Chapter Text
Thursday, 10 April 2008
Hermione’s hand was already cramping, her fingers curled around her quill like a claw. She’d broken at least two throughout the day—snapped clean in half from the death grip she couldn’t seem to loosen.
The air in her office felt thick and stale, pressing against her skin like a suffocating wool blanket. The space was half the size of her bedroom at her flat, which wasn’t saying much considering her flat could generously be described as “cozy” by estate agents trying to sell a broom cupboard. A false sunbeam from the spelled window behind her cast artificial warmth across her shoulders, but it did nothing to ease the tension knotting between them. If anything, it felt like a pair of watching eyes, judging her for not finishing on time.
5:00 PM.
The clock on her wall—a brass monstrosity from the seventies that had come with the office and refused to be removed—ticked with the persistence of a dying heartbeat.
She should’ve packed up by now. Normal people packed up at 5:00 PM, went home to eat warm dinners and relax on soft sofas.
But Hermione had no life. Work was her identity, her oxygen, her reason for dragging herself out of bed each morning. Whenever she went home, she felt like one of those enchanted music box dolls—frozen mid-pirouette, waiting for the spell of the workday to wind her up again.
This meant she barely had any friends. Over the years, they’d dropped one by one as work consumed her, falling away like leaves from a dying tree. Luna had stopped owling after the third cancelled lunch. Neville’s invitations to his Greenhouse had dwindled to nothing. Even Ron—well. Ron had never really been hers to lose, had he?
The only one who’d seemed to hang on like a permanent sticking charm was Harry. He still owled her every month without fail, sent her Christmas cards with photos of little James and Albus, left a present on her birthday that she often forgot to open until weeks later, and kept a shoulder perpetually available for crying when May rolled around.
Though it’d been ten years since the Final Battle, the anniversary was still a reminder of all they’d lost and the year she’d given in exchange for peace.
Besides Harry, the only other person in her sphere she’d even call a friend was Draco Malfoy.
And that was being very generous.
He was more of a frenemy, really. A persistent thorn in her side who seemed stubbornly incapable of minding his own business.
He’d remark about the bags under her eyes when a deadline was approaching—“You look like you’ve been kissed by a Dementor, Granger”—or her unkempt hair when she’d worked too late—“Did a Bowtruckle nest in there overnight?”
Other times, he’d give her a grudging “Good job, Granger” or “Nicely done” if she made it over the finish line. But that’s where his kindness ended.
To a degree.
Sometimes, if she looked especially rough—if the hollows under her eyes had deepened to bruises or her hands had started to shake—he’d do what he was doing now.
“Granger,” he said softly from the opening of her door.
She looked up, stress hollowing her cheeks with a grinding of her jaw. The quill in her hand trembled almost imperceptibly.
“Yes, Malfoy?”
He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, looking for all the world like he owned the place. His dark robes—charcoal today, perfectly pressed—hung from his shoulders in an effortless elegance that made her want to hex something. His hair looked normal, it’s usual layered fringe that ended near his ears.
“Go home.” His voice was quiet but firm. “It can wait until tomorrow. Get some rest, alright?”
“But I’m only halfway do—”
He pushed off the doorframe and strode toward her desk with purpose, his dragonhide boots clicking against the wooden floor. Before she could react, he’d tapped his wand on her open bit of parchment. It slammed shut like a Muggle measuring tape retracting, then sealed itself with a small bit of magical wax that shimmered faintly gold.
“You won’t be able to open it until 8:00 AM tomorrow.” A hint of smugness curled at the corner of his mouth. “It’s a time seal. So, Go. Home.” Each word felt like a small flick on the forehead.
“You aren’t my boss,” she groused, snatching her belongings from around her desk with more force than necessary. Her brows furrowed so deeply they nearly met in the middle.
“Your hair is a bird’s nest.” He tilted his head, studying her with those infuriatingly observant grey eyes. “And I can hear your stomach growling from here. Get some food, read a book, and sleep. Preferably in that order.”
“What’s it to you?” she asked, like she did every time he pulled this particular brand of mothering.
Why do you care? Why do you always care?
“A tired Granger is a stupid Granger.” He reached past her and grabbed her peacoat from where it hung on a brass hook—the navy one with tiered layers and darts that made her figure look curvier than it actually was. He held it out to her like a butler presenting a lady’s wrap. “I’d like to not do double work, so in the end, this does benefit me.”
She snatched the coat from his hands, their fingers brushing for the briefest moment.
“And,” he continued, his expression carefully neutral, “since you live above me, I don’t want to hear you pacing either.”
“There are silencing spells. You can’t hear me.”
“But I can feel it.” He gestured vaguely in the air, his long fingers carving shapes in the dust motes. “Your magic gives off this...vibration that I can feel rattle my bones. It’s distressing. So please, for both our sakes, go home. I will literally have you side-along and take you there myself.”
“Fine, fine.” She shrugged into her coat with jerky movements, already heading for the door. “Considering you almost splinched me the last time, I’ll comply. Merlin, you’re incorrigible.”
“You got everything? Salazar, you pack more than my mother when she goes on holiday to France.”
“I live here.” She clutched her shoulder bag—filled to bursting with scrolls and books and various odds and ends—like it was a shield. “Of course I’d pack a lot.”
“Why haven’t you put a featherlight charm on this?” He reached for the bag, his fingertips grazing the worn leather strap. “See, you’re overtaxing yourself, Granger. Basic self-care spells are apparently beyond you now.”
“Seriously, Malfoy?” She jerked the bag away from him, her cheeks flushing with irritation—or perhaps embarrassment. She hadn’t actually thought to cast the charm. When had she become this scattered? “I get it. I’m going home. Alright?”
She pushed her chair in with a screech against the floor and brushed past his wide shoulders, catching a waft of his cologne as she did.
Cedar and rosemary. A darker third-note underneath—maybe patchouli.
Gods, why does it smell so good?
She hated it.
Once they were both out, she warded her office with quick, practiced movements of her wand—three counterclockwise turns, a sharp jab, a whispered incantation that tasted like copper on her tongue—and headed down the corridor toward the atrium of lifts.
He fell into step beside her, matching her shorter stride with maddening ease. “Any plans for the weekend?” he asked. His tone was casual—conversational.
Like they were friends.
She thinned her eyes at him. “It’s only Thursday.”
“Yes, and tomorrow is Friday, ergo, the weekend is almost upon us.” He raised one dark grey eyebrow in that insufferable way of his—the brows he’d taken to dyeing after the war, which somehow suited his white-blond hair rather than clashing with it. “See, I told you that you get stupider when you’re tired.”
“I will silencio you.”
He laughed—a genuine sound that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Against policy, I’m afraid.”
“Doesn’t mean I won’t try,” she growled, jamming her finger against the brass button for the lift hard enough to make her knuckle ache.
“You know the trade-off isn’t worth it.”
Unfortunately, he was right. If she suddenly lost her job...
The thought alone made panic spike through her veins like ice water. She could feel the tendrils of anxiety snaking through her body, squeezing her arteries, making her heart stutter and race. Her vision narrowed at the edges, the corridor seeming to stretch and warp—
“Calm down. I’m only joking.” His voice had softened, losing its teasing edge. His hand appeared at her upper back, warm through the layers of her coat, guiding her gently forward. “Get on the lift. That’s a good girl.”
The golden grilles parted with a melodic chime, revealing the ornate interior.
“I’m not a child.” She stumbled slightly as he prodded her inside, her heel catching on the threshold. “There is no need to prod me.”
“Some of us are ready to go home, Granger.”
“You can just say you’re a bad employee. It’s okay.”
He jabbed the ‘Atrium’ button with unnecessary force, and the golden grilles closed behind them with a soft clang. She grabbed the upper hand-hold and gripped tight as the lift lurched backward, her knuckles going white around the leather strap.
Malfoy, infuriatingly, didn’t bother with the holds. He simply braced his legs wider, crossing his arms as if riding backwards through the Ministry’s bowels was the most natural thing in the world.
“You never answered my question,” he said, studying her with that penetrating gaze.
“No, I do not have plans.” She kept her eyes fixed on the passing department signs—Level Six, Department of Magical Transport—Level Five, Department of International Magical Cooperation—anything to avoid looking at him. “I planned to finish out the Travenstock Case, but—”
“That’s not even due for another month.”
“But what if something else comes up? And then I’m juggling two different cases and—”
“Then you disperse the work amongst your team.” He made a dismissive sound in the back of his throat. “Matilda, Roan, or Luella are perfectly suitable. What’s the point of being Senior Lead if you can’t delegate?” He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “That’s sloppy work. Grossly inefficient, some might say.”
“Some of us like to do the work ourselves and don’t pawn it off on others.”
“I delegate what doesn’t need my expertise.” His tone had shifted, become almost lecturing—professorial in a way that reminded her uncomfortably of Snape. “They pay me for my expert knowledge, not just because I can do ‘work.’ Might as well give the scraps to someone eager who’s ready to climb the ladder. Expand their knowledge so that maybe—Salazar willing—they’ll take my place when I inevitably move up. Completes the lifecycle of the workplace.”
“Seems awfully kind for someone who remarks on my hair at least once a day. Or the pallor of my skin.”
The lift shuddered to a stop. Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement. A paper aeroplane memo zoomed in, circled twice around Malfoy’s head like an annoying insect before hovering in the corner.
“I’m supposed to be the pale one in the office.” A ghost of a smirk played at his lips. “Yours is from neglect.”
She huffed, her spine going ramrod straight as the lift finally reached the main Atrium. The grilles parted, revealing the cavernous space with its dark wood floors and emerald green tiled ceiling dotted with transforming runes—a new feature added a few years ago.
She walked out briskly, her heels clacking against the wood in sharp, staccato bursts. A few dozen others—the last stragglers of the working day—trudged toward the multitude of fireplaces lining the walls, their faces slack with exhaustion.
She had to walk past that damned embarrassing fountain.
The Fountain of Magical Brethren had been replaced after the war with a feature the Ministry considered more “inspiring.” What they’d come up with was a bronze tableau of her teenage self—wild hair frozen mid-flyaway, wand extended—flanked by Harry and Ron. Their wand tips all touched at a central point, from which a spring of water flowed upward and over in what was meant to look like a water-based Protego.
Every time she passed it, she wanted to sink into the floor.
That’s not me, she thought bitterly. Not anymore.
Malfoy was practically running next to her, trying to keep up with her determined stride. Though it was more of a fast walk on his part, considering the ridiculous length of his legs. If anyone was running, it was her—five-foot-four and furious, eating up the distance with sheer stubbornness.
She didn’t want to deal with him anymore. She was already irritated after being ripped away from her work, and now he was mother-henning her like she was some sort of invalid.
“I’ve got the message, Malfoy.” She pivoted sharply, catching him off guard. He nearly stumbled, his careful composure slipping for just a moment. “Now leave me alone. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Before he could respond, she practically slid into the nearest fireplace, grabbed a handful of Floo powder from the pot, and called out her address in a rush of green flames.
Gods, she was damned infuriating.
Draco watched the emerald fire consume her, her silhouette dissolving into smoke and ash. His jaw tightened.
It’s why he loved her, of course.
Nobody else seemed to care that Hermione Granger was slowly working herself into an early grave. He knew Potter still owled her occasionally, but their work lunches had ended about four years ago. The Weasleys had their own lives now—marriages, children, the joke shop, Quidditch careers. Even Longbottom had stopped trying after the fifth rejected invitation.
She’s killing herself by inches, and nobody’s paying attention.
Nobody except him.
They’d been working together for about six years now. He’d climbed the ladder of the Ministry after the end of the war—slowly, painfully, proving himself inch by bloody inch to people who would never fully trust a Malfoy.
His family’s status, estates, and wealth had been seized by the Ministry as “reparations,” though everyone knew it was punishment, pure and simple. They’d housed the Dark Lord under their roof. There was no forgiving that. Not really.
He’d been fussed about it at the very beginning. It had been all he’d ever known—the Manor, the wealth, the name that opened doors and commanded respect. Without it, who was he?
But in the end, it had been a blessing in disguise. Like burning away dead wood to let new growth flourish.
His father had been carted off to Azkaban. Died there about two years after imprisonment—wasted away to nothing, they said, though Draco suspected the Dementors had simply finished what the Dark Lord had started.
He hadn’t cried at the funeral. He still wasn’t sure what that said about him.
His mother—always the survivor—had floated on the meager jointure leftover and some funds from the Black family vaults that the Ministry had missed. She’d stayed afloat until remarrying Kingsley Shacklebolt, which had been a shock to absolutely everyone except Draco.
He’d seen it coming. His mother’s Pureblood ideology had been waning for years, eroding like a cliff face battered by waves. She’d only kept up the facade around his father for fear of divorce—a mortal sin amongst the Sacred Twenty-Eight, practically worse than marrying a Muggleborn. And in terms of wizards, his father and Kingsley couldn’t be more different.
Though it was still deeply strange to call the Minister of Magic “Father” around the holidays.
He hadn’t used the wizard’s connections to begin his tenure at the Ministry. He’d wanted to make a go of things his own way—wanted to prove, if only to himself, that he was more than his name, more than his father’s shadow. He had the intelligence, the knowledge of how to make strategic alliances and deals. So of course he’d ended up in the Department of Mysteries, not the International Wizarding Cooperation department like many had predicted.
No, Draco liked using his brain. He liked puzzles.
Just like Granger.
They would be well suited, he thought, if she would just stop being so bloody selfish and putting work ahead of everything else. Ahead of eating. Ahead of sleeping.
Ahead of living.
When had he first fallen in love with her? He’d tried to pinpoint the exact moment, the way you might try to identify the precise second dawn becomes day.
It had been in the laboratories, deep within the Department. Most of the time, when paperwork was involved, they were sealed away in their pathetic little offices—if one could be so generous as to call them that. But the good days, the real days, were spent in the bowels of the Department of Mysteries, testing the boundaries of magic itself.
Sometimes they were paired together. Other times, it was solitary work. They’d share their findings occasionally, but only when Hermione was genuinely stumped—which wasn’t all that often.
But that day in the laboratory, when her hair had frizzed into a bramble bush from the humidity and sweat dotted her upper lip, when her eyes had blazed with the particular fire she got when she was on the verge of a breakthrough...
He’d looked at her—really looked at her—and felt the ground shift inside his chest. Like tectonic plates finally settling into place after years of tremors.
He loved her quick wit, sharp as a well-honed blade. The wrinkle that appeared between her brows when she concentrated. The small, triumphant smile that tugged at her mouth as she approached an answer. Her little dance of delight—a bouncing on the balls of her feet, a barely suppressed squeal—when she finally solved a problem.
She’d never looked twice at him, of course. Still treated him sometimes like he was the bully from school, the boy who’d called her Mudblood and sneered at her large front teeth.
But he was hopelessly devoted to her anyway. Hoping that maybe, one day, she’d see him too.
That she’d see the man he’d become, not the boy he’d been.
But she was married to work, and she was monogamous in her devotion to it. So like a lovesick fool, he just pined and was there for her. Trying to keep her alive. Being her unwanted minder for wellness.
He’d even ended up living in the same building as her. Not by design, initially—the flat had simply been affordable and well-located—but it was terribly convenient. He always thought that if the worst were to happen, he’d be there. She was inevitably going to implode, either from external forces or from her own stubborn refusal to stop.
When she did, Draco would be there to catch her.
He stepped into the nearest fireplace, grabbed a handful of Floo powder, and called out his address. The world dissolved into spinning green chaos.
He tumbled out the other side coughing, ash coating his tongue and the inside of his nostrils. He hated Floo travel with a passion that bordered on irrational. But they’d disallowed Apparition into the Ministry Atrium after the war—too many security concerns.
It was either the Floo or flushing himself down a toilet.
No, thank you.
As he dusted the powder from his robes, a blur of sable fur came hurtling toward him.
“Hello, Pippin,” he murmured, dropping to his knees.
His Shetland Sheepdog—named after the Tolkien character, because apparently Draco was that sort of wizard now—threw himself sideways into Draco’s crouched embrace, grunting and huffing with unbridled joy. His feathered tail whipped back and forth so fast it was nearly a blur.
Draco scratched behind the dog’s pointed ears, working his fingers through the corn-silk softness of the fur. Pippin did that ridiculous thing he always did—one back foot sliding backward and up like he couldn’t contain his excitement, his whole body wriggling with delight.
“Yes, I missed you too. Yes, you’re a very good boy. The best boy.”
As Pippin got his scratches, the other half of the fellowship emerged from wherever he’d been napping.
Samwise, or Sam as he was known, padded into the room with feline dignity—an orange tabby cat who was somehow skinny yet looked chunky depending on his posture. His large primordial pouch swung beneath his belly as he walked, like a fur-covered pendulum.
“And there’s my other good boy.”
Draco loved coming home to his boys. He didn’t have much in the way of human friends—just Theo, really, who he saw maybe twice a month for drinks and complaining—so his animals were his main companions. His confidantes. His reasons to come home at all.
He kicked off his dragonhide boots, letting them fall where they may. Loosened his tie with a rough tug. Pulled his shirt from his trousers as he walked toward his bedroom, shedding the armour of the workday with each step.
The entire ensemble went into the laundry basket in a careless heap. He waved his wand once, and his favourite pyjama set summoned itself from the drawer—deep green silk with DM embroidered on the pocket in silver thread.
A gift from Mother last Christmas.
He slid his feet into sheepskin slippers and spelled the gramophone on as he passed. Soft, tinny jazz filtered through the living room—American and mellow, all brass and longing.
The flat wasn’t terribly large. Two bedrooms, with a combination kitchen and living room that his mother would have found “charming” in the way she found peasant food “rustic.” The second bedroom had been converted into a study and brewing room. Right now, a batch of Pepper-Up Potion was simmering on low heat, the steam carrying hints of mandrake and ginger.
He usually kept a batch handy to replenish Granger’s stores when she wasn’t looking. He’d slip bottles into her desk drawer, her coat pocket, her shoulder bag. How she hadn’t caught on by now seemed indicative of just how far gone she really was.
He opened the stasis cabinet—a 1940s style Muggle refrigerator he’d charmed to keep food in perfect suspension—and pulled out a plate of Chinese from yesterday. He tended to order more than he could eat, specifically to have leftovers.
Draco removed the wax paper wrapping and released the stasis charm with a tap of his wand. The smells hit him immediately—egg fried rice, chow mein with chicken and veg, salt and chili chips, sweet and sour chicken. Divine.
He’d made sure to keep the sauce on the side to pour over the entire plate.
He hadn’t been a fan of Muggle fare growing up—had actively sneered at anything that didn’t come from a house-elf’s hand. But Theo had dragged him to a Chinese takeaway in Soho one drunken night, and he’d been a convert ever since.
Now, whenever he was feeling especially low, he turned to the dish for comfort.
He settled on the sofa in front of the fire—having a dining table seemed pointless when he always ate alone—and balanced the plate on his lap. Sam curled up beside him, purring. Pippin rested his chin near Draco’s thigh, eyes tracking every movement of fork to mouth with hopeful attention.
“No begging,” Draco said, but his voice was soft. He slipped the dog a piece of chicken anyway. He made sure it didn’t contain any onions or garlic.
Outside, through the window, London settled into evening. Lights flickered on in windows. A couple walked past, laughing across the way.
Draco ate his Chinese food, petted his animals, and tried very hard not to think about the witch upstairs who didn’t know he existed.
Not really.
Not in the way that mattered.
Friday, 11 April
The next morning, Hermione sat at her desk, staring at the clock as the hands crept toward 8:00 AM.
7:27. 7:28. 7:29.
Thirty more minutes.
She couldn’t stop thinking about the case. Her fingers itched around her quill, twitching with the need to do something. Anything. The sealed parchment sat in front of her like a taunt, the magical wax gleaming smugly in the false sunlight.
Thirty more minutes.
“You look like a junkie, Granger.”
She startled, looking up to find Malfoy leaning against her doorframe—again—drinking from a steaming mug. The rich scent of coffee wafted toward her, and her stomach cramped with want.
When had she last eaten?
“I just want to finish it,” she said, her voice coming out more desperate than she’d intended. “Is that too much to ask?”
“Yes.” He raised an eyebrow, nodding toward her hand. “Especially when your fingers are shaking around your quill.”
She looked down. He was right—her hand was trembling almost imperceptibly, a fine vibration she hadn’t even noticed.
She set the quill down with more force than necessary and folded her hands in front of her, pressing them flat against the scarred red leather that covered her desk.
“When’s the last time you’ve taken a holiday?” He took a sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim. “Besides an actual holiday, I mean.”
“Edinburgh,” she said quickly. “Three years ago.”
She could barely remember what it had been for. A festival? No, that didn’t sound right. If she couldn’t remember, it was probably work-related. They all tended to bleed together in her mind—one conference indistinguishable from the next.
Maybe Rome? But that had been in her early twenties. That couldn’t be right.
“That’s not a holiday,” he said flatly.
“It wasn’t work-related.” Her eyes didn’t meet his. She bit her lip.
She wouldn’t admit that she didn’t rightly know. This conversation was already irritating enough. He was always acting like some sort of walking minder that she’d neither wanted nor asked for.
They’d both be better off if he just left her bloody alone.
“You sure?” His voice was mild, but his grey eyes were sharp.
“Just leave me alone!” The words burst out of her, harsher than she’d intended. “Do you need anything?” She rubbed her forehead, then moved her fingers to pinch the bridge of her nose. A headache was building behind her eyes—the dull, persistent kind that came from too little sleep and too much stress.
“Actually, yes, I do. Unfortunately.” His mouth tightened, eyelids heavy with annoyance—or maybe resignation. “We just received an object that needs testing. It was found in a tomb in Patras, in Greece. Appears sealed and needs two wands to activate. So, I’m here to borrow your wand.”
He paused, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Which unfortunately includes you.”
“I’m busy, you know.” She gestured at the sealed parchment accusingly.
“You have bloody—” He lifted his watch, a platinum thing that had appeared one Christmas. “—twenty-seven minutes. It’ll be quick. I have the translation with the wand movements and everything.” He tilted his head, affecting a look of generosity. “I’ll even buy you lunch as a thank you. Food not from the café downstairs. Something in Muggle London.”
The offer perked her up immediately.
Malfoy only offered such a thing maybe once a quarter, if she was lucky. Usually when he needed a task or favour that was particularly complicated or time-consuming. She’d learned to take advantage of these rare opportunities.
And he was right. It would take twenty minutes. She’d be back before her parchment unsealed.
“Fine.” She pushed back from her desk and grabbed her wand from her desk. “But not a minute sooner. And I want Indian. A specific place in Notting Hill, thank you.”
“Yes, mistress,” he drawled, the word dripping with irony.
“Don’t call me that.” Heat crept up her neck.
“But it makes you so upset.” His smirk was infuriating—all sharp angles and pureblood amusement. “It’s fun.”
“I can think of plenty of ways to make you upset that would be fun for me too, Malfoy.”
Like transfiguring his coffee into decaf. Or charming his robes Gryffindor red. A prank small and harmless, but infinitely entertaining.
“You’ve already punched me in the face as a kid.” He touched his sharp blade of a nose reflexively, as if the memory still stung. “If that’s the best you’ve got, I can take it.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
She watched him spell his coffee mug back to his own office with a lazy flick of his wrist. The mug floated down the corridor and around the corner, steady as a owl in flight.
Show-off.
They walked to the holding room several levels down, their footsteps echoing through corridors that grew progressively darker and more maze-like. The Department of Mysteries earned its name—even after six years, Hermione still occasionally got turned around in its shifting passages.
When they arrived, a wooden crate greeted them. It was stamped with Greek letters burned into the wood—shipping marks and customs seals and symbols she didn’t recognise. It was one of several boxes from the site, stacked against the wall like cargo waiting to be unloaded.
“Let’s grab this crate and head to the testing room,” Malfoy said, already drawing his wand. “I don’t fancy opening it here.”
He cast a shrinking charm followed by a featherlight charm in quick succession. The crate compressed to the size of a ring box, which he plucked from the air and held in his palm like a particularly dangerous sweet.
She followed him through more corridors, watching the way his robes swished around his ankles. He always wore dark robes—navy, charcoal, or black, depending on his mood. If it was Christmas, he’d pull out a deep green set that made his eyes look almost silver.
Why do I know that?
They arrived at the testing room—a space fortified with more complex warding and protection than Hogwarts itself. This room sat in the heart of the Ministry, which Hermione had always thought was monumentally stupid. If anything were to go wrong in here, the entire government would collapse into the resulting crater.
A place off-site would be infinitely safer. But the Ministry prided itself on efficiency, and apparating back and forth to an external location didn’t fit their idea of convenience.
That was the Ministry in a nutshell.
They entered, and the smell hit her immediately—dry and stale, like old books left too long in an attic. But beneath that, the air crackled with latent energy. It felt like standing outside before a lightning storm, that breathless moment when the sky was pregnant with violence.
The hairs on her arms stood at attention.
“Right, I’ll just set it here,” Malfoy said, restoring the crate to its original size with a wave of his wand. He levitated it to the centre of the room, then flicked his wand again. The wooden sides fell away like petals opening, revealing the contents.
Hermione’s breath caught.
A vessel. A beautiful vessel at that.
Vibrant colours swirled across its surface—purple, green, and blue in artistic renderings of spirals and flowers. It looked almost like Van Gogh’s Starry Night, if Van Gogh had been a witch with access to magical pigments. Carved outlines surrounded each shape, and within those grooves, gold shimmered like molten metal, pulsing gently as if alive.
The glaze sparkled and shifted in the light. It almost seemed to breathe.
It looked like a decorative pot that would sit on the vanity of an ancient princess. Or perhaps a goddess.
“Where did they find this?” Her voice came out hushed, reverent.
“Within a tomb somewhere outside Patras. They don’t know who it belonged to yet—only that she was a witch. Looked to be the head of her coven, possibly.” He moved closer, studying the vessel with narrowed eyes. “She was holding it in her hands when they found her.”
Hermione whipped around, face stricken. “And they just took it from her body? Without a Curse-Breaker present?” She felt her grip tighten on her wand. “Who authorised—”
“The Greek Ministry has different procedures for handling artefacts and excavations.” His tone was carefully neutral—the diplomatic voice he used when he thought she was about to explode. “Their protocols don’t require Curse-Breaker oversight until an object is flagged as dangerous.”
“Who knows what that thing contains?” She gestured at the jar wildly. “It should’ve been taken to the Curse-Breakers first. Has anyone examined it yet? Run diagnostic charms? Checked for dark magic signatures?”
Her mind was shifting into Curse-Breaker mode—her first career, before she’d moved to the Department of Mysteries. Old habits died hard.
“That’s the problem.” Malfoy raised his wand and cast a diagnostic charm above the object. The spell should have produced coloured lights, symbols, something—but nothing appeared. Nothing changed. As if the jar weren’t really there at all. “Every diagnostic comes back with nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.” He cancelled the charm with a sharp gesture. “It’s like trying to read a book with blank pages. So now it’s up to us to discover its mysteries.” He shot her a glance. “I thought you liked puzzles, Granger.”
“Safe puzzles.” She crossed her arms, her unease growing. “Nothing that could potentially make the Ministry explode.”
“I don’t think it’s as bad as all that.”
“If we die, I will haunt you, Malfoy.” She pointed her wand at him for emphasis, then began wringing the vinewood between her hands—a nervous habit she’d never been able to break.
“It’s touching that you’re so obsessed with me you’d follow me into the afterlife.” His eyelids went heavy, a sly grin carving dimples on either side of his mouth.
“Whatever. Shut up and let’s open the damned thing. Where are those instructions?”
Malfoy produced a small scroll from his robes. With a tap of his wand, it unfurled and hovered before them, parchment yellowed with age. A translation spell wrote English words beneath the Greek ones, the letters forming even as she watched.
“Right,” she said, scanning the text. “So, a hexagon with a bisected line, then two clockwise flourishes, and a punch through the middle. Seems simple enough.” She read further. “And there’s an unlocking spell to start. Ready?”
“Been waiting for you.”
Her expression flattened. “Whatever. On three. One, two, three—”
“Kleidi kryptos,” they said together, their wands moving in perfect synchronisation.
White smoke sputtered from their wand tips, curling through the air like twin serpents. The smoke drifted toward the vessel, wrapping around it, sinking into the carved grooves. An unknown sound clicked inside the jar—mechanical, like tumblers falling into place.
Hermione consulted the scroll again. “One more spell. A star movement with a triangle in the middle. The triangle needs to be cast counterclockwise.”
On the count of three, they both uttered “Lysis dynameōn.”
A glittering stream of light erupted from their wands—gold and silver intertwined, like a ribbon of captured starlight. It encircled the vessel in spiralling coils, wrapping around it like bindings on a mummy.
A pulse of power expanded outward from the jar. Hermione felt it pass through her like a wave through water—not unpleasant, exactly, but strange. Foreign.
Then everything was still.
Malfoy approached the vessel cautiously, his wand extended. He touched it with just the tip first, prodding it like one might poke a sleeping dragon.
“It’s not going to bite you,” she said, trying to suppress a smile.
“I’m not taking any chances.” His jaw was tight. “Not after that fanged music box.”
She remembered the incident all too well. A fanged music box had been discovered in an abandoned Gringotts vault. Due to its age and magical signatures, it had ended up in their department for cataloguing. Malfoy had thought his neutralisation charms had worked—right up until the box latched onto his finger like a tiny, ornate piranha. It had also been venomous, which had caused the appendage to swell to three times its normal size.
He’d looked like he was wearing a flesh-coloured sausage instead of a hand.
She’d laughed so hard she’d cried.
Reluctantly, Malfoy wrapped his fingers around the vessel’s lid—a domed piece of ceramic that matched the body perfectly. He tugged.
Nothing happened.
He tugged harder, his face reddening with effort. Still nothing. The lid might as well have been welded on.
“Are you actually trying?” she asked, tapping her wand against her thigh impatiently.
“It just won’t budge.” He gave one final, frustrated yank, then stepped back, breathing hard. “Here, you want to try, King Arthur?”
She huffed. “It’s still unsettling how much Muggle culture you’ve picked up in the last ten years.”
“Just because I’m getting better at it doesn’t mean you need to get jealous.”
She rolled her eyes—she seemed to do that a lot around him—and stepped forward. “Whatever. Let me try.”
She gripped the lid firmly and pulled. Nothing. Pulled harder, putting her whole body into it. Still nothing.
“Maybe we both need to try?” he offered, tapping his wand tip against his lips thoughtfully.
It seemed obvious, really. The vessel had required two wands to unlock. Perhaps it required two hands to open as well.
“Fine.”
She kept her grip on the lid, bracing herself.
He approached and settled his long, pale fingers over her own. His hands were rather large, she noticed—his palm easily covering both of hers, his fingers wrapping around to overlap her knuckles. They were also warm, and surprisingly soft. Not even a hint of a callus marred the skin.
They’d never touched hands before, she realised. They’d got close over the years—brushing past each other in corridors, reaching for the same scroll, that brief contact with her coat yesterday—but never this sort of...intimacy.
His palm against her knuckles. His fingertips curled around hers.
She looked up, her lips slightly parted. He was looking down at her, his grey eyes half-lidded, his expression unreadable.
What is he—
They pulled the lid upward together.
It came off as easily as breathing.
And then the world went mad.
A tentacle of purple magic erupted from the vessel. Neither light nor smoke, it was made of something else entirely. Something alive. It wrapped itself around both of them before Hermione could even think to react, binding them together, and squeezing.
A fierce wind erupted from nowhere, buffeting them with the force of a raging windstorm. Her hair whipped across her face, blinding her. Her robes snapped and crackled like flags in a gale.
“WHAT THE FUCK?” she screeched over the din.
“BLOODY HELL!” He was screaming too, his usually composed face twisted with shock.
She tried to release the lid, but her fingers wouldn’t obey. It was like they’d been stuck with a permanent sticking charm—her muscles simply refused to unclench.
More tendrils of magic poured from the jar, the same vibrant colours as the glaze—purple, green, blue—wrapping around them like ribbons around a Maypole. They spiralled up their arms, around their torsos, binding them together at the chest.
And then—
Euphoria.
It flooded through her like warm honey, like the first sip of Firewhiskey on a cold night. Peace and contentment. A feeling of rightness she’d never experienced before. Like coming home after a long journey. Like finding something you didn’t know you’d lost.
And beneath that, another feeling—strange, unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. The sudden erasure of a loneliness so deep she hadn’t even known it existed until it was gone.
I’ve been alone, she realised, the thought striking her like a physical blow. I’ve been so alone, for so long, and I didn’t even know.
The feeling lasted only seconds.
Then it was gone, and they were collapsing, and the world went dark around the edges.
She came to on the floor, gasping for breath like she’d just run a marathon.
“What the bloody fuck was that?” Draco panted somewhere nearby, possibly behind her. She could hear him moving, fabric rustling against stone.
“I don’t know.” She pressed a hand to her chest. Her magical core felt wrong—molten and overflowing, like a cauldron left too long over too-high flames. “But I’m not sure it’s good.”
“I feel peaceful, actually.” His voice was strange—soft and wondering, utterly unlike his usual drawl. “Almost...content?”
She turned her head to look at him. He was lying on his back almost two feet away, one hand resting over his heart. His face looked open and easy, all the sharp edges softened.
“My core feels hot,” she managed, rubbing at her sternum. It felt like someone had lit a fire inside her chest and forgotten to install a chimney. “Like molten iron trying to overflow.”
“Do you mind if I—” He sat up, concern flickering across his features. “If I feel? I won’t touch anything inappropriate. I promise.”
She nodded, too weak to argue.
He shifted closer, kneeling beside her, and pressed his palm flat against her chest—just above her heart, nowhere improper, exactly as he’d said.
The effect was immediate.
It was like plunging a white-hot piece of metal into cool water. The fire in her core hissed and settled, the pressure releasing, the pain fading to a manageable throb.
“Morgana,” she breathed, her eyes fluttering closed. “That feels...that feels good.”
He pulled his hand away and scooted back a foot, putting distance between them.
The fire roared back to life instantly.
“Put it back!” she gasped, clutching her chest.
He complied without argument, scrambling forward and pressing his palm to her sternum once more. The cool relief flooded through her again.
She opened her eyes, staring up at him. He was close now—close enough that she could count his eyelashes if she wanted to. Close enough to see the flecks of yellow in his grey eyes.
“What is happening?” she whispered.
“I don’t know.” His voice was tight. “But it can’t be good.”
“Move your hand to my upper arm,” she ordered, her mind already racing through possibilities. “I want to test if it’s solely touch-based, or if you need to be in proximity to my central core.”
He moved his hand slowly, sliding it up from her sternum to her shoulder, then across to her upper arm. As he did, goosebumps erupted in the wake of his touch, and a flush crept up her neck that had nothing to do with magical overheating.
But the cooling sensation remained.
“Seems like touching works regardless of location,” he said, his voice oddly rough.
“That’s...problematic.”
“You think?”
“We need to get someone. A Healer. Someone who knows what we’re dealing with.” She struggled to sit up, and he helped her, his hand never leaving her arm. “Can you get to the door? I can handle being alone for a moment if I have to.”
“I’ll be quick.” He didn’t sound convinced. “Don’t worry, Granger. We’ll figure this out.”
He released her arm and stood.
The fire gripped her heart immediately, worse than before—like someone was trying to squeeze the life out of it. She yelped, curling in on herself.
“Hurry!”
He turned and jogged toward the exit, his robes billowing behind him. But when he reached just a few footsteps away, he stopped dead.
Like he’d hit an invisible wall.
“What’s wrong?” she cried, her voice thin with pain.
He stepped back, then threw himself forward again. Same result—he rebounded like he’d hit a rubber barrier, stumbling backward.
“There’s a ward,” he said, his voice flat with disbelief. “A perimeter. I can’t get past it.”
“Great.” She laughed—a bitter, desperate sound. “Just great. Now get back over here and touch me.”
He didn’t make a joke. Didn’t smirk or raise an eyebrow or comment on how that sentence would sound out of context.
He just walked back to her slowly, his hand extended, palm up.
“Let’s hold hands,” he said quietly. “That way I don’t have to touch you somewhere you don’t want.”
A warmth shifted in her chest that had nothing to do with magical fires.
He knelt beside her, hand still outstretched, waiting. Patient. As if he’d wait forever if that’s what she needed.
She reached up and took his hand.
His fingers curled around hers—warm, steady, anchoring. The fire in her core cooled to embers.
“Better?” he murmured.
“Yeah.” Her voice came out barely above a whisper. “Loads.”
“Let’s try to find someone. Maybe they can figure this out at St. Mungo’s.” He helped her to her feet, never letting go of her hand. “Come on.”
They walked toward the door together, fingers intertwined, neither willing to test what would happen if they let go.
