he’d been locked in that damned cell, and time crawled by—slow, relentless.

At first, Draco had chosen rage as his weapon.
He had spent the first hour slamming his shackled wrists against the iron bars, cursing and damning Jordan’s entire bloodline at least back to his great-great-grandfather.

But when his outburst proved completely futile, the Slytherin had resigned himself to the obvious truth.
No one was coming to get him out. At least, not anytime soon.

So he had surrendered, collapsing onto the cold cot of the cell, lost in bitter reflection on the mistakes that had brought him here.

Every time he closed his eyes, the morning replayed before him.
Over and over. Again and again.

He could see it with crystal clarity—Hermione’s expression changing the moment she saw Weasley.
The fear. The sheer terror in her eyes.

And he could feel the fury that had surged through his veins at that sight.

How dare that bastard show his face? How dare he get near her again?

And then… well. Then everything had spiraled out of control in a matter of seconds.

Two images flashed in Draco’s mind.
Weasley’s ashen face, slipping into unconsciousness as Draco’s hands tightened mercilessly around his throat.
And Hermione’s tears.

Those fucking, cursed tears.

Merlin, he could’ve killed for those tears.
And he almost had. He had been this close.

But Theodore had stopped him—kept him from killing Weasley, from becoming a murderer, from destroying his career and his life in one reckless moment.

And yet, even though Draco knew Theo’s intervention had saved him, something inside him refused to calm. That rage, that feral, uncontrollable wrath still clawed at his very core.

And he couldn’t even explain why.

Why the hell had he gone for Weasley like that? Why the fuck had he done any of it?

There was only one answer.
The one he didn’t want to face.
The one he was almost afraid to speak aloud.

Her.

Hermione Jean Granger.

The witch who had completely fucked with his head.

The witch who now stood just outside that door, torn between walking in or turning away.

“You’ve ever been told you’d make a terrible spy, Granger?” he drawled, a smirk curling his lips the moment he saw her slip hesitantly inside, hands clasped in front of her, guilt etched across her face.

“How… how did you know I was here?”

“Simple. You’re noisy. Think I’ve pointed that out before…” he said lazily, making no move to rise from the cot.

Hermione drew in a shaky breath, mustering her courage as she approached the bars of Draco’s cell.

The moment she reached him, her heart skipped a beat.

His wrists were still bound in iron cuffs. The gash on his forearm was fresh, the sleeve of his shirt soaked with blood. A deep cut split his eyebrow in two, and scratches covered his face—Weasley’s desperate marks from when he’d tried to break free.

Hermione fought to steady the shiver that twisted in her stomach.

“No one’s tended to your injuries, Malfoy?”

Draco let out a sharp, exasperated breath, realizing ignoring her was no longer an option.

“No, no one, Granger…” he replied, dragging himself upright and sitting on the edge of the cot. “You’re the first living soul I’ve seen since this morning.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed as her eyes swept the cell.

“That cut on your arm doesn’t look good, Malfoy… I should stop the bleeding…”

“Thanks ever so much, Granger, but I don’t exactly need you to ruin my peace. So if you don’t mind…” Draco sneered, but Hermione cut him off.

“For Merlin’s sake, Malfoy, will you ever stop? I swear, I don’t understand you. Four bloody hours ago you were about to kill Ron, and now? You don’t even want me to heal a simple wound? You know what? I’m done. You don’t want my help? Perfect.”

Hermione turned on her heel, ready to leave, but Draco shot up and strode to the bars.

“All right, all right… Do what you have to…” he said, thrusting his arms through the iron.

Hermione exhaled shakily, flicked her wand, and vanished the shackles binding his wrists.

It was a reckless move—more than reckless, possibly illegal—but she forced herself to ignore the screaming voice in her head telling her to run.

Instead, she stepped closer, back in front of the cell, and carefully began rolling up the blood-soaked sleeve of Draco’s shirt.

Hermione’s nearness scrambled her thoughts, but she forced herself to focus, channeling all her attention on the wound. It was ugly—deep, angry—and the scar of the Dark Mark beneath it only made it more unsettling.

She raised her wand, lifting her gaze to find Draco’s face just inches from hers, the iron bars the only thing keeping them apart.

“If… if it hurts, tell me, all right?”

Draco only nodded, and Hermione pointed her wand at the gash. A thin beam of light seeped into his torn flesh, making him flinch.

He tried to pull back, but Hermione caught his arm—firm, yet gentle—and drew it closer to her.

“Just another moment… I’m almost done…” she murmured with a small smile, repeating the spell.

Draco could feel her warmth so close to him, the delicate brush of her fingers on his battered skin, the scent of her hair filling his senses. The Slytherin found himself watching her, captivated.

Her face was so intent, that little crease between her brows from concentration, her brown eyes locked on the wound, her teeth worrying at her lower lip.

Then she looked up, and Draco turned away quickly, caught in the act.

“All done… If you can stand it a little longer, I’d like to check the cut on your eyebrow too…”

“Not enjoying yourself a bit too much, Granger?” Draco drawled, leaning close, his face nearly through the bars.

Hermione shook her head, producing a small vial of dittany from her bag.

Bringing it near his face, she let a few drops fall gently, then dabbed at the wound with a cotton pad. That was when she realized just how dangerously, impossibly close their faces were.

“I think… I think it would still be best if you saw a Healer once you’re out of here, Malfoy…” she said, trying to ease the tension.

“You mean if I get out of here…” Draco shot back sarcastically—before catching the stricken look spreading across her features.

Her hands froze mid-motion as she treated him, her eyes glistening with tears. She was on the verge of breaking.

“Granger, I was joking, all right? There’s no need to—”

But Hermione closed her eyes, a tear spilling down her cheek.

“I’m sorry, Malfoy… This is all my fault. If only I’d talked to Ron, if only I hadn’t rushed into—”

Draco caught her chin between two fingers, forcing her to meet his gaze as he pulled her against the bars.

“Hey, Granger. Look at me. Don’t talk shit, got it? This is only that bastard’s fault, no one else’s. Clear?” His tone was sharp, but then he exhaled, his fingertip tracing softly down her cheek. “It’s not so bad… not really…”

“But your job, the case… The Minister said he’d think about it but—”

“The Minister? What the hell does the Minister have to do with this?”

Hermione drew back slightly, eyes darting away.

“Well… I couldn’t just stand by and do nothing… I tried to speak to him, you know, to convince him to reinstate you…”

“Granger… you shouldn’t have gotten involved in this. You know that…” Draco began his reprimand, but Hermione stepped closer again, determined, grabbing his arm and moving so near their faces almost brushed.

“I am involved, Malfoy. What happened, what you did for me… No one has ever done that for me. And I can’t stand the thought of you losing everything because of it.”

“It was my choice, Granger. My choice,” Draco said, gently brushing a curl from her face. “And I’d do it again. A thousand times again. If I ever found out that bastard dared to touch you—or even look at you—Merlin, Granger, I swear nothing and no one would stop me from killing him. I’d rot in Azkaban for centuries if it meant keeping his filthy hands off you.”

Hermione leaned even closer to the bars, placing her hand over Draco’s where it gripped the iron. His body reacted instinctively to the contact, shivers sparking down his spine.

“Why are you doing all this for me… Draco ?” she whispered. And at the sound of his name on her lips, something inside him cracked.

Reaching through the bars, he seized her waist, pulling her tight against the gate, his arm wrapping firmly around her. With his other hand he tilted her chin upward, his blue eyes locking onto hers, seeing how dazed she looked beneath the weight of the moment.

“You really don’t get it, do you, Granger…” he rasped, his voice low, thick with desire.

“Maybe…” she breathed. “Maybe I need you to explain it to me, Draco…”

His lips curved into a wicked smirk as he leaned in slowly.

Her scent filled his lungs, her warm breath fanned across his mouth—those lips he wanted, needed, the way a dying man craves water.

They were so close, just millimeters apart. 

Draco closed his eyes, ready to lose himself in her, when suddenly a loud commotion shattered the moment, and Pansy’s shrill voice cut through the air like a blade.

“ Andrew fucking Jordan —open this bloody cell, now!” she screamed from the doorway.

Hermione spun toward the noise, startled, just as Pansy stormed in, dragging Jordan by the arm with Theo trailing close behind.

“Parkinson… I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but I promise you’ll regret—”

“Oh, please, Jordan…” Theo sighed. “You don’t scare anyone. Now open the damn cell.”

“Theo—what the hell is going on?” Draco demanded, his eyes darting between his two friends.

“Yes… I’d very much like to know the same bloody thing,” bellowed Thompson, striding into the room.

Pansy’s face lit with pure satisfaction as she stepped up to Thompson and tossed him a heavy bag of gold.

“Ten thousand galleons, Chief. Just as you asked ,” she sneered. “And a little extra for the trouble.”

James glared at her as though he could set her aflame, jealousy gnawing at his insides.

“You… How the hell did you—?”

“Nothing personal, James. I told you I’d get Draco out of this cell… with or without you .” Her last words struck him like a blow to the gut. “Now, if you don’t mind, tell your useless lackey to open the door.”

“Don’t think you’ll walk away from this, Parkinson…” James began, but the arrival of Shacklebolt silenced the room.

“Well then, Miss Granger,” Kingsley said gravely, “I’ve made my decision.”