The Curious Case of Good Fortune - magicandquills23 - Harry Potter (2025)

Table of Contents
Chapter 1: Brewing Fate Chapter Text Chapter 2: The Intertwining of Heartbreak and Despair Notes: Chapter Text Notes: Chapter 3: What's Good Fortune Without Luck? Chapter Text Chapter 4: Why Yes, We Do Hate Each Other - Thanks for Asking Chapter Text Chapter 5: The Pernicious Twist of Kismet Chapter Text Chapter 6: The Fool: Upright Chapter Text Chapter 7: The Dissipation of Hermione's Sanity Chapter Text Chapter 8: Misery, Meet Firewhiskey Chapter Text Chapter 9: The Crux of the Matter Notes: Chapter Text Notes: Chapter 10: A Temporary and Unspoken Truce Chapter Text Chapter 11: The Impracticalities of Being an Amateur Sleuth Notes: Chapter Text Chapter 12: "Draco, Draco, Draco" Notes: Chapter Text Chapter 13: The Heart Wants What It Wants Notes: Chapter Text Notes: Chapter 14: Fortune Clearly Doesn't Favor the Brave Notes: Chapter Text Notes: Chapter 15: Newsleaks and Forehead Kisses Notes: Chapter Text Chapter 16: The Plummet to the Bottom is the Sweetest Thing Notes: Chapter Text Notes: Chapter 17: Hermione Granger's in a Tizzy Chapter Text Chapter 18: She's His Undoing Notes: Chapter Text Chapter 19: Hermione's First Date Night Notes: Chapter Text Chapter 20: Is This a Thing? Chapter Text Chapter 21: A History that Doesn't Beget Forgetting Notes: Chapter Text Chapter 22: Blueberry Muffins with a Dash of Romance Notes: Chapter Text Chapter 23: At Least One Weasley is Happy Notes: Chapter Text Notes: Chapter 24: Someone's Falling in Love Notes: Chapter Text Chapter 25: Scandals in the Workplace Notes: Chapter Text Chapter 26: Draco Malfoy is Whipped Notes: Chapter Text Chapter 27: Something Wicked This Way Comes Notes: Chapter Text Notes: Chapter 28: Old Heartaches Coming Back to Play Notes: Chapter Text Chapter 29: Broken Beyond Repair Notes: Chapter Text Notes: Chapter 30: Mutual Kryptonite Notes: Chapter Text Notes: Chapter 31: Rules, What Rules Notes: Chapter Text Chapter 32: Silly Lies and Dangerous Fabrications Notes: Chapter Text Chapter 33: All's Fair in Love and Kidnapping Notes: Chapter Text Chapter 34: Badges of (Dis)Honor Chapter Text Chapter 35: Epilogue: Love at Yuletide Notes: Chapter Text References

Chapter 1: Brewing Fate

Chapter Text

Working in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office was not the prestigious Ministry position Hermione Granger thought she’d have post-war. But here she was, sitting in a cramped meeting room with her colleagues, desperately wishing they’d invest in better cooling technology than their defunct A/C unit from the 70s.

It had been five years since she was first offered the position in the immediate aftermath of Voldemort’s defeat, at a time when getting out of bed to shower felt like an insurmountable task. She was far too war-torn and traumatized to think about the day in front of her, let alone her future.

Arthur Weasley, head of the department, thought this job would be good for her until she settled more. Give her familiarity after seeing her entire world turned upside-down. It was the first offer she received and, so, it was the one she accepted. It had been fine, keeping her mind busy but not stressed. Giving her a reason to brush her teeth and put on clean clothes - offering enough income to pay her rent, groceries, and a few books each week.

MoMA’s mission statement had broadened significantly since she’d started. The field team still arrested wizards for tampering with non-magical objects and setting them loose on unsuspecting Muggles. But Arthur was also keenly interested with integrating the two societies (so far as the Statue of Secrecy allowed). As a result, his employees got tasked with a lot of information-gathering and report-filing.

So the past 1587 workdays (because she never had reason to take time off) were spent bent over her desk, battling eye-strain, chronic depression and dulled quill nibs. Hermione Granger, the once-crowned Golden Girl of wizarding society, was now nothing more than a paper-pusher.

Which was, frankly, perfectly fine for her.

Her eyes glazed over just as the A/C made a loud whirring noise. They were all huddled together for their weekly check-in, the space so tight that knees knocked together and someone inevitably got elbowed in the ribs by the end.

Unfortunately, the current heat-wave was making an uncomfortable situation feel even more claustrophobic. But Arthur insisted on keeping the calendar as is, priding himself on the collaborative workplace culture he carefully cultivated. One that Hermione, just as carefully, opted out of.

“Daphne, how’s the report coming along?” Arthur leaned against the wall in the same crumpled suit he wore to work every day. Though he’d clearly left his blazer at home, instead choosing to roll up the sleeves of his light blue button-down past his elbows.

Daphne Greengrass tucked a long blonde strand behind her ear and cleared her throat daintily. “Actually, I was hoping for some clarification before I dived in.”

Hermione fought a lengthy sigh, knowing that whatever questions her coworker might have probably didn’t need to be brought up in a meeting where everyone was sweating through their clothing.

“I’m just not sure whether to make the report historical or contemporary.” Penelope Weasley, née Clearwater, rubbed her pregnant belly and crossed her legs nervously as she met Hermione’s weary gaze.

“Ain’t the Olympics fucking ancient,” Marcus Flint asked, his bushy brows nearly connecting in his confusion.

“There’s actually one taking place next summer in Athens.”

“Oh,” Arthur’s eyes alighted in surprise. “Any chance you could cover some of the more recent ones then? That sounds pretty interesting to me.”

Daphne nodded before jotting something down in her notebook.

“Arthur,” Penelope squeaked, “I’m so sorry. I have to run to the loo.” She uncrossed her legs, her feet tapping on the floor.

“Of course, Penny. Go!” The cloying scent of her jasmine perfume smacked Hermione in the face when Penelope stood up and waddled out. The smell lingered, intermingling with everyone’s body odor - the combination absolutely lethal.

Just then, the air conditioner decided to chug dramatically before promptly cutting off. A collective sigh worked its way around the room. Everyone had complained to Arthur that a cooling charm would be better at this point. But he insisted the unit worked perfectly fine, having repaired and charmed it himself.

Hermione took her notebook and started fanning herself before the now-airless room made her pass out.

“Guys,” Arthur held up his hands, trying to hold off any complaints. “We just have Dean and Hermione left and then we can get out of here.”

Dean quickly launched into a summary of his current project: analyzing the success of the Lord of the Rings franchise. Arthur seemed particularly interested in whether Tolkien himself had magical roots and, if so, how the films could be used to build bridges with non-magical folk.

She rolled her neck and looked around. Ernie Macmillan was unbelievably in a three-piece suit, his red face actually dripping with sweat.

The Fellowship of the Rings is interesting, don’t get me wrong. But the man was not a wizard. Director might be though.”

After multiple people threatened to quit if he kept them any longer, Arthur agreed to table the explanation on what exactly a director was.

“And Hermione, what about you?”

She opened her mouth, having nothing prepared and unsure what to say.

On the very long list of regrets Hermione lived with every day, the smallest one was that she didn’t request the literature beat. She had no official specialization in MoMA, instead bouncing around where Arthur had demand. Currently, she was working through an exhaustive inventory of everyday household appliances.

She snapped back to focus after hearing her name again. Arthur was looking at her with a slightly worried expression on his face.

“Oh, well, I actually just finished up the kitchen report so … I can have that on your desk by day’s end.”

“Great,” he smiled tightly before nodding at the room. “Well, I think that’s it everyone. See you again next week.”

The rush to leave the cramped space was immediate - everyone getting up and surging towards the door in a mad dash for their magically-cooled offices.

But before Hermione could get up, Arthur stopped her with a hand on her elbow. “Got a second?”

She nodded, biting down a flare of disappointment - knowing that every second spent in this humid room made her hair grow ever larger and more unmanageable.

“Everything alright at home?” She couldn’t imagine any other reason Arthur would ask her to stay back.

“Of course. Molly’s been busy with the gnomes in the garden again.”

Her disappointment was drowned out by the grief that was always lying in wait to consume her. The Weasley children were once the resident de-gnomers of the Burrow but, after the Battle of Hogwarts, the ones left only came home for the holidays.

“I’ll talk to Harry tonight - see if we can swing by sometime later in the week.”

“Oh don’t worry about us, we get by okay.” His tone gave the impression that, in actuality, they were barely getting by in their empty house with only pests for company. “Though I suppose we could celebrate Harry’s birthday next week. I’ll talk to Molly, see what we have on the schedule.”

She already knew they’d be free. They always were.

“Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. I want to pull you onto a case - a field case. But only if you have room to take on more.”

She didn’t know how to respond. Almost everyone else in the office had been put out into the field, even the new hires. But this would be her first case out there, in a world that never even knew about the war that changed Hermione’s everything.

But she also knew that she couldn’t really say no. After all, she was the sole person to walk out of the office at 4 p.m. on the dot every evening.

Arthur must have known he was asking a lot because he spent several sweltering seconds letting her process. She came down on feeling overwhelmingly negative about the prospect.

“I’m not sure if I’m the right person for the job,” she said to her feet.

“You don’t even know what the assignment is yet.”

She swallowed thickly, a trickle of sweat beading down her face.

Arthur sighed before casting a wordless cooling charm. Apparently, even he had his limits with broken Muggle technology.

“There, that’s better.” He loosened his tie as a rush of cool air filled the room. “What do you know about psychics?”

She laughed. What indeed. Her feelings about Divination were certainly not a secret. Namely, that the entire thing was bosh and not worth anyone’s time.

“I’ve never met a legitimate one.” That was the best she could do and still sound remotely professional at the same time.

“Neither have I. But we’ve had some reports come in about a psychic running out of Piccadilly. They say she’s a Seer offering real fortunes to unsuspecting Muggles.”

“Why would anyone bother,” she scoffed. “Everyone knows those shops are hogwash when you go into them.”

“True,” he conceded. “But imagine how much business you can garner if you actually tell fortunes with a penchant for correctness.”

“I wouldn’t even know where to start.” She looked and sounded absolutely exasperated. “Maybe you should ask Penelope.”

“She’s out on mat leave starting next week.”

“Ernie?”

“For some reason, he’s still absolutely swamped with his report on diabetes.”

“Dean?”

“Hermione, you’re the right person for this job.”

“It seems like I’m the only person for it,” she said wearily.

“Both things can be true at the same time. But if you think it’s too much,” he said hastily, “I can investigate it instead.” Which would mean leaving Molly alone for even more hours of the day.

“No, it’s fine. I’ll take the psychic,” she said begrudgingly. Arthur’s eyes twinkled - clearly pleased by the closest thing to drive he’d seen in Hermione in years.

What was the worst that could happen, she thought as she finally left the meeting room. That she’d find an actual Seer that pointed out how meagre her existence had become? It didn’t take someone gifted with the sight to deduce that.

***

Hermione had only been undercover once in her life, when she Polyjuiced herself into Bellatrix Lestrange. But that was a different time. Now she only read about it in her books, none of which were how-to guides on avoiding detection. So in deciding what to wear for her impending investigation, she was at a complete loss.

“You’re thinking too much about it.” Harry’s face shimmered in her fireplace flames, his exasperation clear.

Her best friend had soared even higher than she believed possible after the war. He was now an Auror with a fantastic success rate and even taught an occasional Defense Against the Dark Arts lecture when McGonagall asked. But, most importantly, he was happy. So bloody happy to be free from Voldemort’s shackles.

“I don’t want her to think I’m a witch posing as a Muggle. I just want her to think I’m a Muggle.” Hermione tossed the scarves she held in each hand to the floor, having just asked which one would look more authentic. “It’s a delicate balance!”

“They’re scarves, Hermione.”

She pulled her hands down her face and groaned.

“I mean, look at me, Harry. I obviously don’t look like a person that puts any value in fortune-telling.”

She watched her best friend open his mouth and close it, clearly grasping for what to say.

Because truth be told, Hermione already looked like she would enter one of those shops, in the dead of night, desperate for something to keep her going. She never lost the dark circles under her eyes nor did she put back on the weight she’d lost from malnourishment during the Horcrux hunt.

All in all, Hermione just was - a person breathing, yes, but absolutely doing nothing akin to living.

“I think what you’re wearing now is fine.” Her thoughts turned back to the fashion crisis at hand, slowly registering what Harry was saying.

She frowned at him before looking down at herself.

“I think that might be the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

She was wearing a threadbare striped tank-top and her favorite grey jeans. ‘Favorite’ being deemed by the frequency of wears and not by actually liking them. She was still donning the same clothes from when she was 17. Not because she didn’t go shopping … well, she didn’t - not unless Ginny forced her to. She just didn’t see the point in it. So what if the jeans were held up by little more than magic at this point. She was comfortable in them.

“I -” Harry scratched at his lightning bolt scar before turning his head as if hearing something deep in his apartment. “Gods Hermione, I think that’s Ginny getting home from work. I best be off.” He waved a hurried goodbye before disappearing from the flames without even giving her a chance to respond.

“Arsehole,” she muttered, crossing her arms and studying herself again in the mirror. “And he didn’t even tell me which one to go with.”

***

She stepped away from the Apparition point, hidden behind a large trash receptacle in central London. It was another sweltering day and the smell of hot garbage made her gag as she made her way onto the bustling street. Glancing again at the handwritten directions Arthur provided, she took off down the sun-baked pavement.

Hermione was wearing the same outfit she had on when Floo’ing Harry the day before, having decided on the bright blue scarf to hold back her hair. It made her look a bit like Professor Trelawney but she had no other non-magical way to tame her mane. She’d snapped three hair ties attempting a ponytail this morning and she couldn’t afford any more mishaps.

Black cabs honked in traffic while she walked past air-conditioned pubs filled with Londoners and tourists, more than happy to pay outrageous prices for sweating pints of ale. She wiped at the sweat dripping down her neck before turning onto a side-street - this one thankfully filled with small shops and not rubbish. Her feet coming to a halt outside of a vibrant purple building. A neon blue sign flashed in the shop window, depicting a hand, moon and star. Out of the cracked door wafted the heady scents of patchouli and myrrh, positively nauseating in the weather.

She was definitely in the right place then.

Hermione sighed, trying to stir what little willpower she had left, and stepped in to the shop.

At first glance, it looked completely empty. It was a one-room operation, replete with heavily-draped velvet curtains and plush maroon couches crowding out the corners. Given that it was midday in the middle of a heat wave, she was especially flummoxed at the amount of lit candles. They were on every viable surface, their wax dripping onto the fireplace’s mantlepiece and on a low-lying wooden table where a deck of cards rested, alongside amethyst and quartz crystals.

Hermione stared for a beat at the roaring fire. Any Seer or, scratch that, any person with an iota of common sense, would never light a bloody fire in the middle of summer. This had been easier than she’d expected.

She was about to turn around when a voice called from behind a beaded curtain.

“I was wondering when you’d arrive.”

She fought against rolling her eyes but lost the battle, noticing that the shop’s ceiling was covered with exposed branches and drying herbs. This place was an utter fire hazard if she’d ever seen one.

If this pertained to anything other than her professional responsibilities, she would turn tail and storm out. But Hermione did have some self-preservation left. She knew she had to eat, which meant she needed the paycheck that the Ministry provided. So, instead, she just waited for the ethereal voice to develop a body.

The Seer, if anyone could legitimately be called that, had long raven black hair. Hermione was surprised to discover that the woman wasn’t wearing robes or really anything you’d expect from a fortune-teller. Instead, she was in an all-black tank top, shorts and combat boots. Though she was absolutely loaded with talismans and crystals. The effect was something akin to a magical warrior rather than your run-of-the-mill psychic.

“I’ve come to have my fortune read,” Hermione bit out, her hands clenched at her sides. She told herself to relax than reasoned other customers were probably equally uncomfortable coming in for their first time.

“As it happens, I’m unable to offer my traditional services today.” She spoke with a slight accent that Hermione suspected might be Eastern European but wasn’t sure from which country exactly.

“Because,” Hermione felt her eyebrows raise incredulously.

“It’s not an auspicious day for it,” the Seer shrugged, looking at Hermione for the first time. Her eyes were an almost glacial blue.

“I’ll just have to come back another time then.” Because, of course, it wasn’t the bloody day for it.

“Mm, you look like the type of person to choose your own fate anyway.” She jutted out her bottom lip. “I’m not so sure I can help you, little one.”

Hermione could feel the weighing assessment from the shop-keeper and shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the next. At least she definitely had an answer for Arthur. Whoever this person was, she wasn’t a Seer. Anyone who knew Hermione now would never say she took her future in her own hands.

She was just kinda letting it happen to her.

“Right,” Hermione nodded, knowing her face was a mirror to her unspoken judgment. “Well thank you … I guess. I’ll just be off.”

She was almost out the door when the Seer stopped her.

“Just because I can’t tell your fortune doesn’t mean we can’t have a cup of tea together.”

Hermione was on the verge of telling the woman she’d lost her mind, so close to it that she could taste the words on her tongue. Who on Earth would be drinking anything hot today? Not to mention, if she spent another second in this shop, she was likely to pass out from the heat of the flames.

But, a friendly reminder that she wasn’t rolling in money sang in the back of her skull. Plus, the more evidence she had of this woman’s ineptitude, the better.

“Tea would be lovely actually.” Hermione cleared her throat. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“That’s because you didn’t ask.” The Seer cocked her head, an eyebrow arching knowingly. “It’s Milena.”

“Hermione,” she squeaked, her cheeks reddening in embarrassment.

“Let’s see here,” Milena floated towards a rickety old cabinet kept in the back. She dropped down in a flourish, opening a small door at the bottom where a dozen glass containers were stored. “Good fortune or good luck?”

Hermione wasn’t entirely sure what she was asking.

“Good fortune, I suppose,” she sniffed. “I’ve never believed in luck.”

The Seer nodded her head, a small smile playing across her lips.

Hermione browsed the space while Milena patiently plugged in a dusty old kettle and set it to boil from water in the back. She had to give it to the woman, if she did have a magical bone in her body, she was keeping it rather well-hidden. So far, Hermione hadn’t found an ounce of magic in anything she’d touched. Certainly not the pillar candle wrapped in twine she was currently frowning down at.

“Banishment candles.” Hermione jumped, not realizing that Milena had come closer, her footsteps entirely silent. “Those are for people who need to cut ties with someone.” She looked at Hermione sympathetically before turning away. “Not very helpful if the person needing banished isn’t on this plane any longer.”

“Right …” She set down the candle, confused, and made her way over to the worn couch, sitting down in front of the tatty tarot cards that first caught her eye.

“Do you mind if I look through these while the tea brews?”

“Be my guest,” Milena said with a casual wave of her hand.

If the woman was practicing Divination illegally out of this shop, tarot readings would be the best place to start. That or a crystal ball, but Hermione couldn’t find any during her casual perusal.

As she shuffled the cards, stained with tea, she couldn’t help but appreciate the artistry.

“These are beautiful,” Hermione offered, still feeling somewhat awkward. But, what she’d said was true. Whoever the artist was had a true gift, having painted watercolor versions of the traditional Rider deck. Hermione only recognized them due to the utter mistake of signing up for Divination in third year.

These cards felt different in her hand though, heavier than they should be. She frowned down, wondering if this was the first hint of magic she’d come across before the idea abruptly disappeared from her head.

“Thank you,” Milena smiled while setting down a bright red tea-cup in front of Hermione.

“You made these?”

She nodded, blowing on her own cup before taking a sip. “Those were the first set I painted.”

“Wow, you’re quite the artist. I’m surprised you do this instead,” Hermione gestured around her.

“Well we all have to do something to pay our bills. Don’t we?” The Seer’s voice was sharp and Hermione internally cringed.

“Erm, do you sell any?” Hermione moved to set the deck down when a card fluttered free: Death, upright. She frowned and placed the card back on top.

Milena looked at it and then to Hermione before saying, “No. These cards are for my personal use only.”

Hermione nodded tightly and attacked her tea, which wasn’t terrible. It tasted like echinacea and raspberry. A bit too tart for her liking, but she was going to finish it if not to avoid having to fill the silence growing between them.

“You know, I think this weather will break soon,” Milena offered between sips.

“It must do, it can’t be this hot forever.” Hermione could actually feel sweat on her upper lip even though her companion didn’t even seemed fazed by the heat.

While they continued to drink, they discussed everything beyond the Seer’s services - much to Hermione’s annoyance. Anytime she brought the topic up, Milena found a way to divert her once more. Asking about crystal balls somehow led to a discussion of the Tate while pendulum swings led to a chat about summering in Greece.

So she changed tactics and went even more basic.

“I didn’t see shop hours posted outside, are you open regularly?

“When the Fates deem it so, yes.”

That was the closest they got to anything mystical. She thought Milena would offer a tea-reading but the beverage had already been sieved when placed in front of her.

When Hermione finally set down her empty mug, she couldn’t get out of the shop fast enough. She desperately needed a fan, some ice, and a wee. That and to be in a location whose smell wasn’t clawing its way down her throat.

She had her answer for Arthur or at least as close to one as any non-Seer would ever get. But that would have to be enough for him.

She thanked Milena for the tea who adamantly refused any money. “The company was payment enough. I look forward to seeing you again, little one.”

Hermione nodded, wearied, before stepping out the door into the mid-afternoon sun. She decided that, before she Apparated home, she would stop by her favorite bookstore and pick up the latest detective novel she had on her list. As she walked down the street, Hermione felt a sort of lightness she hadn’t felt in years.

It wasn’t happiness, no. But it reminded her of the times when she’d come across something in the library that made her heart tick faster and her breathing catch.

For the first time in five years, Hermione felt the workings of intrigue stir in her chest. The feeling not unwelcome, but disturbing all the same.

Chapter 2: The Intertwining of Heartbreak and Despair

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

“It’s just for a couple of hours, Harry.” Hermione gave her best friend a sharp look. “It’ll make Molly happy to do something for your birthday.”

“You know how depressing it’ll be.” He tugged at his unruly black hair in his telltale sign of discomfort. “Plus Ginny can’t even make it.”

“She never does so don’t try using that as an excuse.” Hermione grabbed his hand and dragged him into his fireplace. “I’ve already told them we’re coming and we aren’t going to be late.” Before Harry could protest anymore, she threw down a bit of Floo powder and shouted ‘The Burrow.'

Their arrival moments later was made apparent from the sounds of whooshing flames and hacking coughs.

“Arthur, they’re here!” Mrs. Weasley wiped her sudsy hands on a kitchen towel tucked into her apron as she bustled into the living room. “Absolutely lovely to see the both of you. Glad you didn’t have any trouble getting in.”

A shock of red hair blinded Hermione as Molly pulled her into a breath-constricting hug, the mother of seven only letting go to call her husband down a second time.

“I’ve made all your favorites,” Mrs. Weasley chirped while patting Harry’s cheeks affectionately. “Is Ginny coming?”

“Actually,” Harry rubbed the nape of his neck, having just lost the silent battle he’d waged with Hermione, “she said her practice would probably run late. Don’t think she’ll be done in time.”

Molly’s smile faltered infinitesimally while she nodded.

“Course … those Harpies really keep our girl busy!” She turned without another word and entered the kitchen. Harry and Hermione shared a brief glance, guilt flooding the space between them.

Hermione couldn’t really blame the remaining Weasley children for avoiding home. It was hard to be at the Burrow these days. Everything still looked the same as before the war. Children’s drawings overlapping each other on the walls, the infamous clock in the corner now with two hands frozen on ‘mortal peril.’ It was a museum to happier times, the admission price one’s peace.

She glanced at the opened photo albums sitting on the couch. It looked like Molly had been going through them again before their arrival. Her heart broke a little at a photo of Harry and Ron, taken just before second-year. She shook her head, determined not to ruin an already-strained day.

She followed Harry into the kitchen, further dismayed that Molly had seen fit to cook a meal that could have fed her entire family had they arrived. Plates of sausages and bacon sat beside stacks of toast and glistening hand-pies.

“I did ask the others to come. But … well you know how things are.” Mrs. Weasley waved her wand, instantly boiling water. “It’s good just to have you two here. Sit - Arthur’ll be down in a minute.”

Harry and Hermione sank down beside each other at the food-laden table and began filling their plates. Or, rather, he did. She only grabbed a few slices of unbuttered toast while Molly poured her tea. She didn’t have much of an appetite, the guilt of just being here turning her stomach sour.

“How’ve things been?” Harry winced when Hermione swatted him under the table.

“Oh, you know, nice and quiet,” Molly’s hand shook violently, spilling half the water from the glass she had poured for herself. “I’ve taken back up my cross-stitch.” She nodded to a pile of crafting supplies tucked away on a sideboard. Hermione could see a bright panel of red hair. Best guess, Mrs. Weasley was recreating her family before the war tore them apart.

“That’s really lovely.” Hermione tried to come across as genuine, not pitying, but wasn’t sure she struck the right balance given the tightness to the other woman’s eyes.

Just then, Arthur padded downstairs and joined their grim affair. The next few minutes were filled with him ushering his wife into her seat and filling her plate with a little bit of everything in the hopes that she would have something. When he finally settled down, he smiled at the two best friends - relief apparent in his eyes.

“Ginny told me Penelope had the baby,” Harry offered between bites of sausage.

“Oh yes, little Poppy!” Hermione looked over at him, pleased someone had found a happier topic of conversation. “Have you been by St. Mungo’s to meet her yet?”

“No, not me.” Molly shook her head, wringing her hands in front of her plate. “Arthur’s been but you know I don’t like leaving the house much … in case the kids need me.” She glanced out the kitchen window where Hermione could see two tombstones, laden with flowers and old children’s toys. “I think they’ll come by sometime next week though.”

Lunch afterwards was rather awkward. Harry tried to keep a lively conversation going between himself and Arthur. Hermione gave her best effort to join them before the ghosts of happier times strangled her. Molly meanwhile had begun crying silently at the table.

“Everything alright, Mrs. Weasley?” Even though Harry’s voice was laced with genuine concern, irritation still flared in Hermione’s chest.

It was obvious to all of them that Molly was having yet another bad day.

“Everything’s fine, just fine.” She wiped a paisley handkerchief across her eyes while her husband looked at her heart-broken. “Let’s just do dessert, shall we?”

She brought over a handmade cake, coated in orange frosting with the words “Happy 22nd Harry!” written in gold scroll. Tiny chocolate Snitches lined the edges. No one said a word as she sliced the cake after Harry blew out the candles.

It was obvious why she’d chosen that color. Chudley Cannons. Not Harry’s team, but Ron’s.

“We can’t stay for that much longer I’m afraid,” Hermione grimaced after stomaching exactly two bites.

Outside the evening had grown long, the sky beginning to deepen as a chorus of crickets rang out loudly in the wild backyard. The smell of freshly overturned soil came in through the open window while hand-stitched curtains fluttered in the breeze.

“Thought we could do some de-gnoming before we left though,” Harry offered.

After Molly laden them with multiple hugs and cheek kisses, the pair hastened outside.

“She’s not getting any better,” Harry muttered once they were out of earshot.

“Can you blame her?!”

He gave Hermione a long look before sighing. “No, I guess not.”

***

Arthur had seemed content with the report he received from Hermione, which dismissed the allegations concerning the central London Seer. But now, she wasn’t so sure.

It had been a little over a week since her visit to the cloying shop and the heat had finally broken. The rain was welcomed by all, something that didn’t often happen in a country plagued by bad weather. She had walked to work, relishing the cool breeze on her legs and the droplets rhythmically falling on her umbrella.

But her good mood was quickly replaced with apprehension when she walked into her office to find a note from Arthur, asking her to stop in first thing. She was currently working on the Muggle technology assignment that she’d been hoping to avoid. Apparently her boss didn’t trust anyone else with it. A claim, she suspected, was mostly false but intended to make her feel valued.

Maybe he had a question about it.

Doubtful though.

As she picked up a clean notebook and quill, she wondered if maybe she’d made a mistake dismissing the complaints. Possibly a more seasoned investigator found evidence of magic after she filed her initial report.

Hermione wouldn’t be surprised if she missed something with how biased and distracted she’d been. No matter how much she wished it, she was no more a detective than she was anything else.

She knocked three times on Arthur’s door before being called in. Usually, he operated an open-door policy so the fact that she even needed to knock in the first place probably wasn’t a good sign.

“Morning,” she mumbled while surveying the obstacle course in front of her.

Similar to the Burrow, Arthur’s office was cluttered. But instead of mementos from holidays abroad and family pictures, he filled his space with Muggle knickknacks. She had to step past a wooden rocking horse, three vacuum cleaners (all partially broken-down) and a golf bag, stuffed full of bent clubs, before reaching her seat.

“Hermione!” He smiled up at her, blowing on a steaming cup of tea. “Good weekend?”

“Yes actually.” She wrinkled her nose, thinking of how she’d spent Saturday and Sunday curled in bed doing nothing. “I finished a book I picked up a few weeks ago.”

He nodded, clearly not sure what to say about her weekend. It’s not like it ever changed.

“Listen, I can’t thank you and Harry enough for swinging by last Wednesday. It made Molly’s week having someone to cook for.” He patted his belly good-naturedly, “besides me, of course.”

“If you’d like, I’ll talk to Harry and see if we can make a standing date to swing by. It’s a shame Ginny had Quidditch practice last time.”

And the time before that.

“We’d absolutely love that. You know you’re both family at this point.”

She nodded tightly, unable to speak around the lump in her throat.

Besides Harry, the Weasleys were the only family she had left. Her parents moved to Australia after their Obliviation. She couldn’t find it in her heart to undo the damage, knowing that they were probably better off without her.

“So a bit of an interesting request came in.” Arthur shuffled some papers around his littered desk as he changed the subject, knocking his cup of tea over in the process and staining the form in front of him. “The Aurors want a Muggle consultant.”

“You’re kidding.” She frowned as she flipped open her notebook and started writing. “Has that ever happened?”

“No, but it’s an unusual case.” He shook his head once before looking at her with a weighted expression. “I’ve recommended you for the job.”

Hermione automatically opened her mouth to protest but Arthur forestalled her.

“Your work on the Seer was sound.” It was mediocre at best and they both knew it. “So, you’ll need to report to MLE for the next few weeks until the case is cracked.”

The embers of interest she’d felt following the Seer investigation stirred to life in her chest once more. Stoked by a swell of excitement.

“Who’ll I be working with?” She hoped it would be Harry. It’d be nice to be partners again, especially if the fate of the wizarding world wasn’t dependent on their success this time.

Arthur stayed silent for a beat too long before saying, “Draco Malfoy.”

Her excitement promptly took a nose dive, crashing and burning somewhere in her abdomen. It was replaced by cold fury.

“I think it’s best you find someone else.”

“While I appreciate you two have history, the transfer was already processed.” He gestured at the now tea-stained form in front of him.

“I should’ve had a say,” she clamored.

“We knew what you’d say and, quite frankly, disagreed.”

“‘We’ meaning you and Bill?”

Bill being none other than Arthur’s oldest child. After the war, greatly embittered by the loss of his brothers and wife, he changed career paths and joined the Aurors. He was now the youngest head in history, known for making tough calls and being an absolute headache to work for.

Arthur nodded while Hermione scoffed.

“Look, if you both crack the case, you’re up for a promotion.”

It would be the first she’d had since her arrival at the Ministry. Of course, she got the requisite pay raises they all did year-on-year - but her job remained the same. The Golden Girl not flourishing as everyone expected, but remaining stagnant.

“Well let’s not hold our breath.” She closed her notebook with a snap and stormed out of the office.

Because there was absolutely no way that she would work with Malfoy. Anyone but him.

***

Hermione trundled to Bill Weasley’s office, her knuckles white against the small cardboard box pressed to her chest. Her repeated attempts at getting out of the transfer failed because, as Bill so aptly pointed out in his last missive, she was just whinging and had “no legitimate excuse to say no.” Besides, of course, the mounting dread she’d felt since hearing Malfoy’s name.

Her feet came to an involuntary stop once she reached her destination. She opened her mouth but no sound came out, her vocal cords choosing this moment to give up completely. So, she just quietly watched from the open door as the scene in front of her unfolded.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Draco Malfoy crossed his ankles as he leaned against Bill’s wall. His wand holster was on casual display on his forearm, the sleeves of his crisp white button-down perfectly rolled. Ink heavily decorated what skin Hermione could see. She briefly wondered if he’d gotten rid of his Dark Mark or had chosen to leave it hidden in plain sight.

“You asked for an expert,” Bill muttered around the cigarette he’d just lit with a flick from his fingers.

“Preferably one that doesn’t hate me and has actually worked a murder investigation before.”

She inhaled quickly, having been unaware of the nature of the case she was being pulled onto.

“You think MoMA has a lot of those floating around?”

“There has to be someone else,” Malfoy replied, his jaw ticking.

After having his name cleared by the Wizengamot five years ago, her rival had immediately joined the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He’d cut his teeth on arresting Death Eaters in hiding, most notoriously Fenrir Greyback and Antonin Dolohov. He had since risen through the ranks and now served as the branch’s top lead detective.

Rumor had it he felt the need, even more than Bill, to find and arrest Dark wizards. To differentiate himself from his former colleagues and make amends for his own role in the war.

But, no matter the reason, he was really good at what he did.

Not only that, but even Hermione had to admit how frustratingly attractive he’d become - however much she hated him.

She huffed, annoyed at herself for letting her eyes linger on the way Malfoy’s platinum hair fell into his face. He kept it longer on top than he used to, but the underside was now cut closer to his head.

At this point she realized that two pairs of eyes were currently trained on her and her hands were embarrassingly clammy as she clutched her possessions like a shield.

“Hermione, nice of you to finally join us.” Bill looked at her as he exhaled smoke from his mouth and inhaled it through his nose. “Sorry to see you have tonsillitis though.”

“I -” She faltered, still not used to the razor-sharp edges of his personality post-war. “For what it’s worth, I agree with Malfoy.” She tried to sound defiant as she met Bill’s coffee-colored eyes, but felt like she missed the mark.

“It’s not worth anything to me because this isn’t a fucking democracy.” Bill leaned back and blew a few smoke rings from his mouth. “So suck it up and do the job, yeh?”

“You’re setting me up to fail,” Malfoy snarled.

“Maybe,” Bill shrugged, “but just think how surprised everyone will be if you don’t.”

Something about their casual dismissal made her snap out of whatever stupor she’d been in.

“I am standing right here.” Hermione forced herself forward and dumped her box on Bill’s desk besides a half-finished bottle of whiskey.

“Granger, how could I possibly forget your presence when you’ve been staring daggers at me since arriving?” Malfoy narrowed his steel-grey eyes at the small box before looking back at her.

“I’m sorry, what else should I be doing when you so casually question my competence?” Hermione’s breath heaved in and out. “If I couldn’t do the job, Arthur wouldn’t have recommended me.”

Frankly, she wasn’t entirely sold on how helpful she could be to the investigation but she wouldn’t admit that. No, she wouldn’t concede Malfoy was right on this. Not when it would inflate his ego at a time when she could barely stand to be in the room with him for longer than five minutes. A time limit they were dangerously approaching, made obvious by how short her fuse was getting.

Merlin, leave it to Draco bloody Malfoy to burden her with more emotion than she’d felt in years, grief and guilt notwithstanding. She hated it, preferring to be an empty husk than feeling like her nerves were on fire.

“I’m not sure you’ve noticed Granger but Weasley, here, likes to do things just for a laugh.” He looked her up and down before muttering, “which this clearly is.”

This was the first time the pair had really interacted since Malfoy’s trial when she testified on his behalf, affirming that he had saved her life. That the war would have ended very differently without his defection. Given her torture in Malfoy Manor, the traces of which were still etched into her arm, that testimony was the main reason Malfoy didn’t get thrown in Azkaban. Why he was, instead, given a formal pardon and able to join the MLE. After all, if the Golden Girl was willing to go to bat for him after everything that happened, maybe he didn’t have as much say in his wartime actions as everyone assumed.

But that didn’t mean she had to like him. No, Hermione Granger truly loathed Draco Malfoy. More than she ever had in school. Her feelings burrowed into her bones and stretched into her very soul. When she looked at him now, she could feel those emotions surging as raw magic literally sparked from her fingertips.

“I’d appreciate it if you’d step out of my office before going supernova.”

“Why don’t you tell him to stop being an absolute prat instead,” she snapped her head over to Bill, “then you won’t have to worry about my reaction.”

“I can’t see how being upset that I’m going to have to babysit you every step of the way is my being a prat,” Malfoy grit out.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Bill closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, smoke curling up around him.

“I’m not incompetent, Malfoy. I seem to recall consistently getting higher grades than you in every subject.”

“Getting top marks in Potions six years ago isn’t going to solve a murder investigation now, Granger.”

“Are you sure? Because it’s not like you’ve managed to solve it on your own yet,” she hissed.

Malfoy pinched the space between his brows, clearly willing himself to take a deep breath.

“See, Weasley, this clearly isn’t going to work.” His shoulders suddenly slumped as though the fight had drained out of him. “Please just give me someone else. Literally anyone else. I would even take that idiot Flint at this point.”

“Get over yourself, it’s not going to be that bad.” Hermione refused to believe she was worse to work with than Marcus Flint. “I’m more than capable of managing myself.”

“I’m well aware,” he replied miserably as his eyes flitted to the ceiling. “But that still doesn’t mean you’re qualified for this.”

“I’m not sure how we’re meant to work together if you keep belittling me.”

“We aren’t working together because this,” he pointed between them, “isn’t happening.”

“Alright, I’m done.” Bill slammed his hands onto his desk, his cigarette hanging out his mouth. “Both of you, out now.”

Malfoy opened his mouth but Bill shook his head.

“My decision hasn’t changed. Get over whatever the fuck this is or lose your jobs. I truly don’t care either way.” He slammed the door behind them unceremoniously, the noise causing Hermione to flinch and drop her meagre box of possessions.

***

Draco stooped down to retrieve the items strewn across the bullpen floor. It looked like she hadn’t brought much with her: a few quills, fresh sheets of parchment, a plant on its last legs and a photograph. His hand reached out to pick up the silvered frame but she got to it first, snatching it away.

“That’s private.” She placed the picture back into the box hurriedly and he saw that it was of the Golden Trio, taken long before the war, when all of them were still alive and well.

“Didn’t mean to intrude,” he held up his hands in surrender.

“Well, you were.” Granger looked at him, her brown eyes blistering as she grabbed a handful of quills, “so just keep your hands off my things, would you?”

He sighed, long and heavy. This was going to be a bloody nightmare.

It’s not like he hadn’t seen Granger in years. They did work on the same floor of the Ministry. But they had both made a concerted effort to avoid the other as much as possible. Anytime he got a glimpse of bouncy brown curls, he spun on his heel and walked the other way. Once he’d even hid in a broom closet to avoid her fiery gaze. He could still taste the bitterness that coated his tongue as she bustled past on the way to find Potter.

Avoidance was for the best though. It’s not like he appreciated what she had done for him. He was all too aware that his pardon was solely thanks to her. The Minister had told him as much while his friends were carted away in chains. It still made him feel fucking guilty anytime he went out for a pint with his mates. He couldn’t help but glimpse at the runes and numbers permanently etched on their necks. Marking them forever as criminals, no matter that they’d been children at the time.

But not him. No, Draco Malfoy had redeemed himself. Even though he didn’t do anything honorable. Just watched Granger get tortured on his drawing room floor and, later, stopped her from killing herself. No one should get off scot-free for not even managing the bare fucking minimum. Yet, somehow, he had.

“I’m not entirely sure why you even bothered bringing a box of your things.” He picked up the plant that had spilled half a pot’s worth of soil on the ground, depositing it alongside everything else. “We may be forced to work together but we’re not sharing the same space as one another.”

“And how exactly do you plan on solving this murder then, by owl?”

“Keep your voice down.” She looked away, her cheeks flushing a deep red. “But yes, preferably that, considering you are just a consultant.” Draco let his voice drawl, just like he used to when taunting her in school.

“That’s the stupidest strategy I’ve ever heard,” she snapped.

“Well, when you solve your own cases, I’ll start taking your advice into account.” He shrugged and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Till then, what I say goes.” He looked her over once more and then sauntered away, internally struggling to maintain his cool composure.

Gods, she still knew how to get under his skin in a way no one else could. He didn’t hate Hermione Granger per se, not in the way that she clearly detested him. But being around her brought him back to the reality that he couldn’t move past the war. Because of her. She kept him stuck there, held him back from living in the present. It was fucking torture having that reminder, living and breathing, hovering in his periphery.

He couldn’t solve this case fast enough.

Notes:

and so it begins ...

Chapter 3: What's Good Fortune Without Luck?

Chapter Text

Hours after the disastrous meeting in Bill’s office, a paper airplane zinged onto Hermione’s desk. She hadn’t yet bothered to unpack the cardboard box, instead choosing to leave it on the floor by her door. It’s not like her personal effects made her office feel like home. She kept the bare minimum here after all: only the still-frame photograph and a snake plant that refused to die.

She rolled her eyes, remembering Harry giving her one of his leaf cuttings as a Christmas present one year after the war ended. It was either that or a new cat, he explained, when she asked why a plant of all things. After all, she wasn’t exactly known for having a green thumb.

Though, in hindsight, it was probably for the best that he’d selected the sansevieria. Anything that required daily feeding would’ve been too much for her … even if she still missed Crookshanks every now and again.

Her cat was currently in Australia with her parents. Or so she assumed. It’s not like she kept tabs on them anymore, that had been too hard. But, in the middle of the night, when she couldn’t sleep, she liked to think of her little orange tabby looking out for her parents. Protecting them against the things that went bump in the night … much better than she ever could anyway.

She sighed before standing up and retrieving the pot. She should probably water the plant before it did keel over. It was the one thing she’d managed to take care of over the years.

Whatever the memo said could wait.

Hermione soon returned from MoMA’s water cooler with a filled paper cone that she quickly poured onto the bone-dry soil before setting the pot in her window-sill. As she settled back in her old office chair, she returned to the short memo. It was probably another question from Daphne asking about the Winter Olympics. Just yesterday, she popped in to clarify the difference between a luge and a bobsled - as if Hermione bloody knew the difference.

She sniffed haughtily before unfolding the small rectangle, a significant frown forming on her face. Definitely not Daphne’s sloppy scribble. The letters were instead slanted and incredibly crisp. It was clear that whoever wrote the note used a very expensive quill.

Malfoy then.

It looked like he had sent a brief overview of the facts. Brief being the keyword. The memo literally read: “Murder on May 2, every 30 days thereafter. No magic. Bodies in Ministry.”

Hermione scoffed. That was all he was going to give her? What was she supposed to do with this exactly?

The only thing she could glean from the text was that the first murder took place on the anniversary of the Battle. The day the war finally ended.

She huffed out a breath of air before pulling a fresh sheet towards her. Pursing her lips, she dipped her quill into ink and considered what to say.

“I need to know more than that and you know it. Let’s start with the following:
1.) Who was the first victim?
2.) How many have there been?

- Hermione”

There. That was a good start. She folded her own airplane which, frankly, looked much better than Malfoy’s and sent it whizzing off to MLE. Once she knew more details about the actual crime she was trying to help solve, she could get on with doing just that. But, until then, she had more cataloguing of current Muggle technologies. So far, she’d managed to complete a deep-dive on the television including, but not limited to, the purposes of Saturday morning cartoons, infomercials and music videos. Now she needed to figure out how best to explain the iPod.

She furrowed her brow and set to work, forgetting about the note she sent Malfoy. Until, that is, she received another shoddily-crafted airplane an hour later.

Throwing down her quill and vanishing the parchment filled with scratched-out notes detailing the music player’s characteristics, she tore open the memo.

“Granger,

The first victim is irrelevant because you aren’t a detective in the matter. As for your second question … I thought you were supposed to be intelligent.”

Hermione thought her teeth might shatter as she clenched her jaw in a white-hot burst of rage. Her quill literally broke in half as she carved out her next response.

Supposed to be?! You never mentioned what YEAR the first murder took place in. Forgive me for not assuming, you loathsome ferret.”

She sent off her memo with shaky hands to find Malfoy wherever he was, feeling only momentarily guilty for bringing up what was certainly a horrible memory for him. Whatever. She hoped her plane poked him in the eye. Of course, he’d be like this. The nerve he had was astounding.

Her fury still not spent, she got to her feet and stormed out of her office. She needed to work off her anger and thought to grab a coffee at her floor’s vending machine. It tasted like absolute dirt but she couldn’t chance going out into non-magical London when there was a very real possibility that she’d start sparking again.

Hermione barely made it back to her desk before the latest memo crashed into the back of her head, tangling in her riotous curls. Snarling, she wrenched the paper from her mane and accidentally tore off the wings in her haste to unfold it.

“Granger -

You really should talk to someone about your anger issues. It’s unbecoming.

Do you really think MLE would let the murders go on for years without bringing on a consultant? Even a sub-par one at that?

Oh and just in case you aren’t able to do the maths, today is August 9th which means there have been three other murders since the first.”

She placed her temper on the back-burner while she mulled over the information. Four people dead. Gods, that was so many. She didn’t understand how she hadn’t heard about any of this before now.

Hermione worried at her bottom lip all the while recalling how Malfoy had shushed her during their earlier “discussion” of the case … even though no one had been around. She hummed, her mind working through the possible solutions to this unfathomable riddle.

This time when she penned her next note, her letters looked a little neater - her tone less clipped.

“Malfoy,

There’s a gag order on this case, isn’t there? That’s why I haven’t heard any details about it until today. But, if so, why didn’t you just tell me that at the start?

Maybe we should use code-words in case our memos get intercepted or use a different language. How’s your French? Better yet, how’s your Arabic?”

She doubted that he knew any Arabic but wanted to prevent any further digs about her intelligence. Narrowing her eyes, she determined the remark looked innocent enough to leave in and continued.

“Oh and you still didn’t answer my question about the first victim’s identity. Actually, it’s probably best if you tell me all of them.”

***

Draco ground his teeth together when another memo flew into his office.

Hermione Granger was going to be the death of him. Probably imminently too. Something not even the Dark Lord himself could manage. He wouldn’t be surprised if she was trying to send him into cardiac arrest, the stress of dealing with her enough to make his heart burst.

The Prophet would have a field-day too, headlines sure to abound about the former Death-Eater, no matter how redeemed, finally struck dead by the Golden Girl herself.

Draco opened the memo and laughed behind his hands. If there were gods or Fates, they definitely hated him. They had to - to stick him with such a bloody know-it-all.

He sighed, picking up his silver-tipped quill and pulled another memo sheet towards him.

“Granger,

I haven’t told you the identity for any of my vics because that information is classified. You weren’t told about the gag order because I knew you would suggest something as unhinged as code-words. We aren’t using them or another bloody language when your penmanship already gives me an eyesore.”

He swore under his breath as he tried to fold the parchment into a working airplane. It took four attempts but the memo finally managed to fly off.

Fucking Arthur Weasley and his ideas to improve their society’s perception of Muggles. Don’t get him wrong, he agreed it was a needed change. It was past time that wizards tossed out their half-baked notions of their non-magical brethren. But why did he have to start with the interoffice memo system? No matter how many instructional guides he received, Draco couldn’t get the wings straight for the life of him. His memos always sadly listing to one side or, even worse, nose-diving straight into their target.

He thought contemptuously of Granger’s perfectly folded ones. He bet she got the hang of it right away. Just like she did with everything.

Draco raked his fingers through his platinum hair, telling himself to get a grip. Bill was right, the case needed a Muggle consultant. He just wished he’d been given someone less distracting, someone with a shared history that didn’t resemble a live minefield. Granger set him on edge … and yet.

No, absolutely not. He wouldn’t let himself think about her anymore. Not when he had so much work to do.

Turning his head away from his desk, which was slowly filling with her words, he looked at his murder wall. It was far more blank than he’d like. He stood up, shoving his hands into his pockets, to examine the crime scene photos once more.

All of them looked like diagrams torn from a Dark Arts book. Something closer to ritual sacrifice than your run-of-the-mill serial homicide. Draco hadn’t told Granger this, knowing she might accuse one of his formerly incarcerated friends in one of her blind rages. Or maybe those were only reserved for him. Still, he knew she’d lose her bloody mind and not focus on what was actually important. Namely, that even though the scenes looked like something the Dark Lord would’ve had a wet dream about, no magic was used. None at all.

It was the biggest mystery of the case. Something the crime-scene techs worried themselves sick over every time they got the call. How were there no traces of magic at the scene? Not even something as small as an Alohomora to unlock the department doors.

He bent down to get a closer look at the most recent shots. Eric Dolohov, none other than Antonin’s heir, stared back at him blankly from the ninth floor of the Department of Mysteries. He’d been the latest victim, the memory still making Draco nauseous. Though not visible in the photos, he could easily remember how the crystal balls cast an eerie blue light to the macabre scene.

Unspeakable Everett found the naked body laying spread-eagled on the black tile, a line of blood circling the corpse. Runes carved into the plain surface of the victim’s skin. Well, plain except for the Dark Mark and knives spearing various body parts to the floor.

And there were all of a similarity. Draco having come to expect the blood circle, the runes, and bodily mutilations that seemed to escalate every time.

But even after four bodies, he had nothing. The witnesses provided fuck-all to go on, same with the vics. Unless the perp made a mistake, they could probably continue in perpetuity until the only Auror not fired was Bill fucking Weasley himself.

He stirred at the sound of rustling paper landing neatly on his desk. Didn’t Granger have better things to do at the job she actually worked instead of sending him countless memos? He cursed himself as his body seemed to move towards her note of its own accord. Didn’t he have things that he should be doing rather than fucking respond?

He was going to get fired. Probably within the week. All because she wouldn’t leave him be. He guessed things never fucking changed, did they?

Draco’s eyes darted over the latest segment of their tête-à-tête before picking up his quill again. He was just about to put nib to parchment when a quick knock at his door interrupted his train of thought. Before he could tell whoever it was to “fuck off,” Bill Weasley waltzed in.

“How’s things going with Granger?” Bill cooed, kicking the door shut with his muddy combat boots.

“Can you shut the door like a normal fucking person, thanks.”

He stared at the mud now soiling his door, knowing he’d need to cast a cleansing charm after his terror of a boss finally deigned to leave him be. Draco liked keeping his office immaculate. It organized his thoughts, kept everything just so. Sure, it might look a bit … empty. He only had the one photo of Narcissa, brought from the Manor, and the first Snitch he’d ever caught. But, at least he didn’t have to worry about losing any case files. Not like Potter whose office was chaos incarnate. The Chosen One didn’t go an hour without having to Accio for something in his space.

“Fuck you.” Bill looked over at Draco evenly. “Now answer my question.”

“Let’s see here,” Draco picked up Granger’s latest missive. “She thinks I’m a prick for withholding classified information from her. Has asked for the exact language of the gag order for some reason. Oh and she’s listed about seven other questions that have no relevance … like ‘who found the victims?’”

“Seems pretty relevant to me.” Bill thumped his muddy boots onto Draco’s desk as he sat down. Draco leaned over and knocked them off with a sneer. “And for what it’s worth, you are a prick.”

“I’m not helping her fulfill her innate need to be a know-it-all in every aspect of her life when it’s not required for her role with us.”

“What the fuck is your problem with each other?”

“We have history.”

That was, obviously, an understatement. But the details of his defection were never fully made public. The only thing known was Grangers’s rather unenlightening testimony that he’d saved her. Only the Minister of Magic, the people there that night, and a select committee of the Wizengamot knew the full truth.

“Really?” Bill feigned surprise. “I couldn’t tell from the way you were at each other’s throats earlier in my office. Or,” he snatched up the memo and read it himself, “from the complete lack of professionalism the both of you exhibit when forced together.”

Draco just stared at Bill in disbelief. The same Bill who regularly smoked in everyone’s offices (despite multiple complaints to HR), fucked anything that walked in the broom closet without locking the door and had a habit of cussing out plants he walked into after coming into work hungover. He was one of the best Aurors MLE had ever seen, but professionalism wasn’t something he really subscribed to.

“Well, if you take her off the case, our respective lack of professionalism won’t be an issue, will it?”

“And I would do that because …?”

“I can handle it myself.” Draco ignored the voice in his head telling him otherwise and continued on, “not even Potter has a success rate as high as mine and you know it.”

“And yet, you have four bodies and no viable perp list. So, in this case, you clearly need help.” Bill stood up and stretched. “My suggestion? Hate-fuck it out and get to work. I’m serious about your jobs being on the line.”

Draco stared at Bill for a long moment, deciding between punching him in the face or taking the advice in stride. He chose the latter since he really wasn’t sure who else would hire him.

***

Hermione was actually pulling out her hair, trying to explain an iPod. Maybe she could get by on rice and beans for a few months and just buy one for Arthur as a present. Let him figure it out for himself. It would be worth it to avoid having to explain storing hundreds of Muggle songs on a device that fit into your jeans pocket. Especially given that he still had a tough time understanding vinyl players and tape cassettes.

So when another interoffice memo nose-dived into her desk, she welcomed it as the distraction it was. Sure, Malfoy probably said something asinine. But it was sure to be more interesting and less headache-inducing than her current assignment.

She unfolded the shoddily-made memo quickly.

“Granger,

The reason we’re under a gag order is because the Minister of Magic wants to keep the murders out of the Daily Prophet. Otherwise, we’re facing an inquiry (of which, you’ll now be part of as the Muggle consultant). Hence why we need to work quickly and silently.”

She sat back in her chair. Not including his obvious attempt to remind her of her limited role, that was the most respectful note she’d received all day. His tone wasn’t hostile, just even. She wondered if calling him a prick actually did the trick or if it was something else. Whatever, she had about ten thousand other questions she needed to ask him and he couldn’t stay mum forever.

She bent down and got to work.

“Thank you for your timely and courteous response. I told you that working together wouldn’t be that awful.

Is there anything about the bodies that I should be made aware of? You said ‘no magic,’ but you understand how unclear that is. Do you mean that the victim’s bodies had no traces of magic on them? Surely, you performed a Prior Incantato on their wands to rule out the possibility of a duel gone wrong.”

She smiled at herself, proud that she was able to maintain a modicum of professionalism as she sent off her memo. But just as it zoomed out the door, she realized she had a few more follow-up questions for her new partner-in-crime.

She laughed at the pun before it died abruptly on her tongue, a momentary panic filling her when she realized she couldn’t remember the last time she had giggled like that. Gods, he was making her lose it in more ways than one.

“Malfoy,

Sorry just another few for you.

Where were the bodies found again? You said ‘Ministry.’ So I assume you mean somewhere in the Ministry … not that they’re being stored here. Though I suppose we must have a morgue, right? (Let me know if you’re unsure what a morgue is. It might be a Muggle thing, but I’d be happy to explain if so.) Anyway, please clarify what you meant in your original note regardless.”

Her thoughts continue to whir as she set down her quill. She was pretty sure that a gag order would be impossible to enforce if the bodies were being dumped in one of the marble fountains in the green-tiled atrium, where workers Floo’ed in at all hours.

She sent off the latest memo and turned back to her miserable report. But, after five minutes of huffing and staring at her extremely marked-up parchment, she threw down her quill and sat back.

It was no use. She wouldn’t be able to focus until she’d heard from him again. She was so bloody curious as to why she’d been put on the case. He’d given her next to no information, so it was a mystery in itself why she was being loaned out.

Luckily, she didn’t have to wait for long. This time the memo was folded so terribly that it smashed right into her partially-opened door, the nose crumpling on impact. She frowned and pulled open the parchment, noting a tiny shake in Malfoy’s usually neat scrawl.

“Granger,

Stop sending me bloody memos. I have an actual job to do. One that’s a bit more important than writing reports on plugs and rubber ducks or whatever the fuck Arthur assigns you.”

Her mouth dropped open. Merlin, she had just asked a few questions. But before she could respond, another memo came flying in. This time she was able to catch it in her hands.

“And don’t forget I’m the lead detective. I give you what information I deem relevant because you are nothing more to me than a consultant.

Oh, and before you send me a fucking dictionary entry on it, the Ministry has a morgue in the basement.”

***

Hermione screamed into her hands. “That absolute arsehole. I swear to - ” She paused when she heard a knock on the door. Forcing herself to take a deep breath in, she arranged her features into a tight smile and looked up.

Dean Thomas was poking his head in, his brows furrowed in concern. She swore internally to herself, realizing that he had definitely seen her little temper-tantrum.

“Hey!” She cleared her throat before uttering a quick apology when he tripped over the box that was still lying on her floor.

Dean looked down at it, a frown quickly forming on his face. “Hermione … Arthur hasn’t laid you off, has he? Because if so, I swear …” He clenched his fists, his brown cheeks flushing a deep red.

“No!” She forced out a laugh, which came out on the upper end of hysterical. “Gods, no! What makes you think that?”

“I mean, you looked pretty upset before I came in. Plus,” he pointedly looked back at the box when he took a seat in front of her, “that has all your stuff in it. Well, besides your tree thing.”

She was about to protest before realizing it was futile.

“I was, uh, just doing some redecorating,” she muttered weakly. If she was under a gag order, she would need to start coming up with better excuses. That and she should probably “unpack” before day’s end. But she doubted Dean would thoroughly question her.

“Oh,” he looked around, confused. There had clearly been no redecorating. The walls remained bare, the white paint cracked and peeling away. She had nothing on her desk, except a few broken-quills, a half-empty ink pot and Malfoy’s memos. “Well … it looks.” He cleared his throat. “I hear minimalism is quite popular these days.”

Hermione nearly snorted. Leave it to Dean to find the only tactful response there was.

“So, what’s up?” She started tidying away the unfolded memos so that he wouldn’t catch a glimpse of anything confidential while here. Not that Malfoy’s notes really said anything other than insults.

“Well I have a few questions about Tolkien,” he gave her a fond smile as if he’d just said a shared joke between them. “Obviously.”

The old Hermione Granger would absolutely applaud Dean for undertaking such thorough research when he really only needed to watch the movies for his report. This Hermione, however, was a bit wearied from the mountain of enquiries she received from him. Especially when she could read between the lines. Most of the things he asked, he already knew the answer. He just wanted to talk to her.

Maybe it was just because he didn’t want her to feel lonely, the thought making her despondent.

After all, Hermione’s solitude had been of her own choosing.

“Obviously,” her own smile was forced, her tone flat.

“But I was thinking maybe we could discuss them over dinner sometime.” He sounded so hesitant, his eyes searching hers.

Hermione just stared back, unblinking. Crikey, this wasn’t happening … was it? Like he wasn’t actually asking her out on a date and she was just reading the situation wrong. Please let that be it.

She couldn’t do dates. She didn’t do them. Though she’d been on her fair share of blind ones, set up by Harry and various members of the Weasley clan - but they never worked out. Hell, she’d even agreed to drinks with George once. That disaster resulted in her hiding underneath her covers for a full-day afterward, wallowing in grief and misery. She still couldn’t meet his eyes at Christmas.

Clearly, her internal freak-out lasted too long because he quickly added, “but if that’s not something you’d be interested in.”

“No, I would love to.” Hermione shook her head violently while her mind screamed at her. She hated herself for not yet killing the innate need to please others. “Dinner sometime would be great. But I’ve just been put on something new … so it might be a few weeks before I have a free evening?” She bit her lip, trying to look as contrite and believable as possible.

“That’d be great.” Dean smiled at her. “I’ll check-in in about two weeks?” His eyes were literally dancing, furthering the self-hatred she felt in that moment.

“Yeah, two weeks would be great.” She could hear how hoarse she sounded as if her unwillingness to make any sort of romantic commitment was actually choking her out. “Can’t wait,” she said waveringly as Dean got up and left with a little bounce to his step.

Gods. What a disaster. He was the definition of lovely, always had been. She wished she could like him. He had always been kind and caring to her. Making sure she knew when communal lunch was in the kitchens, asking about her weekend (even when it never changed). But it was too much … too soon. She just couldn’t do that to … no, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t happening. She had two weeks to come up with an excuse and she would find something.

Or she would just quit and leave the wizarding world behind to become a hermit in the woods.

But, under no circumstances, would Hermione Granger go on a date with anyone.

***

It was now past five and Draco hadn’t received a memo from Granger in over an hour. Maybe she’d finally gone home for the day. Back to whoever kept her warm at night. Or her cat that had always hissed at him in the halls of Hogwarts. She clearly had something because he never saw her scurrying through their shared halls late in the evenings.

He sat back, pulling open his bottom desk-drawer and taking out his bottle of Ogden’s. Pouring himself a finger, he sighed happily - ready to tackle all the work he’d failed to do today.

Something he absolutely blamed her for. She was so bloody distracting and didn’t even realize it. Gods, Granger hadn’t changed one bit. She just had to have her nose in everything … helping. It was infuriating.

Just then, a memo fluttered to a halt beside his hand.

“Oh come the fuck on,” he moaned. “Just give me a break, just one.”

Her note was actually two sheets of parchment spelled together. How she managed to fold that into something flyable was beyond him. He looked at the first sheet, seeing just a few lines. It was clear how exasperated she’d become with him.

“Malfoy,

I really can’t see where I’m fitting into your case if you don’t tell me anything. Please let me how I can help so we can get this over with.”

For the first time that day, they actually agreed upon something. He rolled his eyes before taking a look at the second sheet, which was, incredulously, a point-by-point explanation on how to fold a paper airplane.

“Un-fucking-believable.” He pinched the space between his brows before pulling out his secret stash of cigarettes. It’s not like Bill gave a flying fuck what anyone did in their office so long as their case closure rate remained high.

He took a deep inhale of smoke, thinking about how to respond.

With an absolutely devilish smile lighting upon his features, he picked up his silver-tipped quill once more and wrote a single line.

He knew exactly the project she’d be given.

If he couldn’t figure it out, neither would she. And once she finally failed at something, which she undoubtedly would, Bill would be forced to bring out a new consultant. Then he could finally set his sights back on his actual job, instead of the soft curls framing her face and the small tug of her lips after delivering a particularly cutting remark. That and the absolute hatred that dripped from her tone every time they spoke.

“Alright Granger, tell me how they all died.”

He sent off the missive, making a point to ignore every single one of her instructions, and threw back the rest of his whiskey.

Chapter 4: Why Yes, We Do Hate Each Other - Thanks for Asking

Chapter Text

Draco arrived early to work the following morning, just knowing that he’d find another bloody memo on his desk. A space that should be empty of crap but was now filled with her perfect fucking airplanes. The stupid things had refolded themselves in the night like some sort of nightmare. He was guessing she spelled them so that they’d leave his trashcan too - considering the number currently littering his desk.

He left immediately after finishing his whiskey the night prior, collecting as many case files as he could hold and hurrying out the door. He didn’t think that he’d be able to maintain his composure if he got another note from her. It was the right call too, given the tone of this latest one that he found on top of his inbox.

“Malfoy. How on Earth am I supposed to tell you how the victims were killed when you haven’t:
1.) Given me a copy of any of the postmortems;
2.) Owled over the crime scene photos;
3.) Told me whether any connection exists between the victims;
4.) Sent along any witness statements;
5.) Given me your own theories about the killer and their motives; or
6.) Let me know if anything was found at the crime scene pertaining to the murders.

I mean, honestly, you are asking the impossible without giving me an inch. Unless you haven’t done any of the above, in which case I would seriously question your abilities as an Auror.”

How lovely, Draco thought sarcastically, as he slung his suit jacket on the coat rack standing in the corner. Though he was a touch impressed that Granger knew what any of those things were. After all, she specialized in Muggle affairs - not murder. (Though he supposed non-magical folk were unfortunately exceptional at homicide.)

He took a sip of his black coffee, brought in from home because he absolutely refused to drink the swill from the floor’s vending machine, and looked at the mess of his desk. The memos almost taunted him as they sat perfectly still but for the occasional wing-fluttering. With a muttered curse, he opened up his whiskey drawer and swept the lot of them in.

If he couldn’t throw them out, then he could at least keep them locked away.

There were a million things he needed to do today. Chief among them make his way down to the morgue to finish the post-mortem on his latest victim with Pansy Parkinson. Even though he didn’t expect anything new to come from it, he also didn’t like keeping corpses in stasis for longer than necessary.

He sighed, letting himself finish his coffee in the quiet of his office before getting to work. For the first time in 36 hours, Draco didn’t feel like an unwilling participant in an WWII reenactment. That peace would come to an abrupt end once he sent Granger the case files. He was sure he would come back from the basement with ten thousand airplanes on every viable surface.

Draco thought carefully about what she’d need to solve the manner of killing issue. He wouldn’t give her everything she asked. Partially because he rather liked getting a rise out of her. But also because he worried that she might be inclined to interfere with his investigation. Especially when it came to the witnesses. He wouldn’t be surprised if she just up and questioned them herself, thinking he’d missed something or another.

He made a copy of each postmortem report - redacting the names, but leaving in the magical analysis as a sort of compromise before also setting aside the crime scene photos for her. He blotted out the victim’s faces per MLE guidelines and slid everything into a confidential mail folder.

Happy with its contents, Draco took out his wand and magically sealed the record so that only Granger would be able to open it. He already knew what would happen: inevitably, she would send him every fucking theory she formed about the case over the course of today.

Her past correspondence had been enough to fill his dreams last night, her paper creations prodding his backside while she chased him, screaming, down the Manor hall. He could only imagine what tonight would have in store. Maybe he should pick up a vial of Dreamless Draught on the way home.

He sent off the purple folder with a flick of his wand and waited for whatever fallout was to come.

***

Hermione was shoving a spoonful of overnight oats into her mouth when a confidential file appeared in her inbox. She dropped her spoon with a clatter, knowing she’d be picking residue off her desk for weeks to come.

Malfoy must have sent this. Arthur never used the Ministry’s confidential mailing system because nothing about their work required secrecy. Really, it was quite the opposite.

So when she saw the folder suddenly appear, she couldn’t help but pivot away from her terribly-drawn tech diagrams. This was probably a copy of his case files. Though it looked thinner than she expected considering they had four victims on their hands.

Hermione briefly wondered if this was what love-sick teenagers felt - the eager anticipation of waiting for the next slipped note in class - before casting the thought out of her mind. In no way, shape or form would she entertain ideas of Malfoy in that way.

Regardless, a peal of excitement worked its way through her as she grabbed the purple folder. She was finally getting the chance (however small) to be a detective in her own right.

She picked up her wand and broke the seal, which required her to state her full name and Ministry ID number. A crease appeared between her brow, the excitement being doused by disappointment, when she saw that he’d only sent a few pages. Though there was a ripped-off piece of parchment.

“Granger,

Don’t bother me anymore unless you can tell me something that I don’t fucking know about this case.

Oh and stop charming your blasted memos, thanks.”

She smirked, having wondered earlier when he would realize that she charmed her memos to be a nuisance. Honestly, if he had taken her more seriously at the start, she wouldn’t have considered it. But now it was quite a bit of fun, taking her back to Charms lessons at Hogwarts. Rifling through the three reports and handful of photos, she decided he would just have to deal with it.

Arsehole.

Hermione bent her head over the files, her breakfast all but forgotten beside her, and set to work with a highlighter and chewed-up quill. She made a note to ask Malfoy where the fourth post-mortem report was. It really would be best if she had all of them to compare and contrast. But, whatever. She supposed this would do for now. If need be, she could just find him in his office later and demand a copy.

It didn’t take her long to read through each report and, once Hermione finished, she sat back with a groan. The autopsies really weren’t helpful.

Though it was interesting to find out that Pansy Parkinson was now the Ministry’s coroner. It did make an odd sort of sense when she thought about the smug Slytherin she knew from years earlier. Working with the dead probably meant that she needn’t interact with people who were ‘beneath her’ all that much.

In fact, she bet that Parkinson got along great with Malfoy - the pair were probably still dating for all she knew.

She harrumphed before standing and heading to the coffee machine, nodding to a harried looking Marcus and Daphne on the way. They were likely strategizing on how best to convince Arthur to swap their MoMA specialties. It was no secret Daphne would prefer reviewing Muggle music whereas the former Slytherin captain had been gunning for athletics since his arrival the year prior.

Upon returning to her office and feeling slightly nauseous after downing the machine’s weak imitation of coffee, Hermione pulled out a fresh scroll and began noting everything important in the reports.

Parkinson definitively ruled that none of the victims had been killed through magical means. She was particularly rigorous in her testing, much to Hermione’s satisfaction. There were no traces of curses or Unforgivable spells on the bodies. The use of Dark objects were ruled out as well.

She bit her quill, coughing when a few feathers came away on her tongue. She could now understand why MLE wanted a Muggle consultant. Though it was a bit odd for a wizard to choose a non-magical means to kill someone. After all, it would be far easier to use your wand so long as you had the intent, words, and correct wand movement. You didn’t even need to be standing that close to do it.

So, why would …

Her eyes quickly widened as it dawned on her. If you grew up in the wizarding world, you would automatically go for magic. Unless you couldn’t. Potentially, their suspect was a Squib. She made a quick note to herself to bring this up to Malfoy the next time she spoke to him.

With a working theory under her belt, Hermione scoured the non-magical section of the report again. Parkinson reported that the bodies had little to no bruising or abrasions. Nothing out of the ordinary at least. However, every single one had been mutilated post-mortem. Ancient runes, the same throughout, were cut deep into otherwise plain chests.

She picked up the photos, pairing them with each report - the fourth set standing on their own.

The first victim just had the runes. Just, Hermione thought with an acrid taste in her mouth. In the photo, it was clear just how deep the markings were carved. She could see the tendons standing out in stark relief against the victim’s dark skin. It made Hermione’s stomach turn over, which certainly wasn’t helped by the coffee.

Parkinson noted that their second victim had her throat slashed so deeply that she could see the spine during the exam. Bile rose up in Hermione’s throat as she bent closer to the photo. She couldn’t see it. But whoever took the shot had done so at an odd angle. Like they were trying to stay as far away as possible and still do their job.

Which was fair.

But despite the throat being slashed, there was no blood spill whatsoever. It was clear that the killer had cleaned the victim before leaving the scene. So there was nothing to detract from the angry red gash parting the throat.

The third victim …

Hermione took one look at the photo and vomited into her trashcan - her stomach emptying of her meagre breakfast and caffeine fix. When she was sure nothing else would come up, she Vanished the contents and whispered a mouth-cleaning incantation.

The killer really upped their violence with the third victim whose forearms had deep cuts, the pale skin held back by pins.

She really didn’t want to look at the last set, knowing she couldn’t use Parkinson’s reports as a crutch if her stomach found a way to betray her again. But, taking a deep breath, she willed herself to get it over with.

It looked like the latest victim had his hands and feet held down by knives. Which, all things considered, was much better than what she had already seen. But it was the knives protruding from the eyes and genitals that made her get up and take a walk around MoMA.

After a couple of laps and a brief green-spell from seeing the community lunch in the canteen, Hermione felt ready to return to her desk. Though she did down an anti-nausea potion after moving the pictures so they were well out of her sightline.

Setting aside the mutilations, nothing had been done to the bodies. There were no ligature marks, no stab wounds or gun shots. Nothing. Even the toxicology reports came back clean, though Parkinson failed to list what she tested for. Hermione made yet another note to either ask her or Malfoy about it in the immediate future.

The cause of death was simply listed as “cardiac arrest, foul play suspected.”

So it was Hermione’s job to figure out what caused it. She suspected that task was going to be an absolute bear.

Annoyingly, all victim names were redacted from the file. Probably something Malfoy did to intentionally annoy her. Not only that but there was a magical redaction over each photographed face. Obviously, the victim’s identities might go a long way towards explaining why they were killed. Even how the murder was done.

She wasn’t even sure why Malfoy was keeping it from her. It’s not like she had anyone to spill her guts to - even if she wasn’t under a gag order. But what did she know, she was only a mere consultant after all.

She turned back to her task, worried she might be missing something right in front of her. But, surely, if it was obvious, Malfoy would have caught it by now.

Heart attacks could be caused by an infinite number of things. Gods. How was she going to figure out how these people died if the trained professionals didn’t have a bloody clue?

Leave it to Hermione Granger to once-again be tasked with figuring out the impossible. At least she had experience, she thought. But instead of feeling disheartened, which would probably be the normal response given the circumstances, she felt invigorated. Like she’d just gone for a crisp jaunt through the Scottish hillside.

Pulling out a fresh sheet of parchment, Hermione began doing one of the things she was best at: making a list of all the avenues of research she would need to cover. The first item being non-magical poisons that could induce cardiac arrests. Just so she had something to cross-reference with Parkinson later. Then she needed to ascertain what health conditions predisposed otherwise healthy individuals to heart attacks.

By the time she finally lifted her head from the desk, her face splattered with ink, she realized it was well-past time to leave. According to the small clock ticking on her desk, it was just after six. She packed up her things, throwing the case file and accompanying notes into her expandable bag, without a second thought.

Hermione stepped out into the darkened MoMA hallway, right on to something squishy. Looking down, she realized she stepped on a sandwich left outside her door. She bent over to pick up the paper plate and saw a note from Dean.

“You seemed busy so I brought you a sandwich for later.”

How thoughtful of him, almost unbearably so. She frowned to herself as she made her way to the atrium, tossing the ruined lunch on her way out. That situation was going to get out of hand if she didn’t do something about it soon. But, now was simply not the time. Her mind was far too busy with other distractions. Namely, how someone was getting away with murder.

She popped on the kettle the minute she stepped out of her fireplace, aware that she hadn’t had anything to eat or drink for several hours. Then she settled in for a less-than-satisfying meal of stale bread and butter while she pulled out Malfoy’s case file - thinking it wouldn’t hurt to take another glance at everything.

Five hours passed by in a blink of an eye before Hermione decided to call it a night. She now had a raging headache and an even worse eyestrain than normal but absolutely nothing new to show for it. Scrubbing off the splattered ink in her bathroom sink, she promised herself that tomorrow would be better.

She would prove herself capable to Malfoy and Weasley.

But she still couldn’t help feeling frustrated as she settled underneath her light floral duvet.

Sure, she had plenty to get started, but she also knew with absolute certainty that she needed help if she wanted to narrow down her research to something more manageable. She had a list five pages long, which could take weeks to fully exhaust. Time she didn’t have.

Hermione laughed loudly before tugging her sleep mask over her eyes, the sound shocking in an otherwise empty apartment. She guessed there was a first time for everything.

***

The following morning, Hermione burst into her office with tangled hair and mismatched ballet shoes flapping on her feet. Flame-covered rooms and mutilated bodies plagued her dreams the night prior. She was beyond exhausted and, yet, that didn’t stop her from immediately pulling out fresh parchment the moment she reached her desk.

“Malfoy.

As much as I hate to admit it, I need your help. We only have a few weeks before another murder is likely to occur and, with my current research list, I cannot possibly get you the answer by then.

So you either need to get over yourself or Bill needs to secure a Time-Turner for my use (which we both know is, frankly, unlikely since I’m just a ‘mere consultant’).

What would be most helpful, again, are your current theories on the case. (Speaking of which, have you considered the possibility that the murderer may be a Squib? Because, really, why else would they kill someone non-magically?)”

Hermione bit her lip, knowing that Malfoy would take the request and shove it in her face forevermore.
But, she really only had three options here. Either she:
1.) Got over her feelings for Malfoy so that they could actually work together;
2.) Went back to Milena for a crystal ball reading concerning the case; or
3.) Became a specialist in cardiology in three-ish weeks.

Yes, that list about summed it up (in order of descending likelihood too). And if she didn’t find the answer in time, someone would be dead because of her. Something that had already happened one too many times in her life.

She nodded to herself before sending off the missive with a flick of her wand, her feet tapping a quick staccato on the floor.

This was the right call … even if it was the hard one.

***

Draco walked into his office at a leisurely pace, a rare smile on his lips. He had a surprisingly peaceful day yesterday, having performed Dolohov’s post-mortem examination with Pansy in the morning before meeting an MLE prosecutor concerning an upcoming trial in the afternoon. All of that done without a single bloody memo to distract him.

Something he had high hopes about for today as well.

He suspected Pansy would send over her autopsy report by noon, which he’d then review and forward on to Granger.

Though there probably was no real rush to send it over. She likely wouldn’t see it. Knowing her, she got the confidential case file and immediately moved her and her bloody cat into the library to start researching. He smirked at the mental image in his head: the bookish Gryffindor sleeping on a bed of strewn-about pages and medical tomes, a few quills sticking out of her hair.

But his contentment was short-lived.

A perfectly formed airplane was sitting on his office chair. His nostrils flared as he stared it down. Surely she hadn’t figured out how they were dying in a day?!? Bill would go mental, deeming Draco professionally incompetent after he found out an untrained bureaucrat figured it out so quickly. Though, if she had, he would genuinely have to applaud her. Because neither him nor Pansy had any bloody clue - Muggle medicine being completely foreign to both of them.

He ripped open the parchment and quickly read over her words. Rolling his eyes, he penned a solitary “no” and sent his hastily-formed plane into the air.

Because, truth be told, Draco really didn’t have any current theories on the case that he wanted to share. He did have a vague idea about the victim profile, especially after the latest one. But that was it really. He couldn’t begin to figure out how the murderer detained their victims without harming them or using magic. Let alone successfully murdering them.

And that was the fucking crux of it too. Because all of his victims were completely uninjured at the time of death. Sure, there weren’t any curses on the bodies. But there also hadn’t been traces of healing spells either. It was absolutely fucking flummoxing.

He hated Bill Weasley for giving him the case as a result. Because for the first time in Draco’s life (at least post-war), he was at a complete loss over what to do. And now Granger was dragged into the mess with him.

He shoved her latest note into his whiskey drawer while the other planes tried to flutter free through the inch of space. At least he learned from the mistakes of yesterday. After his afternoon meeting, he’d decided to treat himself to a whiskey before heading home. But when he pulled the bottom drawer fully open, chaos ensued as all of Granger’s planes took flight and landed on his desk. He had been hit in the face several times in the process. Not painful, but fucking annoying.

She was an absolute terror.

Not even five minutes passed before he heard the telltale sound of her arrival. Not that she actually stormed into his office, though he suspected he was a few short remarks away from that. But the mental disruption of yet another memo was enough that she might as well be here with him now.

“Malfoy.

If you can’t give me current theories (which is complete shite and you know it), then you should tell me how the victims are linked. Unless they are being chosen at random. In which case, I’ll need your theories of the case so that I can actually do something productive with my day besides scrape off dried oatmeal from my desk. Thanks.”

Christ. Dried oatmeal? He’d never known her to be … sloppy. That was a trait he’d associated with Weasley.

And something productive with her day? She literally had another job. Though maybe they did fuck-all in MoMA - something to consider if Bill sacked him for fucking this all up.

Still, what happened to the Hermione Granger he knew from years prior? Because none of this sounded much like her. But it wasn’t his place to comment on … whatever was going on with her.

With a sigh, he dipped his quill into a fresh ink bottle and started writing.

“Granger,

Did you cheat your way through Hogwarts? I can’t imagine how you got by so easily with your reading comprehension as bad as it is. I thought I made it clear that I didn’t want to hear from you unless you could give me something new.

As regards your latest memo, if I knew of any connection between the victims, that would be beyond the scope of your responsibilities.

Kindly fuck off now,
Draco.”

***

Hermione crumpled up Malfoy’s latest correspondence and tossed it in the trash.

Why was he so insistent on being such an arse? Surely, he wanted to solve this case as quickly as she did - if not just to be rid of her.

She snatched up a fresh quill, having just broken the one in her hands and scratched out her response, ripping the parchment in the process. That was the second time in two bloody days.

She cast her weary eyes at the destruction on her desk, knowing that she’d soon need a better excuse than “Draco Malfoy’s general unpleasantness” as the reason she was decimating MoMA’s office supplies.

“Malfoy,

If you give me nothing, that’s what you’ll get in return. Aren’t you supposed to be a seasoned detective? It seems amazing that I need to keep pointing out the obvious to you. Frankly astounding that your success rate is so high given how useless you seem to be on this one.”

Hermione was on the cusp of adding another sentence, her hand still hovering over the parchment as a splotch of ink threatened to swallow up her already-written words. But with a shake of her head, she dropped her quill and hastily folded up the torn memo. Not her best work, she thought as it flew out the door, but she had more reasons to be disappointed with herself than that.

She had almost accused Malfoy of being willing to do whatever he needed to get his case rate higher than every other Auror he worked alongside. But, that wouldn’t have been fair. Because if anyone worked in accordance with the law, without exception, it was him. He was the only former Death Eater hired by MLE. So, she knew that every decision he made was closely monitored. Her accusation would have been a punch below the belt, something not even she could justify in her white-hot rage.

These thoughts were disrupted when Arthur’s head suddenly appeared in her cracked office door.

“Goooood morning, Hermione.” His smile crumpled when he took in her disheveled appearance. “You alright?”

“Yes, absolutely!” She winced when her tone came out a touch too bright. “Honestly, I just had a late night with … work.”

Obviously, having processed and approved her temporary assignment to MLE, Arthur knew she was working on a case. But she wasn’t entirely sure how much he knew and what, if any, information she provided might violate the gag order.

“Of course.” His brows furrowed in concern. “Well if the technology report is too much on top of what you’re working on with …”

“No, no. It’s fine. That’s getting on quite nicely actually.” She cast her eyes down and around, looking for scraps of notes she’d made half-heartedly about Muggle technology. But the only thing she could see were piss-poor diagrams of music players in her trashcan.

She cleared her throat uncomfortably as Arthur studied her.

“You know what, let’s have you sit out the weekly check-in meeting. I don’t want too much on your plate.”

The old Hermione Granger would absolutely insist that Arthur was being silly. Of course, she didn’t have too much on her plate. She could sleep when she finished everything. Or operate with a constant sleep-deprivation that in any other person would lead to a total mental break. Whichever really.

But not this Hermione. She hadn’t felt that motivation to work herself to the bone in years. At least not while at MoMA.

Missing the weekly check-in meeting would be a relief. Office collegiality was, frankly, low on her list of priorities. She just suffered through them - wishing away the minutes and seconds until it was her turn. Not that her own work was particularly interesting. At least, it hadn’t been … until now.

“Only if you sure …”

Arthur nodded slowly, his eyes momentarily sad.

“It’s not a problem,” he knocked a fist lightly against the door. “I’ll let you get on then.” He started to turn around before a thought clearly brought him back. “Oh and do you need a new instructional guidance on memo formations?”

“No,” she shook her head slowly, her nose scrunched in confusion. “Why?”

“It’s just that the latest one you sent out nearly poked Ernie in the eye on the way to the elevator.”

He shut the door closed behind him and Hermione turned away to look out her window. Her office afforded an excellent view of the atrium. Workers were flitting to and from the fireplaces while a podium was being moved in front of the marble fountain. The Minister was set to give his biannual speech today.

She sat back down, wringing her hands and waiting for Malfoy to respond. When minutes passed into a half-hour, she weighed going over there herself to get a response. But she thought better of it, knowing that strategy was almost guaranteed to fail.

Still nothing ever came. Not even when she cracked her door in case his missives weren’t svelte enough to slip into the crack between the wood and the carpet flooring.

Finally, she had enough waiting. Hermione was not going to fail because Draco Malfoy refused to play ball. He couldn’t say no to her questions forever, right?

She read over her latest note and sent it forth with a determined nod.

***

“Malfoy,

This might seem crazy but … Did the victims possibly frequent the same restaurants by chance? And, along those lines, would Ms. Parkinson mind detailing exactly what toxins she screens for?”

Draco laughed out loud, the sound harsh in his empty office. Granger was losing the plot.

What exactly did she think the victims were killed by? A bad piece of salmon? And then … what? Their bodies got mysteriously carved up as Poseidon’s art project?

It was obvious that she was clinging to every possibility. And it had only been a day.

His laughter spent, he took out a fresh sheet of parchment from his private stores. The MLE invested in the absolute worst quality … as did MoMA, judging by the frequency with which Granger tore her notes.

He cracked his knuckles and quickly wrote:

“If you had actually read the autopsy reports, then you would note no trace evidence of poison was found.”

He knew, without a doubt, that she likely marked up the reports seven ways to Sunday. But it gave him a sweet sort of satisfaction to know he could still get under her skin, as she did his. Just like old times (but without the bigotry on his end).

He stretched lazily before walking out of his office. What he needed was a distraction from the distraction. He had already combed over his murder wall during his morning coffee and scheduled a follow-up meeting that afternoon with Unspeakable Everett. There were a few areas of concern he had about the manner in which Dolohov’s body was found.

But, until then, he had fuck-all to do but twiddle his thumbs and dodge Granger’s angry words.

Potter’s door was ajar so he took that as an open invitation, only to find the Chosen One bent over his trash can and examining the contents.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Potter looked up at him, exasperated. “My wand report. I must’ve thrown it out and HR expects it by end of business. I’ve already been given two bloody extensions.”

Draco grimaced. Wand reports were a requirement for every Auror. But, unlike Potter, he had to fill one out every month - detailing every spell he used in the line of duty, the date, and reason for it. The process was long and painful. So Potter was lucky that he got away with just a quarterly one. He bet Bill stopped submitting them once he had enough power to tell HR to fuck off.

“It’s not here.” His friend sat back on his haunches and cursed at the ceiling. “Look, I’ve gotta get on this otherwise HR will have my head. Did you need anything?”

“Nope. Just looking for a bit of a break.”

“Whatever case you’re on seems like complete shite. Remind me to decline any investigation with a gag order, yeah?”

He snorted, knowing that every case Potter got assigned became headline news in the Prophet. There was no way Bill would ever be that stupid.

“You’re still up for the pickup game tomorrow, right?”

“Obviously, you twat,” Draco scoffed. “I’d never pass up an opportunity to kick your ass in Quidditch.” They shared a smile between them before Draco left to brew a cup of tea in the canteen and get back to work.

Granger’s latest note was already waiting for him when he settled back into his leather office chair.

“Surely, she didn’t test for every known poison.”

He rolled his eyes. This sounded specifically like a Parkinson problem, not a him problem. Though he didn’t particularly revel in the idea of her having a one-on-one chat with his ex. He could only imagine the ways in which that conversation would segue.

“Granger,

You’re a Muggle consultant. That’s it. Unless it pertains to Muggles and their artifacts, I don’t care what your opinion is. Pansy will have tested for whatever toxins she deemed relevant. In this case, since the vics were killed without magic, that will include your fucking Muggle poisons as well.”

Chapter 5: The Pernicious Twist of Kismet

Chapter Text

Hermione had nothing. Well … unless you counted an ever-expanding research list, under-eye bags and a weariness she hadn’t known since the war.

Malfoy was clearly determined to see her fail. And of the two options remaining to her, she absolutely refused to go crawling back to Milena. So, instead, she made the trip into muggle London over the weekend - stopping by several bookstores for medical texts.

As a sort of last resort, she was doing a deep-dive into cardiology. Namely, what cardiac arrests were and what caused them.

Hermione could now tell anyone interested about the signs and symptoms of heart arrest. Pinpoint the demographic most likely at risk. (In fact, she planned on having a long talk with Arthur over Christmas regarding his work hours.)

But it was impossible for her to identify what caused that vital organ to stop pumping. Because many, many things did. Shoveling snow over the age of 40, high blood pressure and cholesterol, not exercising enough - all risk factors.

Without Malfoy giving her more information about their victims, she really couldn’t help him. Because when it all came down to it, they may have just been predisposed.

At one point during her sleep-deprived mania, she nearly convinced herself that they weren’t dealing with serial homicide. Yes, the bodies were mutilated. But only after the fact. She had even penned a note to him suggesting that, maybe, they were looking at the case the wrong way. Their perpetrator wasn’t necessarily a murderer … they could just be someone with a morbid fascination in defacing dead bodies.

But then that would open up a whole new set of questions. Like how did the person know where to look? So, in the end, she tossed her note into the trash knowing that her reasoning was little more than straw-grasping.

Not to mention, the sticking-point of the runes.

The carvings bothered Hermione. They were something she kept coming back to time and again because they never changed from victim to victim. Sorrow. Justice. Revenge. That was what really convinced her that it was definitely homicide.

Because what person would carve those sigils into multiple bodies without also being responsible for their deaths?

But that was all she had. After three days of researching nonstop, Hermione could tell Malfoy that the victims were absolutely murdered but not by what. He was going to be absolutely thrilled.

She slammed her research books shut and locked them in her desk, not wanting to invite questions as to why she had so many medical tomes when that was Ernie’s beat. In reality, she was probably being a touch over-cautious. She hadn’t allowed anyone in her office that week, ignoring the faint knocking that arrived everyday like clockwork at noon and then, hours later, at five. She was pretty sure Dean and Daphne were alternating schedules to check on her. The recent change in behavior undoubtedly worrying to those on the outside.

Because her recent work-life balance (or, really, lack thereof) now looked far more like an Auror than anything else. Even MoMA field agents conducting dawn raids weren’t expected to pull the hours she had recently.

The past three days had seen her blearily stumbling home at 2 in the morning for a shower and quick nap. Just enough of a respite so she wouldn’t be the walking dead when she Floo’ed back in at dawn to continue her research.

Having already read each pertinent section in her books, she had begun marking down any passage that could be of future use. Unfortunately, every single cardiology page was now tabbed in various colors. Because anything could be helpful with the sparse information Malfoy had provided her.

Hermione rubbed at her reddened eyes before stepping out of her office. She needed a break or, at least, a change in her environment if she hoped to be productive that evening. Probably best to go home early. (Well, it would really be on time. But her definition of “normal” had changed since being assigned something so complex and exciting.)

First, though, she would check on Harry. Guilt weighed heavy in her chest, considering she’d stopped what little effort she’d usually put into her relationships. She couldn’t even remember the last time her and Ginny hung out. Not to mention the fact that she hadn’t been by to see Molly since Harry’s birthday celebration.

Regrettably, she was so caught up in these thoughts that she managed to run headlong into Dean.

“Ooof.” The collision caused a rush of air to expel from her chest.

“Woah there.” Dean stepped back but kept his hands lingering on her shoulders. “You okay, H?”

“Yeah, sorry. I should have been watching where I was going. I guess I’m too lost in my thoughts.” She cleared her throat awkwardly and he finally dropped his hands from her frame.

“We’ve all been there,” he shrugged, “no need to apologize.”

“I was actually just on my way to MLE to catch-up with Harry,” she said, hoping that Dean would leave her to it.

“Great, I’ll walk you over.” A swell of disappointment crested over her as she nodded. His chestnut eyes studied her carefully when they fell into step together.

She knew she looked very similar to her pre-exam season self from years before. Ever since deciding to become an amateur cardiologist, she’s given up on getting a full night’s rest. The lack of sleep now evident in her pale complexion and belated responses. But it was a steep learning curve and she simply didn’t have enough hours in the day. It was one of the few occasions she wished she still had her Time-Turner.

“Are you sure you’re good,” Dean asked, warily. “I can literally see how hard you’re thinking.”

“It’s just this -” A yawn escaped her lips before she could continue. “Report I’m working on. It’s all quite interesting actually, but I really need to be further along than the research stage.” She scrunched up her nose as she met his eyes.

“Hmm. I’m surprised Arthur put you on something so urgent.” A frown tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I didn’t really think that was his thing. What does he have you on again?”

“Ah.” She should have foreseen this. No one was allowed to know she was working on with MLE. She’d only confided to Harry after he caught her and Malfoy leaving Bill’s office that first time, not wanting him to assume the worst. (Namely, that she was one of Bill’s most recent flings.) She bit her lip, trying to think of something that would elicit such a reaction in her when her typical demeanor over these last few years had been utterly apathetic.

“Sherlock Holmes!”

“I’m sorry?”

It was the first thing that had come to mind. She still loved reading, of course. Though she didn’t really dip into magical texts as often as she should now that she was firmly ensconced into MoMA. But she absolutely devoured Muggle mysteries and thrillers any chance she could. They were her weak spot - the only thing sure to make her heart race from anticipation.

And the best among them? Obviously Sherlock Holmes himself. She had multiple editions of the famous tales, the books embarrassingly dog-eared and annotated. It was what she turned to after night terrors and guilt-ridden trips to the Weasley graveyard.

“The detective, Sherlock Holmes.” They turned a corner and found themselves in the busy MLE bullpen. Baby Aurors watched them approach, all of them bleary-eyed from too many hours filing paperwork.

“That’s the one with the hat, right?”

“You mean a deerstalker?” He nodded and Hermione snorted. “Yes, but only in popular re-imaginings. Doyle never wrote him wearing one even though that’s what everyone associates with the character now. Well, that and his methodology.” Her cheeks pinked, realizing that she was rambling. “Anyways, I’m compiling a list of … popular classics to suggest for the Hogwarts summer reading list.” She tucked a curl behind her ear. “Thought it easiest to start with my favorites.”

Hermione had been absolutely free-balling, but the idea was actually quite good. Maybe she should bring it up to Arthur sometime.

“Y’know, I love seeing you so passionate again.” Dimples appeared in both of his cheeks as he smiled at her. “Once you’re done, send me the list. I would happily read any of your favorites.”

They had just stopped outside of Harry’s office. She knew that she should probably mention the date that she agreed to but, still, very much didn’t want to go on. Or, at the minimum, ask him how he was finding Lord of the Rings. Though he was probably on to something else by now. But she didn’t particularly want to keep standing there, unannounced, outside of her best friend’s door.

“I will,” she smiled tightly at Dean as he turned to go. “Thanks for walking me, it was nice of you.”

“Anytime,” he called over his shoulder. “And I’m looking forward to that date whenever you’re free.” His eyes twinkled as he skirted past Malfoy, who was staring absolute daggers at her.

“Granger, what exactly are you doing in my fucking department?”

She crossed her arms while fighting the urge to roll her eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that Bill up and quit - making you Head Auror in the process.”

She wasn’t sure why they could never quite manage a civil conversation with one another. It was probably nothing more than the fact that they reminded each other of their shared trauma. Which, in turn, brought out the worst in them.

He rolled his eyes, ignoring her. “Potter’s just left, he’s gone to get ready for the pick-up game.”

“I thought that was last week.”

“How can you call yourself his best friend and not know anything about his life?” She flinched, his eyes furrowing for a second at the movement. “And it got canceled due to inclement weather.”

“But it’s England, the weather’s always terrible.”

“I didn’t make the bloody call, Granger.” He scoffed before looking her up and down carefully. For the first time in days, she actually felt self-conscious about her disheveled appearance. “Why don’t you just go back into your little cave and keep researching for me like a good girl?” His eyes flicked over her once more before he entered his own office, slamming the door behind him.

Hermione could only stand there in response, looking dumb-struck at the spot he’d just been in. It was clear that he had won that round.

Minutes later, she still hadn’t come to terms with Malfoy’s brutality or dismissal. It was probably what caused her to lose control of her senses and stride into Dean’s office, telling him that her evening had magically opened up. That she thought dinner would be an exceptional idea for their date. Obviously, he eagerly agreed and the pair decided to meet outside the Leaky Cauldron at six p.m.

Afterwards, she immediately Floo’ed home, leaving her research books in her desk, because she now had less than two hours to get ready. While she pulled a brush through her tangled curls and smelled her jeans to find the cleanest pair, she allowed herself a moment to seethe.

Malfoy was going to ruin her life. Actually, he was already in the process of doing it. Of the many things he was succeeding at, being a good partner didn’t even make the list. But, what did? Driving her to insanity. Putting her job in such a precarious position that she’d momentarily thought about becoming a barista to pay her rent.

And after this evening? She was sure that she could put ruining a decades-long friendship on the list as well.

***

This was absolutely the worst idea she had ever had.

Hermione sat beside Dean in a cozy booth towards the back of the pub. A cluster of red roses was nestled against her side, a gift courtesy of her well-dressed date. He was in a suit, not the one he had on at work, but something freshly-pressed. His cologne an intoxicating blend of oud and sandalwood.

By comparison, she was wearing clean-ish jeans and a worn top with a coffee stain on it. (The stain was not new but probably four years old.) She was just glad she remembered deodorant as she sat nervously sweating beside him.

Frankly, it was amazing how irrational Malfoy made her. A snide comment and a quick glare was all it took for her brain to stop functioning. So much so that she hadn’t once considered where Ministry employees would go for their after-match pint.

Of course it would be the bloody Leaky Cauldron.

Initially, Hermione thought it would be fine.

They were seated in a quieter section after all, the wall behind them filled with deer taxidermy and hand-drawn illustrations of ships. Their table slightly sticky from years of pint-drinking. And despite this date occurring at a public house, it was all rather romantic. Probably because their server clearly clocked their date for what it was and immediately drifted over a few lit candles to amp up the ambience.

But as more people filed into the pub, the nearly-empty backroom had become exactly the opposite.

She had wanted to keep this mishap from everyone’s radar to avoid the rumor mill. And yet it was now unavoidable given the amount of people they knew clustered in the surrounding booths drinking gobs of ale.

She was making some sort of progress with her steak-and-ale pie, Dean with his fish and chips. Their banter had, surprisingly, not been terrible once she finished her second pint. Mainly they talked back and forth about Tolkien. Hermione was embarrassed to admit that, despite answering his many questions about the series, she still hadn’t seen the films yet.

Of course, Dean was aghast and promptly promised to arrange a screening for them. Which would probably be in his bloody apartment the way things were going for her.

Hermione sighed into her cup as he easily pivoted the conversation to ask what she was currently reading. Gods, he was just so … nice. It made her miserable to dwell on it. Miserable that she remained firmly grounded in the past, whether by compulsion or adamance she wasn’t sure.

Why couldn’t she have gone out with Dean at Hogwarts? It would have been so much better than letting her eyes stray to her best friend.

She could even imagine a future where the two of them worked out. Dean would be patient and make her coffee every morning. Probably pancakes too. They would take walks in Hyde Park, have a simple wedding, maybe a child or two. She knew it would be lovely.

But it wouldn’t drown out the guilt that would come anytime she smiled or laughed at one of his jokes. She would never quite feel like she deserved it. And that wouldn’t be fair to either of them.

After chatting briefly about her latest mystery novel, Hermione brought their conversation to work. It was clear something had guttered her mood. Whatever hesitancy that reared its ugly head whenever she was asked out had made its return. But Dean took the change in topic gracefully.

“Actually I’ve been thinking about putting in my notice.” She literally choked on a piece of steak - the news was so shocking. Dean thumped her back soundly a few times, waiting to make sure she was okay, before continuing. “You gave me the idea just the other week.”

“Because of my ratty cardboard box containing a single photograph?” Hermione dabbed at her mouth with a cloth napkin, not noticing the swell of noise that had just filtered in through the open door.

“Yes and no.” His smile was small, meant only for her before he looked away and nodded at someone in the distance. Hermione followed his gaze and saw Harry observing the pair with a bemused expression. He was never going to let her live this down.

“Do you remember, like several months ago now, when you caught me sketching during Arthur’s weekly?”

She scrunched her nose up, trying to recall. To be honest, most of the meetings melted together in her mind.

“When Arthur told everyone Penny was having a girl?”

“Oh my Gods.” Hermione clapped a hand to her mouth, remembering how Penelope ran out in tears after Arthur let slip by wearing pink (a color he had never worn once) for a solid week and gushing about it to Ernie when asked. He had been so excited that he forgot his daughter-in-law’s wishes to wait until the birth announcement.

But when she really thought about it, she could also remember Dean doodling beside her before the fallout. He had been drawing Daphne at the time, bent over her notebook and carefully scribbling suggestions for her latest report.

“I remember now. Oh, it was so good. I think I suggested you give it to her?” Both because she thought Daphne would like it but also with the intention to spark something between the two of them, hopefully preventing a disastrous collision between herself and Dean. So much for that.

“Ah, I was a bit too nervous in the end. No one had really seen anything I’d done since Hogwarts.” Hermione nodded. He used to draw incredible banners for the House Quidditch matches, his lions being absolutely infamous by the end of sixth year. “But … I decided to apply for a Paris residency with it.”

“Wait,” Hermione laughed. “You were too nervous to give the drawing to Daphne but not for professional artists to see it?”

“Well it’s a bit different because they don’t know me.” He scratched sheepishly at the back of his head.

“I suppose I can see that. Anyways, what did they say?”

“The offer came a month ago.” Hermione clapped him on the shoulder in congratulations. “But I’m not sure I want to take it.”

“Why not?! That sounds like an incredible opportunity, Dean!”

“It’s only for six months and doesn’t realllllly tee me up for anything after. And I rather like my job.” He hesitated for a mere second before nudging her shoulder with his own. “And my coworkers.”

She let that last comment slide past her.

“You should do it. Honestly. I bet Arthur would be happy to give you a leave of absence so you can pursue your passion. And everything will be here for you when you come back.”

“I hope so,” he looked down at her lips for a moment too long.

Merlin, that was definitely the wrong thing to say. When he finally looked away, a blush creeping across his cheeks, she stared at Harry until he caught her eyes. His green ones, bright in the wake of victory, hers a dull brown, reflecting her misery. Thankfully, he knew that gaze well enough to know it was a cry for help.

He bustled over immediately, nudging on to the same bench as Dean and Hermione, bringing his teammates and pints in tow. What followed was a very detailed play-by-play of how he’d bested the other side’s Seeker. She was a bit surprised that Malfoy wasn’t his opponent. But when she brought that up, Harry told her he had been, but got called out which forced Flint to sub in.

The conversation carried on without her as her mind drifted elsewhere. Back to all the things she could be doing instead of listening to sports talk.

It was the push she needed to end the awkward night immediately, giving a rather poor excuse of being tired at 8:30 p.m. And now she was safely ensconced back in her apartment, a cluster of books around her and an empty sobriety potion on the floor.

Since her medical textbooks were still at work, she pulled a selection of detective novels out from her overflowing bookshelf - only choosing ones that concerned medical mysteries. Stacking them high beside her, Hermione tucked in and started to make notes - cross-referencing anything interesting she found with the case file on her lap.

She thought briefly about sending an owl to the Manor, just to make sure nothing new happened on the case. But she hesitated. Because he could have been called away for other reasons, right? Maybe something happened with Parkinson. So, really, it was best to wait until tomorrow to speak to him.

Plus if he thought she was at all concerned about him, his taunting would be endless.

Though that might be preferable to seeing Dean again.

Because, truth be told, she bent over her books - not just for inspiration - but to wile away the hours thinking of anything other than how she ducked out of the kiss he tried to plant on her in the end.

Tomorrow would be rather awkward for them both, she imagined.

***

The following morning, Hermione sent her first confidential interoffice note. It was cause for celebration in her book, warranting a trip into Muggle London to her favorite coffee shop for a blueberry muffin.

On her way out, she saw Harry and told him to come along.

Tucking her arm into his, they made their way out of the Ministry and down a street crowded with office workers, somewhere in Westminster. Skyscrapers pierced the clouds in the distance, the grey metal blending into the overcast sky.

“Discounting last night, I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“That’s because all your time is being taken up with Draco Malfoy and, apparently, Dean Thomas.”

“We’re absolutely not talking about either of them.”

“Oh c’mon, you have to, at least, tell me why I needed to save you last night in the first place.”

“It was Malfoy’s fault.” Hermione stomped her foot in frustration as they waited for the pedestrian cross-signal to turn green. A breeze whipped through the streets, carrying trash and the strong scent of fried fish. “If he hadn’t been such an arsehole to me earlier in the day, I wouldn’t have felt the need to … ”

“Get back at him by going on a date with your co-worker?” Laughter fell out of his mouth as they started walking again.

“Well no … that wasn’t what I was doing.”

“It kinda seems like you were.” His eyes twinkled as he appraised her carefully. “I mean, I did always think there was something between you two.”

“Me and Dean?”

“No,” Harry snorted. “You and Malfoy.”

If he hadn’t clutched her arm tightly to his side, she would have pulled back and hit him.

And you both have been single for ages.”

“I thought he was with Pansy Parkinson,” she sniffed, feigning indifference. It was clear he looked right past her facade though, seeing the curiosity bubbling within.

“No, she’s not really his type anymore.” They looked at each other, Harry waiting and Hermione deliberately not taking the bait. “He prefers his girls a bit more bookish.”

“Harry!! I don’t appreciate what you’re implying.”

“C’mon. You can’t tell me there isn’t an enemies-to-lovers attraction there.”

“How do you even know what that is?” She was blushing positively crimson as they entered the cute shop, filled with students and leafy plants.

“Ginny. 100% her fault.” He stared up at the menu hanging above the counter before adding in a whisper, “you know, she told me last night that she wished I had been a bit meaner to her before we got together.”

“Stop,” she laughed. “I don’t need to hear how the rest of that conversation went, thank you.”

They paused their conversation to order their respective coffees, Hermione an oat cappuccino and Harry a Red-Eye.

She watched the barista for a few minutes before speaking again. “And, for the record, it’s really not that. Not anymore at least. It’s just that Malfoy gets under my skin in a way that no one ever has.”

“In a good or bad way?”

She bit her lip, considering. “I don’t know. I mean,” she shook her head, quickly chastising herself, “obviously, it’s not good.”

“Well this is the most lively I’ve seen you in years. So I kinda think it’s a good thing.”

“You act like I’ve been a walking corpse or something.”

“You have been.” His expression was no longer playful, but infinitely sad.

“Well, whatever it is, it’s temporary. Once the case is over, I’m never speaking to him again.”

“Wanna bet?” His smile only grew wider after she successfully managed to smack him in the chest.

***

Draco nearly collided with Dean on his way back from a dreaded parole hearing yesterday when he saw Granger standing outside Potter’s office.

At the time, his mind was still playing through the more traumatic moments he’d experienced during the war, like some fucked-up stereoscope. He tried to push away the images of Fenrir Greyback mauling Muggle children in punishment for their mere existence. Only for those to be replaced by Order members forced into a game of cat-and-mouse, their deaths gruesome when they weren’t quite fast enough. (And they never were.)

Greyback knew he wouldn’t be released, not for the things he’d done. But the fucker kept trying. Today marked the tenth parole hearing since he’d been convicted five years prior. And as the arresting officer, Draco was obliged to attend every single one.

He didn’t know why the werewolf even bothered at this point. Maybe he just wanted to relive his glory days through a parade of victims recounting their injuries in front of him. All while the tired Wizengamot panel tried not to turn green and heave their breakfasts into a waste bin.

Whatever it was, seeing Greyback was a surefire way to put the Auror in a shitty mood. Because no matter what Draco snorted or imbibed, he would still be spending the long hours of the night trapped in flashbacks, a cold sweat gleaming on his pale skin.

It made him want to lash out in anger. That or drown in misery with the help of copious amounts of barrel-aged whiskey. Maybe, one day, he’d drink enough to forget that he’d been born into an aristocratic hellscape that happily made children soldiers at 16 - helpless to do anything but fall in line.

Anyway, having not been prepared for Granger’s sudden appearance that afternoon, he ended up going too far. Reverting to his old school antagonisms. Back before they had established a wary sort of truce, which itself promptly collapsed in the first real year of war.

His guard was still up, his hackles raised from the disturbing memories on replay when he met her doe-like eyes in the hallway. Having planned to hide from everyone until he could take his raw emotion out on the pitch, her presence made him feel like an animal cornered. He wasn’t keen on anyone seeing how much of a broken shell he was. But especially not her.

Because she knew him. Or, at least, she had at one time.

And if Granger saw the truth, it would lead to one of two things: her anger or, even worse, her sympathy.

So he did what any frightened thing would do, he lashed out before promptly punching his wall as his office door slammed shut behind him. His bones were still throbbing when he walked onto the grassy pitch that evening, his jaw clenched in irritation.

It was completely unsurprisingly then when he was taken out of the game within minutes due to a Bludger in the hip. He should have been paying more attention but couldn’t stop thinking about what an arsehole he’d been to Granger hours earlier. His mind showing her physically recoiling from his bite again and again until he felt sick.

The medics did what they could before he waved them away and limped off the field. With the healing nowhere near finished, his skin would be mottled purple and red in the morning but he didn’t particularly want to be around people anymore. When he finally dragged himself through his front door, he didn’t even bother changing out of his Quidditch whites before snatching up his whiskey decanter to settle in for an evening of self-loathing and pain.

And now, he was having a cataclysmically bad morning in what was shaping up to be a catastrophic week. He was Floo’ing into work exceptionally late, having turned off his alarm hours ago while in the throes of a hangover from hell.

Quite frankly, he still felt like shit physically and mentally. If he didn’t have four murders to solve, he would have ditched work entirely.

So leave it to Bill fucking Weasley to make matters even worse. The Head Auror was waiting for him as he limped into his office. Or, really, Bill was in the process of rifling through all of Granger’s memos when Draco happened to stumble in. The eldest Weasley didn’t even bother apologizing for the privacy invasion when Draco shoved the airplanes back where they belonged.

“How cute that you’re keeping your love notes. Pity about her and Dean though.” Bill cocked his head and studied how the news affected his best Auror.

“I’m sorry, what the fuck are you talking about?” Draco kept his features schooled, having not heard the churning of the gossip mill yet. “And, more importantly, why do you think I would care?”

“Just that McLaggen apparently interrupted them on a date at the Cauldron last night with Potter.” The scars across Bill’s face looked even more prominent than usual. It must be close to a full moon, which would explain his boss’s worse-than-normal mood. “He also let slip that they won the match after you got medic’ed out. Surely she doesn’t have you so distracted that you can’t even fly properly.”

“You know, out of the two of us, I think you’re the only one who’s tried to go on a date with her,” Draco crossed his arms as he settled into his leather office chair.

At least he knew who Granger went home to every night now. Not that it fucking mattered to him anyway.

Thomas wasn’t terrible, better than the fuckwad in front of him at least. Though it was surprising. He’d seen the two of them together yesterday and, quite frankly, she looked the opposite of interested. So much so that Draco hadn’t actually taken Thomas’ comment about a future date seriously. But maybe she settled. Again, not like he cared or anything.

“Given the chance, we both know you wouldn’t hesitate.”

“If that were true, then it would be a pretty bad call to put us on a case together. In fact, seems like the exact conflict-of-interest the Ministry looks down upon.”

“Probably.” Bill tapped Draco’s desk before heading out. “Just don’t let your feelings fuck up your life anymore than it already is.” He looked back with an arched brow. “Because it clearly is.”

“Fuck you,” Draco called just as a confidential mail parcel appeared on his desk. He looked at it bitterly. Yet another collection of notes to add to the pile. He wondered what insults they would throw back and forth today instead of doing what they were paid to do.

He opened up the folder with his wand, only to find a detailed runic analysis of the victim’s bodies.

“What the fuck is this, Granger,” Draco muttered under his breath.

“Malfoy,

I think based on my report that the perpetrator is looking to avenge someone they loved. I mean, why else would the ‘justice’ rune be placed beside ‘revenge.’ So I think it’s safe to assume that the killer cared about one of the Fallen. That narrows down the list of suspects rather nicely.”

Draco snorted. Sure, maybe it narrowed it down from the tens of thousands to the thousands. Well done Granger.

“So, again, I do have to bring up the connection between the victims. It’s inevitably more important than how they died. Don’t you think? Maybe we should have a meeting to discuss. I’m free after noon.”

He looked at the clock, it was 11:59 a.m. He sat quietly for a few moments - pissed-off, in pain, and not in the fucking mood to deal with this. Having settled on his answer, he opened up the first drawer and selected a violently red envelope.

***

Hermione barely had time to cast a quick Muffliato at her office door before the Howler exploded in her hands. Malfoy clearly timed it to do so within seconds of arriving at her desk. His voice boomed off the walls, making her ears ring.

“Granger,

Did you get some sort of traumatic brain injury during the war that I’m unaware of? I have now told you, on several occasions, not to contact me unless you have something new to offer. I want answers, not more bloody lines of enquiry.”

Red confetti rained down onto her lap when the envelope finally ripped itself up. She grimaced, rubbing at her forehead where the beginning thumps of a headache were starting.

Sending a Howler during the middle of their work-day, really? Gods, he was becoming the bane of her existence.

She cocked her head, thinking of how best to respond, as her feet tapped a fast rhythm on the floor. Something she was doing more and more now that irritation constantly washed over her in waves.

Finally, she burst out of her office, tiny flecks of red still attached to her pencil skirt, and strode into the supplies closet so she could select a Howler of her own. It was time for Malfoy to get a taste of his own medicine.

“Malfoy,

I have never in ALL my life worked with someone as infuriating and pig-headed as you. In fact, I loathe our every interaction. If you continue to obstruct my progress, then I will be forced to go around you.”

She nodded her head resolutely, a faint color staining her cheeks as she sent off her envelope, timed to open before it even reached his office. Because it’s not like she was saying anything that would interfere with the course of their investigation. Really, it was more of a complaint about him than anything else.

Hermione waited and waited for a response. But instead of receiving another round of caustic remarks from her unwilling partner, she received an official-looking memo from Bill Weasley himself, directing her immediately to his office.

Shit.

***

Malfoy was already seated when she arrived to Bill’s office five minutes later, his expression positively mutinous as she closed the door and took a seat beside him.

This very much felt like being called to the Headmaster’s office for breaking school rules. In fact, she was sure that if Bill could give them detention, he would probably want to borrow Filch’s irons.

The silence stretched between them, pressing on her uncomfortably. Bill’s face gave nothing away as he poured himself a whiskey. It was only 1 p.m.

“Well,” he took a measured sip, “it hasn’t even been two fucking weeks since you two became partners -”

“She’s not my partner, she’s my consultant.” Malfoy narrowed his eyes, which were now as dark as a thundercloud.

“Interrupt me one more fucking time, Draco.” Bill hissed as the whiskey hit his throat. His tumbler now empty, the liquid courage apparently necessary to deal with them. “You two have managed, in no time at all, to waste a tenth of the entire Ministry budget for interoffice communications. All of which seem to be variations of you bickering back and forth.”

She winced, wondering if maybe she shouldn’t have charmed her notes after all. Then at least Malfoy could’ve thrown out the evidence.

“So I sincerely hope that there’s some progress to report on. Because if it’s absolutely fuck-all, you both are done for.”

A beat passed before Malfoy shrugged his shoulders. She could see that his wand holster was back on his forearm, the muscle twitching as he drummed his fingers against his bicep. His nonchalance was causing her to feel a confusing mix of emotions. Namely, anxiety and what felt like the faintest hint of relief at possibly being done with this ill-fated partnership.

“Tick tock,” Bill lit a cigarette and pointedly blew smoke in their direction.

But Malfoy continued to remain mum, clearly having decided that their jobs were a lost cause at this point. She coughed, waving away the plume of haze, before searching for what, if anything, she could say.

“I’m still in my preliminary stages of research about the causes of cardiac arrest.”

“That falls under the category of ‘fuck-all,’ Granger.”

“Well I sent Malfoy a runic analysis just this morning.” She dived into a summary of the multiple pages she sent him, making a point to note his inadequate response. But before she could really get into her theory of the motive, she was cut off.

“Jesus fucking Christ. For the amount of memos sitting in your offices, you clearly say nothing substantive to each other.”

“If you just let me finish, I think you’ll find my analysis is sound.”

“Oh, I’m sure it is.” He stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette on his desk. “But Draco, here, already made that conclusion with the first body.”

Hermione snapped her head over to Malfoy who just managed to return a withering look before Bill rounded on him.

“So, that begs the question of why in the fuck she was not made aware of that fact.”

“Probably because the information wasn’t relevant to her work with us,” he said insolently while brushing his thumb slowly across his bottom lip.

“That’s great, just fucking great. Well if that’s all, you two can get out and start clearing your desks.”

Hermione was on the cusp of pointing out that Bill had no right to fire her when Malfoy sighed.

“Our killer’s targeting the Hogwarts Board of Governors.”

“Perfect.” Bill’s smile was a bit too thin to be believable. “Now I can sleep peacefully at night knowing I won’t be murdered by a maniac that my Auror can’t seem to catch.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes while Hermione’s emotions ran the gamut, shock flooding into disbelief before souring into anger. If he already knew the victim profile, what else was he keeping from her?

And because she was still processing this latest bombshell, she nearly missed what the eldest Weasley said next.

“ - can’t be trusted to work on the case separately, so you’ll now be doing everything together.”

“You can’t be serious.” Malfoy sounded slightly hysterical at the notion. Which was fair because they would certainly be at each other’s throats by week’s end. “We’re already working on the case together.”

“Really? Because that fucking Howler she sent made it seem otherwise.”

“Well,” Hermione cleared her throat, “we really just need to sit down and set out the parameters of my work -”

“I already told you, Granger, I have no interest in speaking to you unless necessary.”

“Well, Malfoy, I think it’s pretty clear that it is necessary now.”

“Shut the fuck up.” The pair flinched slightly when Bill slapped his hands on his desk, knocking over a tall pile of paperwork in the process. “You two,” he pointed between them, “are now co-investigators going forward. Your parameters are the same: solve this case before the fucking Prophet makes our lives a living hell. Hermione, I’m letting Arthur know that you will be stopping all ongoing work in MoMA for the time being.”

Anything else he wanted to say was promptly drowned out by their loud objections.

“This is entirely unethical. I work for the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office. You can’t just name me on a case in MLE when I haven’t even been properly trained.”

“I’ve never needed a co-investigator before and don’t need one now.”

“The Wizengamot will require an explanation when this goes to trial.”

“She has no idea what she’s doing.”

“I would have a better idea if you actually helped me,” she seethed before continuing her plea. “I don’t even want to be an Auror. I applied for the job I have for a reason.”

“Hermione, you and I both know that you didn’t apply for that job. It was handed to you by my dear father so you had a reason to get out of bed every day.” She tried to ignore the way Malfoy’s eyes flitted over to her, an unreadable expression passing through them. “And if you so desperately want to return to that job that you probably don’t care about, then you better solve the case with your partner here instead of wasting office resources to send Howlers.”

Hermione shut her mouth, trying to will away the tears that had formed in her eyes. There was nothing to be gained by pointing out that Malfoy sent a Howler first. She knew the move was unprofessional but did it anyway. But still, she didn’t understand why Bill was being so harsh with her. It’s not like she had a say in this transfer at all.

And now an already terrible situation had been made worse.

“As you for,” Bill sneered at Malfoy, “you can’t even tell me how your victims died and we now have multiple bodies. If anyone else had this case, they would be fired by now. Including Potter.”

“I think you’ll find that Granger can’t even answer that question and it’s her purview.”

“I’m a Muggle expert, not a forensic scientist.” The tears spilled over her flushed cheeks. “Nor a cardiologist either.” She was now too upset to be ashamed that she was crying in front of two people who definitely couldn’t care less.

“Well, maybe you two can rub your single brain cells together and figure it out.”

“Stop speaking about her like that, Weasley, when you know she’s smarter than the both of us,” Malfoy hissed.

She looked over absolutely confounded at him. Never once in all of their years of knowing each other had Malfoy come to her defense like that. And she couldn’t understand why now. Because he had said similar things to her repeatedly over the last few days.

Maybe he was just hoping to avoid dealing with the emotional fallout from this workplace lashing.

“Are you planning on interviewing as her knight-in-shining-armor after your tenure here comes to an end?” Bill cocked his head and Hermione had to grab Malfoy’s forearm before he flung himself over the desk.

“Sit down,” she whispered, tugging on him with an iron-grip until he finally listened.

“Right, you’ll be moving your things into Draco’s office this afternoon where you two will recommence the investigation from your now-shared domain. Draco, make room for her.”

Bill lit another cigarette with the flick of his fingers as he spun around in his office chair, clearly done with the two of them.

Tears still streaming down her face, Hermione looked silently at Malfoy before getting up and heading to the door. He followed closely behind her, telling Bill that he hoped someone cursed him before slamming the door shut.

Chapter 6: The Fool: Upright

Chapter Text

Yesterday was an unmitigated disaster no matter which way Hermione viewed it. So long as it could be helped, today would be better.

She took a deep breath and stepped off the crowded Ministry elevator before pivoting left towards MoMA.

Hermione had rushed home after the disastrous meeting with Bill Weasley and Malfoy yesterday. The prospect of another round of bickering too much for her to face. Which meant that she needed to finish moving before she could start work this morning.

Thankfully, she didn’t have much packing to do. The cardboard box was still sitting on her threadbare office carpet, only missing her recent book haul, Malfoy’s memos and the sansevieria.

Stacking the unfolded airplanes precariously on top of her medical research, Hermione staggered over and dumped everything unceremoniously into the box. It was a relief she hadn’t dropped anything. Though that feeling was quickly dampened upon seeing one side of the carton now sagging dangerously from how the books landed.

She grimaced, wondering if she should shore the cardboard up with magic before lifting it. The thought distracting her from the noise of someone stopping outside her open door.

“Knock knock.” Panic immediately set her nerves on fire when she recognized Dean’s dulcet voice.

She had avoided him since their date in the Leaky Cauldron two days ago, not having the emotional bandwidth since to be honest with him about her feelings. Unfortunately, she wasn’t really in the headspace to have this conversation now either. Not when she was gearing up for a day of confrontation with her new partner.

But it also didn’t look like she would have another option.

“Dean!” She looked up at her coworker from her position on the floor, wincing at her voice’s shrillness. He was wearing a light yellow linen suit, perfect for the recent heat, the top buttons of his shirt left undone.

“I’ve been wondering if I’d ever see you again.” He leaned against her doorframe, propping one of his loafers against the wall.

“Oh well …” Hermione faltered, feeling the steady creep of guilt which worked its way up her spine whenever she disappointed someone. “I’ve just had a lot on at the minute.” She stood up quickly, crossing over to her window-ledge to grab her snake plant, hoping to conceal the blush now spreading across her cheeks.

“I’ve just come to say …” He sighed heavily before quickly shaking his head. “I really enjoyed going on a date with you. But I also understand that I overstepped when you were leaving. So I just wanted to apologize.”

An incoherent sound escaped Hermione’s lips.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable and I can respect if you just want to be friends.”

Hermione’s disastrous dating life post-war was not a secret. Most knew that to take the Golden Girl out was to court rejection. The Daily Prophet covered it heavily, theorizing that the war heroine’s overlarge ego prevented her from finding “true love.”

But that wasn’t it at all.

It didn’t really matter though. With the exception of George Weasley, all of her other dates that she agreed to in the past led to a complete implosion of whatever existing relationship she had had with that person prior. For instance, Seamus Finnegan still made snarky comments about her ‘piss-poor’ personality anytime she was in hearing distance even though they ‘went out’ over two years ago now.

So, for Dean to be so understanding, it felt like a gift she didn’t really know how to accept.

“It’s just that it’s hard for me to … be with anyone like that. I just don’t think … I don’t think I can go there with you.” Hermione sniffled loudly, a few tears escaping down her cheeks. “I shouldn’t have lead you on. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Before Hermione could ramble anymore, Dean crossed the few steps into her office and enveloped her in a hug.

“How many times do I need to remind you that you never have to apologize to me.” He stroked the back of her hair. “I understand, I really do.”

“I just don’t want to ruin our friendship,” she said between sobs that were soaking through his button-down.

“You haven’t ruined anything. Nor could you if you tried. I’m here for you, H. Always.” He stepped back after Hermione got her crying under control. “Though I do have to ask what that box is still doing on your floor.”

“I’m not quitting if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Thank Merlin,” he laughed. “I was worried that my charisma was so bad that you decided to up and leave just to avoid me.”

“No, it’s nothing like that. It’s -” She stopped, biting down hard on her lip. “Actually, I’m on a temporary loan with MLE.”

She wasn’t sure what made her say it exactly. This move couldn’t be concealed. Her coworkers would eventually notice her absence in Arthur’s weekly meetings. But she promised that she wouldn’t go about advertising it either as that was sure to invite questions which she couldn’t answer.

At least not without violating the iron-clad gag order.

She briefly recalled Malfoy’s words: “Any and all discussion related to the serial homicide case to any party not authorized is prohibited.”

But maybe, just this once, it would be okay. After all, she was about to walk straight into enemy territory. She’d really need all the support she could get.

“Has that ever happened before?” She shook her head while crossing her office to shut her door. If she was going to be honest with Dean, she needed to tell him the full story. And for that, they needed privacy.

“You should probably take a seat. I’ve a lot to fill you in on.”

Five minutes later, Dean stared at her wide-eyed. She had spent that time filling him in on everything that had happened since Arthur brought her on to the London Seer investigation.

“I genuinely cannot believe they are making you work with Draco Malfoy of all people.”

“You and me both.” Hermione sighed, casting her gaze towards the ceiling where her eyes caught on a water stain growing near the door. “And we can’t go two minutes without arguing. I’ve no idea how this is going to work.”

“Just ask Arthur to pull you off the case. There’s no way Bill would argue with him.”

“You haven’t been around Bill since the war ended, have you?” Dean pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and shook his head. “Well he’d probably jump at the chance to have a row with his Dad. He’s not on good terms with anyone anymore.”

“But Arthur’s been head of MoMA since we’ve been in Hogwarts. Surely his tenure has to count for something.”

“Yeah, but no one really cares much about that, do they?” She scrunched up her nose. “Though that reminds me, I owe you another apology. I wasn’t being honest when I told you what I was working on. The only thing I’ve been assigned is some horrid report on recent changes in Muggle technology.”

Dean winced in sympathy. Anytime Arthur assigned someone a report on non-magical tech, they knew it would be an uphill battle even getting the basics across.

“To be honest, I kinda figured.” When she looked at him alarmed, he continued. “If something had you that amped up, there’s no way you would miss a chance to talk about it. Actually, you’d probably volunteer to go first at the weekly with no one else getting a word in edgewise.”

“Heyyy,” she swatted his shoulder, earning her a deep chuckle.

“For what it’s worth, it was a good idea.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” She swung her feet side-to-side, feeling a touch disappointed once again that she hadn’t been assigned the literature beat. “Maybe when all this is over, I can convince Arthur and Professor McGonagall to let me do something like that. That is if I still have a job.”

“If anyone can crack the case, it’ll be you. If not, just to annoy the piss out of that white-haired bastard.”

“Hmm,” she smiled at the thought of Malfoy’s outraged face if she did manage to solve it all on her own. “I do like the thought of that.”

They descended into an easy silence, their thoughts drifting in different directions before Dean knocked his knees against hers.

“Thanks for telling me, H.”

“I should be the one thanking you.”

“For what?”

“For not hating me. Or calling me horrible things because I can’t handle anything more.”

“People who hold that against you don’t deserve a minute of your time.”

This was yet another moment when she suddenly wished things could be different. Where she wanted to wake up in a different universe.

“I should probably get going. I’d like to move my things over before Malfoy or Bill gets in.”

“Of course.” He watched as she placed her snake plant on top of the sagging box, a groan escaping her lips as she struggled to heft it to her chest. “Actually, how about I carry that for you? I wouldn’t be a very good friend if I let you do this all on your own.”

***

“Hermione, have you ever considered that there’s such a thing as too much research?”

They had just arrived at Malfoy’s office, the Auror’s name written in gold cursive across the glass pane. There was a slight gleam on Dean’s brow and his breathing had become raspy.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she frowned over at him. “Though we probably should have thrown a Weightless Charm on that before bringing it over.” When she moved to open Malfoy’s door, she found it locked. It wouldn’t even open with a standard Alohomora charm. “Seriously?!”

Dean placed (or really, dropped), the cardboard box at his feet before backing up and looking around.

“Think Bill has a spare key?”

“It’s fine.” Hermione felt around her hair for two of the bobby pins she’d tucked into it that morning. She couldn’t imagine anything worse than asking for Bill’s help with breaking into Malfoy’s office. He would probably just smash the glass pane out of spite and unlock the door from the inside.

Dean watched, awestruck, as Hermione knelt down and straightened out the hair pins before shoving them into the keyhole. She had spent enough time with the Weasley twins and read so many detective novels that the movements came second-nature to her. After a few seconds of twisting, the lock clicked and the door slowly swung open.

“Why do you even know how to do that?”

“It’s not like it’s very hard,” she said with a touch of indignation. If there was one thing she disliked, it was being underestimated.

“Merlin, woman. Remind me to bring you along in case I ever attempt a bank heist.”

Hermione bit down a laugh, her mood immediately lighter. She actually did have experience with that as well.

Turning back to the current task at hand, she popped her pins back through her curls and clambered to her feet. She hadn’t known what to expect from Malfoy’s office. A part of her suspected her new partner might throw a temper tantrum upon finding out that he’d be sharing his space with Hermione until the case closed. But her feet still stalled in surprise when she walked through the door.

Her desk had been shoved unceremoniously into a small closet that, upon closer examination, was stacked to the ceiling with boxes. Based on the numbers written on them, they were probably his old case files. The space was so small that the shorter edge of her desk jutted out into the main room, the longer edges clipping the doorframe.

“Oh honestly,” she rolled her eyes at the childishness of it all. She could see a bare wooden chair resting between the closet wall and desk with no space in-between. “What a complete and total prat.”

“I can help you move it.” Dean placed the cardboard box on Malfoy’s immaculately clean desk with a thud.

“Not necessary.” Her head was cocked as she considered how best to move the desk and rile Malfoy up in the process.

“Why do I have the feeling that he’s about to have an exceptionally bad morning?”

“Maybe you have the Sight,” Hermione said shortly before walking up to the desk and giving an experimental tug. “You should probably leave before he comes in. I’m guessing he’ll be in a right foul mood once I’m done.”

Dean took one look at her wolfish grin before nodding and making a quick getaway.

Hermione could, of course, use magic to move the desk to a more suitable location. But that was probably what Malfoy was expecting. Unless, of course, he had lost his mind and assumed she would just accept this.

Whatever the case, she decided doing things the Muggle way was far more preferable.

Pushing up the sleeves of her light purple cardigan, she gripped the edge of the heavy oak furniture and pulled with all her might. The table inched forward with a shriek, a bit of the frame coming away from the friction. She continued to huff and puff the desk out of the small closet until it abutted her new partner’s.

By the time she finished, Hermione was covered in sweat, dust, and satisfaction. Her hair was now sticking out in every direction while bobby-pins littered the floor alongside tiny bits of wood.

She dusted off her hands over his desk, a wide smile on her face, before finally unpacking her things.

***

“Granger, I’d appreciate if you didn’t tamper with my lock.” Draco walked into his office, a furrow between his brows as he skimmed over the HR notice Bill threw at him first thing that morning.

It was time for his monthly wand report. Irritation sparked in his chest knowing that his weekend would now be spent completing what was the bureaucratic bane of his existence.

“That’s fine,” Granger replied evenly. “So long as you agree to use magical methods to lock your door in the future.”

“No can do,” he looked up before coming to a sudden halt, his eyes darting over the destruction of his office. “What the fuck have you done?”

The question was, in large part, rhetorical. She had clearly moved her desk so that it directly abutted his own. Had done so in such a way that there were now deep gash marks stretching from his case closet to the middle of the room.

“I thought it made more sense if we were closer together.” She still hadn’t looked up at him, remaining bent over the case files he’d sent her days ago. Though he could see the flicker of a grin on her lips. Despite the tell, she kept her voice light and professional. “And if you choose to lock your door like a Muggle, I’ll need a spare key by day’s end, thanks.”

His nostrils flared as he fought to retain the ounce of patience he had remaining. His eyes wrenching away from her infuriating figure in order to see what else she’d ruined.

The cardboard box she brought to their first meeting had now been unpacked, collapsed and placed in his small trashcan. The potted plant, now a bit greener but still in need of soil, was basking in the morning rays on his windowsill.

Placing the notice on his desk, he picked up the sansevieria and dropped it with a clatter on top of her notes. She flinched away, narrowly avoiding the soil hitting her face.

“I’ll get you a key so long as you refrain from putting your things in my space.” A familiar sneer formed on his features when she glared up at him.

“Malfoy, that plant needs sunlight which it won’t get unless it sits by the window.” She stood up and returned it to its original place.

Draco pivoted so that he was now right behind her, his front nearly brushing her back. From this close, he could clearly smell her perfume. Bergamot with a faint undertone of lavender. It was frustratingly intoxicating.

“Then use an artificial sunlight spell,” he said through clenched teeth, fighting the urge to lean in closer to better breath her in.

Her chest hitched when she turned around and noticed their close proximity. He took the opportunity of her surprise to reach around and collect the plant, her hair tickling his cheek when he was a mere inch away.

“I’ve done so for years since my office only has a view out to the atrium. But that’s a poor imitation for actual sunlight.” Her fingers brushed his own when she wrestled the plant from his grip. “Which you would know had you ever paid attention in Herbology.”

“Christ,” Draco took off the tortoise-shell glasses he’d put on this morning and rubbed at his eyes. “Not this again.” Between her attitude and her perfume, she was genuinely going to send him to a psych ward.

“Not what, Malfoy?” Her golden-brown eyes cut through him as her chin jutted up in challenge.

“Tell me, do you use every conversation to remind people just how much of a know-it-all you are? Or is that just for me?”

“No,” she crossed her arms, “just you.”

“What an honor,” he sneered.

She moved to step away from him but he blocked it. Her hair was wild today, the curls fanning out everywhere, probably from the exertion of ruining his perfectly-oiled wooden floors. She was wearing her favorite cardigan or so he assumed based on the number of times he’d glimpsed her in it. It was pretty, with tiny daisies stitched into the fabric. He realized he was staring when she cleared her throat.

“You can keep your stupid plant there so long as you undo all the damage you’ve caused everywhere else.”

Her eyes moved from his to look slowly around the room, an air of defiance crossing her face.

“Personally I think it’s a vast improvement to what I walked into this morning.” Granger pushed past him to examine his desk blotter, where he had several case folders stacked in a neat pile. “At least I now have somewhere to sit.” She selected the topmost one and began to rifle through its contents while she made her way back to her side.

“Stop doing that,” Draco growled, following close on her heels until he could snatch the files back.

“I’m sorry?” Granger’s smile was syrupy-sweet but filled with poison.

“I told you to stop touching my things. Do you need hearing aids?”

“We’re partners, which means I have just as much right as you do to those files.”

“For one case, yes. However, the serial homicide isn’t the only thing I have active.” He dropped the case folder back on top of the stack. “I’d rather not have my matters get mixed up all because you can’t stop yourself from snooping.”

“I wouldn’t feel the need to do that if you had been honest with me in the first place,” she snapped.

Draco screwed up his features in confusion.

“What are you on about?”

“The Board of Governors. Or do you not recall your glaring failure over not disclosing the victim profile?” Her anger flushed her cheeks a pretty red. “I mean, honestly, the information could be incredibly helpful to my research.”

He smirked. There were few things that could improve his mood better than getting a rise out of Granger.

“I didn’t tell you because the information had nothing to do with your consultancy,” he drawled.

“How could you possibly know that?” She pushed her fingers through her hair in frustration, the digits immediately getting snared by her riotous curls. “Gods, is everyone in my life an amateur Seer now?”

Draco watched as she painfully disentangled herself from her mane, all the while trying to figure out what in Gods name she was talking about. Surely she hadn’t lost the plot this much since the war ended.

“Ignore that,” she shook her head quickly. “The point still stands that since I’m your partner, I should have access to whatever information you’ve collected on the case up to this point.” She pointedly looked at the stack before meeting his steel-grey eyes. “The sooner we start working together, the sooner we catch the killer.”

She left the remainder unsaid. And the sooner we can get back to our lives, ones in which we pretend the other doesn’t exist.

Draco held her gaze, wondering at what point he made the wrong turn that brought her back to him.

“Fine.” He started sorting through the pile, noting from his periphery the hunger in her gaze. It was something he hadn’t seen since Hogwarts. Normally she walked around their shared hallways with such listlessness, it made even him feel depressed. “The ones are the left aren’t to be touched. Those have to do with my other cases. Everything on the right is fair game.”

Draco took a moment to study her, at how alive she seemed for once, before making his way to the door. “Let me know if you have any questions.”

“Where are you going,” she asked while rounding on him.

He sighed, long and heavy.

“Sorry, I should have clarified that better. Let me know if you have any questions pertaining to the case.”

“Malfoy.” She slammed the door shut with her palm, effectively blocking his path.

“I have a meeting which doesn’t concern you.”

She flinched when he leaned in so close that their noses nearly touched, giving him space to reopen the door and slip through. He didn’t bother looking back as he left the war zone of his office.

***

Today was shaping up to be much better, Hermione thought with satisfaction.

Unsurprisingly, Malfoy had been mildly unpleasant when he first arrived. Though that was understandable given the intentional mess Hermione had made. Something she had yet to clean up.

But she was far too busy at the moment with sating her curiosity to tackle the needed tidy.

Malfoy’s hurried exit had occurred a little over an hour ago and he hadn’t yet returned. In an ideal world, free of distractions, she would use this time to review the information he’d given her in the peace of their now-shared office.

But it wasn’t everyday that she had the opportunity to explore, unfettered, the workspace of her once-rival. Figure out who he had really become post-war.

As such, her thoughts understandably strayed to matters unrelated to work. Namely, her new partner and his things.

That morning, the tapping of his light-brown brogues on the ravaged wooden floor announced his presence. A quick glance in his direction showed him wearing a dark-green suit. The fabric looked thick, a surprising choice given the heat that was, once again, holding the city hostage. Though with his considerable wealth, he could probably afford materials with cooling spells spun throughout.

As he passed her desk en route to the snake plant, his bloody cologne nearly suffocated her. She had spent ages after he left tying to decipher the notes that wafted across her nose the closer he got.

She finally came to a very distressing conclusion.

Parchment, undoubtedly. Green Leaves. Juniper Berry.

It was absolutely enchanting, near to the scents of the Amortentia potion she’d first encountered in 6th year. She would bathe in the scent if given the chance, which was a considerable problem as she detested the person who wore it.

With her decidedly poor luck, he probably had charmed the cologne with an attraction spell just to get under her skin.

Yes, that had to be it. It even sounded like something Malfoy would have done in school. Make himself smell so irresistible that people around him couldn’t help but fall on their knees in adoration.

Her mind suddenly held her hostage to the image of dark-haired Pansy Parkinson doing just that. Malfoy sitting in his leather office chair, his head tilting back and his eyes rolling upwards as she …

“Absolutely not.” She slammed her eyes shut, which did nothing to stall her imagination. “Get a grip on yourself, Hermione. They’re not even together anymore.” She said this in the hopes of dispelling what, confusingly, felt like pangs of jealousy burbling in her stomach. “Gods, what is wrong with me this week?”

But she already knew the answer to that question. Because it hadn’t changed since being paired with him.

Truth be told, Malfoy made her feel alive. His words a running track of electricity through her body, making her want to prove him wrong at every occasion.

To make matters worse, his attractiveness was becoming a problem. Especially now they were sharing close quarters. He had always caught her eye, but the physical demands of being an Auror only added to his previous appeal.

So, now, whenever he was around, she seemed to lose her ability to control herself. Her eyes lingering inappropriately on his hair and eyes. And don’t get her started on the way he rolled his button-downs to reveal muscled forearms covered in tattoos…

Not that it particularly mattered either way because she would never forgive him.

She shoved to her feet, walking in tight circles, as her mind cast back to that morning.

His hair had been mussed as though his fingers just finished raking through the platinum locks. The glasses, something she’d never seen on him before, had been perched low on his nose.

He hadn’t even bothered looking at her when he came in, preoccupied with the piece of paper in his hands thereby missing the glance she snuck his way. It was only after noticing the wood dust and gash marks on his floor that she felt his gaze beading into her skull.

Hermione crept over to his desk shortly after he stormed out to examine the note he’d come in with. It was a wand report reminder from Ministry HR. She pursed her lips when she noted that it was a monthly requirement. She knew that Harry only submitted the ghastly form quarterly and, even then, he usually got an exemption for half of them.

She wondered if her best friend got preferable treatment because he was still the ‘Chosen One’ in the eyes of wizarding society. Though it was just as likely that the frequency of Malfoy’s reports had something to do with his history as a Death Eater.

And if that were the case, it was complete and utter hogwash. Despite her complicated feelings about the man, the Order wouldn’t have won the war without Malfoy’s contributions. It was ridiculous to keep punishing him for his childhood transgressions. Ones that he had very little say in committing.

She sighed. Nothing about their post-war world seemed particularly fair.

Not the favoritism that ran riot in the Ministry nor the losses that still felt like fresh wounds.

She shook her head, telling herself that these thoughts would only send her on a downward spiral.

Maybe it was time to put his office to rights. He wouldn’t be gone forever and she didn’t particularly feel like having another battle with him just yet. That and maybe she felt a touch bad upon seeing just how distressed he’d been from the damage.

Even if it did serve him right for trying to shove her workspace into a bloody closet.

She pulled out her wand and muttered Reparo at the closet doorframe and gouged floor. Wooden shards rose into the air before slotting themselves back into place while the floorboards slowly regained their oily shine. After ten minutes of effort, everything looked just as it had before she exacted her revenge.

Though she did have to wonder just how Malfoy managed to get such beautiful floors when everyone else was stuck with questionably-stained and scratchy carpet. Maybe he would tell her his secret once they got over the bickering stage of their current partnership.

Tucking her wand back into her cardigan, she looked around her new office. It was much bigger than her previous quarters in MoMA. But MLE, as a whole, had many more employees than her measly department. So they tended to be given more airtime in the Minister’s biannual address and a far larger budget to boot. So it made sense that they had bigger offices too.

Other than that, Malfoy apparently agreed with her approach on decorating. Namely, the fewer personal effects the better.

Hermione’s eyes lingered on a Snitch fluttering delicately on a stand, near to where she placed her snake plant. She crossed the room to examine the tiny gold plaque.

“November 1992? That was in second year,” she muttered as her fingers brushed lightly over the ball’s wings. “This must be the first one he ever caught.” If she remembered correctly, the match had been against Ravenclaw. Harry and Ron had pouted over the win until she finally threatened to permanently silence their vocal cords.

Her throat bobbed as a rush of emotion flowed over her, both at the memory and Malfoy’s sentimentality. For some reason, she didn’t expect her school bully turned savior to be the type of person to hold on to things.

Maybe because it made him seem more human in her eyes. Which was decidedly not a good thing.

She turned away to approach his desk, hoping to find something that indicated his wartime decency had been a one-off. That he was still the person she could justifiably hate.

His desk, similar to his walls and bookshelf, were notably bare of personality. His desk blotter held the folders she promised not to look through, an expensive-looking quill, a fresh bottle of navy ink, and a … moving picture.

Hermione was suddenly face-to-face with Narcissa Malfoy for the first time in years. The woman sat primly, hands in her lap, outlined by large windows. It was clear that the picture had been taken at Malfoy Manor because Hermione recognized the blooming gardens just over Narcissa’s shoulder.

Gooseflesh rose on Hermione’s arms as she peered down at the black-and-white photograph. Narcissa hadn’t survived the war - not even close. After Voldemort realized that Harry, Ron, and Hermione escaped the Manor (relatively) unscathed, he took it out on the family in the worst manner possible.

It was reported that Narcissa was tortured for hours. Voldemort cut bits out of her body, interspersing the physical torture with the mental agony of Crucio. Medical healers were called in so she didn’t choke on her own blood. The woman’s injuries didn’t end there but the Ministry sealed the more ghastly details from the public.

Though Hermione knew that Lucius and his son had been forced to watch until her heart finally stopped responding to resuscitation spells. It had driven the Malfoy patriarch mad, such that he was now a patient in St. Mungo’s permanent residency ward.

Hermione always felt somewhat responsible for how that situation played out. Maybe if she had stayed behind, let herself be sacrificed…

Well many things would have been different.

But that vein of guilt had led Hermione to send a bouquet of Narcissa’s namesake flowers to the estate every year on the anniversary of the woman’s death. Anonymously, of course. Narcissa was apparently buried in the Manor’s crypt or, at least, that’s what the Prophet reported at the time. It was the least Hermione could do since the woman was basically dead because of her.

This Narcissa though was still alive and well. White streaks of hair still framed her face, standing out in sharp contrast against her otherwise dark locks. Her full lips curled upward in a soft smile at whoever took the shot before she turned to look over her shoulder at the roses blooming just out of focus.

The camera was clearly angled upwards and the woman looked, at least, ten years younger from when Hermione saw her last. So it was likely a picture Malfoy took himself before he was even at Hogwarts.

The fact that this was the picture he chose for his office made fissures appear in her already-broken heart. A memory from a time when he was still just a little boy and allowed to be something other than the mere heir to the family name.

Between that and the Snitch, it looked like her partner didn’t have much of a life now. That he lived in the past alongside her.

So much for finding evidence of his blackened heart.

Hermione was just starting to get the impression that no matter what happened in the next few weeks, this situation was going to do a number on her. She wasn’t getting out of it unscathed, though these new scars were far more likely to be mental than anything else.

She wiped at the tears dotting her eyes before crouching down in front of Malfoy’s desk drawers. Surprisingly, all of them were unlocked but the bottommost well.

“Let’s see what you’re hiding then. Hopefully it’s something horrible.” Because, quite frankly, her heart needed a break from hurting so much.

After unlocking the drawer with her wand, she wrenched it open only to be absolutely assaulted by her own words. Suddenly freed from their cage, the airplanes burst forth - not showing care to her face, body, or curls. She screeched, batting them away - a memory of Cornish pixies oddly coming to the fore of her mind.

Once they’d all happily landed on Malfoy’s desk and chair, some even spilling into her workspace, she saw a near-full whiskey bottle laying at the bottom. Gods, did everyone in MLE have a drinking problem? Or was that just reserved for the war-torn Aurors?

Though, considering the things they must see on the job, Hermione hardly could hold it against them either way.

Turning towards her paper monsters, she began to unwind all the spellwork that kept them animated. When they finally stopped their rustling, she took a few more minutes to unfold and stack them neatly in chronological order before replacing them back in the drawer.

Leave it to Draco Malfoy to make her stop acting like such a brat.

***

A brisk walk and cup of tea later, Hermione finally felt ready to tackle some casework. She settled down at her desk, having thrown a cushioning charm at the plain wooden seat, and turned to the folders in front of her.

To be fair, she didn’t have that much additional information to review. The first folder contained witness statements. The ones she literally begged Malfoy for last week.

But at least she had them now.

Though, upon review, she couldn’t help but (begrudgingly) agree with her partner. They weren’t particularly useful for the manner of killing issue.

Though that didn’t mean they weren’t interesting on their own.

Of the four people interviewed, they all recounted roughly the same story. Which was odd, since there was exactly one witness for each crime. Just by sheer dint of the human condition, their recollections should vary considerably. Yet that wasn’t the case at all.

Of the four, three witnesses were responsible for unlocking their department every morning. As such, they came into the Ministry in the pre-dawn hours to beat any Floo traffic.

On the morning of each murder, they followed that same routine. But, strangely, none seemed to recall actually doing any unlocking. Though they swore up and down they must have done, considering they were the only ones in their respective departments with authorization to do so.

The next thing they remembered was standing in front of a dead body.

In the case of the last murder, Unspeakable Everett felt an overwhelming urge to check the prophecy floor … even though he worked on the Brain Team. That was how the last victim had been found. Otherwise he would have been down there for weeks, undiscovered, given the tendency of Ministry employees to avoid that floor altogether.

Hermione’s mind returned back to the most confusing feature of these homicides, the reason she had been brought on in the first place: no magic had been used.

But Ministry protocol required the use of magical means to secure departments. Hermione knew that with certainty because she researched it for Arthur months ago. He had suggested to the Minister that they should use non-magical methods as an added security feature as well - but was turned down.

So how was it possible that the doors were open for the killer when no traces of magic were ever found? Unless they didn’t check the doors? But they must have because Malfoy noted that there had been no break-ins.

She just didn’t understand how it was possible.

Not to mention, the witnesses clearly had their memories tampered with. Who’s to say their statements of that morning were even accurate to begin with?

Hermione shivered despite the warmth of the office before opening up the last folder Malfoy provided.

Her eyes narrowed upon seeing that she had already reviewed these documents before. It was just another copy of the crime scene photographs and autopsy reports. However, these were clearly the original, unredacted versions.

The first victim stared out unseeing, shadows moving across his body as crime-scene techs flitted in and out of the shot. She scanned down the image, already knowing the name that would be stamped in block-quotes at the bottom: Thomas Zabini.

“Gods,” she whispered. That was Blaise’s older brother. Hermione actually knew him quite well because he worked in the Improper Use of Magic Office. Since the two departments were working together to implement Arthur’s vision of safely twining magical and non-magical society, she spoke to the elder Zabini often.

She couldn’t believe she didn’t know about this. In fact, last she heard, he had just had a little boy with his wife, a Ravenclaw from his year.

The other victims were less familiar to Hermione. Though she’d seen two of them coming from the Slytherin dungeons often enough that she, at least, recognized their faces.

Tracy Davis. Cassius Warrington. Eric Dolohov.

She wondered why Malfoy hadn’t mentioned the fact that all the victims, thus far, had been Slytherins.

After all, it made more sense for the killer to target alums of a specific House. Especially considering the secrecy surrounding the Board of Governors. After the war, the Minister of Magic decreed that the Board would henceforth be entirely anonymous. No one knew who they were besides the Minister himself (who’d hand-selected them) so that no one had the opportunity to exert influence or power over their decisions.

So why did Malfoy immediately go there for the victim profile? Unless he was on the Board.

She frowned, shuffling through the documents again looking for anything new. A scrap of parchment fluttered free, upon which was written a list of 13 people - the writing distinctly different from Malfoy’s. It had a more flourishing hand, the tails of the hanging letters elaborately curled.

Four of the names were already crossed off.

Katie Bell (Gryffindor, 23)
Penelope Clearwater (Ravenclaw, 26)
Tracey Davis (Slytherin, 22)
Eric Dolohov (Slytherin, 35)
Seamus Finnegan (Gryffindor, 22)
Anthony Goldstein (Ravenclaw, 21)
Gregory Goyle (Slytherin, 22)
Ernie Macmillan (Hufflepuff, 23)
Zacharias Smith (Hufflepuff, 21)
Cassius Warrington (Slytherin, 27)
Charlie Weasley (Gryffindor, 30)
Oliver Wood (Gryffindor, 27)
Thomas Zabini (Slytherin, 39)

Hermione wanted to know where Malfoy got this list, which should be confidential. Not only that, but she had to ask him why he was so insistent on keeping the victim profile this broad.

After all, there were a smattering of people from each House on the Board. But the only victims thus far had been from Slytherin. Though she was sure none of them would feel particularly secure in that information. Especially not Gregory Goyle.

But, given the language of the gag order, they probably didn’t even know they were being picked off. She wondered if anything was being done to protect the ones remaining.

So many questions were swirling around Hermione’s head that she felt on the cusp of a raging headache.

No wonder Malfoy hadn’t wanted any new lines of enquiry from her.

Chapter 7: The Dissipation of Hermione's Sanity

Chapter Text

Hermione was sitting hunched over her notes when Malfoy finally came back around lunchtime. She only deduced the hour from the sandwich and chips he dropped on his desk. By the smell alone, she could tell he’d chosen tuna salad.

Disgusting.

She hadn’t thought much about their desk placement up until that very moment. Unfortunately, with the way everything was positioned, the two would face each other anytime they were seated. Which was incredibly awkward all things considered.

Glancing up from her position mere inches from her parchment, she watched while Malfoy noisily unwrapped his sandwich and took a large bite - a glop of mayonnaise splattering onto the waxed paper.

Hermione had to use all her self-restraint just to keep a neutral face while hearing every single chew. Her throat bucking in a bib to dry-heave.

She hated the sound of other people eating. It made the hair rise on her arms and her lip curl in disgust. Actually, it was the thing that always set her and Ron to bickering at the Gryffindor dining table and, later, during the Horcrux hunt. (Once he rejoined them, that is.)

Between the smell and the sounds, she was positively shivering in annoyance. It was obvious what Malfoy was doing. Choosing the smelliest sandwich on the planet? Only to follow it up with his sounding like a cow chewing cud.

Hermione forced herself back to work, turning up her internal monologue to a near-shout in the hopes of tuning him out.

She was currently comparing his notes with her own. Noting similarities in their theories and any divergences.

Neither of them could figure out why the killer dressed up every scene to look like a Dark Arts ritual. If the homicidal manic had a flare for being elaborate, why did he kill his victims in such a way that no one knew how they died?

As for her theory that their perp might be a Squib, well, apparently Malfoy hadn’t considered it before she brought it up.

She felt a surge of satisfaction knowing that her thought processes were similar to an actual detective’s. That her theories had merit.

Unfortunately, her pride lasted all of five seconds before rage flew in unmitigated.

Malfoy had just opened his crisp bag as loud as possible and was now eating them, one-by-one, with his mouth open.

“Out of curiosity, is there some reason you insist on eating like a toddler?” She was sure that her eyes looked positively feral as she met his own steel-grey ones, filled with amusement.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Flecks of crisp flew out of his mouth towards Hermione, causing her to jerk back in alarm.

“You’re eating with your mouth open.”

“No, I’m not.” Of course, he said this while taking a bite of his sandwich.

She clenched her teeth so hard, she thought they might shatter. Bits of chewed-up lettuce and tomato were clearly visible between his white teeth before he loudly swallowed.

“If I can see your food from here, I think it’s evident you are. I must say, I’m a bit surprised because I would think that Narcissa taught you better than that,” she snapped.

Malfoy flinched, actually flinched. His eyes, for the merest moment, looking devastated.

Probably for the first time in her life, Hermione actually felt guilty for hurting his feelings. She was, well and truly, fucked as Bill would say.

But her guilt quickly dissipated when he opened his mouth again.

“If you don’t like the sounds of my eating, then I suggest you go back to your desk in MoMA.”

“But Bill said -”

“I’m well aware of what that arse told us. However, just because you’re to work here doesn’t mean you need to spend every hour perched in front of me, getting ink all over your face.”

She self-consciously wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, grimacing when she saw a thick smudge of black.

“Well I got here first this morning.”

“In the grand scheme of things, Granger, you’re still in my office where I happen to take lunch on a routine basis.”

“And you can continue to do so after we conclude this investigation. Until then, I would appreciate if you took your exceptionally loud chewing into the canteen to bother others with.”

Her voice definitely sounded a touch more hysterical than when she first confronted him. Which was sure to serve as encouragement for him to continue with his bad manners.

As predicted, Malfoy snorted before popping a few crisps into his mouth and crunching down slowly. The quill in Hermione’s hand snapped in half as fury boiled under her skin.

“Granger, why don’t you go have a lie-down on my couch and tell me about your feelings?” He looked her up and down slowly, his eyebrows raised in amusement. “You really seem to have an issue with them.”

“Only because you are so completely intolerable,” she whisper-shouted.

“You seem to be the only one with that opinion.”

Hermione literally growled at him in response, which only elicited a burst of delighted laughter.

“Gods, Granger.” He pushed the hair that had fallen into his face away, her eyes tracking the movement. “You’re so much easier than you used to be.”

“Fuck you,” she seethed. “Go to the break room so I can keep doing my work in peace.”

“No.” He took another large bite and spoke between chews. “As I said, it’s my office and I’ll eat in it if I wish.”

“You know what? Fine.” She started shoving her folders and notes into her small beaded purse. “That’s just fine.” Hot tears were starting to well in her eyes so she kept her vision downcast so that Malfoy couldn’t get the satisfaction. “I’ll just go home and continue my work from there.”

Because if she didn’t leave now, she would absolutely lose control of her sanity and punch him for the second time in her life.

She stormed out, slamming the door behind her so hard that the frosted pane of glass shook in its frame.

Hermione gave herself time to have a bit of a cry after she stepped out of her fireplace into the quiet of her apartment. Nibbling a few stale biscuits while drinking a cup of tea, she watched the occasional car bumble pass on the street below.

She lived in Marylebone - a quiet but expensive neighborhood in central London. Her landlord being a witch herself was the only reason that Hermione could afford the place. As such, this was her fifth year in the one-bedroom and she had no plans on putting in her notice anytime soon.

Given how small Diagon Alley was, urban-dwelling witches and wizards usually rented in Muggle territory. Though that’s not to say magical folk actually mingled with their mundane neighbors. In fact, it was common for Muggles to assume the rented flats unoccupied due to the infrequency of front door usage - the tenants preferring Floo travel instead.

Hermione was exceptional in this regard. She still very much shunned being out in the world. But she walked to the Ministry entrance in Westminster when she didn’t need to come in the pre-dawn hours to complete impossible research requests. She also justified the occasional weekend trip to her local coffee shop, which excelled at pain au chocolates, due to her inability to brew a decent cup of coffee. She knew the Sherlock Museum was near to her home as well. Though she couldn’t bring herself to make that trip, worried that it was too much in the vein of ‘living’ than her conscience would allow.

Still, she found peace within the four walls of her home. Because after losing so much (of others and herself), this was the one thing that didn’t show signs of crumbling.

She didn’t even have much in the way of possessions. Needing to erase all traces of herself, she’d donated her childhood plushies and trashed her participation trophies before her parents’ Obliviation. Then the war happened and ended, coinciding with the collapse of her mental health. Suddenly, it was five years later and she still hadn’t managed to put any pictures up on the wall. But the barrenness was still survival.

She had her books though - a plethora of them actually. They filled every inch of space on the two bookshelves she’d rescued from dumpsters over the last five years. What didn’t fit on the shelves got stacked in neat piles on the floor and her kitchen table (donated by Charlie when he moved back to Romania three years ago).

Being here helped Hermione put things into perspective.

Namely, that she was giving Malfoy exactly what he wanted. She was liable to crack just from his presence. It made her crave the familiarity of numbness. Of grief and guilt being her only bedfellows.

Being around him meant experiencing a kaleidoscope of emotions Hermione no longer had the capacity to deal with. It was exposure therapy from Hell.

She had lasted less than ten minutes of his goading today before needing to Floo home so that she might have her mental breakdown in peace.

If she wanted to survive a professional partnership with the Devil himself, she had to get a grip and regain control of her life.

Luckily, she knew just the right place to go.

After all, desperate times called for desperate measures.

***

Draco needed to go a smidge easier on Granger unless he wanted to end up on the other side of her right hook again.

That and he didn’t feel fucking stellar about clearly making her cry.

He knew that she would be bent over work whenever he returned from his meeting. It’s not like she ever took lunch in their canteen. At least, he hadn’t seen her but a handful of times there, filling up a plate before furtively slipping back through the doors.

The knowledge of which led to today’s disastrous plan to win some peace for himself. Because, quite frankly, he also didn’t like eating there. Whenever he showed his face, people stared daggers at him until he lost his appetite. So, like Granger, he tended to take his food and run.

Since he’d remembered how much she hated the sounds of people chewing, Draco hoped being a bit of a dick about it would afford him some solitude in his fucking office. He didn’t think he’d make her lose the fucking plot though.

Admittedly, he had been putting it on a bit too much.

The minute after she stormed out, nearly shattering his glass pane in the process, he dropped the act. Because, of course, she was right. He had been raised better. If he ever dared to chew like that at the Manor, his father would have raised his infamous cane against him.

Draco winced recalling the numerous times his father beat him bloody for being a child and acting less refined than what was expected of his status.

He looked down at his exposed forearm, where his Dark Mark was hidden amongst his dragon tattoo, recalling one of the worst moments of his life. The night he was branded. His mother cried on the drawing room floor, her mascara running black down her cheeks as she begged the Dark Lord to give her the Mark instead. Anything to spare her only child.

Of course that didn’t fucking work.

Instead, she just got hit over the head with her favorite English pastoral vase - immediately silencing her pleas. Draco had watched horrified as blood pooled underneath her head. At the time, the only thing he could think was that he’d just seen his Mum get murdered.

It probably would have been better if that actually had happened. At least it would have been relatively painless. Not like her actual death that still gave him night terrors.

Anyway, his thoughts that night were quickly redirected to his own impending demise. Four Death Eaters had to hold him down as the Dark Lord flooded corrupted magic into his body, searing his very soul with the Dark bond. It felt like fire in his veins, his eyesight completely failing while his heart pounded impossibly hard in his chest.

Maybe that’s why the Dark Lord liked marking them young. They were most likely to avoid a heart attack and survive the fucking ritual.

He swore that he heard someone yelling for help before he lost consciousness. He assumed it was his father, one of the four holding his limbs tight. It took him a long time to realize it was just himself.

After he came to again, the Dark Mark branded fresh into his skin, Draco had a full-on breakdown. He sobbed pools into his satin bedsheets. Clearly, someone moved him afterwards so that he could “rest.” Like that would fucking do anything to his mental state.

But when Lucius came in to check on him and saw his beloved heir like that? It was game over. He took out the cane and beat his son bloody. Draco still had marks on his right forearm where the bones had broken through his skin.

May his father rest in Hell whenever he deigned to finally fucking die.

Unfortunately, being in Granger’s presence only served as yet another reminder of the lengths his cursed fucking family would go to in order to stay alive. He would never forgive Bellatrix for branding Granger’s skin with the word ‘Mudblood.’ The thought that she woke up and saw it every day was enough to turn his stomach sour.

He dropped the remains of his tuna sandwich, which he hated the taste of, into his waste-bin and forced himself to start work on his wand report. It would take longer than normal given his mind’s current compulsion to drift to golden-brown eyes filled with tears, a knot of guilt sitting heavy in his stomach.

***

Despite the heat being back in full force, the Apparition point smelled less nauseating than it had previously. It was less the overpowering scent of baking rubbish and more the smell of a dog-run that needed a deep clean. Not pleasant by any stretch of the imagination, but not positively gag-inducing either.

Hermione followed the same directions Arthur had written down three weeks ago, nearly getting flattened by a double-decker bus while she carelessly crossed the streets of Piccadilly Circus.

After getting waylaid by a tourist in a plaid dress wanting a photograph in a red telephone booth, Hermione finally turned onto the side-street that would take her back to Milena.

The Seer would give her an explanation. Because, at this point, Hermione was convinced that she was cursed. There was no other explanation as to why her life had become a waking nightmare since meeting the raven-haired psychic.

No one could be this unlucky. It wasn’t possible without the involvement of magic.

So, logically, this had to be Milena’s fault. She probably put something in the tea when Hermione was admiring her tarot deck. Though she had no idea what it could possibly be. Believe it or not, no Potion Master was particularly keen on making a ‘reverse Felix Felicis.’ Especially because sales would be abysmal for the likely illegal concoction.

She passed by the independent book-binder, his door propped open to release the smells of glue and leather. Next door to which was a skincare store, entirely devoted to selling the benefits of mushroom-infused creams. After which would be the Seer.

Or, at least, that’s what should’ve been there.

Hermione’s feet came to a halt. There was no vibrant purple building with a neon sign in the window. No scents of myrrh drifting out in cloying waves.

Instead, Hermione was face-to-face with a brick wall. Graffitied and plastered with partially-torn down music posters.

She promptly sat down on the edge of the sidewalk and burst into a fresh wave of tears.

Gods, if only Professor McGonagell could see her now. She would probably bat Hermione round the ears and tell her off for crying over the disappearance of a Seer.

Chapter 8: Misery, Meet Firewhiskey

Chapter Text

Hermione sat nursing a frothing pint of ale at the Leaky Cauldron while awaiting the arrival of Harry and Ginny. After a wearied mother with a wailing infant asked her if she needed assistance during her full-blown public meltdown, she peeled herself off the broken sidewalk and called for reinforcements.

As it was early afternoon at the time of her Floo call, after-work drinks were the best her two friends could do. Which was fine by Hermione. It gave her time to sit in the shower, warm water blasting her skin as she sobbed into her knees.

It was becoming alarming just how many tears she’d recently shed. Certainly more than she had during the war and last five years combined.

Hermione normally liked to think of herself as long-suffering. But, after being emotionally numb for half a decade, she was crumbling from the recent barrage of feelings. It was like she’d previously been living her life in monochrome, only to be thrown, head first, into a rainbow.

She now experienced too much in a day: anger, compassion, fascination, even the faintest hint of lust. And, yes, the grief and guilt were still there too. But they weren’t as overpowering as they once were … and still should be.

“There you are,” Harry called out, rousing Hermione from her thoughts. She could see Ginny’s red hair bobbing between tables as her friends made their way over. Once Ginny set down her bag, she enveloped Hermione into a tight hug.

“Did today get any better?” Ginny pulled back and studied Hermione with large brown eyes. “Y’know what, don’t answer that. Why don’t you just tell me what happened instead?”

“I’ll go get us drinks, Gin.” Harry pulled Hermione into a brief one-sided hug. “You can tell her everything about Malfoy by the way. I may have let slip that you’re working together.”

“Harry!!! That’s meant to be confidential.”

Her best friend just shrugged sheepishly and darted away before he could be further chastised.

“Sit down, start from the beginning.” Hermione narrowed her eyes as Ginny looked a little too keen to hear about her fateful few weeks, the youngest Weasley ever the gossip.

“And then he wouldn’t stop chewing.” Hermione’s cheeks were flushed from booze and emotion, her throat parched from talking nonstop about her arch-nemesis for the last ten minutes. Neither Harry nor Ginny had managed to get a word in edgewise since the ranting began.

She took a large swallow of ale, wiping the foam from her mouth as the couple shared a look.

As it was a Friday night, the Leaky Cauldron was filled to the brim. Booths were crammed with friends gearing up for a night out, pub songs already spilling from their lips as they imbibed quickly and excessively. What little standing room the drinking-house offered was being taken up by burly men, hunched over their liquor and radios to listen to the latest Quidditch match. A few of them even recognized Ginny, a Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies.

“A’right there, Weasley? Ready for the match next week?”

Ginny nodded their way awkwardly before turning back to their table.

“The thing is Hermione, he does need to chew in order to eat.” Harry scratched the back of his neck. “That’s a normal thing for a person to do.”

“You don’t understand how loud it was,” Hermione nearly sobbed into her drink.

“Yeah, but -”

“Harry!” Ginny swatted her boyfriend on the shoulder. “Stop trying to disagree. You’re not being very supportive.”

“I’m just trying to say that maybe if you stop riling him up every second you’re together -”

“Not this again,” Hermione said bitterly. Harry’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “It’s always me that needs to change my behavior, not him.”

“I -”

“What Harry meant to say,” Ginny’s voice pitched upward to cover up his spluttering, “is that, if you two gave it a shot, you’d find you have a lot in common.”

“I find that very hard to believe.” But Hermione couldn’t help but think about the minimal decorations in Malfoy’s office, suggesting that maybe he had just as much trouble as she did of letting the war go.

“Look, all I’m saying is that I genuinely believe he’s rehabilitated himself.” Harry took a long drink of his stout before burping. “Sorry, Gin. Plus, Malfoy’s pretty good chat, Hermione. We’ve had him round for dinner a few times.”

“Yes and each time it happens, you try to hoodwink me into coming along.”

“Speaking of which,” Ginny muttered before turning her eyes to her mango IPA.

Hermione looked between Harry and Ginny, her eyes widening.

“Harry James Potter. You better not have done what she’s suggesting.”

***

Draco made his way through the crowded pub, looking for the telltale blaze of Weasley hair. Entering an anteroom decorated with nightmare-inducing taxidermy, he caught sight of wild curls and eyes that would be flaming if such a thing were possible.

Of course Granger had to be here. Thank the Gods (if there were any) that she hadn’t caught sight of him yet. He had just enough time to spin around and make a quick getaway before he could be dragged into whatever talking down Potter was undoubtedly getting at the moment.

“Draco, we’re over here,” Ginny’s voice rang out.

He slumped his shoulders, cursing under his breath, before turning back around to approach their table. Granger promptly stood up and began searching around for her bag, which had fallen off the booth onto the sticky floor.

“You should have told me he was coming too.” She crouched down to peel the beaded clutch free from years of grime and Draco winced when she accidentally banged her head on the table. “This was clearly a mistake. So I’ll be going.”

“Nice to see you too.” He pointedly turned away from Granger before she had the chance to snap at him. “Alright, Potter? Weaselette?” He nodded at them as he slid his whiskey onto the table.

“I’ve been better,” his friend muttered while tugging uncomfortably on his unkempt black hair.

“And whose fault is that?” Ginny crossed her arms and pinned Potter down with a stare. “I told you it was a bad idea to have those two together when drinking’s involved.”

“Gin, it has to stop. I can’t take much more of being the man in the middle.” Potter looked between Draco and Granger, his green eyes pleading. “You two are my closest friends. Can you please try to get along?”

“I’m sorry. Your CLOSEST friends?!” Granger looked ready to dive straight into a bar brawl with the Chosen One, glasses breaking and fists flying. Gods forbid that Draco and Potter ever be considered anything other than schoolhouse enemies.

“We’ve been over this, ‘Mione.”

“Don’t call me that, Harry.” A touch of hysteria colored Granger’s tone. “You know how much I hate that nickname.”

“Right, sorry.” Potter shook his head, clearly unable to catch any form of a break tonight. “I just thought this might be a good situation for you two to blunt your respective edges.” He gestured at the drinks littering their table before shoving his glasses further up his nose.

“I’m sorry, you thought alcohol would make me more palatable to Granger,” Draco snorted. “Hell will freeze over before that happens, mate.”

“Don’t call him that,” she hissed.

“I see your new role with MLE has given you just the push you needed to needle everyone about things outside your control.”

“I hate you.”

“Yeah, well, what else is new?” Draco took a lengthy sip of whiskey, knowing that if Granger stayed he would need to be plastered soon to endure a long night of bickering.

“If I have to work with him, I will. But I’m not socializing with him.”

Even though he knew those words were coming, they still made him flinch. They were just a flavor of what was normally said to him at the Ministry happy hours he no longer attended. But no matter how many times that sentiment got thrown in his face, it still stung to hear.

“Hermione, I agree that Harry should have told you and that tonight probably wasn’t the best time for an ambush.” Ginny’s voice was soft, geared towards delivering bad news to a person entirely ill-equipped to handle it. “But you can’t actually pretend that either of you have made any real attempts at working together.”

“Yeah,” Potter pushed his fingers through his hair until it was nearly sticking straight up, “even Bill was complaining about how difficult you two are being.”

“What a hypocrite,” Granger muttered incredulously.

“Well if it’s coming from Bill, then you know it’s pretty bad,” Ginny shrugged. “C’mon, Hermione. You had a bad day. You should be out with friends, not sitting at home by yourself.”

Granger bit her lip, clearly on the fence over whether she should stay.

“Pleaseeeeee. You literally never come out unless I drag you.”

Draco flitted his gaze back to Granger, whose cheeks were now flushed. He expected that being the Golden Girl guaranteed a full social calendar. She might not be the happiest at work, but that surely didn’t extend to the other areas of her life.

“I really should be working. I got nothing done today due to … unfortunate circumstances.”

“She means me,” Draco raised his eyebrows at Potter and Ginny. “I’m the unfortunate circumstance.”

“Because you eat like a pig.”

“No, Granger.” Draco took a second to have another healthy swallow of the poor imitation of Ogden’s in his glass. “Weaselbee ate like a pig. I was simply doing my best impression of him to annoy you.”

Her small mouth opened and closed on the air a few times, clearly struggling to find an adequate response.

“Y’know, he did eat like a barn animal on the best of days,” Ginny helpfully added.

“I suppose he did, didn’t he?” A small smile crept up on Granger’s face as the tension drained from their conversation.

“Look, just have another drink with us.” Potter reached over and tugged on Granger’s forearm until she slid back into the booth across from him. “That’s all I’m asking. Wayyy easier than letting me copy your Transfiguration work or helping me destroy a load of Horcruxes.”

She rolled her eyes at her oldest friend before finishing her pint in one go. Apparently, Draco and Granger were taking the same tactic to get through the awkwardness of this evening.

“Not to mention, you probably deserve a break for all the shit I’ve put you through recently,” Draco muttered.

His partner met his gaze, clearly somewhat surprised, and nodded at him, which was probably as close to a truce offering as he could expect to receive.

“Great!” Potter rubbed his hands together, “now that that’s settled, I’ll go get a fresh round of drinks for everyone.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No, absolutely not.” Potter shook his head, immediately shooting down Granger’s offer. “It’s on me since this was my doing.”

She looked longingly in the direction of the bar (or, more realistically, the exit) before resigning herself to being trapped here a little while longer.

“Fine. I’ll take a gin.”

“And tonic?”

She merely shrugged her shoulders, much to Potter’s alarm.

“Right … well I’ll be right back then.”

Draco looked hopefully at Potter’s empty seat but Ginny caught his gaze and nodded at the spot next to Granger instead. When he slid into the booth, his partner proceeded to scoot as far away as possible from him until she was firmly pressed against the wallpaper. She was acting as if he had fucking rabies or something.

Ginny watched with a bemused expression, her gaze pinning him and Granger in an unwanted spotlight.

“Y’know what, I think Harry might actually be right. Maybe you two need to be drunk to get over whatever your thing is with each other.” Ginny hiccuped around her sip of beer. “I mean, we finished Hogwarts agessss ago. There’s no real reason to still hold a grudge.”

Draco snorted, knowing their old school rivalry was likely last on a long list of reasons Granger didn’t want to work with him. But let Ginny assume that was the case. It would be easier to navigate than the actual truth.

“I, for one, still think this is a terrible idea.” Granger side-eyed him from her position against the dust-speckled wall.

“Okay, but that’s your opinion on most things sooo -” Ginny slurped down the rest of her beer and dropped the empty pint glass on the table with a clatter.

Granger hummed in irritation, but Ginny ignored her - turning her attention onto Draco.

“So, what’re planning on doing with your life if you get sacked, ferret? I can’t decide if you’ll be taking up the Malfoy mantle of being an unemployed rake lording over your depressing manor or if you’ll keep up with being a productive member of society instead. Thoughts?”

Draco made a rather explicit gesture towards Ginny in response just as Granger blurted out: “Don’t tell me that Bill also mentioned our jobs were on the line.”

She crossed her arms and arched an eyebrow at the youngest Weasley, waiting rather impatiently for a response.

“Not exactly, no.” Both Draco and Granger exchanged a look of surprise.

“Then how could you possibly know that we might be fired,” he said before finishing off his whiskey that tasted like gasoline. Tom, the innkeeper, absolutely needed to improve his offerings.

“Well, it seemed pretty obvious from what Harry mentioned about the back-and-forth memos.” Ginny looked between the pair of them slowly, a line appearing between her forehead. “It sounded like an absolute war zone on your floor for a few days.”

“Oh honestly,” Granger snorted, “that’s being just a touch overdramatic.”

“It definitely isn’t.” Everyone turned, not having heard Potter arrive - balancing an armful of drinks. “Finnegan got clipped by one and ended up with a paper cut next to his eye. It swelled up so much he couldn’t even see the next day.”

Potter slid a drink towards Granger with a grimace and Draco wondered if he’d actually been stupid enough to just serve her gin in the crystal tumbler. Draco nodded his thanks when a fresh whiskey was placed in front of him before Potter settled back into his seat with two blond ales in hand for him and Ginny.

“It’s not like the memos are especially small, so Seamus probably wasn’t paying attention like he should have. And that on it’s own -”

“Well, Bill may have forgotten to silence his office while he was ripping you two to shreds,” Potter looked apologetically at his mousy-haired best friend.

Granger nodded just once. And in that moment, Draco vowed to be present at the next conversation the Golden Girl had with the Head Auror. His boss would absolutely be walking away with his tail tucked firmly between his legs. Frankly, Bill didn’t stand a fucking chance.

“If it makes you feel better, he doesn’t even like silencing the broom closet when he’s fucking his various playthings.” Draco glanced over to find an appalled-looking Granger while Potter grimaced across from him, no doubt remembering all the times he’d heard their boss’s rather loud conquests.

“That’s entirely unprofessional,” Granger looked between the two boys, wide-eyed.

“He seems to make it a point of pride to violate as many HR rules as he can.” Draco’s eyes trailed over Granger’s face, noting the freckles scattered across her cheekbones and forehead. “So, if you feel the need to put him in his place, the Minister himself would probably send you flowers.”

He turned away to suck down his whiskey but could swear that he saw a faint glimmer of a smile cross her lips. That was before she turned to her own drink, immediately gagging when it hit her tongue.

So it was entirely gin then. Christ on a fucking bike.

“See, you two do have something in common after all. A shared dislike of my absolutely insufferable brother!”

“I never thought I would see the day that I would prefer Percy’s company over Bill’s,” Potter moaned.

“Gods, I know.” Granger scrunched her nose up in sympathy. It was, admittedly, a rather cute gesture.

“I think it’s because Percy has always sucked the fun out of everything,” Ginny said thoughtfully. “Whereas Bill used to be great to have around but now is just varying degrees of alarming.”

“That’s exactly it! He really does need a therapist.” Granger cocked her head before quickly looking Draco’s way. “Know any good ones?”

His retort was on the tip of his tongue when her brown eyes glimmered. It took a moment for the dots to connect but he eventually remembered something he’d said in a past memo. About her needing her own shrink to sort out the anger issues he was likely the single-handed cause of.

At least she was taking his less admirable moments in good stride.

“I do actually.” Draco tried playfully responding, but based on the way Potter and Ginny moved further away from the table, it wasn’t nearly as successful as he’d hoped. “Though they’d probably quit before the first session finished. We could offer him the couch in our office, if only to win enough goodwill to avoid more of his tirades.”

Draco started raising his drink to his lips but paused midway, realizing that he’d just referred to his office as theirs. Granger’s mouth popped into a small ‘o’ and Draco could only assume she’d caught his blunder as well.

“If we did that, we probably wouldn’t last very long either. Bill’s best in small doses, isn’t he?”

Draco snorted and downed the rest of his drink, hoping enough alcohol would make him forget the embarrassment he felt over his verbal slip. And the fact that Granger was now actually looking fucking green next to him.

Potter and Ginny had meanwhile resumed their normal seating position (as in they weren’t fucking cowering) and looked rather pleased that the partners managed to avoid verbal sparring.

“Y’know, Hermione, Draco’s taken up quite a lot of charity work since the war.” Potter scratched the back of his neck, red quickly staining the color of his cheeks, as he pivoted the conversation away from fraught subject-matter.

Draco frowned at his friend. What in the ever living fuck was he playing at? That was something you’d say to someone that you were being set up with. And why would Granger care what he did with his free time?

“Oh my Gods, that’s right!” Ginny nodded enthusiastically, her eyebrows shooting up near her forehead. “Didn’t you organize that fundraiser last year for the Ministry’s Placement of Orphaned Children program?”

Draco sighed. This was actually happening. He was being talked up to Hermione Granger of all people. Maybe he should Apparate to the bottom of the ocean before it could get worse.

“Yep.”

After the Battle of Hogwarts, quite a number of children were left orphaned. Either because their parents wound up in Azkaban or they just didn’t live long enough to see peace. The Ministry didn’t have a clue what to do with the kids, let alone where to put them. So enter Draco.

“Care to give us a little more than that, Malfoy?”

“Not particularly.”

“Fine.” Ginny’s tone was over-bright, which likely meant he’d be paying for his reticence at some time in the future. “He raised three years of their budget in an evening. It was something like four million Galleons. And he’s even found some property for use as an orphanage and primary academy.”

“Wow.” Granger was staring rather intently at her drink and Draco couldn’t help wondering what his partner was thinking right now.

Probably rueing on how much she was learning about Draco against her will. Whatever it was, she certainly didn’t sound the least bit impressed by the information. Not that it mattered much to him anyway.

“Mmhmm,” Ginny said this a bit too triumphantly for Draco’s liking. He decided then that Weaselette would equally be on the receiving end of words the next time he showed up at Potter’s for dinner. “He even convinced the Minister to reserve spots for Muggleborns so they might start their education early.”

Potter offered Draco an apologetic look for sparking this conversation in the first place. Which was the absolute bare minimum he deserved, considering he would now be reliving this moment before bed for the rest of his life.

“Malfoy, that’s … that’s incredibly thoughtful.” Draco shook himself from his thoughts to find Granger’s softened expression directed at him. “I wish I had something like that before first-year. The transition was so unbelievably difficult.”

“Yeah,” Draco cleared his throat uncomfortably. “It was you that, um, gave me the idea in the first place.”

He actually wanted to die. This was single-handedly the most embarrassing turn of conversation he’d ever experienced. Why did he even offer the information up in the first place? Now she was looking at him as if he were a lost puppy that needed a home. Maybe he should just self-Obliviate and call it a life.

“Still going on with S.P.E.W.?” Draco managed to bite off the words while willing more alcohol to appear in his empty glass. He would need a third if he was forced to endure much more.

Potter, clearly seeing the utter desperation in his eyes, nodded at him before quietly getting up and making his way over to Tom. Maybe the innkeeper would bring over an entire fucking barrel that Draco could drown himself in by night’s end.

“No actually.” Granger took a large glug of gin before descending into chest-wracking coughs. “I, uh, kinda let that fall by the wayside after the war.”

He frowned, surprised that Granger would abandon her passion project. He had a distinct memory of once being cornered by her in the Astronomy tower to have a conversation about the treatment of his family’s house Elves. Like he had a fucking say over what went on in his home. Though the minute he did, he freed them all with back-pay.

Not that he intended to volunteer that information of his own free will.

“Do you mind, I just need to use the loo.” Granger had scooted closer and was basically talking into his ear. He quickly nodded and got up from his seat to let her out, watching as she nearly ran from the room.

***

Hermione splashed water on her face in the sink of the grimy Leaky Cauldron bathroom. For some reason, Tom selected mustard-yellow wallpaper, spotted throughout with animated teakettles and cups. The kitchenware looked vaguely intimidating as it did the foxtrot in the flickering flames of the wall scones.

She examined herself in the desilvered mirror, purple collecting underneath her eyes and her mouth pulled into her usual frown. Hermione looked the same as she always did. But she felt different this evening.

Yes, she was definitely on her way to being more than a little drunk. However, she was also a touch defeated. She desperately wanted to return home and crawl under the covers, never to unearth herself again.

Here lies Hermione Jean Granger, a star that imploded far too soon.

It was terrible being stuck in a partnership with someone she didn’t want to feel anything other than hatred for. But the more information she was force-fed about Malfoy, the farther away she got from that desire.

Merlin, she never thought she would feel an ounce of gratitude for that man. In fact, she promised herself that she wouldn’t. And, yet five years later, she watched as that promise went up in flames.

After all, working with the Ministry to build a school for orphans and children with no magical background was a thing of dreams.

In comparison to Malfoy, she was nothing.

She couldn’t stop imagining his face when she told him that she’d given up on her own charity work. He actually looked sad that she stopped knitting bloody hats for house Elves that didn’t want them.

And what had Hermione even accomplished after the war? Well, she had an outstanding track record of showing up to work. That was it really.

Because she’d allowed grief to take up such a large part of her life, she didn’t really have a moment to spare for anything else.

After looking around Malfoy’s office this morning, she thought he might actually understand her better than her friends. Apparently, she was wrong. Like everyone else, he’d found a way to move past the war.

She sighed before trudging back into the loud pub, her feet slightly unsteady on the old wooden floor.

“Oh, there you are!” Ginny waved her back over to the table. “We thought you might have snuck out on us.”

“Unfortunately not,” Hermione said, letting her misery and discomfort at the situation shine through.

Instead of letting her back in, Draco just scooted over to her original place. She sat down and started work on her drink again. For some ungodly reason, Harry had actually just ordered her a quadruple shot of gin. Though the alcohol was much appreciated to help ease the pains of being an abject failure.

It was also making Harry’s betrayal more bearable for the time being.

Though she did have to concede that her and Malfoy needed to get to a point where they could manage a civil conversation without descending into an argument.

So maybe this was for the best after all. Even if it was the last thing she wanted.

Though there was absolutely no way that she wouldn’t be positively smashed by the end of the evening.

She turned towards Malfoy, determined to make a better effort at conversation so she wasn’t subjected to this humiliation by Harry or Ginny again.

“So, what do you like to do on weekends and such?” She smiled, trying to offset the clear slurring in her words.

Gods, this felt way too close to a blind date for her liking. But at least she had her two friends here to offer her support. She glanced over, only to discover that they were now looking at her like the proud parents of a child who just made their stage-debut as Tree #4.

Malfoy, meanwhile, seemed surprised that she was actually putting in effort to be civil.

“Um, well, I still play Quidditch.”

“I saw the Snitch in our office. I mean, your office.” Hermione took another sip. The gin tasted like rocket fuel, citrus, and pine.

“Yeah, it was -”

“The first one you caught?”

“I see you ignored my request not to snoop,” Malfoy narrowed his eyes at her behind his tortoise-shell glasses.

Hermione could hear Harry’s very loud sigh. Probably not directed at Malfoy’s words but, more so, the scowl that had formed on her own face. So she schooled her features quickly into a neutral expression. “I just needed a break from going over the case. The fluttering caught my eye.”

Malfoy nodded before confirming that it was what she’d first expected.

“Are you still a Seeker then?”

“And still better than Potter. Though I’m genuinely surprised you know what the position’s called.” Malfoy frowned at her when she rolled her eyes. “What? You’ve always hated sport, Granger.”

“Yeah, but it would be a rather sorry state of affairs if I couldn’t name the positions after being dragged to games for six years,” she snorted.

“Fair enough. What about you then, what do you get up to after work? Besides, I’m assuming, letting your feral cat loose on the local mouse population.”

Hermione scrunched up her nose in confusion, pretty sure she hadn’t once mentioned a cat in their recent chats.

“I don’t actually have pets anymore. But, um, I read a lot? Obviously. I quite like detective stories.”

She blushed crimson upon realizing she’d told this to an actual Auror, whose job it was to investigate and solve crime.

“Like Sherlock Holmes?”

Hermione squeaked, actually squeaked, much to Malfoy’s amusement. Not only that, but she couldn’t help but beam at him. Meanwhile, Harry and Ginny were staring at them while carrying on their own conversation in hushed tones.

“He’s my favorite, my dad introduced me to the books as a kid.”

“Yeah, he’s quite good.” Malfoy smirked in the wake of Hermione’s spluttering. “I started reading them after getting introduced to Muggle literature as part of my remediation course set by the Ministry.”

“Ah,” Hermione cleared her throat, “I see.”

Former Death Eaters were required to go through an extensive Muggle Studies course after the war before being allowed to reintegrate into society. It seemed as though Malfoy, despite being exonerated, hadn’t been able to avoid the rigorous program.

“So, is that why you applied for MLE? Because of a love for Sherlock Holmes?” She was half-joking but also curious as to why Malfoy had chosen a life of hunting down Dark wizards who, undoubtedly, wanted him dead for his defection.

“No, I discovered him after I made the decision to be an Auror. Though it’s helped me get better at being a detective.” Malfoy took a sip of whiskey and hissed in disgust. Hermione noted that he had somehow acquired an entire bottle of the stuff when she was in the loo.

Apparently, he also needed help in playing nice.

“To be honest, I applied because I wanted to make sure as many of my father’s dearest friends were as dead as possible to make him all the more lonely if he ever made it to prison. That and I wanted to make Hell more populated before I got there.”

“Right!” Hermione nodded a few times too many. “Well, that’s great. Murder isn’t a … good thing, obviously. Though I suppose it’s not really murder in this instance? Anyway, the job clearly suits you.” She gestured towards his forearms. “Actually, I’m just going to stop talking now.”

She could see Ginny slap a hand over Harry’s mouth to keep his laughter as quiet as possible while Hermione died from mortification.

The alcohol was well and truly hitting her system now. She watched in slow motion as Malfoy looked at his arms and then back to her, confusion writ large on his face.

She was just waiting for him to make a snide comment about her alcohol consumption, but instead he let it all fall by the wayside. “So, why MoMA? I always suspected you’d want a Mastery after school.”

“Well, it’s a bit like what Bill said to me earlier. There really wasn’t a reason other than the fact that Arthur offered me the job after the war. Though I suppose I am good at it.”

Not because she was really a Muggle expert. After all, she left that world behind over six years ago. But she was excellent at task completion.

“I imagine you’d be good at anything you put your mind to.” He sipped innocently at his whiskey while Hermione’s mind imploded.

“Do you have any p-pets?”

Everyone else at the table looked a bit whiplashed from the change in conversation but Hermione was doing whatever was necessary to maintain the bare bones of her sanity.

“No,” Malfoy paused. “I mean, I have the family owl but that hardly counts, does it?”

Hermione frowned, remembering how Molly pleaded with her to take Pigwidgeon off her hands. The ball of fluff kept flying through the Burrow’s open windows to nest beside the new Weasley graveyard. It made Molly so upset, she temporarily boarded up the kitchen windows so she couldn’t look out on the horrid affair. When Hermione admitted she couldn’t handle a pet, Ginny stepped in to save the day.

“How long have you and Dean been together?” Hermione looked up, Malfoy’s voice breaking through her thoughts. He sounded timid when he asked it, as though he didn’t particularly want to know the answer.

Ginny looked shell-shocked from the mention of Hermione and her ex-boyfriend together in that way. Apparently, Harry hadn’t filled her in on everything that had happened recently. If Hermione wasn’t on death’s door in the morning from drinking this much straight liquor, she owed her friend a Floo call to properly catch up.

Color started to creep across her face and neck as the feeling of embarrassment threatened to swallow her whole. Of course Malfoy assumed that she would be dating Dean after seeing them together in the MLE bullpen just a few days ago.

“Oh, we aren’t.”

“Aren’t what?”

“Together. Me and Dean. I’m single actually. Very much so.” She looked over at Harry for help, only to find him silently mouthing “enemies to lovers” at Ginny. So, Hermione did what any sane person would in this situation and picked up the rest of her drink, which probably had a healthy shot left, and slammed it down her throat. She wondered if it were, at all, possible to magically will yourself out of existence. “Harry tells me you’re single as well.”

Oh my Gods.

Oh my GODS.

No, no, no, no.

She hadn’t actually said that aloud, right?

But based on Ginny’s crimson face and Harry’s gobsmacked expression, she had.

“Um… yeah, I am.” Hermione fought the urge to hide her face in her hands.

“Great. I mean, not great. You and Pansy looked happy together.” Harry and Ginny were, justifiably, horrified because Hermione had lost the plot at this point. Obviously what she’d said was a verifiable lie. The only thing she actually remembered from their courtship at school were the blazing rows they got into all the time. But how else could she salvage the absolute embarrassment she was making of herself?

“Oh, she’s not really my type anymore.”

In her periphery, Harry mimed reading a book and Hermione wondered if she could summon blue flames on his person while this drunk.

Thankfully, the conversation soon took a change in direction.

Hermione and Malfoy touched on everything from music tastes to favorite foods and even the Minister’s latest address. It turned out neither of them had very indulgent personalities, both preferring to stay at home and pretend the outside world didn’t exist.

He had Quidditch and she had books. That was it.

Well, he also had his charity thing too. But the more he talked about it, the more it seemed like something he did out of obligation more than anything else.

Overall, their back-and-forth was pleasant but awkward. More reminiscent of a first date at Hogwarts. Not like Hermione would really know what that was like. But she imagined it was something very similar.

“Y’know, we should all find a date to try out that new restaurant in Diagon.” Hermione hadn’t heard Ginny’s voice for so long that she had forgotten her friend was still there. “What’s it called, Harry? ‘Starbursts?’”

“‘Comets,’ I think.” Harry scratched his scar before yawning. “Honestly, it sounds pretty cool. Think they pair magic with the set menu somehow - make it a full sensory thing. I could see if I can get us reservations for next week?”

And if Harry called, a table would be found - no matter how busy the restaurant was.

But Hermione and Malfoy simultaneously shook their heads, each put off at being seen at such a trendy place.

“I would rather not have another feature written about me in the Prophet, Harry.”

“Hermione, you just gotta learn to ignore them.”

“Says the person that’s been in a committed relationship for years. You don’t have to worry about people speculating on who’s in your bed,” Hermione crossed her arms grumpily.

“Yeah, all the Galleons in your vault wouldn’t be enough to convince me to go out to a place the papers are haunting, Potter.”

“Really? I thought you’d be a socialite.” Hermione turned her head towards Malfoy, scrunching up her nose.

He stared down at it for a second, his tongue tracing his bottom lip before responding.

“Yeah, well, being a socialite normally comes with a high dose of vitriol from everyone in my general vicinity.”

“For what? Your wealth?”

“I think it’s more me being a Death Eater that does it, Granger.”

“But you were a child,” Hermione spat out angrily.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t deserve their hate.”

“Malfoy, it’s been over five years since you defected. And in that time, you’ve done more good than I have for Gods’ sake.” His lips parted in surprise at her drunken pronouncement. She had spoken a bit loudly, based on the number of glances in her direction, but she would have said that same thing sober.

It was at this point that Harry and Ginny made an exit with little fanfare. Namely due to the fact that Hermione and Malfoy had fully turned towards each other, their knees touching, while ignoring everything else going on around them.

“Granger,” he paused in his pronouncement, pouring himself another whiskey and offering to fill up her empty glass. Hermione nodded and watched amber pour into the heavy crystal in her hand. “For what it’s worth, which probably isn’t a lot since it’s me, I’m sorry.”

“For what?” She was swirling the whiskey around in a slow circle, determined to not meet Malfoy’s steel gaze. She found his eyes rather enchanting and didn’t particularly want to get lost in them, missing whatever he had to say.

“For not getting you out sooner.” Hermione snapped her head up at him. Since being sent off to the MLE trenches, she’d become much closer to her emotions. So it was rather unsurprising when a solitary tear escaped her eyes before Malfoy had the chance to say anything else. “At the Manor, I should’ve done something.” His gaze dropped to her left forearm, a crease appearing between his brows. “I still have nightmares about it, about what they did to you.”

Hermione had acquired far worse scars during the war than having ‘Mudblood’ etched into her arm by Malfoy’s crazed aunt. But, she still favored long-sleeves unless the weather made it impossible - in which case she just disillusioned the scar, which she’d done tonight. It was a painful reminder of an impossible time - one she’d never be rid of no matter how many years passed.

“Malfoy, if you did anything, you would’ve been killed.” Despondency flooded through her when he merely shrugged and knocked back his drink. “But … since we’re doing apologies, I’m sorry about Narcissa.” A hurt, not the same as her own but equal in strength, passed through his eyes. “I can’t help but think we could’ve done something. Gotten the both of you out and brought you to the cottage.”

“What happened wasn’t your fault. We knew the risks in not identifying Potter. But thanks anyway, that’s more than I deserve.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she scoffed before pouring more whiskey into her glass and taking a sip. “Though can I just say how surprised I am that we’re more alike than I’d care to admit?”

He cocked his head. “That’s extremely rude, Granger.”

“No, not in a bad way,” she laughed, breathily. “It’s just we’re still there, in the thick of the war. Even though it’s been half a decade.”

“Yeah, we are.” She watched as Malfoy drained his drink.

They sat silently for a few minutes, mulling over their admission. For the first time in years, she had found someone who also spent all their time avoiding the ghosts that haunted them. Unfortunately, he also happened to be rather good chat. And nice to look at. A thought that flooded guilt into her system.

It turns out that even company as depressing as this was preferable to being alone. The acknowledgement felt like a knife in her heart. Because even thinking that was doing a disservice to Ron’s memory.

She roused from her thoughts and noticed tears splattering on the wooden table. Malfoy had also moved closer, their knees now interlocking. It was clear he hadn’t done it in an intimate way, but more so in a “I’m here for you while you cry over your dead boyfriend” kind of way.

And that was what did it.

“I should probably go actually,” Hermione wiped her tears on her forearm and picked up the beaded clutch nestled beside her.

It was a Friday night, so she didn’t have the excuse of work in the morning. But she knew that, if she kept drinking, she would probably do something that she’d come to hate herself even more for.

Malfoy nodded, letting Hermione get on with her misery. But when she was nearly out of earshot, she heard him say: “I really am sorry for not saving you sooner, Hermione.”

She tried not to feel like she was in free-fall. Because that was the first time he’d used her first name.

But maybe she misheard. She had to. To him, she had only ever been Mudblood or Granger.

She hastened home, trying not to let the rush of emotions spill over before she could tumble from her fireplace.

The gin was making her unstable as she fought between two competing emotions. Desire to him hear say her name again and bitterness that he chose to save her and not Ron.

Chapter 9: The Crux of the Matter

Notes:

Just a few things about this chapter:

1.) There are some suicidal thoughts in this one so I've included a summary of what happens at the bottom of the chapter for readers that want to avoid it.

2.) We're going back in time a bit to Hogwarts. This is absolutely canon divergent.

Enjoy lovelies!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

May 1998.

“What the fuck is a diadem,” Crabbe muttered while crouched behind the blasted remains of a column.

Draco pointedly ignored him, his gaze focused on the Golden Trio currently sneaking into the Room of Requirement.

“Maybe it’s their secret weapon,” Goyle offered - the sounds of violent clashes and spellwork floating down the corridor.

Draco rolled his eyes as he listened to the two idiotic lumps he used to consider mates, his lips curling into a familiar sneer.

“It’s a fucking tiara, you dimwits.”

“Why would -”

Not feeling particularly generous with his time tonight, Draco shoved to his feet and crossed the debris-laden hallway - his attention on what he had to do next. If Crabbe wanted an answer to whatever question his half-baked brain had formed, he’d have to find it somewhere else.

Walking back-and-forth in front of the blank stone wall, Draco focused his mind instead on a singular thought.

Take me to the place where everything is hidden.

Because there was only one spot Potter would go if he were looking for something lost.

An old wooden door finally appeared after the third turn.

“A’right boss. What’s the game plan?” Goyle looked anxiously down the corridor before pinning Draco with his beady black eyes. Neither Dumb nor Dumber seemed capable of doing anything unless given easy-to-follow directions, which was a fucking nightmare when they were in the middle of the last battle in a years-long war.

“For fuck’s sake,” Draco pinched his nose before taking a deep breath in. He desperately wished they hadn’t found him tonight. Being alone would certainly have made his mission a lot simpler. But, no matter how hard Draco tried, he hadn’t been able to lose either tail.

The Dark Lord probably tasked them both with tracking Draco as closely as possible. With the end of the war imminent, his Master suspected a number of Death Eaters had become turn-coats. Chief among them the Malfoy heir himself.

Fucking paranoid wanker. Not that he was exactly wrong in this instance, but still.

“You both are staying here.”

“Can’t.” Crabbe sauntered up to Draco, chuckling. “Don’t trust ya, do we?”

“Well someone has to be the lookout.”

To be honest, if either Crabbe or Goyle encountered any resistance fighters, they would be dead before they could actually alert him. Their dueling capabilities were virtually non-existent.

“You can stay behind then.” Crabbe smiled, making Draco clench his fists by his side, getting ready to sucker-punch the insolence right off the other Slytherin’s face.

But before Draco could connect fist to jaw, Goyle stepped in between them.

“Right, fuck the tiara thing. Potter can play pretty princess in the after-life.” Goyle pushed his eyebrows together, clearly needing to be deep in thought to formulate any kind of strategy. “Let’s just get in, grab the mangy git and bring ‘im to the Dark Lord.”

Draco had the sense that, unlike Crabbe who delighted in committing as many wartime atrocities as possible, Goyle was tired of being a soldier. None of them had the option to get Marked, but they all dealt with that trauma differently. Crabbe leaned into it, Draco suffered through it, and Goyle just did what he was told - eyes forever on the war’s end.

“Yeah, alright. But I want dibs on the Mudblood. She’s a fucking bitch and I wanna be the one to put her in her place.” Crabbe started for the door but was jerked roughly back by Draco’s hand on his shoulder.

“If you lay a single finger on her, I will be the last thing you ever see,” Draco whispered into Crabbe’s ear; his voice promising an end so violent that his colleague knew to pay heed. “She’s mine.” Without another word, Draco pushed past the two Death Eaters and over the door’s threshold.

The Room of Requirement was almost silent tonight. No cries could be heard for the fallen nor did the distinct sound of stone smashing into earth reach Draco’s ears. The only thing that ricocheted off these walls were the noises of pounding feet. Specifically, of the Golden Trio’s as they hunted about for, what Draco presumed to be, Rowena Ravenclaw’s lost diadem.

He had no idea why they needed it. Maybe it would help Potter send the Dark Lord into the lowest level of Hell.

If so, more power to him.

Draco stood still, letting the weight of this moment and his familiar surroundings soak into his marrow.

It was surreal being back at Hogwarts, having lived the last year of his life “in hiding.” Which really meant he had been holed up in the Manor with a genocidal maniac that liked to indulge in a spot of torture with his morning tea.

Draco didn’t think he’d live long enough to see the war end. His mother had already been brutally murdered in front of his eyes, his father left insane from watching it. He was the only one left.

His insolence and “moral” failings awarded him countless Crucio sessions, such that it was now an inevitable part of his day. After the ‘Great Betrayal,’ being a Malfoy only doubled the fun for the Dark Lord who had made it his mission to break the young heir. Because after Potter escaped from the Manor, Draco’s last name was permanently smeared in the mud. An example would be made of him.

Had been made of him. In many, many ways.

He was now so tired. Of being alive. Of forced into being something he wasn’t.

And he had reached the limit of what he could endure.

The future of the wizarding world would be decided by what happened tonight. But Draco had no business with any of that. He had another goal. One last reason to stay alive.

Once that was done and dusted, he would be shucking off his mortal coil. Maybe if he were lucky, he wouldn’t need to throw himself off the Astronomy Tower - currently in a state of partial collapse. He could just catch a stray Killing Curse instead.

His eyes ghosted over the crowded room, searching for his hidden treasure.

But the only thing he could see around him were towers of broken things. Chairs missing one leg, desks cracked in half, even the occasional pockmarked bathtub. Floating lanterns lit narrow paths which were carved through the wreckage.

Draco knew this room well. He probably could walk the aisles with his eyes shut. After all, he basically lived here in sixth year - when he was under the gun to fix the Vanishing Cabinet and murder his headmaster.

It smelled just like he remembered. Dusty with the faint undertone of mould and rose pastilles.

Draco started making his way down the main thoroughfare, only stopping when he heard glass shattering behind him. Spinning around, he saw that Crabbe had intentionally knocked over a porcelain lamp to grab his attention.

Which could have also alerted the Golden Trio to the Slytherins’ presence, if any of the Gryffindors were paying close attention.

Crabbe was, well and truly, the bane of Draco’s existence. Which the Death Eater clearly knew based on the smug expression plastered across his puggish face.

His plan wouldn’t work if he was discovered too soon as it would give Potter, Weasley and Granger time to escape if he couldn’t locate them first.

He made a shushing noise to Crabbe and Goyle who were, just now, taking in the room for the first time - their awed expressions mirroring each other.

“Accio Diadem!”

Granger’s voice rang out somewhere in the middle of the Room. But with all the shit piled up everywhere, it was impossible to actually see her.

Make sure that she was okay.

If Draco was forced into brutal honesty, he didn’t particularly care what happened to the Weasel or Potter tonight. But Granger?

He was damn sure that she would be making it out of here alive. He already had a plan to take her somewhere safe, tuck her away, so that no one could ever harm her again.

It wouldn’t fix what happened. But it was something.

Though, it would be nice if the Order did win the war. That way Granger could be safe and not have to live in hiding forever.

He was brought back to the present moment by Crabbe shoving past him and down the narrow aisle, in pursuit of Draco’s favorite know-it-all.

“What the fuck did I tell you?” Draco tugged Crabbe back, pointing him and Goyle down a separate pathway that would lead to a dead-end. “If you two have to be involved, then you’re going to be useful. You take that way, I’ll go this way.” With his luck, the other Slytherins would get turned around once they reached the distant wall and walk straight out of the Room of Requirement. After all, it’s not like they would know how to get back in.

Crabbe grunted, clearly annoyed, but didn’t challenge Draco’s plan.

“What do we do if we find them, boss?”

“Obviously, fuckin’ capture them, don’t we?” Crabbe snapped his thick head over to Goyle.

“Absolutely the fuck not,” Draco seethed. “If you see Potter, don’t engage. Quite frankly, I don’t think either of you could hit a target if it were an inch away from your faces.”

“So, what, we’re supposed to just let him go?” Crabbe narrowed his eyes at Draco. “So he can go off and kill the Dark Lord?”

“Careful, Crabbe. That’s sounding a lot like treason to me,” Draco stared at his frenemy until the latter finally turned his eyes away, chastised.

Everyone knew what an accusation of treason led to. Immediate execution. No matter the Death Eater’s rank.

“And if you see Potter, just distract him.” Goyle began to open his mouth, probably wanting the exact spell and wand movement that they should use. “Look, I don’t care what you end up going for. Just don’t try to hit him with any fucking curses.”

Because, in all likelihood, where Potter was - Granger would be.

And with Draco’s nonexistent luck, the Death Eaters would miss Potter’s person and, most assuredly, hit her instead.

Before either of them could volunteer anything else to aid the headache throbbing in Draco’s temples, he turned around and stormed down the main path.

The deeper he walked, passing broken armoires and slashed paintings, the more apparent it became that the Gryffindors split up in their hunt for the diadem. Footsteps echoed off the walls in every direction, the Trio’s quiet murmurs too indistinct to properly make out.

When he passed the Vanishing Cabinet, its black varnish gleaming in the light, he felt his stomach sour - memories flooding him of the hours he’d spent trying to fix the Dark object. With the exception of his Mark, the magical ware was the embodiment of the destruction of his childhood. Before he left tonight, he vowed to see the thing burn to the ground.

Something landed heavily on the stone floor behind him, causing Draco to spin around, only to find Crabbe’s hand still outstretched and a dusty Potions textbook on the floor. Goyle was currently in the process of picking it up, his form looking more gargoyle than human boy.

“I’m sorry. Did you two not understand a fucking word I said?”

“Yeah, we did. But decided to ignore them, didn’t we?” Crabbe crossed his arms, his disdain made all the more evident on his pug-like features. “Thought you might be up to somethin’, so we figured we’d follow you instead.”

Of the two cronies, Crabbe relished the demise of the house Malfoy more - never letting Draco forget that he was an angel fallen from grace, never to ascend again.

Draco sighed. He had really hoped to get through the evening without having to curse them into the afterlife. But their inability to listen to him was now directly interfering in his plans. He looked between them, deciding which one he would be targeting first. (It was obviously going to be Crabbe.)

He started to raise his dead mother’s wand, settling on the same spell Potter hit him with just last year, when Goyle pointed at something behind Draco’s back.

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the Chosen One - completely oblivious to their presence as usual - as he reached his hand towards a dusty headpiece resting on a wigged bust.

“Well what do we have here?”

He watched as Potter froze in place, his head quickly turning to see Draco flanked by, what had been, his usual school companions. Unlike Crabbe and Goyle, though, Draco hadn’t even bothered to raise his borrowed wand.

“Malfoy,” Potter muttered, despite it being Crabbe who called him to attention.

“Care to give me my wand back?”

“Not particularly.” Draco saw Potter clutch the wood just a smidge tighter. “After all, I won it fair and square. Plus, it looks like you don’t need it anyway.” His green eyes darted down to the wand Draco loosely held at his side.

“Courtesy of my mother.” He lifted the instrument, letting it gleam under the faint light, while never taking his eyes off Potter, who flinched at the mention of Narcissa.

Clearly, the news of his mother’s gruesome death traveled fast and wide, making it all the way to the Order.

“Why aren’t you three at the Battle? I can’t imagine there’s anything particularly interesting in here to you anyway. Unless you’re trying to smuggle more people in through that thing,” Potter nodded at the Vanishing Cabinet.

“We were just wondering what you were doing here. After all, tonight’s the night, right?” Draco tried to keep his voice level, not wanting to play his hand too early.

“Just needed to clear my head a bit.”

“In the Room of Missing Objects?”

Potter merely smiled in response.

“Let’s stop wasting time and fucking do this. Just think of what the Dark Lord’s gonna give us when we bring ‘im in.” Crabbe leered over Draco’s shoulder and the Malfoy heir had to fight the urge to lean away. Though he did indulge in a bit of eye-rolling. Crabbe couldn’t bring in a flubberworm if one landed in his lap, let alone the Chosen One.

“Sure you are,” Potter snorted as he began backing away, his hand twitching towards the diadem sat on the crumbling wizard’s mop. “How did you know I was here anyway?”

“Heard you three running down the corridor, talking about some lost tiara,” Goyle grunted. “So we Disillusioned ourselves and Draco got us in.”

“No, you followed me in,” Draco muttered. “But I spent enough time in this particular room last year. It was basically my home away from home.”

“Oy, Harry! Who’re talking to?” Weasley’s voice suddenly rang out from the next aisle over, concealed by a massive pile of broken bed frames, splintered broomsticks and banged-up tables.

“Descendo!” Crabbe unbelievably managed to hit the detritus, which started to collapse in the direction of Potter’s sidekick.

A high-pitched scream that had recently been engrained into Draco’s head rent the air.

Granger was with Weasley.

FUCK.

“Finite!” Draco didn’t even think about stopping the tower from falling further, his body just acting on instinct. Potter’s eyes widened minutely as the tottering tower shuddered, but stayed upright. Draco barely noticed as he rounded on Crabbe. “What the fuck did I tell you? SHE DOESN’T GET HURT.”

Silence descended as his words echoed off the stone.

Well, so much for keeping things close to his chest.

Draco never said anything about Granger remaining hale and healthy. Just that her fate was his to decide.

“You fucking traitor,” Crabbe whispered.

At one time, Draco would have broken jaws over the accusation that he would stand for anything other than his family name and pureblood ideals. Now it was like a tidal wave of relief washing over him.

Yeah, he was a fucking snake. And glad of it too.

“Harry!” Weasley shouted somewhere a bit nearer than before. Clearly, he was making his way over to them. “Who’s there with you? It sounds like Malfoy.”

Crabbe pivoted away from his disgraced colleague when Potter lunged toward the diadem, clearly planning on making a run for it.

This time, the curse missed.

Obviously. Because it was fucking Crabbe.

The spell hit the bust which exploded in every possible direction and launched the diadem into the formerly tottering pile of shit next to them.

Draco was still facing Crabbe and shoved him hard, knocking him off-balance and sending him straight into a desk that crumpled under his weight.

“I fucking told you not to throw curses around, knowing that you aren’t going to hit the fucking mark.”

Draco disarmed Crabbe before any spells could fly his way, all while Goyle watched slack-jawed as the Malfoy heir showed his true colors.

But before Draco could actually incapacitate his colleagues, a Stunning spell flew in his general direction. Though it was clearly not intended for him, Draco dove sideways. Crabbe doing the same, causing the red sparks to miss him by a centimeter.

When Draco snapped his head up, he found Granger staring the Slytherins down. Her small chest heaving, her knuckles white as they gripped her wand.

Great. Just what he fucking needed at this moment. Another thing to worry about.

She looked positively murderous too, which was fair, considering the last time she saw Draco, he watched her get tortured on his drawing room floor.

Without warning, she started flinging all manner of spells at Crabbe and Goyle. (Draco couldn’t help but notice that she never cast in his direction.)

Stunning Spells. Full-Body Binds. Curses that resulted in painful boils. Anything and everything.

Crabbe was just barely hanging on, what with no wand to defend himself, and resorted to using a table-top as a shield. Goyle had returned to the Vanishing Cabinet, throwing himself in and keeping the door cracked so as not the activate the cursed thing.

Unfortunately for them, neither defense mechanism was Golden Girl-proof and she eventually blasted both into unconsciousness.

Satisfied with her work, Granger found Draco’s eyes once more before spinning on her heel and disappearing.

Draco made to follow her but got held up by the absolute fucking idiocy of the Chosen One himself, who was currently looking for the diadem in the structurally-unsound shit-pile.

“Potter, if you keep doing that, that’s collapsing on your fucking head. Are you trying to make the Dark Lord’s job easier?”

Instead of responding like a reasonable person, the Gryffindor glanced over his shoulder - one arm still tangled in the pile - and threw a curse at Draco.

“Can you fucking stop for a second? I’m not interested in hurting you. Obviously, considering you didn’t even hear us arrive. If I wanted you dead, I would’ve taken that chance to do so. So let me help, you fucking nonce.”

“Why would I ever trust you,” Potter asked, his green eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“You shouldn’t,” Draco shrugged. “But as my blunder earlier made clear, I want to get Granger out of here safely. And I’m guessing, she won’t be willingly leaving unless you have the diadem in hand.”

“You know, Malfoy, for someone who spent about six years calling her derogatory names, it’s pretty strange for you to suddenly care what happens to her.”

“Let’s just say I had a change of heart.”

Potter looked at Draco for a few seconds, clearly weighing his options, before finally agreeing with a nod of his head. “Fine. You take that side, I’ll keep going over here.”

The two boys searched in silence for a few minutes. Draco wasn’t too worried about either Crabbe or Goyle, considering they were still knocked out last time he checked.

“You ready for tonight?” Draco kept his voice neutral as he searched the bowels of the tower with his lit wand.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“I hope you manage it. She’ll be safer that way.” He could see Potter’s head wrenching away to study him in profile.

“You really do care about her then?”

Draco gave a minute nod as he pulled out a partially-deflated Quaffle that was blocking his visibility.

“What changed?”

Draco tensed, glancing at the boy who had as little say in his future as Draco did his own. “If we survive this, I’ll tell you about it over a pint sometime.” Which was to say, he would be taking the reason for his tender feelings to the grave.

Potter opened his mouth, whether to accept or reject the proposed truce Draco wasn’t sure, before being silenced by Granger screaming his name. A thunder of noise immediately followed suit - the echoes so loud that Draco’s eardrums started ringing as though a bomb had just gone off.

The faintest whiff of smoke, interlaced with centuries of dust, hit his nostrils at the same moment. And he knew that he had made an unacceptable mistake.

He hadn’t wanted to hurt Crabbe or Goyle unless absolutely necessary. The Dark Lord was right about one thing: Draco had gone soft. And, as a result, it would cost him, not only his life, but the life of someone he held far more dear.

They were all going to fucking die because Draco didn’t have balls.

He turned around at a loud roar coming from just down the aisle him and Potter were crouched in. Crabbe and Goyle were running as fast as their legs could carry them, their faces painted in a sort of panic he had never seen before. Just behind them rose several creatures, entirely made of flames.

From the brief glance Draco chanced before black spots starting dotting his vision, he could make out dragons, chimeras, and high-flying phoenixes.

“Aguamenti!” Potter shot a jet of water towards the animated flames, which vaporized before even hitting their target.

“YOU CONJURED FIENDFYRE?!? HAVE YOU LOST YOUR FUCKING MINDS?” Draco grabbed Potter and started shoving him in the direction of the door. “Change of plans, you’ve got to forget the diadem.”

Crabbe said something to Potter as he ran past, his grin splitting his face open into something devilish, his wand gripped in his hand.

Draco didn’t even think twice before hitting his “mate” with four back-to-back Stunning spells.

Let Crabbe die in the fucking fire he conjured for all he cared. Because it had clearly been him based on the way Goyle had pissed himself.

Potter, meanwhile, kept throwing useless water charms at the beasts consuming everything in their path. It obviously wasn’t going to work. Which Potter should know had the Chosen One ever opened a fucking textbook.

Draco hadn’t heard or seen anything from Granger or Weasley since the former screamed minutes earlier.

When the hairs on his neck rose, just as they did every time danger was near, he had just seconds to act.

“RUN!” Draco grabbed Potter and pulled him forward as the flames sent the tower they’d been beside, crashing to the floor. “FUCK!” Draco raked his hands through his hair and cast his eyes back to where Granger must be. Potter was on the floor next to him, writhing in pain, from a shard of wood that had embedded itself in his chest.

“C’mon, let’s just get Crabbe and get outta here!” Goyle had to shout over the din of fire now completely surrounding them.

“I’m not leaving her.” Draco descended into chest-wracking coughs. When he spit, it came out black.

Goyle looked down at Crabbe and then over to Potter, the moral dilemma writ clear on his scrunched-up face.

“Are you really doing this?”

“Yes, I’m fucking doing this. And if you stop me, I’ll fucking kill you.”

“No need, I’m in.”

“Then find a broom and get this fucking idiot out.” Draco nodded down at Potter who was currently army-crawling his way over to the wreckage of the tower to recommence his search. “Bring him to the nearest Order member for healing, tell them you’re defecting.”

Goyle nodded and picked up one of Potter’s legs, dragging him over to a small pile of broomsticks nearby.

Draco didn’t bother to see whether they found something that could hold both of them aloft, instead turning to run in the direction he last heard Granger scream.

Smoke was almost completely filling up the room now, making it incredibly difficult to see. Draco cursed several times after banging his shins on cupboards and tripping over a pair of Muggle rollerblades. His eyes were watering when he finally spotted the familiar side-passage that would take him to her.

His thoughts were only focused on getting Granger out, such that he didn’t consider what he’d find when he finally got there.

He stopped in his tracks - taking in one of the most devastating scenes he’d ever come across. Granger hadn’t screamed from the Fiendfyre. Her cries of terror were the result of a mound falling on her and Weasley.

Well, more so the latter than the former.

It was bad. Bad enough that Draco didn’t actually know what to do but stare.

Granger caught his eyes, her soot-stained face positively tear-streaked. Her throat was scratchy from too much smoke inhalation and sobbing.

“H-he saw the diadem underneath a pile of desks. He darted under and when he made to come back up, he must’ve dislodged something and -”

Granger started coughing as she pulled piteously at the pile of desks and foot-lockers currently smothering Weasley to death. From his angle, Draco could see an iron bar had also impaled the boy in the abdomen - probably a fatal wound on its own. Not only that but it was clear that the redhead was firmly pinned. There would be no pulling him out from the side.

There was nothing anyone could do for him in the time they had remaining. Not without blasting the pile off of him, which could do even more damage to his person.

Maybe they could save him if the room wasn’t currently up in flames. If the Gods felt like listening today. If, if, if.

But that’s the thing about statements beginning with that word, they’re just as likely not to occur.

Weasley was already barely conscious from a nasty gash that cut across his temples. In his bloodied hand was the diadem.

At least he was dying for the cause.

But, still, it would have been better if the collapsing rubble killed him immediately. Every breath he took was a pained groan, making Granger more frantic.

“It’s okay. Malfoy’s here, he’s going to help us.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

“You have to, please,” Granger cried loudly as she struggled with moving the heavy furniture crushing her boyfriend to death.

Granger, who was the smartest person Draco had ever met. Who must know the odds of Weasley surviving were next to none, but who was currently letting denial animate her movements.

Draco knew that he could only save one of them, just like Goyle knew that it was between Crabbe and Potter. It was obvious to Draco who he would be choosing. Even if Granger and Weasley’s positions were reversed.

Because, quite frankly, Draco would tear the fucking heavens apart if they took Granger away before she had the chance to be happy again.

“Fine, but I’m taking you out first.” Draco stepped towards her but she just started shaking her head and crying even harder. Her breaths were quickly morphing into hyperventilation, which was sure to do even more damage to her lungs.

“N-no, not until we get him out.”

“Granger,” Draco growled. “I need to get you out before you die of smoke inhalation.”

“And what about Ron?!”

“’Mione.” Weasley’s voice was so faint that Draco almost missed it. “He’s right.” Blood had started trickling from the redhead’s ears and mouth.

“Please.” Granger looked back at Draco then as if he held her entire world in his hands.

He wasn’t happy to take on the mantle of planet-destroyer. It would be the worst thing he’d ever done. But there was nothing for it.

He shook his head. “You first.”

Draco looked down at Weasley, who blinked in understanding. He knew what was being left unsaid, the words completely unnecessary. At this point, his lungs were probably filling with blood - based on the burbling now coming from his throat.

Weasley likely didn’t have long and Draco wouldn’t let Granger stay here to see it.

Granger tried to recommence her efforts, but her movements became staggered as she started to lose consciousness. Draco wrenched a broomstick from a nearby pile and made towards her a second time. This time, she didn’t fight him off.

He put her on the broom, her weight fully leaning into his own, as he got on behind her. Weasley grabbed his ankle just before Draco lifted off.

“Take care of her. She’ll need it more than she’ll want to admit.”

Draco nodded gravely at Weasley whose brown eyes were muddied from pain and whose teeth were now stained red - before kicking off.

He left Ron to his fate as he took off with his own.

***

Present Day

The memory came to a conclusion just as Draco’s whiskey ran out and the Leaky Cauldron put out for last call.

He stumbled towards the fireplace queue, eventually Floo’ing to an empty home.

Draco hated nights like tonight. When his demons chased him through his attempts at self-medicating and right into a night laced with terrors.

Quite frankly, he didn’t blame Hermione for hating him. Not when he so thoroughly hated himself.

Because if he wasn’t dreaming about her getting tortured, he dreamed of that last night in the Room of Requirement.

No matter what Draco had done, Ron Weasley wouldn’t have survived the war. Realistically, he would never have left that room. His injuries were far too extensive to treat in the heat of battle, even if Crabbe hadn’t cast the Fiendfyre.

But that didn’t stop Draco from wondering if he should’ve taken the memory from Hermione. Something she begged him for when she regained consciousness, her memory slowly unfogging as her eyes took stock of who wasn’t beside her in the hospital ward. She hadn’t wanted the last image of her boyfriend to be one of him in pain, dying too young in a war he had no right to be in.

Draco almost did it, had his wand out and everything, until Potter stalled his hand and told him that he wouldn’t be doing her any favors. That, even if the memories hurt, she deserved to know what happened.

Other times, he wondered if he did Ron a disservice. He had been unconscious when Draco looked back a final time, his broom turned towards the exit.

But, he wondered if it would’ve been more merciful to have shot a Killing Curse at the hero. Realistically, he didn’t have the necessary intent in that moment. His thoughts only on keeping Hermione breathing.

Had he done it, his conscience would probably be quieter. He would certainly be rotting in Azkaban though. Sure, Hermione got him cleared with her testimony. But it didn’t hurt that Draco had no Unforgivable traces on his wand either.

If he did, not even the Golden Girl could’ve saved him.

Still, it would have been worth it to know Ron went peacefully.

He stopped calling him Weasley, at least internally, when he left him in that room to die alone.

People said Draco won the war for the Order. But they always forget about Ron’s contribution. The Dark Lord would still be here if he hadn’t sacrificed himself for that diadem.

To be totally fucking honest, Draco didn’t even think about Crabbe. Ron occupied a good chunk of his thoughts but that’s because the bastard didn’t deserve to die.

When Draco wasn’t drowning in guilt because of his questionable war calls, he liked to ruminate on his abject failure.

Tonight, that manifested in echoing Ron’s last words.

Draco had essentially promised to take care of her. And in five years, he had done fuck all as the Golden Girl suffered in the department over from his.

He had tried to get close to her at first. Suggesting that Potter invite her for dinner whenever the Malfoy heir was over. But she always refused, never wanting to be near him.

Presumably blaming him for Ron’s death.

Which, again, was fair.

But, he was doing a knock-up job with his promise of keeping her safe. The only thing he had done successfully in that direction was threaten Marcus Flint so thoroughly that he stopped considering her a viable target for a one-night stand.

Draco flopped down on the couch, promising himself that (going forward, at least) he would do better by Ron.

By Hermione.

She deserved more than the tears that splattered on the Leaky Cauldron’s booths tonight.

And he would make sure she got it.

Notes:

Summary: This entire chapter is from Draco's POV.

Draco has a flashback to the Battle of Hogwarts.

Crabbe and Goyle follow Draco into the Room of Requirement, intending to capture Potter for Voldemort. Draco, on the other hand, really only cares about getting Granger to someplace safe.

The Slytherins unexpectedly find Potter, just as he's about to snatch the lost diadem. A fight ensues that ends with Granger (interestingly) incapacitating only Crabbe and Goyle. The diadem is lost (yet again) and Draco is left to his own devices.

Knowing Granger will refuse to leave unless Potter has the Horcrux in hand, Draco teams up with the Chosen One to expedite his search. They aren't unsuccessful and end up coming face-to-face with Crabbe's Fiendfyre. Granger and Weasley are nowhere to be found at this point.

Draco makes his defection clear by stunning Crabbe (essentially) into the afterlife. Goyle isn't an enthusiastic Death Eater by any stretch of the imagination and decides to rescue Potter from the Room of Requirement.

Draco runs off in search of Granger.

When he does find her, the situation is pretty dire. A mountain of debris has fallen on Weasley after the Gryffindor scrambled under some desks for the diadem. It's pretty obvious that Weasley isn't going to make it out, that he has life-threatening injuries that he's succumbing to. (But, I guess the good news is: he does have the diadem.) Granger is distraught and in the process of trying to shift the objects off her then-boyfriend.

Draco saves Granger, promising Weasley that he'll look after her, and basically leaves him to die alone in the Room of Requirement. (Sorry guys, I can't make that sound any better.)

The chapter ends in the story's present day. Draco acknowledges the guilt he feels about that night and how he's failed to keep his promise. He vows to do better by Hermione in the future.

Chapter 10: A Temporary and Unspoken Truce

Chapter Text

Draco spent the remainder of his weekend drinking copiously and ingesting as many illegal substances as possible in an effort to dull the gnawing guilt eating him alive. He’d even made a game of it - taking a shot every time he envisioned Hermione crying and snorting a line whenever he heard Ron’s final words.

Unfortunately, the guilt was still there when Monday arrived in a literal haze. The only thing Draco had succeeded at was feeling like he’d been Transfigured into a pile of shit.

Quite frankly, it was a miracle he managed to put enough clothes on to be work appropriate. Especially when his home potion stores were so depleted that he had nothing to make him feel like a human again.

After literally stumbling onto the Ministry’s tiled atrium, he knew a sobriety potion was in order. Just in case he was still intoxicated and not actually on the comedown. Based on the way the world blurred around him as he walked, it was likely the former.

Draco pointedly ignored the feigned pleasantries of fellow Ministry employees in the elevator. He was pretty sure that if he opened his mouth, everyone would smell the bourbon on his breath. Or he would just spew vomit all over Cho Chang’s black Oxfords due to the jolting movement of the lift.

Which was yet another thing the Ministry needed to put money into but refused. Maybe he should make an anonymous donation for the cause, just to make mornings like this more bearable.

Either that or he could just stop drinking.

But Draco was a realist more than anything else.

He stepped out of the elevator with as much grace as a person that spent all weekend frying their neural pathways could. But at least it was early enough that his raggedness would go virtually sight unseen.

After all, it wasn’t yet eight in the morning - which was before most people even clambered out of bed on a Monday. Especially those that had a life outside of work. Not even the baby Aurors who worked inconceivably long hours came in at this time.

And yet …

His expectation of solitude in the MLE hallway was blown to smithereens in one fell swoop.

“You look like absolute shit, Malfoy.” Bill leaned against the doorframe to his office, a steaming mug of coffee in hand. He had actually managed to put on a tie this morning, the navy pairing well with his paisley button-down.

“Thanks, I wanted to dress like my role model.”

But when Draco looked down at himself, he could see that Bill had a point. Apparently, he missed a few buttons on his white shirt - giving him the appearance of a middle-age man vacationing in Majorca that couldn’t hold his liquor. Not only that but he was wearing two different cufflinks and one shoe remained untied. Absolutely pathetic effort on his part.

Probably for the first time since Draco started working at MLE, Bill looked more put together than he did. Lucius would be absolutely ashamed that his son looked worse than a Weasley - though the thought gave Draco a burst of unexpected pleasure.

“Cute. And you smell like bourbon because …?”

Draco silently cursed all the Gods and Fates then for having him walk into Bill’s warpath before he had the chance to sober up.

“Wanted to see if there was a method to your madness and all that.”

“Well if you keep this up, you’ll have an even worse reputation than I do.” Bill sipped innocently on his coffee and Draco briefly wondered if it was of the Irish variety.

“Think I’m already there in most circles .. you know considering the fucking Mark on my arm.”

“You said it,” Bill shrugged before turning to what he actually wanted to know. “How’re things with the case?”

Draco paused, mulling over what there was to say. According to the calendar he passed downstairs, it was August 18th. That meant he and Hermione had another twelve days before another murder occurred.

A lot could happen in that amount of time. Especially considering that just two weeks ago he was happily partnerless and was now saddled with the object of his deepest regrets and desires.

“Well, Hermione and I actually made some good headway this weekend.” It was true, if not exceptionally vague. The pair had found a tentative companionship in each other by the time she left the Leaky Cauldron in a hurry on Friday.

The real question was whether they could maintain that peace when alcohol wasn’t there to throw their feelings off-kilter.

Bill pointedly looked Draco up and down before opening his mouth.

“You know, I actually never expected either of you to use the other’s first name. Must’ve been a hell of a weekend to elicit that change. Maybe I should be taking a page out of your book instead.”

“Oh fuck off, you twat.”

Bill chuckled as Draco walked away from him.

“And Malfoy? Try not to come to the office drunk tomorrow - no matter how much fun the night before was.”

Draco raised his middle finger in response before unlocking the door to his office. Walking into the room, he started a mental to-do list for the day ahead. First, the sobriety potion he kept tucked away in the top drawer of his desk. Followed by an absolute vat of coffee. Then he would finally sort out making Hermione a copy of his keys.

His eyes paused on her desk as he noted with a small frown that it was sitting slightly askew from his own. He shoved it once with his hip to fix the alignment before finding the deep-green potion he desperately needed.

He drank it down with a grimace, the taste somewhere in the realm of overly-molded cheese. But the mental fog he’d been saddled with instantly cleared just as his door opened.

He was on the cusp of telling Bill to fall into the Abyss, only stopping himself when he realized that it was actually Hermione coming in.

She looked about as disheveled as he was, to be honest. Nowhere near bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as she used to be during their early morning Hogwarts lectures.

“Morning,” she yawned behind her fist.

“Good weekend?” Draco could already glean the answer from her appearance but knew it was the normal thing to say to someone that you shared an office with. But, based on the purple bruising under her eyes, it seemed as if she didn’t manage any sleep over the last few days. Likely a result of whatever demons he’d saddled her with in his apology.

“I suppose it wasn’t terrible.” She managed a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You?”

“Same ole, same ole.” Which was code for getting so drunk that, when he did fall asleep, it was either at his kitchen table with an empty bottle beside him or on his bathroom floor, next to his toilet. Not that she needed to know that.

Draco decided to pivot the conversation before it delved into something even more mundane - like the fucking weather.

“Look, about Friday.”

Hermione’s eyes widened before quickly dropping down to her desk where she started needlessly rearranging the few items sat there.

“There’s nothing to say, Malfoy. We were drunk, forget about it.”

Disappointment rushed over him like a tidal wave, drenching him to his core. So he was still Malfoy when she had transformed into Hermione. It seemed only he had experienced the reconfiguration of the universe, not her.

Draco tried not to let his feelings show, forced himself to keep a neutral mask in place. He’d gotten rather good at it - after years of living with a parent that looked for any excuse to instill a new lesson on his heir.

He willed himself to let the name thing go, dismissing his emotions before they could bait him into an argument. (Because surely partners should be on a first name basis, right?)

Draco internally shook himself, focusing on the rest of her statement. She seemed … almost ashamed. But they had really only spent the evening talking. Sure, he now knew that she loved Greek food but didn’t know how to cook it. And that she spent her weekends curled up by her window in Marylebone, drinking tea and reading books.

There was nothing shameful about anything she’d said.

Unless she hadn’t intended to talk about the war and now felt guilty for bringing up such a morose subject over Friday night drinks.

Though, quite frankly, he had been relieved - glad to have the chance to finally apologize for (one of) his sins.

“Anyway,” she scrunched up her nose before looking back at him, “I had a few thoughts about the case that I wanted to go over with you.”

Draco knew that was, realistically, a lie. Absolute fuck-all came in last weekend. Between the two of them, they had already approached the matter (individually, at least) from every angle. It was one of the reasons he let himself get so hammered - because he could.

“Right, okay.” This time he knew that his emotions made it through a crack in his carefully-maintained mask. The disappointment at her dogged subject-change was clocked by Hermione’s golden-brown eyes hastily looking away from his own. “But can we talk about this after I have a coffee? Didn’t get a chance to make any before coming in.” Because, in hindsight, he had definitely still been drunk.

He rubbed the back of his neck, begging his brain to get on work-mode before he made a fool of himself.

“Of course,” Hermione visibly brightened, likely a result from Draco not belittling or dismissing her for once. “I’ll come with you … if you don’t mind. I didn’t actually sleep much last night.”

“Yeah, I gathered that.” He instantly regretted the words, knowing he had landed himself in shit based on the way her lips pursed.

“Was that really necessary?” She cocked her head at him, a challenge in her eyes. “I mean, really, why would you even say that?”

“Hermione, your skirt’s on backwards.”

She snapped her head down, clearly distressed, only to find that the slit was in the front. She paled, probably tallying the number of employees she passed on her way in that morning. But, who the fuck cared what people thought anyway? She was as pretty as always … just a bit rumpled.

“I’m actually going to kill him,” Hermione muttered before turning the black pencil skirt around. Draco hurriedly averted his eyes, a touch surprised that she hadn’t run off to the bathroom to do this instead.

“Who?” His voice sounded a bit strangled as he kept his eyes locked on the Muggle street below. He caught a blur of the purple triple-decker Knight Bus as it darted past cabbies and bicyclists. The speed blowing back the hairs of men and women walking to work, though they were none-the-wiser to its appearance.

He could hear Hermione shoving her white t-shirt back into her skirt as he fought to control his breath.

Christ, it was like he was a man in Victorian times. He needed to get a fucking grip on himself.

“You can turn around now.” Draco nodded, regarding his partner and feeling like his cheeks might be a bit pink. “And I met Harry in the atrium. He didn’t say a thing to me. Well, he laughed but wouldn’t explain what was so funny.”

Draco was about to tell her that Potter was one to talk, considering he still had to fix the Chosen One’s ties anytime there was a press conference.

“Oh my Gods, Bill Weasley too.” Her lips curled into a snarl. “The next time I see him, I’m turning him into a bloody pig.” She stomped her foot in anger, but the movement was so cute that Draco had to hide his smile behind a fist.

“That’s being a bit mean to pigs.” She met his gaze before faintly laughing.

“Mmm, probably.”

“And what did our unfortunate boss do?”

“Well he asked me if I had a good weekend and mentioned we’d made ‘headway.’ Then he looked me up and down before disappearing back into his den of vice.” She scoffed in disgust. “I didn’t even realize what he was implying until just now.”

“Always assume the worst with him, it’s easier that way.”

Draco nodded to the office door, suggesting they head out, but Hermione stopped him with a look.

“You might want to do something about that,” she nodded at his own attire.

“Probably,” Draco looked down and sighed. “Though Bill’s already had a bite at the apple today so I can’t imagine anyone can say anything much worse.” But he started putting himself to rights all the same. After re-buttoning his shirt, he threw his offending cufflinks into a drawer.

Following a moment’s thought, he rolled his sleeves to his elbows - remembering Hermione’s open appreciation of them after one too many gins. She was already staring at his exposed arms when he looked up at her.

She nodded her head, blinking a few times after he cleared his throat and asked if she was ready to head towards the floor’s canteen.

No line had formed at the coffee machine by the time they arrived. Draco sighed, not looking forward to drinking the swill that the Muggle device spat out. There had to be a way for the thing to produce a decent espresso - just no one had figured it out yet.

Hermione tapped a few ancient buttons and the thing started clanging loudly in an attempt to produce a cappuccino.

“I wish they had oat milk as an option.” She frowned as the machine spat out, what looked like, black coffee with a hint of cream. Absolutely not even close to what she ordered.

“We can go somewhere else later in the day if you want.” Then maybe he could have a croissant that hadn’t been sitting in the lunch-room all weekend. “After we talk about the case, that is.”

Draco tapped a random button for himself, knowing he would just receive whatever the thing wanted to produce.

“You’re being surprisingly pleasant.” She bit her lip and studied him as though he were a problem that only she could find the answer for.

“Maybe I’ve realized that I much prefer your companionship than your ire.”

Draco missed whatever her reaction was as he frowned down at his cup of … well, presumably it was some iteration of coffee. But this looked more like straight milk than anything. Taking a sip only confirmed his suspicions. If it had any caffeine in it, it was probably just a drop.

“Blasted thing.” Draco muttered a string of curses, pushing more random buttons in the hopes of getting something that had a higher coffee ratio in it. Meanwhile, Hermione turned towards someone walking quickly in their direction.

“Ernie!!”

Draco looked up in time to see Ernie Macmillan skid to a halt in front of them, looking like he’d been hoping to go unnoticed by the pair.

He had filled out a bit since his time at Hogwarts, his three-piece peach suit looking a bit too snug for comfort. It was clear that he hadn’t paid for any cooling charms to be cast in the material either, based on the sweat starting to accumulate in his underarms.

His face was a splotchy red though the heat hadn’t yet set in for the day. His long-ish blond hair fell haphazardly in such a way that he had to shake his head to look at them through muddy-brown eyes.

“Hermione, good to see you as always.” His tone was stiff and he seemed intent to look anywhere but at them, his hands busying with the ancient coffee machine as he tossed Draco’s latest order into the trash.

Which was what Draco would’ve done himself since it looked like just another round of dairy.

“I noticed that you weren’t at the latest weekly. Guess you haven’t been around the office much though?” He cast a quick judgmental glance Draco’s way before accepting a burnt-looking cappuccino, which was still smoking.

“No, I’ve actually just been pulled onto a rather … time-consuming project. You’ve met Draco Malfoy, I presume? Probably sometime at Hogwarts.”

The disdain on Ernie’s face was both undeniable and predictable, though he tried to hide it by attacking his coffee. His scowl quickly transforming into a grimace of disgust.

The fact of the matter was Draco had met the Hufflepuff while at school. They’d had a number of unpleasant interactions. Both came from pureblood families but, as a matter of principle, the Slytherin avoided anyone not “worthy” enough for his House.

What a little fucking asshole he used to be.

But, regardless, the two butted heads not infrequently after Ernie saw the error in their pureblood indoctrinated ways, only to side with Potter years before Draco had the balls to do so himself. Therefore, it was completely unsurprising that the Hufflepuff still held ill-will towards him.

As for the Auror, he didn’t exactly harbor warm and fuzzy feelings towards the sweating mess in front of him. Especially not after being turned into a giant fucking slug by the man in fifth year.

But Draco could be civil so long as it was reciprocated.

“Unfortunately,” Ernie’s mouth curled into a sneer, revealing coffee-stained teeth, just as Draco was about to extend a hand in greeting.

Well fuck you too then, Draco thought maliciously.

“Oh honestly,” Hermione rolled her eyes, her tone clipped. It made Draco remember how upset she’d been to discover he was still a social pariah thanks to his previous … associations. “Ernie, here, works at the Muggle Artifacts Office with me.”

“Mmm,” Draco kept his face neutral as he carefully studied the Hufflepuff. At the way his eyes cast around as though he had a better place to be than conversing with the Golden Girl and a former Death Eater at a coffee machine first thing Monday morning. “And do you work together much?”

Instead of responding like a normal fucking person, Ernie just stared at his coffee cup - his hands shaking slightly. Apparently, he was embodying a sixteen-year-old girl and giving Draco the silent treatment. Absolutely groundbreaking approach, that was.

“No, not really.” Hermione shook her head, her mouth pursed in judgment at Ernie’s behavior. If the Hufflepuff wasn’t careful, he would probably wind up on her ‘shit list’ (if she even had one of those). “Your research concerns Muggle medicine, right?”

“Yeah,” Ernie nodded before he tossed the now-empty styrofoam cup into the bin, an odd tinkling sound coming from his blazer. “Speaking of which, I’d better be off. I’m, erm, just back from a dawn raid and need to make headway on my report. You know how it is, don’t want to forget anything.” Ernie knocked a fist against his head, which triggered that odd noise again.

Maybe it was a recording device the MoMA employees used during their investigations. Probably something the Muggles invented in 1499 or some shit.

“Oh Gods, of course,” Hermione said, sympathetically. “Best of luck, hope it all goes well!”

Draco frowned, both at the interaction and the machine’s latest interpretation of ‘coffee.’ While his existence was being ignored, he tried for a third go. Ernie had some success it seemed, so maybe it had time to warm-up. Remember the job it was supposed to do and all that.

Whatever the thing spat out this time was, at least, more brown in color. Though when Draco brought it to his lips, he nearly choked on the smell.

“Tell me again why this bloody thing serves goat’s milk.”

“I think someone in MLE is allergic to cow products,” Hermione looked equally repulsed by Draco’s drink. “Here, take mine. I’ll just tide myself over with tea until the afternoon.”

He thanked her, knowing that falling to her feet in prostration would likely be a touch too alarming. But he did drink the rest of her cup greedily, thankful he had at least some fuel in his tank to get on with the day. A moan escaped his mouth as he had the last sip, to which Hermione looked at him in alarm.

Must be nice not to be enslaved to caffeination.

As they walked back towards their office, Draco couldn’t help but think about how fucking weird Ernie Macmillan was. They may have (very openly) disliked each other in Hogwarts. But being given the cold shoulder at work was wild, something most people wouldn’t do to him even if they wanted to.

After all, he was a good Auror with an absolutely psychotic boss. If anyone was deemed to be “uncooperative” in an investigation due to their personal feelings about Draco, Bill would probably set their office on fire. The man was always a nightmare to deal with, but he made sure that Draco could do his job.

Well, unless he wanted a laugh and decided to pair his employee with Hermione Granger. But this was, hopefully, a one-off.

That wasn’t the only thing that bothered Draco about Ernie though. He used to be haughty, sure, but his attitude now was bordering on aristocratic disdain. Draco knew, of course, because he excelled at that particular flavor of judgment. He expected that air to come from someone mired in their ways and not a person as open to change as the Hufflepuff had been.

“He was a bit high-strung for so early in the morning,” Draco offered, wanting to get her read on the man. Hermione knew Ernie far better since they had served in the D.A. together and now worked in the same department.

“I’m not surprised if he’s just come back from the field. You probably deal with danger all the time. But for us, it’s pretty rare. The only time there’s a real chance for it is during a raid. For Arthur to green light anything before Ministry hours means something serious probably happened.” She looked over at him with a small frown painting her features.

“But it’s Muggle affairs…”

“Just because it’s not a criminal investigation doesn’t make the work unimportant or non-urgent,” she said, shrilly. Her eyes slid away from him - towards her old office. Likely thinking about whatever fucking report was collecting dust on her other desk.

Though it was probably a good thing her attention wavered. He knew he’d gotten off light with his off-hand comment. Clearly the caffeine was still working to fully wake him up as evidenced by him continually putting his foot in his mouth.

“You know, Hermione, you needn’t think about work every second of your life.”

“Really? Because I keep getting told that time’s of the essence for us - thereby necessitating constant attention on the matter.”

“Fair. But you were definitely just thinking about whatever you were doing in MoMA pre-transfer.”

“Do enlighten me on how you got there, Mr. Holmes.”

Draco smirked at her brattiness - he liked this side of her.

“Well, if you were thinking about our case, you would’ve looked ahead - towards our shared office and not your individual one. Since you looked towards the MoMA hallway, it was a pretty easy guess that you were thinking about your previous assignments.”

Hermione frowned, clearly a bit surprised, as they sat back down at their desks.

“Hmm, that was pretty good actually. Didn’t think anyone could do that in real-time to be honest.”

“A compliment from Hermione Granger herself? A man can die happy.”

She scoffed at him, trying to downplay her reaction to his words. But he’d already clocked the way her eyes hungrily tracked his thumb sweeping across his lip.

“Right well,” her voice came out sounding flustered, “shall we get on with it?”

“Yeah,” Draco cleared his throat, “tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I’m hung up on the Board of Governors. That list wasn’t in your handwriting.”

“Correct,” he leaned back in his office chair and clasped his hands in front of him.

“Care to tell me whose handwriting it is, Malfoy?”

“Only because you asked nicely, Hermione.”

This time when their eyes met, he held her gaze for several seconds before looking away - his lips twitching up in a smile.

“The Minister of Magic gave me that in our last meeting.” He sniffed, knowing that their easy banter was probably coming to an end when he said this next part. “It was probably one you should’ve been at, if I’m being honest.”

“When was this?”

“Just before Bill decided my office had room for another desk.” He looked at her steadily. “I’m sorry I didn’t include you. It’s been an adjustment working with someone. That and I was still exceptionally pissed Bill would drag you into this shit-storm without you having any say.”

“Oh.” Hermione started readjusting everything on her desk by an inch before getting to her feet and moving her plant into a strip of sunlight. Apparently, tidying was her tell for nervousness. “So is that why you were so …”

“Hostile and unprofessional?”

“Mmhmm.” He couldn’t see her face because she was still turned away from him, but he knew that this was a conversation that they needed to have.

“More or less.” When she didn’t respond, he knew she expected a bit more than that lackluster response. “I suppose … Christ.” He rubbed a hand down his face before urging himself onwards. Better to just be upfront about it, at this point. “Honestly, I suppose I was still a bit bitter with you testifying in my defense. It was made clear to me that that’s what got me out of the sentence I deserved.”

“Malfoy.”

“Hermione.” She turned around and he hated the look on her face. Something far closer to pity than he liked. “I did far worse things than some of my friends who just got out.”

“And you were all children at the time. Their sentencing was just as unfair as yours would’ve been. Gods, the Panel was filled with people still out for blood. And I’m not going to apologize for standing behind you so don’t expect me to. It was the right thing to come to your defense, no matter what I felt about you at the time.”

“At the time?” Draco cocked his head, narrowing his eyes at her. “That’s sounding a lot like past tense there.”

“Maybe my opinion of you has just gotten worse these last few weeks.”

“I’m not sure that’s possible,” he snorted. “But if it is, I probably deserve it with how I treated you. I’m sorry for that too.”

“Want to be a bit more specific there?”

“Well I suppose for being rude and questioning your intelligence just to get a rise out of you. That and being a general asshole at every opportunity I could to scare you away from this. I knew you could hold your own, I just didn’t want you to suffer the consequences if this all goes cold.”

“Thank you.” She opened and closed her mouth, looking like she was working up the courage to say something else. “I’m sorry as well. For being a pain in the arse, probably quite literally.”

“For the record, the airplanes never got me there. The hair though - that’s a different story.”

She smiled widely for a brief moment before the joy fell completely from her face.

“I do wish you would stop saying such terrible things about yourself though. It makes me sad.”

“Well Potter stopped doing it about five years ago. So if you end up joining him, someone needs to take up the mantle. Otherwise, my ego will over-inflate again.”

He laughed loudly when she picked up a file folder to swat him with.

“Okay, okay. I’ll make more of an effort not to say such things about myself … in your presence.” Draco caught her hand, tugging the file folder from her fingers, when she lunged forward for a second attack. “But, in all seriousness, I’m glad it’s you.”

“Me what?”

“That you’re my partner.” It looked like her brain short-circuited, her expression becoming a bit glazed as he continued to hold onto her. “I mean, could you fucking imagine me and Flint having to work together again? That man is an idiot on a good day.”

“You can’t say those things!!”

Unfortunately for Draco, holding one hand meant the other was in close enough range to land a few smacks. He finally let her go (a bit begrudgingly) and sat back in his chair, feeling lighter than he had in years.

“So, in our newfound spirit of collaboration, would you mind hitting the major points of the meeting that I wasn’t invited to?”

Draco watched, bemused, as she pulled out fresh parchment and a quill. He had to give it to her, she could fall back into professionalism in a single breath.

“Course,” Draco nodded, taking out one of his nicer sheets and sliding it towards her. “But, please, stop using the shit the Ministry buys and take mine instead. I always keep some in the second drawer.”

“Are you sure?” She adorably scrunched up her nose as she accepted the thick cream paper. “I always rip mine.”

“Oh I’m well aware.” Draco winked at her, her mouth falling open in response. “Anyway, the Minister.”

“Gods, yes, we keep getting sidetracked.”

“I’d say it’s a rather welcome distraction myself,” he smiled before turning more serious. “So with the exception of you, me, and Bill - the Minister is the only other person with full knowledge of the murder investigation.”

“Well and the murderer.”

“Sure, him too.”

“It could be a woman.”

Hermione bit her lip when Draco arched an eyebrow, their conversation already starting to go off the rails again.

“The Minister thought the names of our vics sounded familiar but couldn’t place them until after Dolohov’s death.”

“It took him three months to piece together that they were Board members?”

“I know,” Draco nodded in agreement. “But he allegedly doesn’t interact with any of them that much.”

“Why is the Board even anonymous in the first place? I know it was a post-war change but didn’t follow the public debate that closely.”

Draco was surprised by that tidbit, considering Hermione had always had her head stuck in the Daily Prophet at school to learn more about the governing of their world.

“Actually, it was something I suggested.” He tried not to show his discomfort when she snapped her head up from her notes to look at him. “I didn’t think it was a good idea that the Board be open to the influence of outsiders.”

“People like?”

“My father, if he ever came to again, alongside the other Pureblood patriarchs. I mean, obviously, most of them went to prison. But Azkaban doesn’t have that tight of security. And even though the Dark Lord is dead, that doesn’t mean their fanaticism has gone away. If they wanted certain policies pursued over others, they could probably make it happen.”

“Chief among them would likely be dismantling the Muggle Studies program.”

“Exactly.”

They fell into silence for a moment, both clearly thinking about Charity Burbage’s murder in what should’ve been their seventh year. After her death, there had been a push among the Sacred 28 to gut the entire department permanently. Draco had been one of the few vocally against the suggestion.

“So, the Minister pieces together that the victims are all Board members. Surely that means the call is coming from inside the house?”

“Very possibly or the membership leaked.”

“How would that -”

“The Minister keeps all sorts of shit in his office. If you could get in and out without detection -”

“Like our murderer’s done in the past -”

“Then the fox’s in the chicken coop.”

“Merlin. So that doesn’t narrow down our list at all.”

“I still think we take a closer look at the members. But I don’t think that’s the only lead we follow right now.”

Hermione nodded, making a small scribble as she mulled over the information.

“Have you already looked into the possibility of the Minister’s office being broken into?”

“From what we can tell, no break-ins have occurred. But it could be the same situation as the crime scenes themselves. So it’s impossible to tell. Especially when we’ve no idea when the murderer could’ve gained access.”

“And I suppose if our perp doesn’t mind using an Unforgivable to get access to the crime scene, he wouldn’t mind using one to get the information he wants.”

“Look at you using our lingo.”

Hermione burst into another wide smile and Draco thought his heart might give out.

He was absolutely doomed.

“Are we doing anything to keep the current Board members safe? Do they even know what’s happening?”

“Well, they only meet in March and October, so they haven’t had a chance to realize their rather reduced numbers yet. The families have been instructed to keep the deaths confidential until the case closes too. They aren’t even being given the bodies back for funerals,” Draco shrugged at Hermione’s horrified gaze. There were some parts of the job that were worse than others. This being one of them. “That’s all we can really do until we have more information. But we’re actively guarding the rest of them.”

“Are they in the equivalent of witness protection?” But before Draco could respond, Hermione quickly shook her head. “No, that doesn’t make sense considering we just saw Ernie.”

“Yeah, I’ve put an Auror on security detail for them. Seeing him without his was concerning, so I’ll need to follow up with his guide at some point to see what the fuck he’s playing at.”

“But wouldn’t it be a bit obvious that something’s going on if they all have someone following them around constantly?”

“We’ve just told them a credible threat’s been made and to keep it quiet. Then we’ve assigned other random Ministry workers a detail to throw off any suspicion the killer might have that we’re on to them.”

“Not a bad idea.”

“Thank you, I do do this for a living if you can imagine it.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You mean unbelievably good.”

“I take back everything I said about changing my opinion of you.”

“Whatever you say, Hermione.”

***

They were still playfully bickering when someone unexpectedly knocked on their office door. It was immediately apparent that it wasn’t Bill since he would’ve burst in unannounced, complaints and insults flying off his tongue.

The pair exchanged a quick glance to confirm that neither was expecting company before Malfoy stood up.

“It’s open,” he called.

Hermione watched as he brushed his hands over his now-unwrinkled shirt - her eyes lingering on the wand holster securely fastened to his left forearm.

“What’s happened?” She tore her attention away from her partner, the concern in his voice acting like a splash of cold water to her system.

Theodore Nott stood before them, looking as if he just Floo’ed in from Hell itself. Similar to Malfoy’s appearance that morning, it looked like the man had gotten dressed in the dark. He was wearing a crumpled navy blazer and tan pants. His white shirt was only partially buttoned while his belt was completely unbuckled. His brown hair looked bedridden, the curls still crumpled from sleep. It was surprising for someone from his House, given how much pride Slytherins usually put into their appearance.

“You’re not going to like what I have to say.” Theo’s sapphire eyes looked absolutely wild, his distress made evident through the paling of his bronze complexion and tensed shoulders. Hermione had a sinking suspicion that she wouldn’t get to have that afternoon coffee after all. “A body’s been found in my Department. The Minister told me to contact you immediately.”

Hermione felt the words sink like a stone in her stomach. The chances that this victim was unrelated to the other Ministry murders was negligible at best. Her and Malfoy had wasted so much time fighting each other and now another person was dead.

Her eyes combed over Theo, studying the boy she never had a chance to meet while at Hogwarts. Even in shock, his handsomeness was undeniable. She didn’t know much about him. Only that he was exceptionally smart and had been in Malfoy’s inner circle.

There had been a few rumors though, whispered behind hands before and after class, about his father being ‘difficult’ to live with. Theo would oftentimes come back from break with bruising on his arms. One time he came in to Potions with a black eye. The more daring students even suggested that it was his father that caused his mother’s death when he was just a child.

So, Theo’s reaction to the murder seemed surprising for a person that had known violence and death all his life. It made Hermione wonder, with a shiver coursing down her spine, what awaited them three floors above.

“It’s too fucking early for this to be happening,” Malfoy seethed as he began pacing between her and the other Slytherin.

And he was correct. They should still have near two weeks before another victim arrived on their doorstep. Apparently, the killer decided that every 30 days wasn’t making enough of a splash and decided to change tacts.

“Sorry mate, forgot you only took dead bodies after nine,” Theo deadpanned.

“That’s not what he meant,” Hermione clarified, “we shouldn’t have another victim for -”

“Hermione,” Malfoy interjected.

She froze at her partner’s warning glare. Of course, she’d forgotten about the bloody gag order when it actually mattered.

“Not the reaction I was expecting but alright.” Malfoy stared daggers at Theo, who promptly shut his mouth.

“Right, there’s nothing for it: we need to get over there immediately and lock down the scene.” Malfoy scrubbed his hands down his face, his shoulders slumped in defeat, as he approached his desk.

At least it was still early, Hermione reasoned, so the likelihood that anyone else would catch wind of the murder was relatively low.

She watched as Malfoy’s hand starting flying across crisp sheets of parchment. Upon getting closer, she saw that they were notifications to various MLE staff to report immediately to the Department of Magical Games and Sports, which Theo currently headed.

“Here, let me fold them. They should get there quicker if I do it.” Theo’s mouth dropped open at the same moment Malfoy nodded and slid several sheets her way.

“Well this morning is just full of surprises,” Theo said as he rocked back and forth on his heels. Clearly, the shock of finding a mutilated body had dispelled - only to be replaced by curiosity regarding the unlikely partners.

Neither Hermione nor Malfoy bothered to respond.

Once the airplanes shot out of the door, Malfoy turned his attention back to his friend.

“Okay, let’s head out.”

“You have everything?” At this, Theo quickly looked at Hermione before turning away. “If so, I’ll take you over there now.”

She immediately lasered in on the implication that she wouldn’t be present at the crime scene. Hermione opened her mouth to disabuse Theo of that notion just as Malfoy responded.

“Oh, and before I forget, you’ll need to tell your employees not to come in today.”

“We have a World Cup to plan, mate.”

“Not my fucking problem, Nott.”

“Fine,” Theo grit out. “What do you want me to say?”

“I genuinely don’t care so long as you don’t use the actual fucking murder as the excuse.”

“Maybe you could say there’s been a gas leak?” Hermione decided to table putting Theo in his place as her brain jumped into hyperdrive to find the best resolution. “Actually, scratch that, I have a better idea. The Magical Creatures department is on your floor as well, right?”

Theo nodded, his eyes crinkling in confusion. Probably over the fact that Hermione was not only willingly occupying the same space as Malfoy, the man who used to relentlessly bully her, but was now happy to brainstorm on his behalf as well.

“Then you should say that a pack of Diricawls got loose overnight. They’re near-extinct and scare easily so the Ministry would take every precaution against losing one.”

“Yeah, go with that,” Malfoy nodded. “Good thinking, Hermione. That’ll save us the headache of evacuating other floors under the guise of a leak.”

“I’m sorry, why do you keep calling her that?”

“Calling her what?”

“Hermione.”

“Because it’s her fucking name, Nott. Or have you somehow forgotten the person that bested you in every single subject for six years in a row?”

Hermione felt her cheeks turning a bright pink as Malfoy acknowledged her intellect. Well, some of it may have also been from him saying her name. Something she was still very much getting used to but found that she did enjoy (albeit begrudgingly).

“It’s just … unexpected, is all.” Theo looked like he was biting back a laugh at Malfoy’s hostility.

“You have a murder on your floor and you’re focused on what I call my partner?”

Okay, so the pink was definitely a deep red now. She felt something that wasn’t quite embarrassment rush to the surface of her skin in a hot tide.

Malfoy had just told someone that they were partners. He hadn’t said it in a dismissive way, not at all. It was just a fact. And that felt really good.

To be viewed as belonging in this crazy world that she felt so drawn to. At the possibility of fitting in somewhere again. Even if temporarily.

A smile pulled at her lips as a rush of gratitude filled her to the brim.

“Well now I’m focused on the fact that you apparently have a partner,” Theo muttered, a corner of his mouth quirking up into a smirk, “who just so happens to be your school cr-”

“Nott, unless you want to be the second dead body I have to deal with this morning, I suggest you not complete that sentence.”

“Right,” Hermione looked between the two Slytherins, her eyes narrowing as they danced back-and-forth. “I’ll just grab my things and follow you two out.”

“Actually, it’s probably best if you stay here.” Malfoy tensed, his tone making his hesitancy clear. “You can send over as many memos as you want regarding the scene. I’ll do what I can to get answers for you.”

She could see the compromise he’d clearly laid out before her, one she determinedly brushed aside. Frustration squashed down her earlier feelings of relief. It seemed she was still just a part of the team in name only.

“Malfoy.” His name sounded like a warning on her tongue. She stared him down, her back stiff and hands still clutching the quill and ink she’d been on the verge of pocketing.

“I’m not trying to be an asshole. I’m just trying to make the right call.” He finally met her narrowed gaze, his light grey eyes full of genuine regret. “You haven’t been cleared for field work yet.”

“I need to be there.”

“You’ll have the crime scene photographs on your desk today.”

“Just like books, pictures will only get you so far.” Both Malfoy and Theo looked as if she had grown a second head, neither apparently thinking that they would live to see the day that Hermione would make such a statement. “I might find things that would otherwise go unnoticed. You know, as a result of my expertise.”

Malfoy looked at her for a beat, clearly on the fence.

“Hermione, there are certain procedures that have to be followed that you have no knowledge of. I’m not going to be able to track your every step to make sure they’re adhered to.”

Deep down, she knew Malfoy had a very valid point. She despised having a competency gap in anything really. (Hence why she asked Ginny to give her flying lessons so Charlie would stop making fun at her poor form during the Christmas Quidditch match.) She was well aware that there was still a lot to learn about being a detective and she had every intention to do just that.

But she also wanted to show Malfoy that she could do this - right now. That she wasn’t just a burden gifted to him from Bill. She could be an actual detective and solve this case alongside him.

“I can do this. Please.” She wanted to cringe at the sheer desperation lacing the words, at the fact that she was basically begging to tag along like a little kid.

“You know, while this dynamic is definitely keeping me up tonight, I do actually have a dead person lying on my floor. So maybe you two could wrap up eye-fucking each other?”

Malfoy moved like molasses as he broke her gaze to regard Theo, looking every bit the dangerous Auror he was known for being.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize this conversation still included you.”

“Oh-ho-ho, I see someone’s feeling a bit catty today,” Theo smirked - his tone remaining playful despite the firm set of Malfoy’s jaw.

“If you don’t let me come, I’m getting Bill involved.” She hated playing that card because it would shatter the relative peace from that morning. But she didn’t know how else to convince her partner to include her.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Hermione,” Malfoy pinched his nose. “You have got to be kidding me pulling this bullshit right now…”

“Oh my God,” Theo snickered. “I understand now. Play-fighting’s the precursor then, is it? Like how you guys warm up? If so, maybe table it for later?”

Malfoy suddenly lunged towards Theo, grabbing his shirtfront and slamming him against the door - the glass pane rattling dangerously from the impact.

“I have now told you on several occasions and in multiple ways to shut the fuck up.”

Theo clearly knew he was on thin ice because he clamped his mouth shut, his hands held up in surrender.

Meanwhile, Hermione was contending with the fact that this was now the second occasion Malfoy had become almost violent after some (admittedly, unprofessional) teasing about their relationship.

Maybe he just really hated the suggestion that they would ever get together in that way. Whatever. They had far more important things to deal with at the moment.

“I’m coming with you and that’s the end of the matter,” Hermione crossed her arms and waited, her chin tilted upwards.

Malfoy let out an interminably long sigh before finally releasing Theo and turning back towards her. His eyes lingered for a moment and she wondered what he saw.

“Fine.” Hermione immediately started bouncing on her feet while he tried to quell her excitement with a raised hand. “But you have to swear to me that you’ll do absolutely everything I say.”

She was already nodding her acceptance, her feet turning towards the door.

He stepped in front of her before she even made it two steps, the space between them almost nonexistent.

“I’m serious, Hermione.” His gaze slowly tracked across her features. “If you accidentally taint this crime scene, it could affect our prosecution chances later down the line. I don’t need a million questions when I tell you to do something, I just need you to do it.”

“I promise, I’ll do whatever you want.” Her breathing hitched as his hands remained on her upper arms a moment too long before he finally backed away.

“Huh,” Theo cocked his head, his sapphire eyes gleaming. “Who knew the Golden Girl would be so eager to take orders from a Slytherin.”

“Why are you still here,” Hermione snapped while Malfoy basically started growling beside her in warning.

“Because I’m waiting to take you to the crime scene?”

“I didn’t realize we needed an escort to take a bloody elevator.”

“Draco, could you please tame your partner for me?” Theo bit his bottom lip as he tried to hold back another laugh.

In hindsight, maybe she could understand Malfoy’s aggression. It would be rather nice if everyone stopped implying that their coupling was inevitable.

After all, they were fundamentally incompatible.

Malfoy had spent nearly six years making it a mission to bully her out of Hogwarts. Yes, he was different now. But they still fought more than they got along.

And looks could only get you so far. Though …

No, they wouldn’t work. Surely, everyone saw that?

“Absolutely the fuck not,” Malfoy shook his head, a smirk crossing his features. “And if she punches you, mate, know that you definitely deserve it.”

“Of course you’d take her side against one of your oldest friends.”

Hermione’s eyebrows creased in confusion as she followed the two men out the door.

“Just shut up and take us to the scene, please.”

Chapter 11: The Impracticalities of Being an Amateur Sleuth

Notes:

A bit of an interlude from the tension today so we can put on our detective hats.

But next week is the start of some of my favorite chapters that I've written thus far, so hope you'll enjoy them too :)

Chapter Text

Malfoy strode past Hermione and Theo, having just gone back for something he’d left in his desk. Based on the small glass vial in his hand, it was likely some sort of potion.

She was just about to ask him what it was when he pocketed the object, his feet coming to an abrupt halt outside Bill Weasley’s door.

“What the fuck do you want, Draco?” The Head Auror’s irritated growl floated down the hallway as Malfoy poked his head in, presumably to break the news.

“We have another one.”

Hermione watched her partner quickly slam the door shut without another word, though the wooden barrier did nothing to dampen the sound of Weasley’s prolific cursing.

“Stop getting your panties in a twist. I’ve told you everything I have right now.”

Malfoy continued his brisk walk down the MLE hallway towards the elevators; Hermione and Theo trailing behind - very much looking like trainees going on their first assignment.

“Give me a rundown of what happened this morning.”

“Right,” Theo nodded at Malfoy. “Well after getting the Patronus from Elphora, my secretary, I got in touch with the Minister - then came directly to you.”

Hermione pulled out the quill and parchment stuffed in her pocket as she walked, wondering how she could possibly take legible notes on the move.

“So you haven’t seen the body yet,” she clarified.

Theo shook his head. “I was still in bed when the Patronus burst through my wall. Obviously.” He took a beleaguered glance down before starting the process of making himself presentable. “I didn’t want to hold off telling you guys.”

A bell sounded, announcing the arrival of an empty lift. Malfoy used a fob on an interior black panel before hitting number eight for the Department of Magical Games and Sports.

“Before you ask, because I know you’re about to -” Her partner arched an eyebrow at Hermione, who had actually just opened her mouth with a question dancing on her tongue. He smiled as she clamped her lips back together. “Every Auror gets one of these to access floors without having to stop eighteen times on the way.”

Hermione nodded. It made sense for detectives to have such a thing. Though she imagined the privilege was likely abused every morning when people wanted to avoid commuting traffic between floors.

“And what did the Patronus say after scaring you shitless?” Malfoy continued on with his questioning seamlessly, smirking over at Theo who’d just finished buttoning his shirt.

“Just that someone was lying on the floor, clearly deceased.”

“Did she give you any idea what she meant by that?” Hermione’s brow furrowed as she wondered how the killer had escalated his violence this time.

“Nope. That’s all she said.”

“I’m assuming the Patronus was corporeal if it was able to relay messages?” Hermione looked to Theo for confirmation before asking what shape the spell took.

Theo turned to Malfoy with a bewildered expression, clearly thinking this was some strange prank that must be nearing its end. Embarrassment flooded through her as she was, once again, reminded that she was merely playing the role of a detective. Nothing more.

“Answer the fucking question,” Malfoy said, a touch hotly.

“Erm … her Patronus is a dormouse.”

“Did it just scurry over your face until you stopped shaking the walls with your snoring?” Hermione could see the beginning of a smirk form on Malfoy’s face as he teased his friend.

“Do you actually want me to fucking answer that,” Theo retorted.

“No, I’m just being a dick,” Malfoy shrugged his shoulders. “Good follow-up though, Hermione.”

He smiled briefly at her and she brightened at (what she would consider) the glowing assessment. Though he had already turned back to Theo to explain the question’s relevancy before she could say anything in response.

“The Ministry started tracking the form people’s Patronuses took shortly after the war ended. So we can cross-reference the spell’s corporeal form with the registration list - make sure it was actually your secretary who sent that message to you.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows, surprised that Theo didn’t know any of that information already. Presumably he used a Patronus to speak with the Minister earlier this morning. Though it was entirely possibly that he relied on an owl instead.

After all, some people didn’t have enough happy memories to produce anything corporeal. Based on the rumors that circulated around Hogwarts, it wouldn’t be a shock if Theo had trouble with the spell.

She glanced at the stamp of black runic ink on his neck, knowing that could be another reason for his lack of knowledge. He only received a two-year sentence but a lot happened immediately after the war. (Like the Patronus Registration Act.)

“It had her voice, mate.”

“But voices can be easily replicated with Polyjuice Potion,” Hermione explained. “It’s difficult to make but not impossible.”

While her experience with the infamous concoction was well-known, most people didn’t know the full extent of it. Still, she could feel the eyes of both men boring into her - which she adamantly refused to meet. They were both probably thinking about the time she’d turned herself into a cat. The memory making her feel unbearably hot.

“Did your secretary recognize the victim?” Malfoy continued on as if Hermione hadn’t spoken, leaving whatever thoughts he had about her questionable potion history unstated.

“No. I mean, I dunno. She didn’t say either way,” Theo shrugged.

Malfoy looked like he was starting to have difficulty keeping his anger in check from the way his jaw kept ticking.

Meanwhile, Hermione scribbled madly on her parchment - using the wall as leverage while she recorded their conversation. So far, she’d only scratched four lines through her notes (which was entirely due to the abrupt forward and sideways movement of the elevator).

“You don’t think this has anything to do with the Cup, do you,” Theo asked, suddenly. “I mean, Bulgaria was exceptionally pissed that we chose France for the tournament. I was meant to meet with some of them later today.”

“You’re thinking that this was done as a threat,” Malfoy responded, his tone giving nothing away.

When Theo nodded, Hermione opened her mouth to reassure him that it had nothing to do with his work. That it instead pertained to a separate matter. But Malfoy shrugged his shoulders, looking over at his friend with an almost bored expression on his face. Clearly, he’d either mastered his anger or put on a carefully-constructed mask.

“Hard to tell either way. We’ll need to access the scene and go from there. But if it does have anything to do with the upcoming games, we’ll work closely with your department to keep you informed.”

“You know that’s bullshit MLE speak and vague as shit. Can’t you tell me anything else?”

“No,” Malfoy turned his head and bore holes into the elevator doors - clearly done with his questioning for the time being. But while her partner might be ready to stand in silence, Hermione still had a few things she needed answered.

“What happened after you received the Patronus?”

Theo opened his mouth, his eyes narrowing. It seemed a constant surprise to him whenever she deigned to ask anything.

Which was probably reasonable considering most people knew she’d been with MoMA since the war ended. At least, the Daily Prophet made a point to mention it every year when they gave updates on what remained of the Golden Trio. So, it really made no sense for her to be here.

The last headline flashed through Hermione’s mind, anguish flooding through her at the memory. 'Auror Harry Potter, soaring to new heights, and Muggle Analyst Hermione Granger, still the greatest disappointment of her age.'

She forced herself to ignore the feeling of not being good enough, focusing instead on Theo’s words.

“Um, well I told her not to touch anything. To lock the Department back up and wait for me in the hallway until I got there.”

“And how did you do that? Just to confirm … for the record.” She winced, not knowing if that was a thing detectives actually said. But Malfoy nodded at her encouragingly.

“Oh, I cast a Patronus. Mine’s an antelope. I’m guessing I’ll be needing to register that soon…”

“And did she say whether the doors to the Department were unlocked when she arrived?” Malfoy asked the question as he led the way out of the elevator and down a hallway decorated with photographs from famous Quidditch matches.

“She didn’t say either way.”

“Of course she didn’t.” Malfoy quickly shot a glance at Hermione, who nodded at him. That would definitely be something they’d have to follow up on in a later interview.

They slowed their footsteps as they approached two massive wooden doors, carved into a scene of a Quidditch pitch, a game ongoing. Bludgers flew after robed players and a small Snitch danced in the upper panel.

Hermione turned to a small woman nervously waiting for them in front of the Department entrance. She was bent over from advanced age, her cat-eye glasses magnifying her eyes to bug-like proportions.

“You must be Theo’s secretary,” she said kindly.

“Name’s Elphora Wright.” Her voice warbled as she untangled shaking hands from an eyewear strap dotted throughout with pearls. “I’ve been with Theo now for three odd years.”

“Ms. Wright, I’m Auror Malfoy and this is Head Consultant Granger.” He nodded at Hermione before continuing, his tone as gentle as possible. “We’re going to need you to sit tight while we go over the scene. Once we’re done, we’ll sit you down for an interview and then you can return home for the day.”

Hermione looked at her partner, trying not to show the surprise she felt which would promptly undermine the authority he had just given her. But Head Consultant? She was pretty sure that the title didn’t even exist - though she rather liked the sound of it.

Elphora nodded, letting Malfoy guide her over to a spot further down the hallway where she couldn’t overhear their conversation.

“I’m guessing this means you don’t want her to unlock the doors for you?” Theo hadn’t had a chance to speak with his secretary yet and glanced down the hall hesitantly, obviously worried about her. The woman was making a good show of bravery but it was clear just how frightened she was.

“Correct,” Malfoy cast an annoyed look back at the elevators. “Our forensics team need to analyze whether a break-in occurred. That is if they ever bother to show up.”

“We only sent the notifications less than half an hour ago,” Hermione reminded him. “People are probably just getting to their desks now.” She gave him a pointed look before muttering, “it’s not like we expected this to happen today, did we?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes, apparently of the opinion that people should just know when they were needed.

“Actually, this might be a good time for me to send a few Patronuses of my own. Tell my staff that they’re getting an entire day off. Despite our next Cup being less than a year away.” Theo didn’t even bother keeping the sarcasm out of his voice.

“Oh, I’m sorry the dead body on your floor is a giant fucking inconvenience to you,” Malfoy retorted. “I’ll make sure to drive that point home when I do the family notification later today.”

“Sorry mate, I don’t mean to be such a dick about it. I’m just stressed.” Theo shook his head, causing a mess of brown curls to fall into his eyes. He stepped away with a sigh that even Hermione could feel the weight of. After taking a moment to say a quick word to Elphora, he pulled out his wand and began casting.

“I don’t understand,” Hermione frowned. “He seemed like he was in shock when he came in this morning.”

“Yeah, well, that tends to dispel once people realize they can’t get where they need to be for the foreseeable future. Especially when they don’t know the victim.” Malfoy followed Hermione’s gaze, watching for a moment as an antelope burst from his friend’s wand and galloped through the walls. “That and being a Death Eater tends to permanently fuck with your head. We had to learn to shut out our emotions in order to survive. Not let anything really permeate too deeply.”

“That’s horrible.”

“Yeah, well, we did what we needed to.”

The ping of an elevator sounded down the hall, followed by the sight of the lift regurgitating a flood of crime scene technicians. Hermione spotted Colin Creevey, clutching his camera, among them.

“Now that everyone finally decided to show up, let’s go over a few things.” Malfoy’s voice rang out clear and crisp, every head turning in his direction to pay him close attention. “Miss Granger is assisting on scene today. If she has any questions, prioritize answering them.”

Hermione’s breathing hitched as she felt a sea of eyes swiveling between the two of them. This was suddenly starting to feel very real. And she was struggling with the sensation of being out of her depth.

“We need a magical analysis done ASAP on the doors. That means you’re up,” Malfoy pointed at none other than Marietta Edgecombe.

The Ravenclaw nodded at both of them before making her way over to the wooden doors, pulling out her wand as she did so.

Her reddish-blonde hair was pulled back into a tight bun, any stray hairs clearly cemented down by a layer of thick gel. Evidently, someone found a cure for the curse Hermione worked into the D.A. membership sheet years prior. A spell which had caused the young woman to don a horrific set of purple boils (which later turned to scars). Now, when Hermione looked at her, she could only see one or two small dots from the original line-up.

The familiar feeling of guilt brushed against Hermione’s consciousness for what she’d done to the girl. She sighed, shaking the feeling away, before watching Marietta wordlessly cast a spell on herself, the effect a silver shimmer cascading down her body.

“Check for the usual things, namely forced entry by physical and magical means.” Malfoy spoke in a clipped tone, stepping closer to watch the technician work.

Marietta nodded in confirmation as her hand pulled out a magnifying glass from a small bag secured to her hip.

“No immediate signs of forced entry,” she stated after thoroughly inspecting the door with the Muggle tool. “I’m not seeing any signs of scratch marks around the keyhole or bent pin tumblers either.”

“Not surprising,” Malfoy scrubbed a hand down his face. “And from a magical perspective?”

Marietta dropped her magnifying glass back into her bag before picking up her wand. Her hands started twisting and turning, words falling rapidly from her mouth.

“That looks like a magical detection spell,” Hermione murmured, stepping closer to Malfoy so that only he would hear. She wasn’t necessarily keen on people finding out that the person meant to be ‘helping out’ on the crime scene had no idea what was going on.

“Good catch,” Malfoy smirked, much to Hermione’s delight.

The spell Marietta was casting had been an exciting bit of magical development post-war. Essentially, it extended the effect of Priori Incantatem beyond wands to include all objects. If performed correctly, the spell would reveal what magic had interacted with the item over the preceding 24 hours. Though the incantation couldn’t reveal at what time the spells were cast, just their order in that time period.

Four words suddenly appeared in smoke, hovering just above the keyhole.

‘Alohomora’ glimmered in gold, ‘Colloportus’ shimmered in purple, followed by another ‘Alohomora’ and ‘Colloportus.’

“That doesn’t make sense,” Hermione looked to Malfoy with a frown, her voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe Marietta didn’t cast the spell correctly.” But even as she said it, she knew that wasn’t the case.

Marietta had been precise in her movements and intonations, everything done with an impressive degree of skill.

“Something isn’t adding up, that’s for fucking sure,” Malfoy gritted through his teeth, his hand rubbing his jaw.

Hermione couldn’t agree more. After all, it was the start of the work week. Meaning that there should only be two spells appearing in the smoke, not four.

But only Elphora Wright had the clearance to unlock these doors. So why had she needed to do that twice on a Monday morning? It just didn’t make sense.

“Is it possible that the killer bypassed the access issue with Polyjuice Potion?”

But Malfoy shook his head.

“I suppose that makes sense,” Hermione muttered, trying to consider the problem from multiple angles. “The potion changes your appearance but it doesn’t change your magical signature.”

“Exactly.”

The partners exchanged a weighted look. And Hermione couldn’t help but wonder if the killer used the Imperius curse twice on Elphora. If they had needed to go back for something and, if so, what it was.

They would need to prioritize verifying whether the secretary even remembered unlocking the doors in the first place.

Hermione guessed that question would reveal significant gaps in Elphora’s memory, likely a result of targeted Obliviation - maybe more so than the other witnesses.

“I’m going to tell Nott to make his way down to the atrium,” Malfoy said, his voice returning to a normal level. “The only person who speaks to the secretary going forward is me or Ms. Granger.”

Hermione’s lips parted in surprise as he swiveled around to interrupt Theo’s casting.

Elphora remaining standing in the spot Malfoy first deposited her, shrinking back against the wall any time a crime scene technician got too close. She was now even paler, almost ghost-like, and her tremors had taken over her entire body.

When Hermione finally looked away from the frail woman, she noticed a heated exchange taking place between Malfoy and Theo. Her partner shook his head and Theo cast a desperate glance towards his Department before slumping his shoulders and making his way over to the elevators. Malfoy followed, swiping his fob and seeing his friend off with a clap to the shoulder.

After he returned to Hermione’s side, she asked if everything was okay.

“Yeah. He just wasn’t keen to leave without his work files. So I told him he had the option of fucking off on his own accord or being dragged out forcibly.” Malfoy smiled thinly. “Obviously, he chose the first option.”

Hermione frowned, wondering if he was always this aggressive while in the field or if it had something to do with the trace amounts of caffeine in his system.

“Okay, Edgecombe,” Malfoy turned back to the Ravenclaw, “you’re clear to go ahead.”

Marietta had been waiting on the sidelines, just in Hermione’s periphery, since Malfoy first walked away. She now promptly spun around and began casting the unlocking charm on the Department’s front doors.

“I thought only Theo’s secretary had clearance to do that,” Hermione said, surprise coloring her tone when the spell actually worked.

“Yes and no.” Malfoy’s head cocked side-to-side, a small smile playing at his lips. “Elphora’s the only one in this Department that can open these doors. But, for security reasons, MLE has a few people with access to every office.”

“And one of those people is Marietta Edgecombe?” The name soured on Hermione’s tongue as she said it.

Malfoy nodded and Hermione’s frown deepened as she crossed her arms.

“That’s rich.”

Especially considering that Marietta was the reason Umbridge discovered Dumbledore’s Army in the first place. Yes, it might’ve been years behind them now. But Hermione still felt a touch of resentment at the betrayal. That and it was a bit on the nose the Ravenclaw was now responsible for giving MLE access to other’s secure locations.

“Maybe, but she had experience and she’s pretty good at it so -” Malfoy shrugged, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“I suppose,” Hermione grumbled, dropping the matter as she remembered something she wanted to ask her partner. “Before I forget, I think we should bring Elphora somewhere less hectic. She looks a bit skittish with everyone congregating in the hall.”

Malfoy followed her gaze, his brows furrowing for a second, before he nodded.

“Yeah, that’s a good call. Stay here until I get back?”

He didn’t wait for her answer, but instead jogged over to Theo’s secretary. After a brief conversation, he led her away to an elevator into which they quickly disappeared.

And though the Department doors were now unlocked, everyone seemed to be waiting for Malfoy to return and give the all-clear. The air was pregnant with nervous energy and Hermione shuffled her feet as she stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the technicians, hoping to avoid conversation that could possibly lead her into making a fool of herself.

She breathed a sigh of relief when her partner finally reappeared by her side several minutes later, his cheeks flushed and his breathing heavy.

“Sorry, got back as quickly as I could. We keep a room for witnesses down in MLE. It’s quiet, stocked with tea and snacks. Gets them away from all this.” Malfoy looked at Hermione appreciatively. “Honestly, should’ve thought to take her there myself.”

“Maybe having a partner will be good for you after all,” Hermione joked, trying to downplay the nervousness taking over her body.

Malfoy nodded tightly before clearing his throat, his back suddenly ramrod straight.

“Right so from here on out -”

“I’m doing everything you say,” Hermione cut him off, her eyes meeting his. “Without a million questions.”

“Exactly,” Malfoy smirked. “So, the game-plan is still the same as before. We’ll process the scene together and then head down to interview Elphora.“

“Actually, about that …” Hermione trailed off when he looked at her, his eyebrows raised incredulously. Right, she promised no questions. This was going to be rather difficult. “It’s just … I’m a bit surprised that you would want me to sit in on the interview.”

“Well, if you can handle whatever’s waiting for us in there, you can handle speaking to witnesses.” Malfoy said this as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“But I could make a mistake, ask a leading question or something.”

“Well you can’t do worse than our trainees.” His eyes momentarily softened as Hermione continued to splutter about all the things she could do wrong. “Look, the fact that you’re already thinking along those lines is a good sign. All of this will be a learning curve. But I suspect you’ll be far better with people than I am. To be honest, you’ve been nothing but helpful this morning. So I’d be an idiot not to include you.”

Hermione swallowed thickly as his words seeped into her skin.

“Only if you’re sure.”

“I don’t have a single doubt, which is honestly saying something since I didn’t want a partner in the first place.”

***

“And you’re sure you want to do this?” Draco stepped close to Hermione, effectively crowding out her view of the team surrounding them.

He didn’t want her to feel any sort of pressure about staying. He probably should’ve kept his fucking mouth shut in the first place about why she was even here with him. He didn’t love the idea of her dealing with a million asides about not being a good ‘assistant’ or whatever other innuendo his team came up with if she did decide to leave.

“Malfoy, you’ve asked me this five times already.”

“And I’ll keep asking again and again until I’m satisfied, Hermione.”

Hand to heart, he hadn’t been lying when he told her that he didn’t question her capabilities. But he was feeling a touch protective. Which led to the third-degree she was currently getting. He would fucking hate himself if she was forcing herself to stay, just to prove some point that didn’t matter.

And anyone with eyes could see how nervous she looked. She had inched herself closer to Draco such that her bare arm kept brushing his shirt every time she shifted her weight from foot to foot. Which was to say, constantly. Not only that, but she’d nearly bitten her lip raw too.

If they had any sort of privacy whatsoever, he would sit her down and talk about it. See how she was actually feeling about the task in front of them. Unfortunately, the longer they stood in this crowded fucking hallway, the more stares they got from his team. So a verbal check-in was the best he could do.

Christ. This was yet another reason he didn’t want a consultant in the first place. He didn’t like the idea of fucking up another person’s head because of what the job demanded. What it forced you to see.

And he hated that the person standing beside him right now was Hermione, a person whose trauma Draco had a direct fucking role in creating.

“Malfoy, I’m sure.” The glint of determination in her golden-brown eyes mirrored what Draco had seen in himself when he was a trainee Auror. “Or as positive as I’ll ever be.”

“Okay.” She was still looking paler than he liked, but he would have to trust her to be honest with him. And if this scene caused her lasting damage, he would personally escort their killer to the lowest level of Hell. Free of charge.

“First things first, we’ll need to create a protective barrier around the crime scene.” He wanted her to feel as calm as possible, the tactic for doing that being the most obvious one. Namely, teach the bookworm something new.

Today’s lesson: Processing a Crime Scene!

She nodded, casting a quick glance through the crack in the Department’s doors.

“I’ll walk you through how to do that now and then our techs will follow us in.” He sighed, silently willing the Fates to give him a fucking break here and let this scene not be something that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Hermione let Draco lead the way into the Department for Magical Games and Sports, following so close that she stepped on his heel a few times like they were in a haunted house.

And maybe they were.

Because Draco immediately clocked the body first thing and had no idea how to distract Hermione from all the … parts.

“Right, so basically we’ll need to spell a giant bubble around the crime scene.” He turned around to make sure that he was effectively blocking her view, looking at their surroundings as he did so. “Given how fucked up this entire place looks, we’ll use the walls as the perimeter.”

The Department was currently awash in early morning light from the floor-to-ceiling windows. The brightness completely out-of-place for the macabre scene at Draco’s back. Normally, this space looked pretty similar to the MLE bullpen (if you took out the nice view and replaced it with a shittly-painted wall). Which meant that there were a fuck-ton of desks cluttered with reams of paperwork.

If a murder hadn’t happened sometime in the night, tired trainees would probably be working through their caffeine fix by now with biscuit crumbs sticking to their chins.

The walls to their immediate left and right were dotted with the private offices of higher-ups.

However, since their killer decided he needed more space for his latest art installation, the doors were currently blocked by the desks and toppled-over chairs. Papers were littering the floor in complete disarray. Draco guessed that whoever got tasked with cleaning this shit up would be promptly quitting.

A cluster of black candles were situated near the circle of blood, smoke rising from the wicks as the wax continued to pool outwards. He imagined the residue would linger there, no matter what cleaning product they used. Draco made a mental note to send Nott carpentry suggestions sometime this week.

Fuck.

Alright, he needed to get Hermione through this house of horrors. And that meant not losing his fucking shit.

But he would absolutely be getting black-out drunk tonight, there was no question about it.

“So, we use the same warding spells that you relied on during your Horcrux hunt.”

“How -” She was cut off by the loud chiming of a wall clock, announcing a new hour.

Great, it was finally nine a.m. What a way to start the fucking week.

“Before you suggest it, I didn’t read whatever book was published detailing your every move during the war.” Draco smirked, hoping his tone sounded light so that she wouldn’t catch the actual tension he felt. “Potter told me when we were trainees together. MLE use the spells so no one can see the scene that isn’t authorized to do so. It’s especially helpful in keeping the press off our backs. We use a tracking spell as well that notes everyone coming in and leaving.”

“Is that really necessary? I mean, surely people don’t actually come back to the scene of the crime.”

“It’s a thing.” The twitch of Draco’s lips into an almost smile was genuine as Hermione scoffed.

“I always thought it was a rather bad plot device in my novels.”

“Criminals aren’t exactly known for being intelligent, Hermione. You wouldn’t believe how many people we’ve actually caught doing it.”

She wrinkled her nose, either from the thought of someone doing anything that obvious or the smell permeating the room, he wasn’t sure. He briefly wondered if he should cast a nose-blocking charm on her but decided against it. He would hold her hand through as much of this as she needed but wouldn’t make assumptions.

Because doing so would, at the minimum, lead to cutting words and, at worst, a smack.

“I’m going to start setting up the perimeter so keep your eyes on me. I want to be sure that you know the right spells and wand movements.”

She obviously did know them, considering who she was. But if she watched him, then she wouldn’t have a chance to peak around his towering frame.

And it’s not like she would ever need to cast these spells herself. Because he would make damn sure that she was never involved with another fucking crime scene in her life.

“Actually, I was the one who set up the wards for our camp,” she said this as if Draco didn’t already know that she was the only capable one of the Golden Trio.

“Just in case you’ve forgotten then,” Draco gave her a small smile before she finally nodded.

Though he could easily cast nonverbally (because he wasn’t a fucking moron), he made sure his incantations were spoken out loud.

It was easy enough to fall back into the familiar rhythms of his job. He could probably form barriers in his sleep. But, still, he spent more time than he needed setting everything up just so she could keep her eyes on something other than the dead fucking body lying six feet away. At least for a few more minutes.

Every time he felt her eyes wavering, he reminded her to keep looking at him. He tried not to think about how her gaze felt like a fire on his skin. That was … he would just have to deal with that later.

Anyway, it was clear that his strategy was working. She was following along as best as she could, even though she was a bit distracted. Understandably so.

Because fuck if Draco wasn’t to.

He just wasn’t sure what was pulling his attention more.

A shimmer of magic washed over him when his casting was complete. That would be the tracking spell, logging their presence.

He nodded his head, content with the barrier, and called out to his team - letting them know they could begin processing this shit-show. When he finally looked over at Hermione, he realized his mistake. His heart plummeting into his stomach.

She’d turned away from him at some point when he was distracted and was now staring at their victim. Her cheeks were blanched, her hand covering her mouth as if to stop vomit coming out.

This was a fucking nightmare for her first homicide. (Not that she would have a second, but still.) He knew that he should’ve left her behind. The last thing he wanted was to add to whatever fucking night terrors she probably still had from that night in the Manor.

And, of course, their perp had really outdone himself this time too - upping the violence in extraordinary measure. Even Draco felt a wave of nausea overcome him while looking at it.

And he had seen the wide range of fucked-up and traumatizing things psychopaths did to people when bored.

He looked back at the victim, willing the rage simmering in his chest to calm down so he could get through this as quickly as possible. Get her out of here and somewhere far away from the curious eyes of his team.

The hands and feet of the victim were severed, their places switched. All the digits themselves had been cut off and now fanned out around the victim’s head (which was not connected to the fucking body, by the way).

Their vic was currently unknown because the face was hiding from view by a cloth covering. So who knew what surprises their little maniac had left for them under there.

Hermione gulped loudly beside him and he wondered if now would be a good time to shove her out of the room before she threw up the few sips of coffee from earlier.

***

The last time Hermione saw a dead body was during the war and it hadn’t looked nearly as gruesome as this.

That was the thing no one considered about Unforgivables. They were clean. To be hit with the Killing Curse meant instantaneous death, yes. But it also happened with no pain, without a drop of blood spilling. Just an immediate stopping of the heart induced by a bright green light.

This was anything but soft.

Gods, extremities had literally been sawed off and moved about. The cuts not clean, but made hastily. She could see the victim’s ankle joint from where she stood. It had been forcibly shattered by whatever the killer used, pieces of bone clinging to meat and tendon.

Her stomach lurched dangerously and she willed herself not to vomit.

She told Malfoy that she could do this. And she would. Even though it was presenting a remarkable challenge at present.

Having studied the prior crime scene photos closely, she did think it would be fine. (Admittedly, Dolohov’s body led to her throwing up in her waste bin. But she hadn’t had anything for breakfast today so her chances were better than before.) And while she knew that the killer disfigured his victims, each had been different. So it was impossible to know what to really expect with each successive murder.

But the mutilation wasn’t really the main issue she was dealing with.

It was the smell.

She had forgotten about the smell of death. Of the excrement released by the body upon the victim’s final breath. The staleness perfuming the air. The rot.

And even though the killer cleaned his victim’s bodies, the smell apparently lingered.

She nearly allowed herself a second of weakness to ask Malfoy if she might cast a nose-blocking charm on herself. But he hadn’t needed one so neither would she.

He placed a hand on her back, the contact so unexpected that she nearly jumped an inch high. She’d been staring at the victim without blinking for who knows how long. She looked at her partner, realizing that he was speaking to her. But his voice sounded like it was coming from underwater.

She blinked a few times, trying to clear her head before asking him to repeat himself.

“Here, drink this.” In his hand was the small vial he’d gone back for earlier. It contained an orange liquid that she guessed was an anti-nausea potion.

“Thanks,” she quickly uncapped the bottle and drained the contents. The flavor of ginger and honey momentarily overwhelming her taste buds.

Crime scene techs slowly started filtering in, their hands busy with everything from measuring tools to tweezers and wands. There were so many non-magical devices being used that it surprised Hermione. She assumed everything would be done with magic. But, maybe this was one thing the Muggles did better: killing people and then analyzing the fallout.

“Feeling better?” Malfoy spoke quietly, his gaze intent on her.

“Yeah, it was just - I forgot about the smell.”

“It never gets better,” he said, a look of disgust passing across his face. He didn’t say anything else, as if he was giving her another out if she needed one.

“What’s next?” She wouldn’t leave the scene unless he forced her. Well, she might to throw up somewhere but then she would return immediately and get back to work.

She could do this. She would.

“We have a bit more procedure to go over and then we can start processing the scene together. Under no circumstances are you to touch anything, and I mean anything, until you’re gloved.”

Hermione nearly rolled her eyes into the back of her head. She may not be an official Auror but she wasn’t an idiot. Plus, that was the one rule absolutely everyone should know.

“You don’t need to worry about taking any more handwritten notes. So keep the quill and parchment in your pocket. I think I might off myself if something falls to the ground and I have to deal with scene contamination.”

She pursed her lips, annoyed that Malfoy would think she’d be so careless, but he continued on before she could get a word in edgewise.

“Our Department invests in Quick-Notes Quills for a reason. You just need to state what you want out loud and it’ll be written down by that thing.” He pointed over to where an Auror was currently setting up a levitating quill and parchment scroll, speaking quietly and watching it write to confirm that it was working correctly.

Hermione suppressed a quick shudder, instantly reminded of Rita Skeeter.

“Um, what else? If you need to throw up, please leave the fucking barrier to do it. That goes hand-and-hand with avoiding scene contamination. It’s probably the most important thing I’ve said so don’t forget it.”

“Vomit in the hallway, got it.” Preemptive embarrassment flooded through her at the thought of having to do that. Maybe she could just swallow it until she got back to their office if things got bad enough?

“Now for magical chain of custody. This shouldn’t come into play for you, but I want to go over it all the same.” Hermione frowned before her partner quickly clarified. “If you see something you want bagged, call me over and I’ll do it for you. It’s standard procedure until Aurors pass their training.”

Her eyes brightened at the suggestion she was being treated like the others. Well like a newbie. But she could take that. That’s what she was, right? She forced herself to focus again on his words.

“You just need to put the object into one of these.” Malfoy reached over and plucked a bright green bag from a technician. “Make sure to label whatever the fuck it is correctly. When Finnegan graduated training, he put a blood-soaked sneaker in a bag labelled for a shattered wand. Bill actually choked the idiot when he found out.”

“Got it. But I’d only do that after I’m gloved?”

“Precisely. So put the object in the bag then spell it closed, which requires identifying your name and Ministry ID number. Every time someone handles the object after that, they need to state their own identifiers. So on and so forth. With me so far?”

Hermione nodded, soaking in everything Malfoy was telling her.

“Alright then, I’m just going to ask you one more time. Are you absolutely sure that you don’t want to sit this out? I won’t hold it against you. This is incredibly gruesome for a first scene, Hermione.”

“Malfoy, if we don’t solve this before we have another victim, it’ll only get worse.”

“All I’m saying is that you don’t need to do this if you feel like it’s too much.”

Hermione looked away from him, nodding at Colin Creevey who just entered the protective barrier with his camera already raised.

She felt uncomfortable backing down from any challenge, being forced to admit that (maybe) she wasn’t ready for something despite whatever front she’d put up.

But her constitution was currently on the verge of betraying her. Which was absolutely ridiculous considering all the detective stories she consumed. That and the literal war she’d lived through. She didn’t understand why this was different.

Hermione considered Malfoy’s offer and how genuine it felt. He was letting her decide what was right for her in the moment. And she was tempted to give in. To let her self-doubt and fear win.

But, instead she steeled herself. That small voice in her head wasn’t taking the lead today.

“No, I want to do this. I’m not going to be a burden on this case any longer, Malfoy.”

“You’ve never been that.” He brushed his hand over her hair as a small frown pulled at his lips.

It was a bit of an odd moment for a display of affection. But she soon realized her mistake when a wave of magic poured over her, the telltale tingling stretching from her head down to the tips of her toes. She looked down at her hands when the feeling subsided and saw that they were faintly shimmering from a silver light.

“That’s the charm that prevents evidence contamination.”

Malfoy stepped away to perform the same spell on himself before turning to approach the latest victim of the Ministry murders. Hermione took that as the signal to don her own metaphorical deerstalker and get to work.

Chapter 12: "Draco, Draco, Draco"

Notes:

enjoy lovelies. :) this is the beginning of a few weeks of madness.

hermione has been through it since the war but she's finally getting there.

Chapter Text

Draco fucking despised working on homicides.

His chosen career path notwithstanding, he hated being surrounded by death. It reminded him of his time as the Dark Lord’s servant. When the Manor was always filled with prisoners getting tortured into their afterlife.

If he could, he would never work a fucking murder case again. Just task him with finding the Dark wizards still on the lam. He could happily hunt those motherfuckers until his hair turned grey and his bones brittle. Hell, even being on desk assignment for the rest of his career would be preferable.

Anything to avoid doing another family notification where he had to break the news that would destroy someone’s fucking life.

Unfortunately for Draco, he had made a name for being an excellent detective - able to close more cases than anyone in the Department but Bill Weasley himself. Which meant the difficult ones landed on his fucking desk and almost every complex matter ended in murder.

He sighed, forcing himself to take a breath before the mask descended once again. Not the one he crafted in childhood, designed to mirror his father’s aristocratic disdain for the wider world. The one expected of a Malfoy heir.

No, the one he donned now was eerily similar to the silver mask the Dark Lord ‘gifted’ him all those years ago. It was the thing that helped him survive the war. Giving him a way to push his emotions so far down, he didn’t know if they would ever resurface.

Releasing his breath, he felt the moment he descended into coldness. Into nothingness. Knowing that he was ready to do what was required of him once more.

Draco approached the latest victim, careful not to disturb the blood ringing the body. Hermione followed close behind. It gave him the thought, not for the first time, that he served as the barrier between her and death itself.

Dropping down on his heels, he scanned the corpse for injuries. Obviously, not including the fucking decapitation and various amputations.

Runes were carved deep into the chest, such that the white glint of the ribcage was easily visible.

“There are three notable wounds, exposing the thoracic cavity. Runes which correlate to ‘sorrow,’ ‘justice,’ and ‘revenge.’ The cuts match with those found on the other victims.” Draco startled at the sound of Hermione’s voice beside his ear. It wasn’t as steadfast as when she gave an answer in class, but was clear enough that the Quick-Notes Quill recorded her answer.

He looked over and nodded at her, his lips pulling into a thin line.

“Victim has no other markings on the body,” Draco added, “with the exception of a Dark Mark on the left forearm.”

Hermione and Draco verbally danced around each other, stating their observations all while the cloth remained on their victim’s face.

That would have to come last.

Because, in all likelihood, they knew this person. Draco better than her, realistically.

If his suspicions were correct, this man had been his best friend for years. So close that the Auror fully expected to be his best man. Not like that would happen now.

No, all that would be left would be yet another fucking burial. Just one more shining headstone to talk to and share memories with. Another ghost to haunt the halls of Draco’s empty home, reminding him that he was one of the few still alive.

“Boss.” Edgecombe’s voice cut through the chaos of Draco’s mind. He looked over his shoulder, seeing the technician waiting for him a few feet away.

“What do you have for me,” Draco asked - his knees cracking when he stood and walked over to her.

“Well, we’ve just finished the magical analysis on the room.”

Instead of continuing on and not wasting more of his time, Edgecombe shut her mouth and proceeded to stare at a point just over his left shoulder.

“Don’t leave me in fucking suspense,” Draco said tersely. He was desperately trying not to be an asshole today. Everyone was on edge now that a fifth body arrived on their doorstep, nearly two weeks early. But he really needed another coffee and, maybe, a fucking breakthrough in this case.

“It’s a bit … complicated.” Edgecombe winced, clearly thinking she was walking through an active minefield. Which would be an accurate assumption.

“Edgecombe,” Draco growled. “Tell me whatever the fuck it is that you’re avoiding or get out of my sight.”

Hermione appeared in his periphery. Apparently, she was sticking to the strategy of staying as close to him as possible. Which, frankly, was appreciated right now. Because he really didn’t think he could handle evidence contamination today. It would probably send him straight into homicidal rage, such that MLE would be down an Auror.

Though maybe that wouldn’t be the worst fate for him.

“People work in this space every day.”

“But it’s a fucking Monday.” Draco could actually feel the last ounce of his patience drain away. Knowing that if his technician didn’t get to the fucking point soon, he would start shouting.

“That’s the thing. We found evidence of spellwork, but it’s probably nothing that relates to the scene.”

“Probably is a hell of a thing to hinge your career on.”

“I -” Edgecombe stuttered to a halt, clearly unsure how to respond to that.

“Alright,” Draco sighed, pinching his nose for a moment. “This is what you’re going to do since apparently you need me to hold your hand every step of the way.”

“Malfoy!” Hermione’s voice rang out at the same moment that she swatted him. He glanced down at his arm before looking at her incredulously. Of course, she just stared back - completely unbothered by the fire in his eyes.

The Fates were having a fucking laugh at how much shit they’d thrown his way on a Monday morning.

“Right. Sorry, Edgecombe.” Draco’s tone made it clear that he was only giving the apology because he had not because he actually meant it. “I need a list of every spell that the detection incantation picked up.”

His technician nodded before turning on her heel and marching away like a good soldier.

“Looks like Theo will be getting dragged in for a formal interview after all,” Draco shook his head before returning to their victim. “You’d think that he would’ve mentioned clearing someone for weekend work. Apparently the fuck not.”

“We can also ask Elphora about it. Maybe she can tell us who it is, if not their reason for being here.”

“Good call,” Draco nodded. “Well, I think we’ve delayed long enough. I’ve no idea what’s going to be under this cloth - so just be prepared for something horrendously fucked-up if that’s at all possible.”

Hermione took a small step backwards, again letting Draco obscure her view of the gruesome scene.

After making sure that his features were carefully arranged into a neutral expression, he pulled his wand from the holster attached to his forearm and levitated the cloth. A technician was waiting on the opposite side of the body, a green bag opened and waiting for the piece of evidence.

Draco had had every intention not to look at their victim’s face until the cloth was secured. But curiosity got the better of him. And it fucking killed him, just like it did the cat.

Because, much to his horror and eternal dread, he’d been right.

Their victim was none other than Gregory Goyle.

The man who defected alongside him during the Battle of Hogwarts. Who followed him around the school for six years prior. One of the first friends he’d ever made.

Now dead. All because Draco couldn’t do his fucking job.

It was the strangest thing - seeing the cloth slowly fall down to the floor.

Draco hadn’t realized that his mask slipped, that his hands rested by his sides - releasing the spell. It didn’t even occur to him that he was feeling shock take over his body. Even though he had witnessed this same reaction every time he sat a family down on their couch to break the news.

All he could do was stare into the unblinking eyes of his friend.

It felt like an impossibility: the fact of Goyle’s death.

Draco had planned to meet him this week for drinks. Had stressed to him again and again to take the threat seriously. So what the fuck happened? Where was his protective detail when he was kidnapped and murdered?

Christ. The Auror had seen so much fucking death in his life and he wasn’t yet 23 years old.

Family. Friends. Strangers.

He’d buried them all. But, he’d never had to confront a sight like this.

How could Draco possibly sit down with the Goyles and tell them what happened? They would see the body eventually. Know how mutilated it was in time. So should he bring it up this afternoon or let them find out when they could finally put the pieces in the ground?

They obviously wouldn’t be doing the formal identification because he would do that for them.

And why was Draco even thinking about all of this right now?

He realized with a start that the cloth was now levitating on a soft breeze, being guided ever so carefully into the evidence bag. Hermione was standing beside him, her wand held aloft and her magic flowing.

If he had the capability to speak in that moment, he would have whispered his thanks. But all he could do was move air in and out of his lungs. And even that was touch-and-go.

His mind shifted back to Goyle of its own accord.

He had been a reluctant defector. If it hadn’t been for Draco’s actions in the Room of Requirement that night, his friend probably would have landed a significant sentence in Azkaban.

But, like the Malfoy heir, he never saw jail time. After all, he saved Harry Potter from a fiery end. Which, in turn, enabled the war to finally sputter out with the Dark Lord’s death.

And in peacetime? Goyle made the most of his second chance and became a well-respected member of their community. Doing so much good that the Mark on his arm was well-and-truly forgotten.

It started with him offering a summer course for all incoming Muggleborns set to begin their Hogwarts education. He taught the students about the wizarding world so that everyone could start on equal footing. The course was completely free, paid for by his family accounts.

It even included a trip to Diagon Alley so that the kids could actually purchase the supplies they needed with a wizarding chaperone in tow. Eliminating the tendency of shopkeepers to take advantage of those not ‘in the know.’ After all, you really didn’t need the dragon scales for Potions or eagle-feathered quills for notes.

The adventure ended, of course, with guidance through Platform 9 and 3/4.

It had been a resounding success. Though both Draco and Goyle believed the course was a temporary stop gap. It would be far better if education began much earlier for all students with magical capabilities. But it was the right move at the war’s end.

And if that was all Goyle had done, it would’ve been markedly impressive. But it wasn’t.

He opened up his home for all students during the Hogwarts breaks. Just in case anyone didn’t want to go home. Because they didn’t feel safe or loved there. (Potter brought it up one night at the pub. But Goyle happily took on the mantle himself considering Grimmauld was still haunted as shit and the Manor was steeped in Dark fucking magic.)

Alongside Draco, Goyle even publicly advocated to change Slytherin’s entry requirements. Through their efforts, they ensured that any student with the qualities of the ancient House were welcomed. Blood status be damned. Not only that, but the two Slytherins paid for the additional uniform pieces for all incoming students.

So, yeah, Goyle more than earned his place on the Board of Governors. And he certainly deserved a better fucking end than this.

***

Hermione’s surprise felt like being electrocuted - her fingertips were tingling and goosebumps rose on her arms.

She knew that there was an extremely good chance that the victim would be Gregory Goyle. But she still wasn’t prepared to see his face.

Post-war, their paths rarely crossed. She knew of his public advocacy work and, of course, his defection. But that distance wasn’t enough to dampen the effect of seeing him like this.

And poor Malfoy was clearly struggling. He looked to be fighting back tears. Devastation painting his features, an emotion that she rarely associated with the stoic man. In fact, in all her years of knowing him, she had never seen Malfoy so distraught.

Without thinking too much about where they were, she moved to position herself between her partner and the body. She only reached his collarbone so it did nothing to stop Malfoy’s gaze from remaining locked on Goyle.

She started undoing the top buttons on his shirt and once that was done, she placed her hands on his cheeks - applying pressure until his head was forced down. Their eyes finally meeting.

“Draco.” She scanned his face while she brushed her fingertips lightly over his brow and down his temple. Her intention was to be as soothing as possible. Be a source of comfort in a terrible moment. “Keep looking at me, just me.” He moved his stormy grey eyes down to lock on her mouth, his hands reaching up to grab hold of her forearms. “You need to breathe. Just follow my lead, okay?”

For the next few minutes, she told him when to inhale and exhale - using a count of four as her guide.

Relief eventually found him, his shoulders dropping of tension as he rested his forehead against her own. She felt her own nerves untangle after he was able to take a deep breath of his own accord.

Hermione’s mind was on the cusp of shorting out from the intimate contact. She knew that this was strictly not professional nor the right moment. But if she hadn’t intervened, she was a bit worried about what he would’ve done.

“I -,” her voice cracked when she finally broke the silence that had fallen between them. “I can take the lead if you need a minute to yourself.”

Of course, Hermione didn’t expect him to actually agree. Because, technically, she wasn’t even fully trained to be on the scene right now - let alone help everyone in the execution of their responsibilities. But it was the only thing that she could give him in that moment.

A hypothetical where he could walk away from this horror, if only for a few moments.

Her words seemed to bring him fully back to their surroundings. To the fact that the crime scene techs were hovering on the edge, waiting for further instruction. To the intermittent flash of Colin Creevey’s camera. To the nonexistent space between them.

He shook his head, taking a step away from her. His eyes becoming razor sharp as she got the sense that he was likely tamping down his feelings as much as possible. Probably through Occlumency.

“No need,” he rolled his shoulders and returned to his verbal observations, his voice completely devoid of emotion.

***

Draco made sure to recast the protective charm on himself and Hermione after they finally stopped pawing at each other in the middle of the fucking crime scene. Sorting out evidence contamination was a hellscape and the Auror couldn’t imagine anything worse than trying to explain it happened because he lost his shit in the field.

Bill was going to murder him when he found out what happened though. That was a guarantee. Either that or he would ensure Draco became the laughing-stock of the entire Department.

But Hermione did the impossible. Which was to say, she made him calm down until he could lock his feelings back into a tiny fucking box. He wouldn’t think about the other thing she did, the name thing.

Because, again, it wasn’t the time nor the fucking place for it.

Christ, he was losing his goddamn mind. And it was all because of the short, curly-haired beauty next to him who was currently looking at him like he might break.

If Goyle wasn’t laying spread-eagled and decapitated on the golden parquet floor right now, he’d probably be crying from laughing so hard.

Maybe it was a good thing drinks weren’t going ahead this week after all.

The fact that Draco could even think these thoughts without remorse meant his mask was now firmly back in place. Which was a good thing because he couldn’t afford to lose focus again. Especially not when so many people here were relying on him.

He turned back to the Goyle-shaped problem in front of him. It was clear that their killer wanted the body to be even more of a show.

All their other victims had gruesome post-mortem mutilations, sure. But this somehow felt more personal. Dolohov, their last victim was found with multiple knives protruding from his body. Decapitation seemed like a marked increase in the violence scale if you asked Draco.

He put a pin in that thought, telling himself to get Hermione’s take later that afternoon.

Draco blinked away the bright flash from Creevey’s camera as the photographer made his way carefully around the body. Meanwhile, Hermione was back to looking deathly fucking pale - even with the anti-nausea potion in her system.

Which was more than fair because Draco knew that he was going to be sick the minute he had a moment to himself.

He bit back a frustrated sigh. Hermione shouldn’t even be here. Not only that but he shouldn’t have needed her to pull him out of his little mental spiral, though he appreciated it all the same.

Still, this was way too fucked up of a scene for her to be present at.

Gods, he wouldn’t even let trainees see shit like this. Not before they processed a few run-of-the-mill homicides. But he had basically thrown in her the deep end. Though he had to admit that she was actually holding her own. But he felt a pang of guilt all the same.

“Hermione, would you mind examining the wider scene for me while I check in on Edgecombe? See if there’s anything that you might have particular expertise in?”

“Are you sure?” She looked between Draco and his dead fucking friend, the hesitation at leaving him alone so obvious that anyone could see it. And a few people did. Clearly she didn’t think he could handle his shit now. That’s what he got for having a weak moment. Hermione Granger was now worrying about him of all people.

“It’s fine. I can finish up with the body. I’ve done it tens of times before.” He tried to keep his tone authoritative. But it evidently didn’t have the kick he wanted because she was still looking at him like he might shatter into a million pieces. “Hermione, I’ll be fine. I promise.”

It was only after that comment that she finally turned away and left him to his misery.

***

Hermione glanced over her shoulder every few minutes just to check in on him. She was worried about how Malfoy was handling Goyle’s death.

Currently, he was standing on the opposite side of the room - speaking to Marietta. His posture was anything but relaxed. His legs were spread out, his arms crossed with rigidity cutting his jawline. He looked more like an Army Sergeant than Auror in that moment.

Hermione decided that when they had a second alone, she was sitting him down and talking about it. It being their victim’s identity, obviously, and not how close she’d been when trying to calm him down. That would never be discussed.

As for the name thing, well, that was just a temporary lapse in her sanity. Nothing more.

And if word got back to Bill and he had anything to say on the matter, Hermione would simply go on a Transfiguration rampage and turn the lot of them into something horrible. Like snails. No, like cockroaches.

She smiled at the thought before turning back to her work, having chosen to examine the non-biological evidence closest to the body first. She crouched next to a cluster of black candles, whose wicks had still been smoldering when they entered the Department. The wax had now dried into a lumpy mass around the burnt-down pillars.

None of the reports she’d read made mention of whether the candles were burning when MLE arrived. She wondered if this was yet another difference or just something missed in the record.

“Body’s still cooling. Rigor mortis hasn’t fully set in yet.”

Hermione startled at the sound of her partner’s voice carrying across the room. She looked up to find him back beside Goyle, his wand still outstretched from the temperature charm he’d just performed.

He had been constantly darting around the room since she left him, instructing various technicians on what to do next and performing several spells on Goyle’s body.

He was the picture of efficiency.

But Hermione knew that he was likely working on auto-pilot, forcing himself to go through the motions and see this as an ordinary crime scene. When it was anything but.

She hated knowing that he was shoving his feelings away in order to get the job done.

It may have been necessary but it certainly wasn’t healthy. And how often did he have to do it during the execution of his duties?

She shook her head, angry that Malfoy couldn’t even give himself a second to breathe, when her eyes caught on something hiding under a nearby desk. She discovered it was a pile of fabric once she walked closer.

Goyle was naked so Hermione guessed this could be his missing clothes. Strangely, all the material looked damp and sat in a small puddle.

They still had no idea what caused the victims to experience cardiac arrest. Assuming that was what Goyle died from, his clothing could be a clue. Maybe drowning had come into play somehow? But Hermione quickly dismissed the idea, knowing that water would be found in the lungs if that were the case.

Though waterboarding could be another explanation…

She called Malfoy over to show him what she’d found and to get his help with bagging the evidence.

“Look at this,” Hermione said, pointing out her discovery to her partner. “Have you found any of our other victims’ clothing?”

Malfoy shook his head, his lips pursing as he dropped down beside her.

Hermione frowned, wondering why Goyle’s clothes had been left, folded, underneath a table. Was the killer toying with them? Indicating that even with more evidence, they wouldn’t be caught?

She wasn’t sure and she didn’t think they would know until the case closed either.

“Assuming the cause of death is the same, we can obviously rule out drowning. But, I thought … maybe torture using water in some way?” Hermione bit her lip, nervous to share her theories when the victim they were discussing was Malfoy’s best friend.

Her partner leaned close to the fabric and sniffed a few times.

“Good idea, but this smells like B.O. I would guess that when we test the material, the dampness will come back as sweat.”

“But that much? The clothes are sitting in an absolute puddle of liquid.”

“It’s odd, don’t get me wrong.” Malfoy shrugged nonchalantly. “But I think this is all secretions from our victim. Nothing else.”

Hermione furrowed her brow, noting that her partner was avoiding saying Goyle’s name. Maybe it was something he did on the job. Or it was just another coping mechanism: by making his friend nameless, it gave him room to dissociate just enough to do what he needed to.

She watched quietly as he proceeded to bag each item of clothing separately, making verbal notes of what the killer left behind.

Red shirt. Tan chinos. Black boxers. Two socks, one with a hole in the heel.

There were no shoes.

But that wasn’t what bothered Hermione most.

“Draco, has anyone found a wand yet? There isn’t one here.”

He stared at her dumbfounded for a beat and it took her a moment for her brain to catch on. She’d said it again … without thinking about it.

The first time he hadn’t had a reaction, probably because he didn’t hear her through his shock.

But he definitely clocked her saying his name this time.

A surge of embarrassment painted her cheeks red. She didn’t even know why she felt that particular emotion, not when he’d been calling her ‘Hermione’ all morning.

But ‘Draco’ felt so personal to her.

It was a step towards something, one that she didn’t think she could walk back if she wanted to. And she didn’t want to. She much preferred the sound of his first name on her tongue than the one she used to say with as much hatred as she could muster.

“No,” he finally said, his tone sounding a little strained. “Why do you ask?”

“Well I haven’t seen one anywhere either. So if it isn’t with the clothing -”

“It’s probably not here,” he confirmed.

And so far, none of their victims’ wands had been recovered.

“The killer might be collecting them as a trophy,” she offered quietly.

“Yeah, that’s what I’ve been thinking too.” Draco nodded before standing up quickly, repeating the notable absence of Goyle’s wand and shoes for the record.

Hermione followed him back to the body, crouching down beside her partner to take a final look at the decapitated head.

“His eyes are so dilated, there’s almost no pupil left. Were they all like that?”

“Yeah,” Draco nodded, his gaze fixed on his friend’s sightless eyes. “Yeah, they were.”

After visually combing over the scene together once more, the partners agreed that their work was done. Nothing else could be gleaned from the Department of Magical Games and Sports. The only thing left for today was Elphora’s interview and the family notification.

Hermione followed Draco down the hallway, back towards the elevators that would return them to MLE. Crime scene technicians were slowly starting to trickle out of the department, their tasks now complete.

She noticed the deep breaths each person took as soon as they’d cleared the doors, everyone clearly relieved to be free of the stench of death that had permeated the office space. It made her feel better, knowing that she wasn’t the only one that struggled being in there.

Despite the crowd of people waiting around them, the partners managed to secure a lift to themselves. They took the journey three floors down in silence, each lost in thought.

Hermione, for the most part, wondered what Draco was feeling. But based on his nearly unblinking stare directed at the elevator doors, he was still shoving his emotions down to an unreachable depth.

It was a bit surprising that her mind kept leading her back to him, considering the shock of the morning. But the worry she felt for her partner was almost tangible, such that it was impossible to ignore.

Draco hadn’t been given the time or space to even begin coming to terms with the murder of his best friend.

It was something he should have been afforded. And if she could find a way, he would get it.

As for the other things … well she was doing her best to ignore them.

Meaning she was absolutely refusing to dwell on the changing nature of their relationship. Anytime her mind went in that direction, she redirected her thoughts to the upcoming witness interview.

Of the things that needed to be asked. Of how Hermione needed to present herself.

After all, Elphora believed Hermione was a Head Consultant. Which meant that she needed to be calm and collected, forming a united front with Draco.

But that thought alone was enough to bring her back to the man beside her. She flicked her gaze his way, immediately noticing the tension in his eyes. How he kept clenching and unclenching his fists by his sides.

Oh, Draco. She wished she could take him away from all of this. Just do everything herself instead.

Merlin, Hermione needed to get control of her thoughts before Elphora noticed their strange dynamic. Well, really, it was just her feeling the need to fuss over him, protect him from the burdens of a job he’d been working for years.

As they walked through the crowded MLE bullpen, she let herself momentarily play into the fantasy of being a permanent fixture in the department. Of having inside jokes with fellow Aurors and bemoaning the audaciousness of Bill Weasley over coffee.

Thankfully, her imagination was overactive enough to drive her thoughts away from her partner, at least for the time being.

So she let herself remain in that headspace as Draco knocked on an unmarked door, through which they entered together.

It had taken the two of them a few hours to comb over every square inch of Theo’s department. (Or, at least, the center room which was the only place anyone had access until the desks were cleared.) However, Elphora didn’t seem particularly perturbed by the extended wait.

She was sitting at a lopsided table in the center of the small room, a cup of tea in one hand and a packet of biscuits opened in front of her. She’d pulled her pale yellow cardigan tightly around her, probably to offset the chill from the room’s magical cooling charms. But her face now had some color back and her shaking wasn’t nearly as pronounced as it had been earlier.

“Ms. Wright, again, apologies for the delay.” Draco spoke with a conciliatory smile plastered on his face. If Hermione didn’t know any better, she would be hard-pressed to even guess what her partner had been faced with this morning. “Are you still feeling okay to do the interview today?”

Elphora nodded her head, brushing her fingertips free of crumbs before settling them in her lap.

“Great.” Draco set about to making him and Hermione a cup of tea, which she hadn’t asked for but would take without complaint. A rush of adrenaline had carried her through evidence collection but it was bound to run out sooner or later.

He eventually placed both of their mugs down, the slight shake in his hands causing the brown water to slosh over the edges.

“Sorry,” Draco said on a frustrated sigh.

“It’s nothing,” Hermione reassured him. “Actually, would you like me to start? I have a few questions lined up.”

She made the suggestion because she suspected that he needed a few seconds to reinforce his Occlumency walls that were clearly starting to break down. But, truth be told, she had absolutely no clue how to begin this.

Draco inlined his head, letting her take the lead after setting up another Quick-Notes Quill for transcription.

“Ms. Wright, why don’t you lead us through your discovery this morning.” Hermione reasoned that would be as good a place as any for their witness to start.

“Well I came in early - say around seven a.m. It’s important this close to a World Cup to arrive before the birds get a chance for worm-hunting.” She laughed at her own joke. “Anyway, Mr. Nott was supposed to have a meeting this afternoon with Bulgarian officials. Or well … I suppose he still does if it hasn’t yet been cancelled. That’s something I would normally do for him. I really ought to check in on him once we’re done … see if he needs anything before I head home. But, as I was saying, I came in early. Partly for everyone else and partly so that I could prepare Mr. Nott’s notes for the day.”

Hermione smiled encouragingly at Elphora to continue.

“Anyways, with the World Cup, there’s so much to do. I don’t even know how we’ll catch up now. We can’t afford to lose even a day.” Elphora finished by wringing her hands, accidentally knocking her tea cup over in the process so that the remaining liquid spilled onto her lap.

“Heavens, me.” She stood quickly, the cup falling to the floor with a clatter. Draco shot up and opened a cabinet that seemed to be stockpiled with additional supplies for the room. He took out a wad of napkins and handed them to Elphora so she could clean herself up.

“Apologies, I’m an absolute mess.” The secretary spent a few seconds dabbing (both at her pressed pants and her eyes). “Completely out of sorts.”

“Ms. Wright, after what you’ve been through this morning, it’s completely understandable to feel shaken.” Draco sat back in his chair, placing his ankle on one of his knees, as he comforted their witness.

“So you came in early,” Hermione coaxed. “What happened then?”

“Well, it was just laying there, wasn’t it?” Elphora darted her gaze between Hermione and Draco. “The body.”

Beside her, Draco closed his eyes and turned his head - probably trying to will away the image the secretary had just placed in his mind.

“Could you give us a bit more about what exactly you saw?” Hermione licked her lips, frantically trying to recall what detectives usually asked in crime novels.

Because it’s not like she had any time to prepare an appropriate line of questions. This was the closest she’d ever come to winging something in her life and she was hating every second of it.

“The candles. Black they was. And flaming high to the sky. Never seen a flame so strong as those ones.”

Both Hermione and Draco frowned. Because that hadn’t been the case when they entered the Department. The candle wicks had been smoldering, the fires all but extinguished.

She wondered if she should return to the scene after this to check the ceiling for scorch marks. And possibly to perform a magical detection charm. Because ceiling-high flames definitely fell in the realm of things Muggle objects couldn’t easily achieve.

“Is that all you saw,” Hermione asked.

Elphora nodded before adding, “well, the desks and chairs were pushed up against the walls. I didn’t take a close look at the body. Didn’t think it was decent of me.”

“Did you notice any smells or lingering traces of magic in the air, perhaps?” Hermione looked over at Draco. This was the first question he’d asked since the interview started.

“Nope, can’t seem to recall anything off the top of my head.” Elphora’s mouth pulled into a marked frown as she thought back to that morning. “I just saw what I said and ran out, screaming. When I finally stopped, I sent Mr. Nott a Patronus to let him know what I found.”

“And there was nothing else unusual about this morning?” Hermione wanted to avoid leading the secretary in the direction of her possible memory gap, hoping their witness would bring it up on her own.

“Besides the ritual slaughter in the lobby, no.” Elphora’s eyes sharpened, the judgment evident on her face.

“I just want to make sure we aren’t missing anything important.” Hermione tried to put on a placating smile, though she couldn’t help but feel as if she was being chastised by a schoolteacher.

“Quick question,” Draco cocked his head as his thumbs brushed together in his lap. “The lock, did you notice if it had been tampered with in any way?”

Elphora’s frown became more pronounced when she shook her head.

“So the doors were locked like they always were this morning?” Draco didn’t seem to care about directly questioning Elphora about the elephant in the room.

Namely, that as far as the secretary was concerned, she was the only one that could unlock the Department doors.

“Well I assume so,” Elphora replied, hesitantly. “I don’t really recall, you know, because it’s just one of those automatic things you do every morning.”

Hermione fought the urge to turn her head and look at Draco. So there was a memory issue at play after all. Now just to determine the extent of it.

“Of course,” Draco nodded his head, seemingly in understanding. “Just out of … curiosity, can you walk me through everything that happened in the moments preceding the discovery?”

“Well … I Floo’ed from my living room as I do every morning. Walked across the atrium after saying ‘good morning’ to Frank, the security guard. Erm, I took that blasted elevator. Which the Ministry really needs to do something about if you ask me. And then …” Elphora’s eyes went blank, the words dying on her tongue.

“And then what, Ms. Wright?” Hermione was leaning forward in her seat, her voice eager.

“Then there I was, in front of the body.” Elphora’s words shook slightly as a faint tremor rocked through her.

“So, for the record, you have no memory of unlocking the door to the Department this morning,” Draco pressed.

The secretary’s eyes were searching for a moment before she shrugged her shoulders. “No, must’ve had a memory lapse or something from what I’ve seen.”

Draco and Hermione nodded but didn’t say anything for a minute. It was interesting that her memory lapse only applied to unlocking the doors and nothing else.

“Actually, do you recall exiting the lift? Walking down the hallway towards the Department,” Hermione asked, realization dawning on her.

Again, Elphora shook her head before confirming her answer verbally for the record.

Their killer must have been waiting near the elevators then. That’s why she had no recollection of that entire time period.

“Were you in the Department yesterday, Ms. Wright?” Draco’s question surprised Hermione. Mainly because she had been working off the assumption that the killer gained access to the scene twice, more than anything else. But she knew that ruling out competing theories was good detective work.

At least… that’s what her crime novels told her.

“Well it was a Sunday, so I’d think not,” Elphora chuckled.

“It’s just that the doors were unlocked twice sometime in the preceding 24-hour period. So, if you didn’t come to the Department yesterday, then there was a security breach that needs addressing.” Draco said this evenly, almost casually, but the information landed like a bombshell in the secretary’s lap.

“Now that you say that.” Elphora cleared her throat uncomfortably and began fiddling with the plastic wrapping of the biscuit package. “I did have to come in yesterday evening. I forgot something on my desk when I went home Friday.”

“Something that couldn’t wait until this morning,” Draco asked.

“Well no … it was my grandbaby's birthday yesterday. I brought a card into the office for everyone to sign. Left it right on my blotter,” she smiled. “I have more gnats than brain cells these days. So I stopped by to pick it up on my way to his party.”

“When you stopped by yesterday, there was nothing odd that caught your eye?” Hermione continued after Elphora confirmed everything looked as it should. “And what time did you swing by your office again?

“Oh right around 8 p.m. I’d say.”

“How old is your grandchild?” Hermione thought the change in subject might be a nice break for the secretary, who was starting to fidget in her seat.

“Just turned two.”

“How lovely,” Draco said tightly. “Well Hermione, if you don’t have anything else, I think we can let Ms. Wright go. If we have any further questions, we’ll be in touch.”

“Of course, happy to help in any way.”

The partners sat in silence as Elphora Wright quickly gathered her things and left the room, neither bothering to walk her out.

“She’s lying.” Hermione sat beside Draco, her back ramrod straight as the words tumbled from her mouth of their own accord.

“Yep.” Because what two year old can stay awake that late? Even for a birthday party with a promise of cake. “The question is, about what.”

“We should bring Theo in for questioning sometime this week.” Hermione looked over at Draco, knowing he had probably reached his limit for the day. His shoulders were sagging like they held the weight of the world. “We can ask if Elphora actually did have a birthday card for everyone to sign.”

“Even so, the story doesn’t add up.”

“Maybe not, but she’s obviously not our killer,” Hermione scoffed.

“You said yourself it could be a woman,” Draco replied.

“Okay, but … how is she restraining them? She’s like 80! Goyle could have overpowered her easily.”

“We have no idea how our victims were captured. A fast-acting poison could do it,” Draco shrugged.

“But it would have to leave the system before the autopsy was conducted.”

“I’m just saying, it’s possible,” he sighed. “I’m not saying it’s likely.”

“Fine, dear old Elphora Wright gets added to our person-of-interest list,” she grumbled.

He didn’t respond but leaned forward instead, his hands pressing into his face.

“Why don’t you go home, Draco?”

“Because I need to go and tell the Goyles that their son was horrifically murdered.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” She hesitated for a moment before starting to rub circles on her partner’s back.

“I think I’ll do this one on my own, if that’s alright.”

She nodded, understanding that this wouldn’t just be another family notification for him.

“Then let me tell Harry.” Draco looked on the verge of shooting the idea down. “He has a right to know and it’s not like he’s entirely in the dark about what’s happening with this case.”

Draco sighed before finally giving in.

“Yeah, alright, thanks.” He stood up, turning to leave before pausing and looking at her for a moment. “You did really well today, Hermione. Honestly, well done.”

He left her sitting there in the room alone, his words simmering hot on her skin.

Chapter 13: The Heart Wants What It Wants

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Hermione hadn’t yet managed to get a key from Draco, which meant that she was locked out of their shared office until his return. Or, realistically, until she decided to use a few bobby pins to break back in.

But she needed to have a hard conversation of her own first.

She tentatively knocked on Harry’s door, a part of her hoping that her best friend wasn’t in.

The two shared everything, their bond now so strong that they jokingly referred to themselves as siblings on nights-out.

But there was one thing that they wouldn’t talk about. And that was Death itself.

It had become a tangible thing to them during the war, echoing their footsteps like it had with the Three Brothers.

And that was before they lost Ron.

Once he was laid to rest in the Burrow’s backyard, so too had their discussions on the topic. More specifically, about what happens once the heart finally patters to a stop.

And in the wake of that silence, they each developed their own coping mechanisms. None of which were remotely healthy.

Hermione voraciously consumed detective novels. Yes, they reminded her of the parents that she would never get back. But, she also felt that she could fend off Death himself if she read enough. About all the ways the body can bend and break. So she could never be caught off-guard again. Not like she had been that night in the Room of Requirement.

Harry, by comparison, took a more traditional approach. As in, Death didn’t exist to him in a personal capacity anymore. If he didn’t think about it, it wouldn’t affect him. He wouldn’t acknowledge it in any way, unless the matter came up at work. And even then, it was with the sense that it was something that happened to other people. But not to him or his loved ones.

Needless to say, this conversation was going to be rather difficult for the both of them to get through.

“Oh, hey, Hermione.” Harry’s green eyes brightened after opening his door to find his best friend standing there, fist still raised to knock once more. “Didn’t you hear me call you in?”

“Not really, if I’m being honest.” Hermione bit her lip, the dread bubbling in her stomach like a tar pit. “My mind’s a bit of a mess right now.”

“And is that because of a grumpy Slytherin with an unnatural shade of platinum hair?”

“Not in the slightest.” Harry’s smile vaporized at Hermione’s serious tone.

It was obvious that something terrible had happened and his body reacted accordingly. In the next few seconds, his easy manner dropped away to be replaced with frown lines and tense shoulders.

“Right,” he sighed. “Come in then and I’ll make us something to drink.”

Harry kept a kettle in his office for two reasons. Similar to Draco, the man had a crippling caffeine addiction that he refused to kick. His poison being tea, not coffee. But, most importantly, her best friend tended to get swarmed by trainee Aurors anytime he wandered about. Many of them having chosen their career path because of him. (After all, justice was absolutely nothing compared to the adrenaline shot they got from working alongside the Chosen One himself.)

So Harry liked to stay put, behind his desk with his door closed tight against all the attention. Unless he was out in the field. Though, increasingly, he’d been put on desk assignment due to the media interest his cases tended to pick up.

Realistically, he would never be afforded the chance at a normal life. People would always want to know his movements, hear his thoughts and war stories, admire him from whatever distance they could.

It was sad really.

Hermione nodded her thanks after Harry placed a mug in front of her, the teabag still seeping into the hot water.

“We had another one come in,” she finally said.

Harry’s eyes widened slightly as he did the calculations in his head.

“But -”

“I know, it’s early,” she interrupted, easily guessing what her best friend would say next. “But it’s definitely related, without a doubt.”

Harry sighed and looked into his tea. Everything likely clicking for him in that moment. Because there was no reason for Hermione to be here, giving him this information, unless he knew the victim.

She now felt like a true detective. Not because she was using their lingo. But because she had a real look into the dread that came with parts of this job. Her mind darted back to Draco, instantly reminded that he was doing this right now as well, before she refocused.

“It was Goyle.” Hermione said the words quickly, throwing them out into the space between them. “I’m sorry, Harry. I don’t know how to do this properly. I just really thought you should know.”

Because they had been close ever since the Slytherin saved him from a fiery death all those years ago.

Harry bit his cheek and nodded slowly, silence falling between them.

Dust motes danced in the sunlight filtering in through the blinds. It was set to be another hot day in London, probably one of the last ones before the autumn rain began falling. And once it started, it wouldn’t stop until the air warmed again - bringing with it the promise of summertime beer gardens and picnics in the park.

But even though it was going to be a beautiful day, Hermione knew that Death didn’t particularly care. He would claim his victims, come rain or shine, on every day of the year.

“You know,” Harry’s voice sounded too loud as he broke the silence. “I expected that I’d stopped losing people after the war. Thought I finally paid my dues.” He gave a hollow laugh and shook his head, his eyes seeming far away. “I guess that’s not how life works, is it?”

“No,” Hermione sighed, “unfortunately not.”

“Well, thanks for telling me.” She watched as the distance in his eyes seemed to evaporate in a second. His relaxed posture once again returning as though Hermione hadn’t come to deliver morbid news at all, but had instead popped in for a bit of banter. “Now that I have you, how’re things with Malfoy?”

She frowned, confused as to how quickly her best friend seemed able to shake off Goyle’s death in order to talk about something else. She wondered if MLE taught all their Aurors advanced Occlumency during their training period or just those with an exceptional degree of trauma to begin with. Because everyone she encountered seemed to do an excellent job of willing their emotions away until they could crush them down to dust.

But she knew better than to push Harry to talk about it further.

He never criticized her manner of coping, so she wouldn’t do it for his.

Though, if anything, his reaction served as yet another reminder that a catch-up with Ginny was sorely needed. Not only to talk about the various Leaky Cauldron disasters but also to make sure Harry was actually doing okay in the wake of Goyle’s death.

“It’s hard with all the history between us,” Hermione admitted slowly. “We fight more than anything else really. Though your stunt on Friday may have improved things.”

“So I was right,” Harry’s grin looked like it might split his cheeks open. “All you needed was a little gin to get over whatever was going on between you two.”

“If you make one comment about enemies-to-lovers, I’m leaving.”

“I don’t have to say it since you beat me to it.”

Hermione scoffed and Harry cackled in response.

“And you weren’t right,” she bristled. “Our truce is temporary if nothing else. There just wasn’t a point in continuing to bicker all the time when it would just lead to more victims and the case going cold.”

Harry clearly didn’t buy her words and, quite frankly, Hermione didn’t either. Because the iciness that had characterized her previous interactions with Draco had all but evaporated.

And it turned out, she much preferred the heat to the cold.

“Mmhmm,” Harry slurped his tea and Hermione had to suppress a shudder. “You know, I hope you actually give him a chance. That is, when you’re ready to admit that I made an excellent call by inviting him Friday.”

“A chance with what? With me?” Hermione nearly shrieked when Harry waggled his brows. She picked up a crumpled ball of paper on his desk and threw it at his head, her attack missing when he snatched it from the air. “Absolutely not. And so help me if you have any ideas from one of Ginny’s books to convince me otherwise, I’ll never speak to you again.”

“He’s a good guy.” Harry balanced on the back legs of his chair and tossed the ball into his waste bin effortlessly. “Miles better than Bill Weasley anyway.”

“You do realize that he was the one that asked me out, not vice versa. And I didn’t even say yes! Honestly, if you’re going to tease anyone about it, choose him.”

“But if I target Bill, he’s liable to test out new torture tactics on me. You won’t,” Harry grinned. “All I’m saying is, Malfoy is far better than the losers that take you out on dates before you promptly ghost them for eternity.”

“I would never do that,” Hermione crossed her arms, frowning grumpily. “In fact, I’ve let everyone down gently.”

“Okay, but the point is, you haven’t given anyone a real chance at winning you over in years. I think Malfoy’s a prime contender. If anyone deserves you, it’s him,” Harry shrugged.

“And just what has he done to give you that opinion?” She stared her best friend down, already suspecting his answer.

This was quickly becoming a conversation that she didn’t particularly want to have with Harry. But, he’d completely turned the tables on her and he knew it.

“I dunno, I think saving your life was a pretty big deal.”

There it was.

Hermione sighed, unable to give any sort of response that hadn’t already been said before. Because that was the crux of the matter. It was the reason that she didn’t let second dates happen. It was the voice in the back of her head judging her endlessly for letting Malfoy become Draco. For allowing him to occupy any space in her head not designated for derision.

“Maybe he shouldn’t have,” she stared into her now over-brewed tea, resigned to have this conversation once more.

There was one other topic that Harry and Hermione tended to avoid (more for her benefit, than his). And that pertained to her feelings surrounding that night. Namely, her guilt and shame at making it out of the Room of Requirement relatively unscathed. Coupled with her adamant belief that Draco made the wrong call.

The matter wasn’t taboo like Death was. But it had been exhausted, a line having been drawn in the sand years ago. Harry didn’t believe she should begrudge Draco his choice nor that she should throw her life away because of what happened. Hermione disagreed completely.

Of course, Harry didn’t know the full story. No one did.

Maybe if she told the truth, he would finally see her side of things. But he would probably never be able to look at her again.

“Hermione.”

“We’ve been over this, Harry. Anyway, Draco and I are incompatible.”

Her best friend was mid-sip when she said it, meaning that she was now absolutely covered in tea and spit.

“Can you repeat that? Because I think I just got attacked by a horde of wrackspurts.”

“So what if I call him by his first name now,” Hermione muttered, “he does the same to me.”

“Does he now?” Harry’s cheek-splitting grin was back.

“Oh honestly, it doesn’t matter because it’s not going to happen.”

“Why? Because you two hated each other at Hogwarts? Hermione, c’mon, he’s the only Slytherin that you hold a grudge against. And they all treated you the same and they’ve all changed for the better. I’m not saying you owe anyone forgiveness. I just don’t understand why you’re holding it back from the one person that might deserve it the most.”

“I don’t care about what happened when we were in school.” She bit her lip and looked to the ceiling. This was a disaster. She couldn’t lie to Harry but the truth delved dangerously close to her biggest secret. “I just think that, maybe, he made a bad choice that night.”

“You can’t fault him for his decision,” Harry sighed, clearly tired at having to explain this to her again. “The Wizengamot examined his memories during trial. If he tried to get Ron out at the same time, I would be putting flowers on two headstones each week - not one.”

But Harry didn’t fully understand the situation. She didn’t fault Draco for not getting Ron out alongside her. She blamed him for taking her with him at all. She didn’t deserve to be here, not if ex-boyfriend couldn’t be. That’s what no one ever understood.

And that made her current feelings about her partner all the more complicated.

Hermione looked away from her best friend, his green eyes pleading with her to finally listen, as she brushed tears from her own.

“I just feel terrible, Harry. I can’t figure out how to stop or if I even want to.”

“That seems like something you should talk to him about.”

She nodded, telling him that she would consider it before getting up to leave.

Both of them probably needed some time alone to deal with the ghosts they had handed each other.

***

Hermione walked down the MLE hallway, dodging Aurors chatting in doorframes and secretaries chasing overdue paperwork. She didn’t particularly want to be here right now.

Because she knew that if she broke into their office, she would spend every second staring at Draco’s empty chair. Thinking about her conversation with Harry and how her feelings towards her partner were changing. Worrying herself into an even worse stomach-ache than she was currently experiencing.

And doing that would mean coming face-to-face with the fact that she’d broken her promise to herself tenfold.

She had sworn never to feel anything but pure, unbridled hatred for Draco.

Yet, here she was, making herself sick from caring about him so much.

It was a little bit embarrassing if she was being honest.

Hermione had intended to stay firmly in the past with her demons and Draco was dragging her into the here and now. And what’s worse, he had absolutely no clue that he was doing it.

She sighed loudly as she walked down the shoddily-installed carpets of MoMA. It hadn’t been that long since she’d last come this way, but it felt like a lifetime had passed her by.

Because it was a Monday in the early afternoon, the department was deserted. Her colleagues stuck in the weekly meeting that Arthur scheduled.

Which was perfectly fine by her considering she was hunting for solitude.

Her office smelled like abandonment and dust, the water stain near the door having gotten worse in her days away. It looked like the space was occupied by a person on their way out, either someone quitting or retiring. It was a subtle shift, probably not easily discernible to infrequent visitors. But there was nothing here that was personal anymore.

Everything that belonged to her was with Draco. Or, well, in their office.

She sat down at her desk, idly spinning around before looking at what remained of her professional life here.

It seemed someone had been in since Hermione left for MLE, considering the report on Muggle technology was no longer on her desk. She wondered who’d been saddled with that particularly thrilling bit of research.

At least it wouldn’t fall to her.

Maybe the Fates were on her side after all, at least a little bit.

She frowned as she pulled out the handful of report requests someone (probably Arthur) had deposited neatly on her blotter. Since she was here, she could probably start making a dent on some of them.

Hopefully it would take her mind off the things she wanted to avoid.

Though her lips only pulled down more when she read through her options.

Classification of bath toys. Explanation of American homecoming and prom dances. An in-depth analysis on Muggle’s interest in the ‘stock market.’

Not the worst topics she’d ever been given but still pretty dull. Discussing rubber ducks wasn’t nearly as exciting as trying to solve the serial homicides taking place in the Ministry.

And it certainly wasn’t distracting enough to take her mind off of Draco.

Gods, it was hopeless.

The more she stared at the requests, the more her mind turned back to him.

When she finally worried her lip until blood welled up, she shot up from her seat and darted back down the hallway - not even bothering to close her door on the way out.

She’d had some idea that, maybe, he’d already gotten back from the Goyles. But when she rattled the doorknob to their office, it was clear that he was still out.

Not paying any mind to the huddle of trainees clustered together, watching her, Hermione spent no time at all breaking her way into the room.

Sitting on his desk was a copy of the spell analysis Draco requested from Edgecombe earlier that day. Hermione pursed her lips, wondering whether she should wait for him to return before looking through the findings.

But the more she did for him now, the fewer excuses he could throw her way as to why he couldn’t take time off to process the loss of his friend.

She picked up the folder and thumbed through the findings, taking notes as she did so.

It was odd.

Edgecombe had told Draco that she didn’t believe the magic performed in the room had anything to do with their crime scene. She had seemed so sure before she was challenged on it and, now, Hermione understood why.

Because the only spells recorded in the last 24-hours were unlocking charms. Of all variations, mind you. There was the standard Alohomora listed alongside blood rituals and Dark magic. Anything and everything that might possibly open up something sealed.

And the target?

None other than Theodore Nott’s office. A room that the killer had blocked with desks and chairs before depositing Goyle’s body for all to see.

Hermione wondered, when all the furniture was moved back into place, if they wouldn’t find physical signs of a break-in on the Slytherin’s door as well.

But what was being hidden away in there that someone was so desperate to get access to? And what, if anything, did this have to do with their case?

***

Draco watched the hours pass slowly, his hopes of getting unacceptably intoxicated on a work night ticking away as he waited for Potter’s Patronus.

Finally, sometime around nine p.m., a stag burst through his wall giving him the all-clear. Which was a fucking relief because Draco was getting concerned that Hermione might end up sleeping in their office.

He had refused to go back to the Ministry while she was still in.

Partly because he couldn’t bear to see the look in her eyes. But also because he didn’t want her to succumb to the desire to worry about him anymore than she already had today. And, inevitably, she would if she saw him now because Draco looked like he’d had the shit beaten out of him.

He probably should just stay home, come into the office bleary-eyed and stumbling tomorrow morning. But he was desperate for Edgecombe’s analysis. Which meant he was now rocking back through the darkened hallways long after the other Aurors called it a night.

It’s not like he couldn’t get drunk here anyway, given the bottle of Firewhiskey waiting for him in his desk-drawer. He just couldn’t get as drunk as he wanted to. Still the leather couch in his office, primed for nights like this, would be a far more comfortable alternative to the tiled floor next to his toilet.

So there was that.

But he still would’ve liked to have his professional responsibilities behind him by now so he could guiltlessly drink himself into oblivion. Cold bathroom floors be damned.

He sighed, his mind drifting back to Hermione. He wasn’t aware that she’d ever stayed this late before.

Of course, leave it to him to instill terrible fucking habits in her.

She had apparently been adamant that she wouldn’t leave the office until he came back. Potter’s last communication mentioning that Draco now owed him multiple favors after getting smacked not once, but three times, before she finally relented and went home.

And that had just been a few minutes ago.

Because the first thing he noticed upon sitting down in his office chair was that it was still warm. The second thing was that his desk, not hers, was absolutely littered with Hermione’s handwritten notes on Edgecombe’s report.

He wasn’t even angry that she had chosen his seat over hers. After all, he had essentially forced her to sit on a wooden chair designed in the 1800s for maximum discomfort. All under some fucked-up notion of pushing her out of this case.

He opened his second drawer after pulling out his whiskey and taking a hearty sip. He quickly penned a request to the maker of his furniture to create another chair for him, albeit one slightly smaller, for delivery to the MLE. Even if they solved this case tomorrow, she could bring it back with her to MoMA. It sure as shit would be better than whatever they provided.

Then he finally set about making her the key he promised.

While he found it amusing how easily she could gain access with her hair things, he didn’t want her to make a habit of it. Mainly because he was liable to turn into Bill Weasley and commit some heinous act against the trainees with a mind to tease her about ‘being where she wasn’t wanted.’

Potter’s fucking fanboys had such a crazed hatred of her, always green with envy over the pair’s closeness. Jealous that she was by his side during the war and they’d been too young to fight. That and they’d clearly taken offense that she wouldn’t date any of them. But it had been obvious they only asked her out so they could live out their fantasies of being in Potter’s inner circle. Arseholes, as if any of them would ever deserve her.

Draco had already heard that whispers started up among their colleagues today. Wondering if he was mixing business with pleasure, like Bill. Gossiping about the nature of Hermione Granger’s ‘help’ and joking about where to sign up for it.

Apparently, most of these comments were started by fucking Seamus Finnegan mouthing off to the newbies. He was lucky that it was Potter that overheard. Had it been Draco, the killer wouldn’t even have a chance to cross the Gryffindor off their list. Because Finnegan would have been promptly buried alive somewhere on the Malfoy estate.

When all the administrative bullshit was finally behind him, rage continued to shift under his skin as though it were a beast living within. The heat coiled, willing itself to be released. But, unfortunately, the only thing he had to take the edge off was half a bottle of whiskey and work.

He sighed, drinking more than he should as he dived into his partner’s words, choosing to comb through her notes before even reading through Edgecombe’s report. For whatever fucking reason that he didn’t feel like delving into at the moment.

Both seemed convinced that the spell cast in the Department of Magical Games and Sports had nothing to do with the victim’s murder. And he could see that they had a point. Because unless the killer wanted to recover something from Theo’s office before shoving all the furniture against the walls and dumping their victim in the middle of the room, it didn’t fit.

Though maybe the perp had just been frantically looking for some fucking matches for all Draco knew, wanting to set the ambience right for the discovery.

Still he would definitely be adding this to the list of questions he had for Theo.

Because if Elphora Wright was with whoever the fuck was trying to break-in, why would they need to throw the weight of all that magic against the locked door? She obviously had a key. She was Theo’s fucking secretary for crying out loud.

And if her story about just showing up to retrieve a birthday card was true, then presumably whatever was in his fucking office could’ve waited until Monday morning. Even if it was just a shitty piece of paper with a dinosaur on it and hastily-scrawled signatures.

It’s not like two-year-olds could read anyway.

All of this begged the question of what Elphora Wright was hiding.

Because she obviously was hiding something.

Fucking Fates. Why did this shit have to keep getting more complicated?

***

Hermione knew that Draco would return to the office after she left. Mainly because she threatened Harry that if he didn’t tell her Draco’s plans, she would Apparate to the Malfoy Manor to find him herself. Which would undoubtedly induce pretty horrific flashbacks on her part. Something she would willingly endure to be able to check in on him.

Harry immediately caved, very aware that Hermione never made an idle threat.

So, here she was, after-hours on a work night, walking through the pitch-black MLE hallway and stumbling over a poor fern plant, its soil spilling across the carpet. But, thankfully, there was a faint light shining through the crack in their office door, providing enough light to make it the last few feet without incident.

Her partner was hunched over the case files, head propped on one hand, when she quietly entered the room - a completely drained Firewhiskey bottle by his side. His hair was sticking out in odd directions, as though he’d spent all day tearing through his platinum locks. He had the tortoiseshell glasses back on the bridge of his nose, sitting slightly askew.

Draco was so focused on reading through the notes Hermione left him that he didn’t seem to hear their office door shut.

“Hi.”

He jerked his head up, his eyes looking a bit frantic. As though he was desperate to forget that they hadn’t managed to solve the case in time to save his friend.

Upon seeing Hermione hovering near the door, Draco straightened up in his seat.

She had changed before coming back in, swapping her pencil skirt for tattered jeans. Sneakers instead of the ballet flats that cut into her heel. He was still wearing his clothes from this morning.

“What’re you doing back in the office,” Draco asked as though it were an absurdity. Even though he was right here with her.

She arched her eyebrow at him. Because for such a good detective, well, the answer to that was rather obvious. Wasn’t it?

“Have you eaten anything?” Hermione tried not to make her concern apparent as she walked over to his desk.

“A biscuit at the Goyle’s.”

“Oh Draco.” She wanted to reach out to comfort him but thought better of it, not knowing how he would respond. Instead she set about tidying his space - throwing away the bottle of Firewhiskey in his bin and putting all the reports and notes back into the case file. His eyes tracking her every movement.

She’d now come to terms with the fact that he was no longer ‘Malfoy’ to her. That he never would be again, even after all this was said and done.

He was ‘Draco.’

It was a change that worried her. A forward motion that made the skeletons in her closet balk in protest.

Because it solidified how terrible of a person she was. And it was much worse than she ever thought possible.

It meant that she was letting herself move on from the headspace she’d lived in for years. And she didn’t really know how to come to terms with the fact that, despite the pain it caused her, she wanted to kept going forward.

However, just because she might care for the man clearly in pieces beside her, didn’t mean that she would allow anything to actually happen between them. She couldn’t allow herself that because she didn’t deserve it. Her complicated feelings on the matter being totally irrelevant.

But, for tonight, she was muting the demons. Draco needed something other than alcohol to soothe his soul. And, frankly, Hermione was the person for the job.

That being the case because she was the only one here, she told herself.

Not because she wanted to.

“C’mon,” she held out her hand, waiting for him to take it.

But he just looked as if he’d never seen the body part before. Feeling tremendously stupid when he continued to do nothing but stare, she finally jerked her hand back.

She wasn’t even sure why she had expected another reaction. He’d never given any sign of being interested in her affection before. And he was perfectly capable of standing on his own for Fates’ sake.

“Let’s go, Draco. I’m taking you home,” she sighed. When he started to protest, saying something along the lines that he needed to keep working, she cut him off. “We can’t solve this case if you starve yourself to death. I’m not trained in MLE procedures, remember?”

Draco nodded before silently following her through their office, back down the MLE hallway and into the Ministry atrium. She dragged him into the Floo and sent them flying away before he opened his mouth again.

Stepping out of her fireplace, Hermione immediately realized that she hadn’t readied the space for visitors.

In fact, she had only gone back to the office to check on him. Make sure that he wasn’t trying to drown out the pain with the alcohol in his drawer or work himself half-to-death trying to find answers. When she realized that he was in the process of doing both, her mind decided to get him out.

She just hadn’t really formulated much of a plan apart from that.

Hence why they were now standing in her rather messy apartment in Marylebone.

Books were everywhere, as they always were. Her dinner plate from last night was on the coffee table and abandoned cups of tea were scattered throughout.

But she’d never had visitors. So it didn’t matter that her flat became messier than usual when she transferred to MLE. It was temporary and no one would see it.

Of course, people knew where she lived. Well… Harry and Ginny did. That was it. She never planned to have them over either. Just knowing that her best friend would be hell-bent on actually decorating her bare green walls with pictures that would rip her heart into infinitesimally small pieces.

“Um, Hermione? You do realize that this is your home and not mine?” Draco pushed his fingers through his hair, righting its earlier messiness, as he soaked in his surroundings. As if he were in a museum and everything was a precious artifact. When in fact most of the things on show came from nearby dumpsters or charity shops. Not a valuable thing in sight.

“Well if I can give your house elves a break from preparing one meal, it’d be a win.”

And quite, frankly, more than she’d done for the magical creatures in years.

Draco frowned before bending down and picking up the Hounds of Baskerville, the receipt poking out from the top to mark her spot.

“I freed the elves after the war actually.” He straightened up, looking a bit uncomfortable. “You really are a Holmesian fiend, aren’t you?” The question clearly intended to move them away from the subject of his former servants.

“Well modern crime novels tend to be a bit …”

“Obvious?”

“Precisely,” she smiled. “Why did you decide to free them?”

Hermione knew that he didn’t want to talk about it, that much was obvious given how he continued looking at every title within reach for something else to say. But she had to know.

“Because it was the right thing to do,” he finally sighed.

Hermione stared at her wooden herringbone floor, feeling a bit unmoored. Clearly, there was a massive disconnect between who she hoped Draco would be and who he actually was.

She’d known that he’d changed, she just hadn’t realized how much.

It turns out that her partner was a decent person.

And entertaining.

And attractive.

And all the bloody things that she didn’t want or need him to be.

“Right,” Hermione said after the silence became an almost tangible thing. “Let’s go in the kitchen so I can make us something to eat.”

She turned on her heel, not yet ready to meet his eyes, and assuming that he would follow. Not that he could possibly get lost with how small her flat was.

Hermione bit her lip nervously as she flipped the lights on in the kitchen. Draco took a seat at the pockmarked table that Charlie gifted her all those years ago, undoubtedly noticing the various scorch marks the previous owner left behind.

He watched, silently, as she rummaged through her cupboards for something to make. Unfortunately, they were positively spartan. It wasn’t surprising considering that she wasn’t a cook, had even said as much to Draco when they got roped into drinks at the Leaky Cauldron.

Which meant she could make do with one saucepan and a handful of dry goods.

But she would absolutely not be feeding Draco unseasoned pasta for dinner, not unless she wanted to pass away from complete embarrassment.

“Takeout it is then,” she mumbled under her breath.

She hadn’t noticed that Draco had gotten up to explore on his own. When she turned around to ask what he wanted to order, she saw that he was looking through the cabinets on the opposite side of the room. Equally bare, mind you.

He’d already found the plates and glassware. Or really, the two clean plates and three glasses. She never really managed to acquire sets of anything.

Because, again, what was the point? She didn’t need them as she never let anyone over.

And what she did have was chipped every which way.

“Have you considered that you should worry about yourself more than me,” Draco asked, the words so soft that Hermione couldn’t even misinterpret their intent. The concern in his question given more weight by the look he was giving her. The realization set butterflies fluttering in her stomach.

“You can’t just live off of …” He picked up a thing of cinnamon squares, rattling the cereal box around to discover it basically empty, “…nothing.”

Hermione could only roll her eyes, knowing that it was all but impossible to hide the flush in her cheeks before ordering them Thai food.

***

Empty takeout boxes surrounded them, Hermione having outdone herself with ordering.

Probably to prove the point that she did actually eat. It was just cooking that was the issue.

A bottle of Ogden’s sat between them, now two-thirds empty, after having been recovered from underneath her sink where she kept it nestled between cleaning supplies.

They had decided to eat in the living room, mainly so that Draco would stop pointing out every alarming thing he found in the sorry excuse that was her kitchen. Chief among them being her refrigerator with one jam-jar and a half-eaten bag of carrots. That was it.

At least the living room had more life to it. Though, if he was being perfectly fucking honest with himself, the entire place looked like she’d just moved in. Sure, she had a fuck-ton of books everywhere. But that was to be expected.

Everything else though?

It gave Draco the vague impression of a new graduate not having the funds to purchase anything but the absolute bare fucking minimum. Hermione was still apologizing profusely over the fact that they had to share a knife. But he was just relieved she had one.

He took his time looking around the room, his stomach now filled with noodles and spice, as he admired her veritable library of detective novels. It was pretty impressive. Though he did wonder why that was all she seemed to read.

Because no spell-books or theoretical tomes were in sight. Nothing that could be considered magical reading by any stretch of the imagination.

He just couldn’t understand why Hermione Granger, of all people, had reduced her life down to a single point: her association with Muggles. It was what she consumed, it was the nature of her work.

For some reason, it seemed that she had done away with all her passion. She no longer advocated for creature rights. And it looked like she’d also called time on her pursuit of magical knowledge.

But, if you asked Draco where he expected Hermione to be post-Hogwarts, it certainly wasn’t stuck at an entry-level Ministry position. His first guess would’ve been a Mastery program, his second a professorship at Hogwarts. Because she was the smartest person he had ever known and could easily secure a teaching job at the prestigious institution if that was what she wanted.

So what had happened to her spark?

“You mentioned you got into detective novels because of your Dad right?”

Hermione nodded before taking a sip of the Firewhiskey, grimacing as the alcohol hit her tongue.

“Are some of these from his collection?” Draco had known, through Daily Prophet reporting post-war, the sacrifice that Hermione made to protect her parents from the likes of Voldemort and his followers.

It had been the correct call, considering Order members often had their families targeted. After all, resistance fighters were far more likely to put down their arms when you went after their loved ones instead.

“No, I don’t have anything of theirs.” Hermione delicately rested her head on her knees and looked at him. “I couldn’t bring myself to give them their memories back in the end. Thought they’d be better off without me.” Her eyes were slightly glazed from the food and booze. “Though they took Crookshanks with them to Australia, so I’m sure he’s keeping them safe for me.”

“Why would you ever think that your parents would be better off without you?”

Granted, Draco was doing fucking swell without his dear old psychopath of a father. Though his experience wasn’t exactly a normal one, was it? Considering that Lucius was the one to hold Draco down as his soul was branded with Dark fucking magic.

Still he couldn’t imagine that Hermione would ever want to be this far away from her parents. She used to talk about them every chance she could at Hogwarts as if they’d been her only friends before that. Which, honestly, may have been the case.

“Because I’m just a bit of a nightmare, aren’t I? At least I was back then. Terrible chat and a curse on my loved ones.”

For someone who made a point to comment about how Draco spoke to himself, she could really use some work in that department as well.

“You know that’s not true, Hermione. No one thinks that, certainly not your bloody parents. What about now? You could go back and find them.”

Though, realistically, the chances of reversing Obliviation this many years later likely wouldn’t be successful.

He frowned, getting the creeping suspicion that she was punishing herself for what happened during the Battle of Hogwarts. Something that had been completely out of her control.

She shrugged, not having anything else to say about it.

So instead of pushing her to talk about the loss of her parents when she clearly wasn’t ready to, he pivoted to his other point of curiosity.

“Well I’m surprised you haven’t decorated more. I expected to walk into a room fucking filled with plants wearing little hats or something. Maybe a few more books thrown in too. Didn’t you say you’ve been here five years?”

It was a surprising, considering there were no pictures or knick-knacks anywhere. She just had her detective stories. And dining implements that looked straight from the Burrow’s bin.

Honestly, it reminded Draco of his place a little. Which wasn’t something to fucking boast about, by the way.

“I just couldn’t do more than this when I first moved in. And it still seems like too much for me even now, you know?

“Right,” he bit his lip. “And is that something you’d want to talk about?”

It was a bit of a rich question. Because she had brought up Goyle during dinner and he resolutely shut that shit down. He wasn’t going to expound on how he’d felt seeing his friend’s decapitated head that morning. Nor what it was like when Goyle’s mum fainted in her husband’s arms after Draco showed up on the doorstep. (She’d always been afraid that something would happen to her son because of the time he’d spent serving Voldemort. Looks like she’d been right.)

So, yeah, no fucking thanks. That shit was going to haunt him for life even if he did talk about it. Yet, here he was, asking her to delve into the emotional state she was in after losing her fucking boyfriend in the war that Draco had been on the opposite side of.

Needless to say, he was gobsmacked when she actually nodded her head.

“It feels like I don’t have a right to move on because it’s not fair that I’m the one that made it out.” She sighed, her breath hitching as she shut her eyes tight. “I wish you hadn’t saved me, Draco.”

Well that made him want to go back in time and give himself to the flames. What a fucking thing to say. To couple his first name with that fucking admission.

Well too bad, sweetheart. You didn’t get a say in the matter. And even knowing what her opinion was now wouldn’t have changed the call he made. Because he would never have left that room without her. But he wasn’t going to be a fucking asshole and tell her to just toughen up, would he?

Especially when he got the sense that she probably didn’t talk about Ron very often.

Also he didn’t want to fucking treat her like he did everyone else.

Notwithstanding the promise he made that night, he wanted to protect and take care of her.

And he fucking would as long as she let him.

“Hermione, you have to know that he wasn’t getting out of there alive.”

“I -”

“Do you remember how bad it was?” Or did her brain block it out because it was too traumatic to process? He’d seen it happen before with witnesses and wouldn’t be surprised if it was the case here as well.

Hermione just nodded miserably, tears leaking out of her eyes as she did so.

“He was in so much pain that I considered …” She broke off into chest-wracking sobs, sounding so broken that Draco wanted to wage war against the Fates themselves for causing her pain. After a few moments, she wiped her eyes and took a giant slug of whiskey. He wondered if they would ever get to the point of being able to talk about the war sober. “I thought about killing him myself. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t do that one thing for him, Draco.”

“If it makes you feel better, I thought about doing the same. I’m still not sure I made the right call.”

“Do you think he was cognizant in the end?”

Draco cocked his head, seriously considering whether it would be a kindness to lie to her or not. He remembered Harry stopping him when he’d been on the cusp of taking away her memories and settled on an answer in-between.

“No, he was in and out by the time I flew you away.” He shrugged his shoulders, trying to force out the image of Ron struggling to breathe from his mind. “And if anyone died for peace, it was him.”

“He should’ve been there to see the war end. He died without even knowing …”

“Hermione, there was no way to save him. If we’d managed to get him out, he would’ve spent hours suffering.”

“You’re right. It’s just that I still feel so guilty about it. And it’s like every step I take away from him in that moment is the worst thing I’ve ever done. But I keep doing it. It feels like I’m now the furthest I’ve ever been from that blasted room.”

“Would you say you’re in the corridor outside by that horrid tapestry or on the Astronomy Tower stairs?”

Hermione opened and closed her mouth a few times, startled by the question, before bursting into laughter.

“Near the Grand Staircase actually,” Hermione smiled gratefully.

“Good, I’ll be waiting at the bottom for you when you finally make it down.” Draco smirked before taking another sip of Firewhiskey himself, marveling at the strangeness of the universe. That he was sitting here with this girl making impossible jokes about the war that fucked him up beyond repair. “Could you imagine what he would say if he saw the two of us now?”

“Probably something similar to when he found out we were sitting together in Ancient Runes.”

“I don’t recall having a choice in the matter back then.”

“Neither did I! The only seat left was beside you, unsurprisingly.”

“Hey!” Draco playfully tugged a strand of her hair. “I was excellent chat by the end.”

“You were,” Hermione scrunched up her fucking nose again. Which was adorable as always. “When Ron found out though, he called me absolutely mental.” She laughed before the smile died away completely. “You know, I’d been planning on breaking up with him. It just wasn’t working. To be honest, it never really had.”

Draco concealed his surprise behind a neutral expression, something Bill drilled into them during training so nothing was given away during witness interviews.

“I realized that we weren’t actually compatible, just trauma-bonded. And then he died,” her voice wobbled again. “Leaving me here to be a terrible person.”

As she descended back into sobs that took her breath away, Draco pulled her into his arms. Not even giving a fuck about the fact that they were ‘partners.’ Because she needed someone there to hold her. And Draco would always be the first to volunteer.

He got the sense that she had never told anyone that. That it was one of the many skeletons hidden in Hermione Granger’s closet that didn’t deserve to be there.

She didn’t even resist him holding onto her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to this world. Instead, she melted into his embrace seeming to consume what little space had existed between them.

As he brushed his hand down her hair, he murmured all the words of comfort that she should’ve heard years ago.

“His death wasn’t your fault, Hermione. It was just a freak fucking accident. There was nothing you could do to prevent it. Your feelings didn’t cause it. But for what it’s worth, I’m sorry I couldn’t do more for him.”

She nodded, letting Draco fully pull her into his lap, her arms wrapping around his neck.

“And I’m going to be real fucking honest with you, I wasn’t going to lose you to those flames. I don’t care who was under that pile. If it was Potter or Goyle or anyone else. I would always have made you the priority in that moment. And I know for a fucking fact that Ron didn’t want me to save him over you. And that would’ve been the case even if you two had already broken up.”

Hermione stiffened before mumbling something incoherent.

“Hmm?”

“You called him Ron.” She moved her head to rest on his shoulder, her breath tickling his neck.

“Well I couldn’t rightly call him Weasley anymore after I left him there alone, could I?”

***

They had been sitting there for several minutes, intertwined and not speaking.

The secret which had been holding Hermione hostage had finally released her when she told Draco the truth. That Ron died to save her and she had just been biding her time to break things off.

She had expected Draco to tell her that she was a horrible person. That she was right, she should’ve died in the fire - not the person who managed to rescue the lost diadem and help end the war.

But instead he just shrugged and told her that she was human. She couldn’t help the feelings she held towards a person anymore than he could. And, in that moment, it seemed as if he was speaking about more than her ex-boyfriend.

As evidenced by the fact that he’d pulled her even tighter, his arms interlocking around her as if in fear that she might scurry away. But she didn’t want to leave his embrace. Because she felt safe and seen for the first time in years. And she never wanted to forget that feeling ever again. Didn’t think she would be able to breathe if she did.

“You know the Weasleys have been foisting unwanted dates on me for half a decade?”

“Of course,” Draco smiled down at her. “Me and Potter have an ongoing bet about who it’ll be next. That and I make fun of Bill every chance I get that you turned him down.”

“You couldn’t pay me all the Galleons in your vault to go for a drink with him,” Hermione shuddered. “The date with George was bad enough. Gods, it was so traumatic that I still have nightmares about it. He made some comment about how jealous Fred would be because he always thought I was fit. That’s actually probably the form my Boggart takes now if I’m being honest.”

“I hate knowing that you’ve been living life like this for so long.” She could feel his heart beating steadily in his chest. He was so alive and it was a glorious contrast to the dead that she usually had for company. “I just thought you were miserable because you hated work. Not because you were struggling with all of this.”

“Hey, I’m not miserable at work.”

“Hermione, every time we crossed paths, it looked like you were having the worst day of your life.”

“Well … no, I suppose that’s fair.”

She breathed into his neck again, trying to be subtle but probably failing. He still smelled the same as he had on their first day sharing an office.

Parchment. Green Leaves. Juniper Berries.

She’d happily drown in it if she could, the smell so comforting to her.

“To be honest, I’m a bit of a hypocrite myself.” Draco shifted her slightly as he repositioned himself on the couch. “Sometimes it feels like I’m still treading water - trying to undo that bad decision that changed the course of everyone’s lives.”

“You’re not that person anymore, Draco.” She blinked up at him, her gaze stern.

If she did only one good thing in this life, it would be ensuring that he knew he was a far better person than he gave himself credit for.

“You know, I like when you say my name,” his mouth hooking up into the sweetest smile she’d ever seen.

It was clear that they were both drunk, the whiskey smell prominent on their breaths.

She’d moved her hand up to weave her fingers into his hair, his thumb now brushing gentle lines across her cheek.

If anyone saw them now, they would assume that they were lovers embracing. Not two partners comforting each other about the ghosts haunting them.

Hermione knew that she should pull away and break this up to prevent work being awkward tomorrow. That what she was doing was entirely irresponsible after the grief-ridden day Draco had.

But this was the first time that she had ever let anyone come home with her. Had let anyone hold her like that … since before the war started.

The fact that it was the man who saved her once was not lost on her.

She briefly wondered if he was in the process of doing so again.

Hermione’s loneliness could be best compared to a physical pain constantly throbbing under the suffocating guilt and shame she lived with on a daily basis. But now that she was in Draco’s arms? She was free from all of it.

In fact, she felt like a whole person for once. Yes, there were cracks in the body - but they seemed to be in process of being gilded over with something precious, like gold.

So she couldn’t let herself stop this. Because it was so nice to no longer be broken pieces laying on the floor, collecting dust.

She looked up, studying his strong features in the light: the cutting edge of his jaw, his pale skin, his grey pupils.

Whatever she saw there pushed her to take a chance. So, fluttering her eyes closed, she leaned in. Their lips brushed, a single word tickling her skin.

“Hermione.”

But it didn’t sound like a whispered promise. It sounded a lot more like regret.

Her eyes shot open and she threw herself back, Draco’s arms instantly releasing her.

“I’m s-so sorry.” She brushed her hand over her lip where she could still feel the traces left by his skin. “I don’t know what came over me.”

She stood up, her back facing him, as she walked over to her bookshelf for no other reason than to hide her embarrassment.

“I should probably go.”

Hermione nodded, refusing to turn around so that he couldn’t see the tears sprinkling her face. She didn’t move again until she heard the flames die down in the grate, when she was alone once more.

Notes:

i would just like to formally apologize for the ending of this chapter (well, kinda.)

things will be on the upswing next week though.

Chapter 14: Fortune Clearly Doesn't Favor the Brave

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Hermione didn’t bother breaking into the office. Instead, she directed her footfalls to the only reasonable place she could go this Tuesday morning.

Which was to say, Bill Weasley looked up in surprise when she opened his door without bothering to knock.

“You’re taking me off the case.” Hermione didn’t care to pose this as a question because she had already decided. She simply couldn’t work with Draco Malfoy any longer. Not after the mortification of last night was viewed from a sober lens.

They would simply have to find someone else. It wasn’t her problem to deal with any longer. She would be going back to researching the most boring topics on Muggle affairs that Arthur could drum up, without complaint.

“I take it you two finally hooked up then?”

Hermione pursed her lips, in that moment thinking how much nicer Bill Weasley would be as a chinchilla. It was a relatively easy casting too, it could be her parting present to the Department.

Better than an actual farewell at least.

“I’ll tell you what I told Malfoy, no.” Bill returned to his coffee and kougin-amann, completely ignoring the flush spreading across her face.

“When did you speak to Draco,” Hermione asked hotly.

It was acceptable for her to demand a return to MoMA. But for him to do it on her behalf? Absolutely not.

“About five minutes before you decided to waltz in unannounced,” Bill said between bites, causing Hermione’s eye to twitch from unbounded rage. “You’re lucky I wasn’t having my secretary for breakfast.”

“You’re disgusting.”

Bill shrugged, the remark probably thrown his way multiple times a week.

“Look, I don’t care if you guys are fucking. In fact, I hope you are since you two are both so high-strung that you clearly need it. Plus, it’s pretty fucking obvious neither of you are interested in anyone else around here.” Bill wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Though I’ll admit the pickings are a bit slim.”

Which was rich coming from the man that was making it his side-quest to sleep his way through the entire Ministry before retirement.

“You can’t just say that to your employee, Bill.”

“Technically, you don’t work for me. I’m just telling you this as a friend.”

Hermione wasn’t entirely sure that she could consider Bill Weasley anything aside from found family that she didn’t actually get a say on. Quite frankly, he was so hostile in their every interaction that she dreaded ever having a conversation with him. Fearing that, one day, he might just blow up.

Bill lit a cigarette, pulling a long drag from it before blowing out the smoke to cloud around his head.

“I still don’t understand why you agreed to put me on this case. Because it’s not like I have any actual expertise in Muggle affairs, aside from growing up around them.” She folded her arms across her chest, frustrated. “You would’ve been better off with someone like Ernie Macmillan.”

“We both know that Malfoy would’ve killed him by the end of the first day. And that’s before Ernie got in a few shots himself.”

“You could’ve had Marcus Flint if the only thing you cared about was avoiding a fight breaking out. I mean, they played on the same Quidditch team for years.”

“Actually, Malfoy told me if I tried pairing him with that fuck, he would quit. But we can keep going through whatever list you’ve formed in your head. I have a few hours to kill. It’s not like it matters though since, at the end of the day, we went with you. Something you can’t seem to accept no matter how many fucking times I tell you.”

“I was perfectly happy in Arthur’s office before getting dragged here against my will.”

“Okay, Hermione,” Bill snorted. “If you’re going to lie to me, you’ll need to do better than that.”

She could feel her nostrils flare as her vision slowly turned red, her fingers twitching towards her wand.

Bill clocked the movement and he opened his mouth to say something but clearly decided against it. Instead, he tossed his cigarette into the dregs of his coffee and pulled a form from a stack on his desk.

“I just want you two to solve this case and stay out of my fucking office.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and turned to leave without saying anything else. She should’ve anticipated Bill’s response. He didn’t care about anyone’s feelings anymore, not after experiencing so much loss in the war. The more everyone else suffered, the better he probably felt about his own life.

“Oh and, for the record, I’d been assuming you’d been fucking each other since he started calling you ‘Hermione.’”

This time, she didn’t hesitate and hurled a hex right at him. Bill would probably have to visit the hospital ward to counteract the popping pustules developing across his skin.

Let’s see who would want to touch him now, Hermione thought with a smug grin.

***

“Oh my Gods, I need to come back to the Ministry with you. I’d never forgive myself if I missed out on that vision. Maybe I should buy a Muggle camera so that the moment can live forever on our mantle back home.” Ginny cackled over her cappuccino, having immediately agreed to meet Hermione for a mid-morning break.

“He’s lucky it wasn’t something worse. I don’t think I can handle one more comment from Bill about my alleged sex life. It’s absolutely humiliating,” Hermione muttered, her face buried behind her hands.

They were seated on a bench in a secluded corner of a public park, having just picked up coffee and pastries. They wanted to talk openly which meant they had to leave Hermione’s favorite cafe behind, crowded as it was with other Ministry employees, to sweat it out under the beady sun. It was another beautiful day without a cloud in sight. Ginny having taken the one spot in the shade, knowing that if she spent more than five minutes in the bright light, she would turn into the color of a tomato.

After spending a few more minutes chatting about nothing in particular, Hermione finally asked how Harry was doing in the wake of Goyle’s death the day before.

“You know how he is, how they all are.” Ginny gestured vaguely and shook her head. “He’s not wanting to talk about it. Bull I’ll be there if he ever does. Maybe it’ll happen by the time when we’re in an old folks home.”

“I don’t understand how any of them can function, pushing down their emotions all the time. It would make me feel so claustrophobic.”

“Sometimes I think he’s afraid that if he opens up, he’ll just keep pouring himself out until there’s nothing left.”

They both sighed, the lovely day partially dampened by their conversation.

“Right, enough sad things. You need to update me on your life, like yesterday. Because Harry has done an absolute piss-poor job of it. Are you with Dean … or Draco? Or both?” Ginny batted her eyes playfully at Hermione.

“I’m with neither.” She scrunched up her nose, thinking about last night. She had been so sure that they’d felt the same thing in that moment of being intertwined, their hearts beating in tandem. But then Draco had pushed her away with one word and now she never wanted to hear her name ever again. “Definitely neither.”

“That doesn’t sound like a good thing.”

“You could say I’m not exactly thrilled by it.” Hermione picked at her blueberry muffin and mulled over how to put what she was feeling into words. Or if she should, considering she was seated beside Ron’s bloody sister. “Dean was a mistake. I mean, nothing happened.” She said this hastily, wanting to make it clear that she hadn’t been pursuing Ginny’s ex without telling her first.

“If it had, I would’ve been pleased as punch for you.” Ginny’s smile widened slowly and Hermione knew that glint in her eyes meant one thing. Her friend was about to divulge something about her sex life that Hermione could’ve gone her entire life without knowing. “He’s an absolutely incredible lay.”

“GINNY!” Hermione could feel her face go beet red as she placed her fingers in her ears, hoping to block out any further revelations. Meanwhile, Ginny’s cackling drew the attention of a few joggers on the path before them. “I’m never going to be able to look at him the same way again.”

“Look, all I’m saying is, he’s packing.”

“Please stop,” Hermione moaned.

“Only if you tell me what happened,” the redhead singsonged.

Hermione hastily agreed before more bombs could go off in her lap. She filled Ginny in on the disastrous date with Dean which (eventually) ended with the two of them agreeing that friendship was the better route going forward.

“He’s someone else I’m in desperate need of a catch-up with as well. I’ve just been so busy with this case. But I want to know if he’s agreed to do the Paris residency. I think it would be good for him to pick up his paintbrushes again.”

“Mmm, definitely.”

That look appeared in Ginny’s eyes again and Hermione clamped a hand over her friend’s mouth.

“I really cannot emphasize enough how little I want to hear about whatever art projects you two did together,” Hermione pleaded.

Ginny laughed loudly, the sound drawing the attention of even more passers-by.

“Okay, fair enough.” Ginny finished the last of her coffee, running back to retake her spot in the shade after throwing her cup away. “Now tell me about Draco. More importantly, when did he stop being Malfoy?”

“Yesterday,” Hermione sighed. “And I don’t know what there is to say really. We’re working together on this case. I thought last night that maybe there was something there … but I definitely read the situation wrong.”

“Last night,” Ginny asked. “What were you two doing together last night?”

“Oh I just had him over for dinner.”

“You had Draco Malfoy over for dinner before me and Harry,” Ginny said slowly. “Oh boy, you’ve got it bad.

“No, it’s not that at all.” Hermione shook her head, her curls flying out around her face. She didn’t really know how to tell her friend how protective she felt over the man that she used to despise with all her being. “He just hadn’t eaten dinner so I wanted to make sure he had something before going home.”

“And you couldn’t have ordered food to the Ministry?”

“Well … I suppose I could have. I just didn’t think about it.” Hermione frowned as she realized how easily she could have avoided heartache last night had she just been a little more rational.

“I mean, hey, I’m not judging,” Ginny shrugged. “Malfoy’s pretty hot so …”

“Ginny!”

“What? Just because I’m in a relationship doesn’t mean I don’t have eyes.”

“Well whatever,” Hermione huffed grumpily before tossing her half-eaten muffin in the trash, her appetite suddenly gone. “Nothing’s ever going to happen between us.” A pit opened in her stomach at those words, one that she couldn’t ignore no matter how much she tried.

“What makes you say that?”

“I tried to kiss him.” Hermione said the words as quietly as possible as she closed her eyes and waited for the reaction that she would willingly throw herself into a ravine to avoid.

“What do you mean, you tried?” Hermione looked up in surprise, not expecting confusion from her friend but something more along the lines of unfettered joy at the juiciest gossip ever divulged. “Like, you missed his mouth or something?”

“No … he pulled away from me.”

“Stop it,” Ginny’s jaw dropped open. “But he’s obsessed with you. Why would he do that?”

Well that was news to Hermione. And, based on last night, that would probably be news to Draco as well.

“He’s definitely not obsessed with me. I mean, that was made extremely clear after he ran out within seconds of my ill-fated romancing attempt.”

“No, I’m pretty sure he’s been secretly in love with you for years.” Ginny cocked her head, her eyes narrowing in thought. “I mean, he always tells Harry to invite you to the dinners he shows up for. Like without fail.”

Hermione faltered, not expecting that, before brushing the comment off as Ginny looking too much into the social niceties of wizarding aristocracy.

“Well whatever he may have felt for me at one time has clearly changed after getting to know me.”

Ginny did her best to convince Hermione otherwise on their way back to the Ministry, the youngest Weasley having decided that she could be a bit late to her press interview scheduled for that afternoon. After all, she couldn’t pass up the sight of Bill Weasley’s new facial.

But no matter what tones her friend painted last night in, Hermione knew one thing for certain.

Draco Malfoy wanted nothing to do with her in that way. And she would never make the mistake of assuming that he did again.

By the time Hermione returned to MLE, having just deposited Ginny in the Ministry infirmary to gloat, the work day was well underway.

Maybe that meant Draco would be out of the office, doing something for one of his other cases.

But even as she thought this, she knew it was unlikely. Exceedingly so considering the recent murder of his best friend.

A woman could dream though.

Hermione considered how to approach the problem of last night, deciding that it would be best to take a page out of Dean’s book since she was stuck on the case. She would apologize for making Draco uncomfortable and extend the metaphorical branch of friendship. Though maybe it would be better for both of them if they shunned friendship altogether and stayed within professional bounds.

That way her heart wouldn’t get confused by their easy banter … or his exposed forearms.

She wondered if she might gently suggest he stop showing them. But then that would absolutely come off as crazy.

Hermione’s rumination came to a halt mid-thought when she came in sight of his office door, which was cracked. Much as it had been last night. Only now the cacophony of the bullpen must be filtering in through the gap, likely making it next-to-impossible for Draco to concentrate.

After all, much like Hermione, he needed silence to work. She could always rely on him to bully others into being quiet in the Hogwarts library when she felt too nervous to say anything herself.

So why had he left the door open if not to let her know that she needn’t break in today?

Hermione wanted to douse herself in cold water, just so she might get a grasp on the uncontrollable spiral of her thoughts. She was over-analyzing the reason why he’d cracked his door for Gods’ sake. He probably just wanted some fresh air.

When had Hermione let herself turn into this bumbling, heart-sick mess?

Remembering that Draco had asked to take her off the case this morning helped her jut her chin and step in, closing the door firmly behind her.

He was sitting at his desk, reading over Edgecombe’s report despite her having thoroughly marked it up the night before. A cup of coffee was in one hand, a quill spinning in the other. And much to her extreme disappointment, his forearms were on show. The tattoos seeming to gleam in the morning light.

Maybe she should gouge her eyes out so that she could get through this case without making more of a fool of herself.

“I spoke to Bill this morning,” Hermione said shortly.

She stood in front of her desk, arms crossed and shoe tapping an angry staccato on the hard floor.

“I understand I crossed a line last night,” she continued hastily, “and for that, I do apologize. But I don’t see why you would go about and ask to take me off the case. Not when you were so convinced of my helpfulness yesterday.”

“I didn’t ask for you to be pulled, Hermione.” Draco still hadn’t bothered to look up at her, his eyes tracking almost lazily across the report that he’d probably memorized word-for-word. “I asked for me to be taken off. Oh and I watered your plant this morning when I came in, it was looking a bit shriveled.”

She needed to take a beat to recover from everything he’d just said.

“B-but it’s your case!” She decided to let the comment about his gardening acumen go unacknowledged.

Our case,” Draco quickly responded. “You’ve done more than your fair share of the work recently. And I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable working with me.”

“I’m not,” she shrugged, hoping that her feigned casualness was remotely believable. But, truth be told, Hermione had never made a very good actress. “My feelings aside, you did the responsible thing by turning me down.”

“I wasn’t trying to be responsible, Hermione.” Draco sat back, looking flustered - quite possibly for the first time in his life. “I just didn’t want the first time I ever kissed you to be a drunken blunder.”

His admission sat like a ticking bomb between them. Just out there in the open. Without the influence of alcohol or heightened emotions from loss at play.

“Oh.” That was all she could manage. Well that and blushing crimson.

Maybe Hermione would let herself have more of a reaction when her brain and body were finally processing things at the same speed. But, right now, she was definitely in a free-fall. And he was staring at her clearly waiting for a response with maybe a few more words in it.

Unfortunately, he’d be waiting for a bit longer because a memo suddenly landed on Draco’s desk. It must have scooted underneath the space between the floor and office door to find its target.

His gaze lingered on her for a second longer before ripping open the airplane and quickly reading its contents.

“Parkinson’s ready for us in the morgue,” he grunted. “Don’t forget your key, it’s on the desk.”

“Great!” Her tone was over bright, out-of-place for the grim turn their afternoon would take.

But at least it would force her mind off of Draco’s admission. Which itself opened the space for their (definitely not) professional relationship to maybe develop into something more.

***

Hermione followed Draco towards the elevators where they would descend into the bowels of the Ministry.

Much to her disappointment, it looked like they would be forced to cram themselves together. Because the lift that showed up was positively heaving with employees, the panel of buttons as lit up as possible.

She almost suggested getting the next one. But with her luck, it would be even more crowded. So she would just have to force her mind to stay on safe topics. Which certainly didn’t include Draco admitting that he’d wanted to kiss her last night.

But that was really all she could think about at the moment.

So much for getting her head together before Goyle’s autopsy.

Hermione got into the elevator first, muttering apologies as she pressed herself into the only available corner. Draco immediately stepping into her space, having nowhere else to go. To make matters as terrible as possible, he had to press his hands on either side of her head too so as not to be thrown about every time the lift jerked.

Curse the Fates, all of them.

Because his position meant that she was now surrounded by his tattoos. She had the option of looking at them or at his chest. Because if she looked into his eyes, she’d probably melt into a puddle considering how flustered she felt.

It’s not like she could even make small talk with the other Ministry workers either. Draco was tall enough that he crowded them all out, making her feel like it was just the two of them in here.

“You might as well take a look while we wait,” Draco smirked down at her.

She knew that, if it were at all possible, she’d just turned a deeper shade of red. Such that anyone catching a glimpse of her face might conclude that she’d contracted some horrible virus. Especially now that she was starting to sweat from how hot her body felt.

“Go on, I know you want to.” He whispered this in her ear, having just been thrown towards her from the lift jerking to a stop.

Clearly, Draco wasn’t concerned about the effect he was having on her. He actually seemed to be overly enjoying himself, the smug bastard.

Meanwhile, Hermione was barely able to suppress some very unprofessional thoughts about him while a coil of tension shot straight to her core.

When he pulled away a moment later, she decided to do as he’d suggested - her curiosity getting the better of her. Plus, he had probably known since that night in the Leaky Cauldron that she had a thing for his arms, given that she’d positively drooled over them.

Ignoring the slight tinge of embarrassment simmering in her chest, she turned her head and began studying the design on his left forearm. He still had the Dark Mark which had been branded into his skin so many years ago, but you could only tell from this close up.

Draco’s tattoo artist had done a tremendous job of covering it, having inked an intricate dragon over top. The body was black, the scales outlined in gold.

“If you stroke it, it’ll move for you.”

Hermione cleared her throat, reminding herself to keep her thoughts above-board. But he absolutely had to know what he was doing, right?

She bit her lip, her breathing unsteady, as she let her fingers lightly dance across the skin. Worries about Ministry gossipers long since forgotten. She felt a slight shudder work through him from her touch, an almost inaudible groan falling from his lips.

But, much to her delight, the tattoo flexed its body before shooting flames of red and orange ink across his hand.

“That’s absolutely incredible,” she smiled at him.

“I’m glad you think so because it was an absolute bitch to sit for.”

Hermione scrunched her nose, fighting back a giggle, before turning to admire the forest green snake coiled around his right arm.

“Does this one also move if touched,” she asked.

“Why don’t you just see for yourself?”

She didn’t need any further encouragement and passed her hand down his arm, this time her touch more sure. The snake coiled, flicking out a silver tongue before returning to its place.

“I love them,” she said, her eyes gleaming with delight. “Are those the only ones you have?”

“No, but they’re the only ones I can show off at work,” he winked.

Draco was, most assuredly, going to be her demise. He wasn’t even bothering to keep his voice down. But when Hermione glanced around nervously, she realized that they were the only ones remaining. That and they were no longer moving.

Apparently, her partner hit the emergency stop button while she was admiring his snake tattoo.

“Draco!” Hermione swatted his chest. “How long have we been alone?”

“Only for a moment. But it’s not my fault that you don’t pay attention to your surroundings.” He chuckled, his breath caressing her face since he still hadn’t moved away despite the ample space to do so. “I can’t fucking get over how distracted I can make you just by rolling up my sleeves.”

“I like tattoos. You happen to have visible ones,” Hermione shrugged, trying to downplay how much pull he had over her. “It’s like presenting a bee with a pollen-stuffed flower.”

“Bill has tattoos and I’ve never heard you say a positive thing about him.”

Hermione pursed her lips, realizing that she’d never registered the eldest Weasley had ink. Despite spending Christmas with his family for the past five years. Birthdays too.

“Fine.” Hermione sniffed, finally having to admit defeat. “Maybe I happen to like your tattoos specifically. Something which I should probably appreciate outside of work hours.”

She pushed him away and pressed the emergency button to release the elevator’s hold, causing them to immediately drop several floors towards the morgue.

After flying towards the ceiling, Hermione landed on top of Draco with a scream. He locked his arms around her to prevent anymore unwanted levitation, never seeming so happy in his life.

“Should’ve expected that one, love.”

Hermione still hadn’t recovered from that when the lift finally spat them out on the Ministry’s lowest level with a sign pointing them towards their destination.

***

All things considered, Draco felt like he was walking on fucking air. Which was a miracle considering the abhorrent shit-show they walked into yesterday morning.

His reenforced Occlumency walls were doing a crap-ton of work right now. But a not insignificant portion was due to the fact that Hermione tried to kiss him last night.

Granted, she had the worst fucking timing of anyone he’d ever met. And that was saying something considering Pansy tried to bang him the night he got Marked.

He was pissed off that he had to leave so suddenly last night. But he couldn’t allow anything to happen. Not when he’d been too mentally fucked-up to let the kiss be anything but a distraction from a bad day. Hermione deserved his full attention, nothing less.

That and he’d been absolutely plastered. On the cusp of seeing double.

All that being said, Draco could finally remember what hope felt like. Even though everything else was pretty fucking dire, a flame was alight in his chest.

He had only attempted to be taken off this fucking nightmare of a case so that Bill didn’t have cause to fire either of them in case their relationship developed into something more. A possibility that Draco wanted more than anything.

But the Head Auror made it explicitly clear that unless they were caught fucking in the MLE bullpen on a Wednesday afternoon with the Minister of Magic himself in sight - Draco wasn’t getting fired. And even if they did do that, he would probably just be suspended for a couple of weeks.

Bill ended that nice little visual by telling Draco Hell would freeze over before he got taken off the Ministry serial case.

You win some, you lose some.

After scraping themselves off the elevator floor, they walked down the hallway - Draco’s hand placed on the small of Hermione’s back. He let himself relish the contact with the soft fabric of her cardigan before he had to switch on his professionalism for the job ahead.

But Draco would never let Hermione think that he was uninterested again. Not after the cock-up of last night and her reaction this morning.

There were very few things that Draco liked. But seeing Hermione blush? That definitely made the list.

He dropped his hand when the morgue doors came into sight, willing the Fates not to taint this (decidedly) good day with something horrible. Though performing the autopsy of one of his best mates wasn’t going to be a walk in the park by any means.

Draco double-checked his mental walls, making sure they were secure, before stepping in to Pansy’s kingdom with Hermione in tow.

The Ministry morgue was an exact replica of what you would find in the Muggle world. Mostly because there was nothing for magic to improve upon, the exception being the execution of the autopsy itself.

Metal sheeting covered two walls, small doors cut into the paneling every few feet to hold the dead until families were allowed to take possession. In the center of the room were three slabs where bodies were placed for cutting, drilling and analyzing. Drainage holes were dotted throughout the tiled floor, their edges stained a rusty red.

Surprisingly, it didn’t smell like death in here … at least not yet. Though that may have been preferable to the overwhelming stench of bleach. In fact, every time Draco was forced to come down here, he had a momentary lapse in sanity - his mind instantly thinking he’d stumbled into a serial killer’s playpen.

If he didn’t know Pansy so well, he would probably toss her on their person-of-interest list for how much she enjoyed this place.

Speaking of his ex-girlfriend, she was nowhere to be found.

“Pansy, we got your memo.” Even though it had just been directed to Draco, despite the coroner knowing Hermione’s involvement on the case. Draco looked towards the only other door in the room, guessing the Slytherin was in her office eating lunch.

Though he couldn’t fucking understand how she could stomach anything when she inhaled the scent of cleaning products all day.

“Can we please get a fucking move on before I get a contact high,” he shouted a bit louder.

“One sec,” came a garbled shout through the door.

Definitely lunch then.

Draco turned back to Hermione who apparently seemed completely unfazed by their sterile environment. She was slowly turning on her heel, taking everything in. Like she couldn’t imagine anything more interesting in the entire world.

What a cute detective she made.

“Right, I’m just going to throw a protective charm on us.” He brushed a hand down her hair, knowing it wasn’t at all necessary for a successful casting. He could’ve used his wand but rather enjoyed the feeling of his fingers running through her soft curls.

Silver washed over her skin at the same time that he performed the spell on himself.

Neither bothered mentioning that Hermione could absolutely do the incantation herself now. In fact, she said nothing beyond nodding her thanks.

“Look at me,” he muttered. She turned her head up, meeting his gaze, and he whispered a scent-blocking charm as he brushed his thumb across her nose. “That should help prevent you smelling anything unpleasant.” And being fucking high by the time Pansy stopped making them wait.

He ticked his jaw, seriously considering whether it was worth blasting Pansy’s door open and dragging her out. She knew how much Draco hated being here so she liked to play a game of making him stand around as long as possible before doing her fucking job.

“Aren’t you going to cast it on yourself as well,” Hermione asked.

“No,” Draco shook his head. “Sometimes killers leave traces of themselves, like perfume, on their victims. It can be difficult to pick up in the chaos of a scene. Much easier to detect here. It doesn’t really happen that often but it’s not worth the risk.”

“So why did you perform the charm on me?” Hermione looked at him, brows pulled together in confusion.

“Because the smell of death never gets better, remember?”

She opened her mouth but no words came out.

“Have you finally bullied your Golden Girl into silence?” Pansy was leaning against the wall, her arms and legs casually crossed.

His ex-girlfriend looked exactly the same as she had at Hogwarts. Her midnight-black hair still in a French bob, the bangs blunt across her forehead. Her light blue eyes twinkled mischievously as she smirked her ruby-red painted lips.

It used to work for him. Not so much now.

“Don’t call her that,” Draco scowled.

“What,” Pansy asked innocently, batting her long eyelashes. “Yours or Golden Girl?”

***

Oh honestly. If everyone could just keep their opinions about her and Draco to themselves, that would be lovely.

“Ms. Parkinson, would you mind not wasting any more of our time?” Hermione snapped before Draco had the chance to answer. “And before you decide to blow us away with another irrelevant question, need I remind you that the only reason either of us are here is because we have to be.”

“Well, look who still has bite,” Pansy responded, the ghost of a smile crossing her lips.

Hermione rolled her eyes but stayed silent as the coroner kicked off the wall and headed across the room. After pulling open a door which revealed Goyle’s body, Pansy levitated the victim (or, really, his various parts) onto the middlemost slab.

Draco looked like he was steeling himself while Pansy headed back to her office to retrieve the tools needed for the autopsy.

“Are you sure you want to be here?” Hermione kept her voice low, not wanting Pansy to overhear and make some asinine comment that wasn’t welcomed.

“What I want doesn’t matter right now,” Draco said firmly. “I’ll be fine once this is over with.” He briefly grabbed her hand before letting it drop as Pansy reentered. “Alright, Parkinson, talk us through your first impressions.”

“We definitely have something new.”

“Yeah, fucking dismemberment,” her partner retorted.

Neither Pansy nor Draco seemed willing to acknowledge that the victim was their close friend. Their eyes just ghosted over his body as though he were another nameless corpse. Hermione considered saying something but wasn’t really sure what was appropriate. Once again, she couldn’t help wonder how important Occlumency was in this line of work.

“No, you arsehole.” Pansy rolled her eyes before levitating Goyle’s head. “Take a look for yourself.”

***

Draco and Hermione stepped closer to Pansy, both leaning in to take a look at whatever the coroner was pointing at. Since apparently she wanted them to discover it for themselves instead of just using her fucking words.

A small line of, what looked like, blood-tinged vomit had dried on the victim’s neck.

All of the other bodies had been immaculately cleaned by their killer. Not a hair out of place.

But it looks like their little psycho finally got sloppy.

Draco knew that it was bound to happen sooner or later. You could only kill so many people before you made a mistake. Either because you ran out of time committing the crime or you wound up too fucking cocksure about not getting caught.

Unfortunately, it took them five bodies to get to this point.

He kept his features set in a grim mask, despite the flood of relief he felt in that moment. Because, maybe, he could finally do something other than tread water on this case.

But that emotion was short-lived as he was reminded of their surroundings. A shiver worked its way down his spine as he was hit with a blast from the room’s magical cooling charm, set to Arctic temperatures to forestall the corpses rotting.

Of all the places Draco would rather be, the morgue was last on the list.

Understandably so considering most people never wanted to find themselves here. Unless, of course, they were his fucking crazy ex-girlfriend who loved her job for some reason.

But Death seemed to taunt him more loudly in this room than anywhere else.

So, similar to his hatred of homicide cases, he absolutely loathed autopsies.

Not just because of the constant reminder of death, but because every additional victim was a testament to his failures.

That and they made him recall Fenrir Greyback’s tendency to torture whatever prey he captured during full moon hunts. The end result always gristle and tendon splattered in one of the Manor rooms, blood pooling into the carpet.

Of course, the Malfoy heir just had to choose the one career that would ensure he’d never forget the grim realities of war. But it was the only way to get his taste of revenge on the Dark wizards still alive that had made his life fucking hell for years on end.

So he would just have to deal with his trauma the best way he knew how. Which meant abusing as many substances as his body would allow before his heart finally exploded and he was forced to take the next train out of here.

He turned his thoughts back to the stain of bodily fluid on the victim’s neck. There definitely hadn’t been any residue on the parquet floor when they levitated the body parts out of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. And taking a look at the floating head in front of him, Draco’s gaze staying firm on the corpse’s mouth and not the eyes he recognized so well, he could see that there wasn’t anything there either.

“The killer’s definitely moving the bodies after cleaning them then,” Draco stated. “Something we fucking suspected, but at least we now have confirmation.”

“Hematemesis is something I can use to narrow down my research as well,” Hermione nodded.

“Sorry, the what,” Draco looked over at his partner, his brow pinched in confusion.

“Bloody vomit,” she clarified, sounding a bit nasally from the scent-blocking charm. “I’ll cross-reference the symptom with what we have on cardiac arrests this week. Maybe it’ll give us a lead.”

“That would be ideal considering our current list of possibilities is as long as Hogwarts, A History,” Draco sighed.

Hermione nodded grimly and Pansy hummed in approval, her gaze flicking between the two partners.

“You know, I didn’t believe that the Golden Girl and my favorite Slytherin Prince would ever work well together. But color me surprised.”

“Parkinson,” Draco growled, “I told you not to fucking call her that.”

At the same time, Hermione grumbled her own discontent over the continued use of the Daily’s Prophet’s ridiculous nickname that seemed to follow her everywhere, no matter how much she protested.

“Oh, so you objected about me calling Granger ‘Golden Girl,’ not me referring to her as yours,” Pansy smirked. “Got it.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Draco bit out. “Just let it go and get a fucking move on, Parkinson.”

He could see that Hermione’s cheeks had flushed a pretty pink beside him. But, considering as they were currently in the middle of something important, he forced his eyes away.

“Very well, have it your way,” Pansy shrugged.

The coroner turned back to the body without another word, a scalpel in hand. Hermione hit the tiled floor within seconds of the first incision, having passed out cold.

Notes:

hope you enjoyed. :)

next week will be a double-feature since i decided to break the planned chapter into two.

Chapter 15: Newsleaks and Forehead Kisses

Notes:

okay, here's one of two this week! :)

Chapter Text

Hermione came to on the office couch, Draco’s suit jacket covering her like a blanket and a small pillow nestled underneath her head. She couldn’t make sense why she was here, alone, of all places. Had forgotten the preceding events that led her to this moment.

And then it all came rushing back on a tidal wave of embarrassment.

Hermione and Draco had gone downstairs to conduct the autopsy. She remembered discussing the evidence of hematemesis found on the victim’s neck. And then, everything went blank after the coroner picked up her scalpel and cut into Goyle’s abdomen.

Of course, she would pass out in front of Pansy bloody Parkinson who would, undoubtedly, delight in any sign of weakness.

Hermione had actually felt fine, especially after Draco cast the scent-blocking charm so that she needn’t suffer anymore from the overpowering smell of bleach. But she had let herself get distracted, her mind drifting away from the reason they were in the morgue in the first place.

She had been hyper-fixating on the fact that Draco didn’t seem to care that Pansy referred to Hermione as his. Between that and what happened in the elevator, it felt like her mind was short-circuiting.

They were clearly on the cusp of redefinition, on the precipice of transforming into something they’d never explored before.

Because Hermione and Draco had been enemies in many ways, landing in rival Houses first and then on opposite sides of a war. They had even been friends, unbeknownst to most of their peers, for a time. They’d become partners, flirting with a truce that was meant to be temporary and now looked to be permanent.

But they had never let themselves slide into anything that bordered on romance.

Until now.

And so, that was where her mind was when Pansy dived right in. Leaving Hermione with no time to ready herself for the first incision. It had felt like a shock of cold water to the body, her system deciding to shut off instead of processing the sudden change in direction.

She groaned, feeling a wave of dizziness hit her the second she sat up. When she bent over to pick up his suit jacket that had fallen to the floor, she spotted a steaming cup of tea, biscuits, and a note he’d left on the ground within her reach.

“Hermione,

Sorry I had to run off, Parkinson was threatening to go on without me if I didn’t hurry. I wanted to make sure she wrote down all the toxins she tests for so you can mull them over later.

Don’t worry about fainting. It happens to the best of us and Parkinson should’ve fucking warned you that the first cut was about to happen. Still Potter had to go to the infirmary for the first three he attended. So I’d say you’re doing better than him at least.

Take the rest of the day to recover. I’m serious, love.

I’ll see you tomorrow.

- Draco”

Love.

That nickname did things to her, namely make her stomach feel like she was crossing the Atlantic on an extremely shoddy boat. But the sensation wasn’t unwelcome. In fact, she would chase it to the ends of the Earth to feel it again.

Which made Hermione wonder what was happening to her. Because she was clearly losing her mind.

She sipped on her ginger tea and picked at a few biscuits, contemplating the rest of Draco’s note. She was pretty sure that he hadn’t fainted on the job once. Especially because he had probably seen far, far worse in Malfoy Manor during Voldemort’s reign of terror. But, at least he tried to make her feel better about it.

Setting that aside, she was grateful that he was finally getting her the toxin list. That should help her make headway on what to exclude in further research, something she hadn’t done for too many days.

Hermione eventually decided that she really couldn’t afford to take the afternoon off. She had a to-do list a mile long that would absolutely haunt her if she returned to her apartment in Marylebone. Not when she could spend the next few hours scheduling an interview with Theo, checking to see if anything came back on Goyle’s clothing, and studying the Auror manual so she wouldn’t be so helpless on scenes.

Plus, between the two of them, she shouldn’t be the one to take a few hours to collect herself.

But for some bloody reason, Draco seemed adamant to push away all his feelings concerning the identity of their latest victim. Something that would undoubtedly bite him in the arse sooner or later.

So, he would be getting time off to grieve if she had to drag him home herself.

And if Bill or anyone else had something to say on the matter, she would send them to the Ministry infirmary as a half-transformed cockatoo.

Hermione shoved to her feet, realizing that Draco had taken her shoes off, moments before she immediately fell back on the couch. Though she fully intended to take her tea and biscuits back to her desk, a change of plans was clearly needed considering she had to slowly blink away her now-clouded vision.

It was a bit embarrassing that one tiny cut had this effect on her. Though when her mind flashed back to it, she had to swallow the bile on her tongue. At least she had just passed out because Draco would surely have gone catatonic had she vomited instead.

She looked around for her wand, thinking she would just levitate her things to the couch, before realizing that it was on her desk. Draco likely having done that intentionally - knowing that she wouldn’t want to stop working.

Hermione couldn’t help but feel a pang of remorse. She should be there with him or in his stead - not sitting on a comfortable couch with a warm drink in hand, wiling away the hours until she didn’t feel like passing out.

I mean, Gods, he was the one that just lost his best friend, not her.

She thought back to the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts when she woke up in a hospital bed with Draco and Harry beside her. Her best friend had been covered in dust and injuries - his chest still bandaged from some wound sustained during the night.

She would never forget the looks they gave her when she asked where Ron was.

Pity. Dread. Regret.

Of course she knew objectively how bad Ron’s injuries were. She was there, had seen them happen.

But still the mind does funny little things when trying to process trauma.

And Hermione’s brain had been desperate to convince her that his wounds could be healed. When it was a clear impossibility.

Still it had been inconceivable that the ‘Golden Trio’ wouldn’t make it out alive. After all, they had survived six years of tragedy and near-death experiences together. What was one battle compared to all of that?

In the end, Draco and Harry had to break the news again and again until it stuck. And then she begged them to take it all away because she was so ashamed. Of herself and her feelings.

Hermione could still remember the whispered concerns among the Order’s top leadership about how the now Golden Duo would cope with Ron’s loss. The answer being worse than anyone expected.

Harry stopped sleeping after losing the first friend he ever made, filling that time with exploring the world of Muggle narcotics to block out the pain.

Meanwhile, Hermione spent her days in bed, unable to do anything but exist, after her lengthy stay at St. Mungo’s. Her lungs having needed special attention as a result of the damage sustained in the Room of Requirement.

She stayed at Grimmauld Place with Harry immediately following her release. He made sure she ate. Though he did nearly burn down the kitchen on several occasions while cooking. In fact, she could still remember the taste of burnt soup if she thought hard enough. But it was better than she could do at the time.

Eventually, the Weasleys intervened. Arthur getting Hermione a job and Ginny threatening to leave Harry if he didn’t stop trying to kill himself.

So the fact that Draco was just operating as normal in the wake of his best friend’s death was … astounding. Why did Hermione get time to wallow in misery and Draco had to just keep going as if nothing happened?

Hermione pursed her lips after realizing how her mind readily deviated from work back to her partner.

She was pretty sure that she had, not only, lost the plot at this point - but was in an entirely different book than the one she’d started in.

Just a few weeks ago, she’d been concerned that she would lose her job at the Ministry. Not that she particularly cared about the position itself. It was just her only means to pay rent.

But now? All she could seem to think about was Draco Malfoy instead of what this case was doing to her career. And, try as she might, she couldn’t force herself to change that fact.

***

“Sooo … what’s been new with you,” Dean asked Hermione coyly.

When she was finally able to stand up without getting knocked back by a wave of dizziness, she decided to go for a walk outside to get some fresh air. She’d spotted Dean in the atrium on her way out and took the opportunity to invite him along for a little catch up. Kill two birds with one stone, kind of thing.

“What have you heard,” Hermione groaned. Her friend looked back at her with a gleam in his eyes, making her believe that the gossip mill had been churning steadily away while she had her back turned.

They were walking through Westminster, the expansive Gothic building rising up on their right as they moved away from the Ministry’s Muggle entrance. Rain spat down on their heads, the sun that Hermione and Ginny earlier enjoyed now hidden behind an ominous grey cloud. But it was still warm even if Hermione’s hair was becoming frizzier by the second.

“Nothing too salacious,” he smiled widely. “Maybe a couple of things about you and Malfoy, that’s all.”

She sighed audibly, pausing to watch the Thames slowly churn beneath their feet. In the distance, she could see a gaggle of tourists with rain-boots on trying their hands at mudlarking.

“Finnegan might’ve let slip …”

“I don’t want to know,” Hermione interrupted. “He hates me so I can’t imagine anything he’s said about the matter is worth hearing.”

“I wouldn’t say that he hates you, more so that he’s bitter about getting turned down. Though it seems like he’s more jealous of Malfoy than anything else nowadays.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, eliciting a deep chuckle from Dean next to her.

“So you’re telling me there isn’t any truth behind the rumors?”

“Considering I don’t know what they are, I couldn’t tell you.” Hermione turned away from the river and continued across the bridge.

“You know, it kinda sounds like you do know and you’re just dodging the question,” Dean smiled at her knowingly. “But if you don’t want to talk about it, we don’t have to.”

“I feel like I’m losing my mind to be honest.” She fell silent as she watched a person trying to wrangle several dogs down the sidewalk, each invested in the overturned trash can they were passing. “I haven’t ever really … liked someone like this before?” She bit her lip, her cheeks flushing pink from the admission.

It was a bit awkward telling Dean, of all people, about her feelings for someone else. But they had agreed to be friends so she was intent on treating him as such.

Plus, it’s not like she had anyone else that she felt comfortable sharing this with yet. If she went back to Harry, he was bound to bring it up in every conversation for perpetuity. That and he would probably hang a banner in his office with the words “I proved Hermione wrong on 08.19.2003” emblazoned on it.

And Ginny was still Ron’s sister. So Hermione had always felt a touch uncomfortable talking to her about dating. Even though the youngest Weasley clearly didn’t mind, considering she set Hermione up on more blind dates than any other person in her family.

“Of course, Draco bloody Malfoy is the one to win you over.” Dean looked like he was about to combust from how hard he was holding in his laughter. “I mean, it’s just too good.”

“I know,” Hermione sighed before scrunching up her nose. “I never thought I’d be lovesick over him of all people. But just the other day I brought him round to mine to make sure he had dinner.” She hid her face behind her palms before muttering, “Gods, if only Lavender Brown could see me now.”

“Oh I know exactly what she’d say. When she was going mad for her little Won-Won, she’d go on-and-on about how you were better off with Malfoy anyway.”

“Where’d she get that idea? I mean, in hindsight, she probably wasn’t wrong as much as I loathe -”

“Because you both constantly had your heads in your arses.”

Hermione shrieked at Dean but he could only nod his head - tears now leaking out of his eyes at the memory. They actually had to stop walking so he could catch his breath from laughing so hard.

“Gods, she was atrocious,” Hermione seethed.

“You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,” he said between laughs, his hands now on his knees as he doubled-over.

“And they say you shouldn’t lie either.”

“You know, I do actually agree that you and Malfoy are better together. Not because of what Lavender said,” Dean added when Hermione’s eyes widened in rage. “But, you two always made sense in an odd sort of way. You clearly got under each other’s skin in a way no one else could. Plus, there was that time I caught you two in the library together.”

“I’m sorry,” she looked at him blankly.

“Personally, I would say you were cuddling,” he shrugged.

“We never. No, we never did anything that could be considered that.” Hermione’s words tumbled from her mouth as she hastened to explain. “You see, we had to share an Ancient Runes book sixth year because Draco lost his. So we sat next to each other when studying.”

“Uh-huh. And Malfoy, one of the richest wizards in the country, couldn’t afford to buy another copy? I bet he ‘lost it’ by throwing his book in the bin so he could get closer to you.”

“I - well, you’d have to ask him, wouldn’t you?” Because, quite frankly, she had never once thought that that might’ve been a possibility.

She sighed, feeling like the very last person on Earth to find something out.

“C’mon, you were pretty into him too. Ron used to moan about it all the time, it did everyone’s head in.”

“I’m not sure why you’d think that.” Though Hermione felt like she was hanging on by a literal thread in the conversation at this point.

“Because you always found a way to bring up how much you hated him,” Dean shook his head, a smile playing on his lips at the memory. “I mean, me and Longbottom used to keep tabs on how long you went before talking about Malfoy. I think the record was thirty seconds during a conversation about Grindylows.”

“I -” Hermione stuttered to a halt, having never realized that she did that.

“Look, this thing, whatever it is, between you two seems good.” Dean squeezed her shoulder. “You should just see where it goes.”

“What if I mess it up though?”

“You won’t,” he shook his head confidently. “But if it doesn’t work out for whatever reason, you’ll at least have given it a shot. Speaking of which, I leave for Paris in a couple of weeks.”

“You’re going!” Hermione danced on the balls of her feet, absolutely delighted for him.

“I am, all thanks to you. Arthur was totally fine with me taking as much time as I need to pursue my art. Said my job will be waiting for me if I decide to come back.”

“If?”

“We’ll see what happens,” Dean winked.

Hermione beamed at him before promising to show up for his leaving drinks whenever he planned them.

“But make sure you bring Malfoy along, yeah? I need to see Finnegan’s face when you two walk in together. And I guess I should probably get to know him now that you two are finally a thing.”

“I’ll see if he’s interested,” Hermione said with a small smile.

***

Draco sighed as he stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, dressed entirely in black for another fucking memorial he had to attend.

The Goyles decided to go ahead with a service for their late son, now that the entire fucking wizarding world knew of his death. All thanks to the arseholes at the Daily Prophet, may they all fall into Hell.

The purpose of the gag order was to prevent this from happening. Yet, here Draco was, with shit covering his ceiling all because someone with knowledge decided to speak to a fucking reporter.

It was pretty clear that the paper hadn’t managed to get through the protective barriers Draco set up at the scene.

A.) Because he wasn’t a fucking idiot and knew how to cast successfully, even when distracted; and

B.) Some details were wrongly reported, some missing entirely.

Let’s face it, the Prophet would never pass up the opportunity to report on a well-respected member of society being found decapitated and dismembered, would they? Yet that little detail was missing in the news report. Thank fuck.

Draco made short work of the walk through the Ministry atrium after Floo’ing in early, ignoring the trail of reporters following him and asking for a quote. Apparently, they fucking slept here last night based on the tents set up beside the fireplaces.

He was only able to take a real breath once the elevators finally closed on the bloodhounds, knowing they didn’t have access to the upper floors.

To be honest, he didn’t even need to come into the office today. He already had a copy of his case files at home when he wanted to work to the point of exhaustion. Or more recently, when he wanted to avoid the fucking night terror that was Goyle’s dead body which was sure to greet him the minute he fell into unconsciousness.

But he needed to see how Hermione was feeling today. She was probably sore given that Draco hadn’t acted fast enough to stop her from hitting the fucking deck. He felt like such an asshole when she fainted. What was the point of a promise to protect her if he couldn’t stop her head from smacking on the cold white tiles of the morgue floor?

Thank the Fates she actually did what he asked and took the rest of the day off.

Though, at the same time, part of him had hoped she’d ignore his request. That she would still be on the couch when he made it back from the basement.

Because her absence led to too many what’s ifs that he had to spend the rest of the afternoon trying to ignore. Feeling absolutely deranged all the while.

He had never fucking cared about anyone like this. Christ, he once left Finnegan out cold after the fucker got hit with a Stunner on scene. Just let him wake up in a muddy field out Essex-way, not even bothering to check the man’s pulse before Draco Apparated back to the office.

Yet he had been fucking panicked over the possibility that Hermione may have had another fainting spell on the way home yesterday.

And that was nothing compared to when he brought her up from the morgue, vehemently insisting that he do it himself and not the infirmary nurses. Of course, Bill had to point out that Draco didn’t have to carry her. Levitation would’ve made navigating the elevator and doors easier. But Draco worried that she might bump her head again if the lift jerked too violently.

And maybe he just wanted to hold her.

Fucking sue him, yeah?

Granted, the minute he made it back to MLE, every single fucking head turned as he walked down the hallway with her in his arms. He had half a mind to tell everyone to fuck off, the other half urging him to threaten the life of anyone that dared to ask her out again.

Because she was his.

Some long forgotten possessiveness had clearly come alive when Pansy labelled Hermione as such. But the coroner was fucking right.

Hermione was his to protect, something he would take seriously.

After all, Draco had always been a bit of a dragon about the things he treasured most.

As he walked into their office, he found Hermione sitting on the couch wearing a pretty green button-down dress. Her feet were tucked underneath her, the ballet flats that made her wince in pain every time she wore them discarded on the floor.

In her hands was the fucking news report, bringing him back to the shitstorm he’d woken up to this morning.

His mind easily recalled the headline he had to read tens of times to fucking believe: “Gregory Goyle Found Dead in the Ministry: A Return to Dark Magic a Possibility into former Death Eater’s Demise”

Gus Warren, the reporter, spent most of the article discussing the Slytherin’s life. Of course, there was the standard Voldemort’s servant bit followed by the redemption arc everyone knew. But Warren seemed pretty fucking sure that Goyle had gone back to the Dark Arts and bungled up some ritual that led to his death. But Draco had enough experience with forbidden magic to know that wasn’t the case. Also, why the fuck would Goyle offer himself up as a sacrificial lamb?

And it’s not like he could cut off his own fucking head, though that detail hadn’t made it into the report. In fact, it was relatively sparse on details about the actual scene, making mention of the black candles and an ominous circle (of unknown substance) but that was it.

The fact that MLE was investigating the case as a homicide was glossed over by the exciting possibility that a Death Eater was still hiding in plain sight. Naturally, Warren emphasized that Draco was the lead investigator and one of Goyle’s former associates in the war - not so subtly suggesting that MLE’s findings couldn’t be trusted.

Fucking idiot.

Now everyone was up in arms seven fucking ways to Sunday, weren’t they?

Draco was being asked to comment, in a personal capacity, about Goyle’s interest in Dark magic. If he was really fit to be running a summer program for Muggleborns.

In a professional capacity, people wanted to know what the fucking body looked like. Because, naturally, the Daily Prophet just said it looked ‘gruesome’ and gave fuck-all besides that.

At least Hermione’s involvement in the case hadn’t been mentioned.

“It’s only a matter of time before they learn about the others.” She frowned up at him and folded the paper in her lap.

“Probably, unless we can sort out who fucking disregarded our order.” Draco plopped down heavily beside her, making her bounce. “This is a fucking nightmare,” he muttered with his head in his hands. “Fuck it, we can just add it to the list of all the other things left to do on this impossible case.”

Draco made to stand, intent on getting some work in before he had to leave for the memorial in a few hours, but Hermione stopped him with a hand on his bicep. Clearly, she hadn’t been thinking about what she was doing because the minute she realized, she released him with a squeak.

“You shouldn’t be here, not with the service happening later today. I can take care of anything that comes in.” She looked around with a furrowed brow before reaching between the couch cushions and coming back with a copy of the Auror manual. It was absolutely marked and tabbed to shit. Draco was pretty sure it was actually his. A book that had been pristine before Hermione got her highlighters in it. Not that he minded. “I’ve been studying.”

Draco could see that the skin under her eyes almost looked bruised from the lack of sleep.

“Hermione, I don’t want you staying up all hours of the night for me.” Draco raked his teeth over his bottom lip before adding, “at least, not if it relates to work.” He enjoyed the color he could turn her cheeks at the mere mention of something suggestive.

Gods, this was not the fucking time to be distracted by all the things he wanted to do to her.

But Hermione had the tendency to drive him insane any time she was in close proximity. So here he was. Wondering just how pretty she would be splayed out on his desk on the fucking day of Goyle’s memorial.

“Oh, right, well …” She cleared her throat and fell silent, staring determinedly at anything that wasn’t him. Currently her focus was set on the ceiling. It seemed she also had a rather hard time keeping her thoughts in order around him.

But while this was all fun and good, he actually couldn’t afford to be distracted this morning.

He was tempted to tell her that he was just going to stay so that he didn’t need to waste any more time before cracking into the pile of shit they’d been landed. But he hated the idea of just disregarding her all-night studying session clearly done for his benefit.

“Even if I don’t like you staying up to help me, I still appreciate it. So if you have any questions while I’m gone -”

“I’ll owl you,” Hermione nodded, seeming ready to hold a conversation when it was back on safe grounds. “Now leave before I make you.”

He laughed, wondering just how Hermione could make him do anything, before brushing her lip with his thumb and kissing her delicately on the forehead.

Because, again, he was not going to make the fucking mistake of letting her think he wasn’t interested.

***

Hermione was still on the couch. Half an hour after Draco departed. Still in the puddle that he left her in.

Honestly, she needed to get a grip on herself.

Maybe they also needed to have a discussion about boundaries in the workplace.

Because if she wasn’t careful, she wouldn’t have a handle on anything that came in while Draco was gone. She would, instead, spend the rest of the day fantasizing about his bloody mouth.

He was going to ruin her.

Not in a … not in that way.

More in a professional manner. As in she was going to be perennially too distracted to complete assignments.

She shook her head, laughing at how little composure she seemed to retain after a forehead kiss. Gods, it was a good thing nothing ever happened at Hogwarts. With how flustered he made her, she probably would’ve underperformed in her O.W.L.s. At the minimum allowing someone to best her scores.

Forcing herself to put on those bloody uncomfortable shoes, she made her way down the hallway to the coffee machine. Whispers followed her as she went and she could only imagine how yesterday had appeared. She presumed everyone was laughing at how Draco had to bring her back to the office after fainting during an autopsy. Though she swore she heard something about “being in his arms.” But no one would be that impractical so they must be mistaken.

After pressing the button for a latte, Hermione waited for whatever the machine wanted to churn out and thought about the Daily Prophet article from that morning. It was incredibly strange that the reporter didn’t discuss the state of Goyle’s body. Just relying on the word “gruesome” to do the heavy lifting in readers’ minds.

She assumed that whoever spoke to the press knew about the others. But she couldn’t comprehend why they would wait so long before making it known to the paper. Surely if someone thought that the case was taking too long to solve and could do with the incentive of public pressure, they would speak sooner? Or, at the minimum, include more details.

Obviously, Gus Warren’s theory that Goyle returned to the Dark Arts was a load of bosh.

But there was clearly something different about Goyle’s death that riled someone up enough to talk. She made a mental note to get Draco’s thoughts on the matter when he came back in.

The machine finished spitting out a boiling shot of espresso, which was fine. At least it was coffee.

She couldn’t sustain the late nights that she was pulling on this case much longer. Granted, last night was necessary so Draco felt comfortable enough with leaving today. But, still, she would start falling asleep in witness interviews if she wasn’t careful.

She drank the bitter shot once it cooled down and threw away her cup, ignoring Bill’s question about how Draco slept last night. When she firmly shut the door behind her, effectively blocking out the inquiring eyes of the trainees, she saw that the autopsy report finally came in.

Thankfully, she was feeling a touch more level-headed and immediately sat down to tackle it. The absolute last thing she wanted was to be so utterly useless today that Draco never trusted her to be in the office alone again.

She spent a few minutes uncomfortably shifting around on her wooden chair, still too firm even with the addition of cushions, before moving to Draco’s spot. She sat crisscrossed, her shoes already cast off within seconds of walking through the door.

Parkinson noted all the usual things in her report. Setting aside the carvings and dismemberments, Goyle had no other traumatic injuries. No bruisings, abrasions or lacerations.

As expected, there were no toxins in the system either. At least none that Parkinson checked for.

The poisons tested had seemed pretty exhaustive overall, including a wide range of Muggle and magical substances. Hermione set the list aside so that she could cross-reference Pansy’s work with her own later but was pretty content after a cursory glance.

Goyle’s cause of death was, predictably, cardiac arrest. Just like all the others.

But, she still didn’t understand the presence of hematemesis. It was part of the puzzle that made no sense.

Hermione scanned the report, frowning, knowing that she was missing something. That they all were.

She glanced at the second report that had arrived on Draco’s desk that morning, wondering if it might hold additional clues. This one was from Edgecombe, confirming that the wetness in Goyle’s clothing was likely sweat.

Excessive perspiration and blood-tinged vomit were not things one normally associated with heart attacks.

Something was done to these victims before they died.

The question was what.

Hermione huffed, reading through Parkinson’s report again when her eye snagged on a line that she previously looked over.

There.

Two small holes had been discovered on Goyle’s left buttock.

Bingo.

Looking back at the other autopsy reports confirmed that this was the first time Parkinson noticed puncture wounds on a victim. But that didn’t mean the others didn’t have them. Based on the coroner’s measurements, the holes were tiny. Something easily missed.

She quickly wrote Pansy a note, asking whether she could check the other four bodies for similar markings.

Because Hermione had a hunch that Goyle had been injected with something that caused his heart attack.

And so had all the others.

She fought against the desire to send Draco an owl with her theory, worried that she would be disrupting possibly the only time he’d had this week to decompress. Plus, when she told him, she wanted to be able to give him more than mere guesswork.

Which meant she needed to hit the books.

She left the Ministry in a haste to haunt the local Muggle library - pulling every single reference they had on poisons. Her other medical guides were more generic, focusing on the broader field of medicine. But she now had enough to narrow down her research.

She returned back to the MLE with her arms so filled with books that Arthur had to get the elevator for her on the way up and Bill had to unlock the office door once she got in. After what felt like hours lugging the heavy guides around, she finally dumped her new project all over the sofa and grabbed a few sheaths of parchment.

***

Well that was one for the fucking books.

Draco came back to Potter’s townhouse after the memorial, the two men both absolutely drained from a day spent dodging media questions and sitting through speeches. Which were only ever about Goyle’s achievements or how he was taken too fucking soon.

Because what else did you say at the service of a 23-year old?

The memorial was interrupted half-way through by protestors chanting their enthusiasm that another Death Eater was gone from this realm.

That set Goyle’s mum off completely. Apparently, when she spoke to Gus Warren shortly after Draco left on Monday, she hadn’t expected the Daily Prophet to make a mockery of her son. She just wanted justice quickly served, thinking the unwanted attention on MLE would do the trick.

Draco had been so angry when he found out that he couldn’t speak, Potter needing to be the one to quietly explain to Goyle’s mum that her actions directly interfered in a criminal investigation. Then the two Aurors had been promptly asked to leave.

Of course, it made fucking sense now that Draco thought about it. He hadn’t told Goyle’s parents about what his friend looked like. Believing that it would be best for them to take time to process his death before diving into all the gory details surrounding it. But what had he called it? “Gruesome.”

He was a fucking idiot. Because Goyle’s mum had pressed for details, so Draco mentioned the extraneous things on scene. The details of which all made it into the fucking paper.

Gods, he needed a drink. Or several.

Draco tried to convince Potter to head to a pub where there’d be a better booze stash but he just wanted to head back to his haunted fucking home where he could be miserable in peace.

So, here Draco was, with him.

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore than I already have today,” Potter muttered as he walked through Dumbledore’s apparition and entered the kitchen to swipe a bottle of vodka from the cabinet. Not Draco’s first, second or third choice - but it would do the job.

“Preaching to the choir here.” Draco nodded his thanks when Potter placed an empty shot glass in front of him. Looks like they were keeping it simple tonight. Consumption as quickly as possible. “When are you going to de-jinx your fucking home?”

“I’ve tried,” his friend sighed. “It’s hopeless. Mad-Eye’s magic is locked in tight and, apparently, he’s the only one that can undo it.”

“And he’s dead.”

“Yep,” Potter said shortly before taking a shot. “Have you been keeping up with the Quidditch results?”

“Here and there,” Draco shuddered as he slammed his own ounce of vodka. “Saw that Ginny absolutely dominated in her game yesterday. She made the team for England as well, right?”

“Yeah. It’s absolutely mental though,” the other Auror shook his head. “She now spends more hours flying than I do at work, what with her club commitment and national training schedule.”

“Remind me never to play against her.”

“You’re telling me,” Potter snorted. “She talked me into playing a pick-up game last weekend. She wasn’t even hungover and I could barely keep upright on my broom. I’m pretty sure my ribs are still bruised from her colliding with me at full speed.”

“How long have you two been together now?” Draco batted the shot glass between his hands, trying to wait an acceptable amount of time before having another.

“Better part of a decade.”

“Christ, mate,” Draco shook his head. “I can’t believe you haven’t asked her to marry you yet.”

“She hasn’t put you up to this, has she?” Potter narrowed his green eyes suspiciously.

“Why the fuck would you think she would go to me to do that? And, if she did, why would you think I’d agree? I’m not Cupid’s fucking messenger.”

“She’s just been on to me about it lately,” he shrugged.

“Well man-up and fucking do it then,” Draco said before slamming his fourth shot, making short-work of his journey to intoxication.

“Speaking of which, do I need to go big brother on you about Hermione?”

“Do you really think I’m going to break her fucking heart?” Draco snorted before adding, “it’s probably going to be the opposite.”

He sighed, wondering how Hermione was doing and just hoping she was letting herself get some sleep for once. When he wasn’t being fucking miserable or angry today, his thoughts kept drifting back to her. She was like a beacon of light in a world cast into darkness.

“I don’t think so actually,” Potter finished his own shot and promptly refilled his glass. “Once she makes her mind up on something, it’s happening.”

“That’s for fucking sure,” Draco muttered, remembering her doggedness in sixth year that wound up saving his life.

“But don’t wait too long.”

“I already know that the line’s out the fucking door, mate. I have to see it every single time I walk through the bullpen.”

“Actually, I just meant that I want the wedding to happen sometime this century,” Potter grinned.

“Says the man who can’t even propose to the only girlfriend he’s ever had.”

Chapter 16: The Plummet to the Bottom is the Sweetest Thing

Notes:

and this is the second chapter for the week. enjoy! :)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Vodka hangovers were far worse than the ones fueled by whiskey. Draco nearly passed into the afterlife from the menagerie in the Ministry atrium, reporters from every fucking paper in the country surrounding him as he stepped out of the fireplace.

He gave the rote response Bill came up with, which meant he told them all to fuck off, and headed upstairs.

Once he was in the safety of the Ministry elevator, he downed the sobriety potion and breath freshener tonic he’d pocketed earlier in two swallows. His headache and nausea erased themselves instantaneously only to be replaced by a full body ache that was likely a result of him crashing into a side table last night.

Draco sighed as he walked into the office, scrubbing a hand down his face such that he didn’t notice Hermione was already in. Well, really, that she hadn’t yet managed to make it home.

When he did see her though, he froze mid-step. If he could block out their surroundings, it was almost like he had stepped back in time. She had fallen asleep just like she used to during finals. Which was to say, she was surrounded by books and had ink smeared across her chin. Sheaths of parchment competed with the suit jacket he’d left here as a piss-poor blanket.

She jerked awake at the sound of the door closing behind him.

Between the two of them, they made a fucking picture.

She was still wearing that pretty dress from the day before, though it was crumpled. It had also moved in the night and was now bunched up around her upper thighs - the skin there looking absolutely fucking delicious to the starved man Draco had become in Hermione’s presence.

He, on the other hand, was wearing a dark blue suit but had been so fucking hungover this morning that he forgot a tie and cufflinks. His glasses were firmly back in place to make seeing less work, his eyes undoubtedly still bloodshot from not getting enough sleep himself.

“Christ, Hermione.” Draco let his gaze move over her slowly. “Please tell me why you felt the need to stay here last night.”

He couldn’t do this today.

He wondered how she would respond if he asked her to pull down her dress. Because if she didn’t do it soon he might just fall down to his knees for the chance to worship the sweetness between her thighs.

“I had an idea,” she mumbled, looking around at the state of the place before yawning behind a fist.

“Alright,” he sighed even though a smile wanted to tug at his lips. “Tell me about it then. And here, you need this more than me.”

He handed her the coffee he picked up from the machine on his way in, muttering that he was (at least) glad that she made it to the couch last night before crashing. After all, that’s what it was there for - nights ending so late that there wasn’t a point in Floo’ing home.

“I really would prefer if you made it into a bed every night.” Whose bed was entirely up to her, of course. “At a reasonable hour.” If pleasure was off the table. “Because, again, you shouldn’t be working all hours when you’re my consultant.”

“Partner,” she narrowed her eyes at him before taking a hesitant sip of the coffee.

Unfortunately for Draco, but luckily for her, this was the first time he managed to get anything salvageable. He was pretty sure the machine actually gave him a cappuccino for once, the milk either almond or soy.

“Still,” he arched an eyebrow while his mind zeroed in on the fact that she hadn’t seemed to mind being called his. The dragon in him rearing its head and demanding its treasure.

“Thanks for the coffee,” she smiled before shoving off, what looked like, dozens of books about poison beside her. “Before I tell you what I have though, I wanted to talk.”

Fuck.

His cock that was starting to become a problem in his trousers instantly softened.

Because “talks” genuinely didn’t tend to be a good thing.

He wondered how he managed to fuck this up before it even began and if there was a way to fix it.

And if he couldn’t? Well he didn’t even have a fucking bottle of booze here to make the day bearable. He’d probably have to go crawling to Bill for his fix.

“How was yesterday,” Hermione asked as he sat down, concern making her brows furrow.

“You don’t need to waste time with niceties, I promise you I can handle it.”

It would fucking hurt and he would be bitter about whatever fucking arsehole she ended up with, but he could endure it all the same.

“I’m not sure I’m following …”

“You said you wanted to talk, Hermione. That tends to be the death-knell when you’re with someone.”

She stared at him before blinking suddenly.

“With … Sorry, are we? Actually, it’s not about that at all.” She looked completely flustered, her golden-brown eyes widening the more she spoke. “It’s just that I’ve been worried about you since Monday morning and spent all day yesterday wanting to check on you. See if you needed anything.” She was wringing her hands in her lap when she finished. “Obviously, I can’t cook but I can order us lunch. And work as late as I need to …”

“Hermione.”

This time when he said her name it was a promise. It sounded totally different on his tongue than it had in her apartment that drunken night.

He was sure that, had he not interrupted her, she would’ve continued going on about all the things she’d willingly undertake to help Draco through his week from Hell. A list he was desperate to hear at some point in the future. But his mind was a bit fucking preoccupied with the fact that someone cared enough about him to worry this much.

Of course his mum had. But that was in the fucking job description, wasn’t it?

Hermione owed him nothing and she was giving everything she had.

And this wasn’t even the first time she’d done it.

He looked at her sitting next to him, their knees touching from how close together they sat (even though the couch was big enough to fit four), and decided that he wanted to give her the world.

Because she kept finding a way to make him feel like a normal fucking person that hadn’t made the biggest mistake in the world. Someone that had, at least, one person that cared enough to worry about whether they ate fucking dinner.

At this point, Hermione was leaning towards him which was a signal for Draco to tune back in.

“Sorry, I got lost for a second.”

Lost in her. But that was besides the point.

“I asked if you wanted to talk a little about Goyle … or anything really.”

The latter part of that sentence was much more appealing than the former. Because he didn’t want to think about having lost someone else when he was currently in free-fall. Having jumped off the cliff in pursuit of the feelings that made him dizzy from their intensity.

But he knew that the range of acceptable topics likely didn’t include Hermione’s birthday plans, her dreams for the future, or if she wanted to get another cat. Probably she was referring to the emotional abyss that was the continual death of everyone he cared an iota for. Which was markedly less interesting to Draco, but probably something he needed to reconcile with at some point.

After all, emotional unavailability wasn’t a fucking winning trait in a boyfriend, was it?

Draco nodded stiffly, suddenly feeling awkward.

“I guess I’m not really sure what I was expecting, if I’m being honest. I knew that it would probably be him. Just by process of elimination, our guy seemed to be picking off all the Slytherins on the Board first. But it still fucking surprised me.” It felt like all the air drained out of his lungs as he remembered the sight of Goyle’s body. He looked back at Hermione, following her own breathing, to get back on solid ground.

Draco didn’t let himself have many things. Friends being chief among that list.

But maybe he could have her. She felt safe when not many things in his life were.

Even though he was hesitant to continue, he didn’t want to keep anything from her anymore. Thought he should lay it all out on the table so she could get out early if that was what she wanted.

“It’s obviously my fault he’s dead. Just like it was with Crabbe, though I don’t regret that in the slightest.” Draco shrugged, realizing that she was intentionally staying silent so he could get out everything he needed to. But, based on the small frown on her lips, she didn’t agree with his assignation of blame. “If I had only worked faster, stayed on the clock longer, maybe I could’ve stopped Goyle from dying.”

“Draco,” Hermione shook her head, placing a hand on his knee. “The killer didn’t follow their own pattern. I really don’t think there was anything you could’ve done. Not with the unexpected time frame and what we had to go off of.”

He nodded, a remote part of himself already knowing that was the case but needing to hear it from someone else.

“I’m going to fucking miss him, Hermione. He,” Draco’s voice cracked and he fell silent until he had enough composure to continue. “He was my best mate, besides Potter. And I had so many fucking things to tell him,” Draco looked at her for a few seconds, again following the movement of her chest to calm down. “And now I’ll have to tell his fucking tombstone instead.” His shoulders shuddered as he willed himself to keep it the fuck together. “I’m so sick of people dying. I just want everyone I care about to stay alive for once. And I just wish that fuck listened to me, had his Auror with him like he promised.”

There, that was the best he could do for her. The most he had given anyone as to the wreckage of his emotional state.

“Draco, I’m so sorry.” She started absent-mindedly stroking her fingers across the fabric of his pants, the effect intoxicatingly soothing. “I wish I could take this all away. But I can’t, so I’ll be here as long as you need me. I promise.”

Draco wondered if she knew what she just signed up for. Because he didn’t think he could let her go.

Not with the way that she made him feel.

Instead of responding, he just watched her fingers work back and forth across his leg. Wanting more.

When she realized what she was doing, she jerked away with a muttered apology.

“Hermione, I like when you touch me,” Draco whispered as he pulled her hand back. “And I’d prefer if you keep doing it.” He leaned forward, halving the space between them. “Also whatever you’re about to say about appropriate actions in the workplace is far down on the list of things I care about so don’t bother.”

Her breathing hitched and Draco didn’t move. His position an offer, a suggestion.

“I think Bill’s starting to rub off on you.”

“He’s an asshole and would have no qualms about fucking anything with a beating heart if it looked his way.”

“And what about you?” She was now unabashedly staring at his lips.

“I’m just an asshole too. But, unlike him, the only person I’m interested in is the girl that’s been on my mind since sixth year.”

“She must be lucky.”

“I didn’t think you’d believe in luck, Hermione. You always seemed like the sort to make your own fate.”

She flicked her gaze back up to meet his and he could see the moment she decided, that determination flaring up in her golden-brown eyes the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Hermione collapsed the space between them, her lips softly pressed against his own for a moment before his tongue tentatively swept out.

Hoping to have the chance to absolutely devour her.

The kiss that started so gentle soon became anything but.

Teeth clashed as tongues danced around each other. Draco dragged her into his lap until she was straddling him, her dress now hiked up even further as he trailed his hands over her bare skin.

His groans were a feral thing when she began rocking against him, making his cock fucking throb until she moaned.

He was being driven insane, in the process of getting a high from the sweetest drug he’d ever tasted. The jerks of her hips starting a conversation with his own as he bit down on her lip, eliciting a delicious cry from her.

Draco moved his hands further up her thighs until his fingers were brushing her panties. He pulled away from her mouth and started to trail kisses down her jaw and neck.

“Hermione,” he breathed against her skin while her moans became more frantic with every twitch of her hips. She was close and he was going to follow soon thereafter. All from the brush of her fucking wet underwear against his crotch.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Bill Weasley’s voice broke through their lust-driven haze and, in that moment, Draco didn’t even think. While Hermione was clambering out of his lap, trying to prise his remaining hand off her flesh, he was in the process of hexing his boss.

Because how fucking dare he walk in while Draco was absolutely drowning in the deadliest sin that was Hermione Granger.

When he finally got a taste of her after years of wondering what her moans would sound like reverberating in his mouth.

Bill clearly expected Draco’s reaction because he dodged the back-to-back incantations that would cause his skin to peel like a snake.

“I’m leaving, you fucking nightmare,” Bill shouted, his face covered in a horrid-looking purple cream to counteract Hermione’s own spellwork from earlier that week. “Lock your fucking door next time and send me a memo with what the fuck’s going on.” They could hear Bill complaining all the way back to his office, clearly not pleased at having just gotten a taste of his own medicine.

Unfortunately, Draco might need to Obliviate him to ensure that he didn’t retain any fucking memories of Hermione’s bare skin.

“I’m going to kill him,” she laughed behind her hands, the sound completely unexpected given the circumstances.

“Fine by me as long as you let me join,” Draco responded, needing to adjust the hard-on that was now going to be extremely painful. He pulled Hermione closer before kissing her forehead. “Thank you, by the way.”

“For what?”

“Mmm, that’s a list that would take an entire day to recite. But let’s start with making this week the best I’ve had in years.”

She looked up at him and smiled widely before kissing his cheek.

“Is it okay if I do that,” she asked, scrunching up her nose.

“Yeah, Hermione,” Draco chuckled. “It’s okay. Now tell me about your theory.”

She nodded before starting to move away.

“No.” He pulled her even closer, back into his lap, as if on reflex. His inner dragon growling possessively now that he had his treasure. “I’m not letting you go.”

“Okay,” she cleared her throat, her cheeks so red that she looked fevered.

He was obsessed.

Though his attention quickly shot elsewhere when she readjusted herself on his hips, making him groan.

Maybe this wasn’t the best position but he couldn’t convince his arms to stop wrapping around her waist, pulling her into his chest.

He observed everything about her, the freckles on her cheekbones and the way she talked with her hands, all while drinking in her every word.

Hermione explained her theory, her excitement an almost palpable thing.

She had spent all night researching. Goyle was clearly injected with something … but it wasn’t necessarily an outright poison.

Obviously, the toxicology report had come back negative and Parkinson had been pretty fucking exhaustive in her tests.

In fact, the victim had been cleared of all the chemicals which Hermione knew could cause a heart attack.

And even if it was fast-acting, this substance should’ve left traces. After all, Goyle had been killed only a few hours prior to Elphora’s discovery, that fact underlined by rigor mortis not having fully set in when MLE processed the scene.

All that was to say, whatever was injected in his body should’ve still been in there at the time of the autopsy.

But you could die from ingesting many things not usually considered poisonous in moderate doses. Things that a coroner may not test for.

So that was where Hermione was now.

“I’m not saying that he overdosed on Brazil nuts. Well … he might’ve done, I suppose.”

“It’s a good theory, Hermione. The best one we’ve had yet.” His heart fluttered at the smile she gave him.

And he realized then that that was all he needed.

Notes:

the next four chapters are absolutely not for the plot, let's put it that way lol.

Chapter 17: Hermione Granger's in a Tizzy

Chapter Text

Hermione had her mind elsewhere as she walked into the Ministry on Friday morning, evidenced by her barreling into several reporters and spilling her coffee into the fountain after tripping over her own two feet. But absolutely nothing was going to ruin her day.

Because she definitely had a thing for Draco Malfoy and, quite frankly, she couldn’t stop smiling about it.

She had never kissed someone like that before, like they were the last reserve of oxygen in the world. So, she may have gotten a bit carried away. The cluster of nerves in her core had become so tight that she nearly came undone on top of him … in their office during work hours. Though that would’ve been preferable to Bill Weasley walking in and then promptly announcing what he’d seen to the entire MLE.

News of which had probably filtered all the way down to the morgue by now based on the number of people openly staring at her, slack-jawed.

And all of this happened before they had a chance to really … talk about what was going on between them. But maybe there was nothing to say. People kissed all the time. Though Hermione knew those same people probably didn’t snog their coworkers while mounting them in one fell swoop.

But whatever.

He was clearly interested, having made that abundantly clear by his refusal to let her out of his lap anytime they were in the office yesterday. And by the fact that he tried for a second round at lunch and then before she left for the evening.

Her lips were still swollen from his efforts.

But she hadn’t let anything get nearly as heated. Because, again, they’d been at work.

And a line had to be drawn somewhere otherwise they’d be known as Bill Weasley’s proteges.

She walked hurriedly through the MLE hallway, not to avoid the gossipers, but because she’d had an idea.

One that she would not be deterred from by the angry stares of Seamus Finnegan and Harry’s fan club. They could look all they liked, she didn’t particularly care what anyone thought.

“I want you to come over tonight,” she stated the second she barreled into their office.

Draco choked on his coffee, the liquid spilling down his shirt as his shoes dropped from his desk with a thunk. She didn’t think that she’d ever seen him so … gobsmacked before.

“Is something wrong?” She walked over to his desk and cast a spell to expel the stain from his clothing.

“No,” Draco shook his head, though his voice sounded a touch strained. “Just more forward than I expected,” he added, standing up and greeting her with a forehead kiss.

“Draco,” Hermione laughed when he tried to trail his affections down to her lips. “The door’s still open.”

“Good, then everyone will know not to touch what isn’t theirs.”

“I -” She realized she had to let that comment go if she wanted to stay on track, the motivation for which was being lost every second she was in his arms. “About tonight.”

“Mmhmm.”

“I thought we could get some work done.” Hermione could feel her cheeks flushing when Draco realized the disconnect in their conversation.

“Okay,” he answered, unable to keep the amusement from his voice.

“The crime scene’s been stolen.” At Draco’s pronounced frown, Hermione hastened to explain. “I mean, it’s from a movie.” She was dancing on the balls of her feet from the revelation. But he didn’t join in with her excitement, instead just narrowing his eyes.

She realized that he may have no idea what she was talking about since films were very much a Muggle invention.

“A movie is like … a series of pictures that tells a story?”

“I know what a movie is, Hermione.” His mirth was reflected in his eyes. “I’m a wizard - not an idiot.”

“Right, well, you can never be sure. Not about you being an idiot.” Gods, he made her so unsettled that she seemed forever in the state of making a fool of herself. “I mean, you’re not an idiot.”

He was now silently laughing, his thumb brushing his bottom lip in a very distracting way.

“What I’m trying to say is that I recognized the crime scene last night from a book I started reading. It was adapted a few years ago into -”

“Hermione, you want to watch a movie together?”

“Yes, for -”

“Deal.”

He brushed his hands up and down her arms before placing another gentle kiss on her face.

“Great. That’s, okay. I’ll …”

Her brain malfunctioned, making it impossible to form coherent sentences, whenever he did this. Namely, make her feel like she was the only thing to draw his undivided attention just by being alive. It was an exhilarating feeling.

“But you’re coming to mine instead.” He stepped back and dropped down into his chair. “That way I know I actually have stuff in my kitchen.”

“Why would that matter,” she asked, a small line forming between her eyebrows.

“For the dinner we’re having before the film. You can’t expect me to have you over for a date night and not feed you,” he smirked. “Oh and your chair came in this morning.”

Hermione looked over at her desk, not having realized that the wooden chair had been replaced by a replica of Draco’s own, albeit smaller.

She tried to fumble for something to say before giving up and staring down at her feet, realizing that she was completely out of her depth for the first time. In the way of feelings, Draco Malfoy made her experience a zillion things in a matter of seconds.

Appreciated. Wanted. Adored.

And it made her really terrified that she would lose him. Because she was still so scarred from the war.

Her reaction to his suggestion a case in point.

She needed to gloss over the fact that Draco assumed it was a date because that was bound to make her brain go fuzzy again. Instead, she focused on the fact that he wanted to have her over.

Excitement. Nervousness. A heaping of dread. It all washed over her in the silence of their office, Draco clearly waiting for Hermione to answer.

“I haven’t been back to the Manor since -”

He was in front of her in an instant, his hand gently pushing her chin up so that she would meet his gaze.

“Hermione, I would never make you go back there. Not unless you specifically wanted to. I haven’t even been back since the end of the war, I live in a flat just off Diagon Alley now.”

“Oh, then that sounds lovely,” she smiled before biting her lip. “Though I’ll need to swing by my house after work to pick up my laptop.”

And find something better to wear than her tired work clothes. Maybe Ginny had something she could borrow.

“Actually, does your flat have wall plugs?” Hermione was about to ask something else before Draco stopped her with an incredulous look. “Right, of course…” She broke into a grin, her cheeks now hurting from using those muscles more than she had in years. “And thank you, by the way, for the chair. It was sweet of you.”

“It’s nothing, love. How does seven sound for tonight?”

***

“Rumor on the street is that you two are fucking in the office,” Theo leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped lazily in his lap as he looked around the witness room. “I’m just glad I can say that I was there when it all started.”

“Theo, I swear to fucking God if you start with this shit right now.” But Draco knew his tone held absolutely zero bite. Because, frankly, he couldn’t be in a bad mood today if he tried.

Hermione Granger was his and she was coming over tonight.

“Okay, well I wasn’t part of the couple that were going to absolute town on each other in the MLE.”

“You make it seem like we were just out in the open,” Hermione muttered. “When, in fact, the door was shut and probably locked - no matter what Bill said.”

That’s what she had a problem with?

Theo’s mistaken location to them fucking devouring each other?

Neither Draco nor the other Slytherin had any idea how to respond to her beyond descending into chest-shaking laughs.

“Oh my Gods. This is the best thing that has ever happened,” Theo said as he wiped tears from his eyes. “Please tell me you’ve told daddy dearest. Though the Prophet hasn’t reported him dead yet so I’m guessing he doesn’t know for some reason.”

Draco rolled his eyes. Though Nott had a pretty good point. This was an excellent way to ensure his miserable fucking father no longer walked this Earth. Because he would absolutely have a brain aneurysm if he found out that Draco was seeing Hermione. (Hopefully in various states of undress after tonight was said and done.)

“Oh, honestly, we haven’t asked you in so we can chat about our personal lives.”

“I think it stopped being personal when you two got caught dry-humping each other in the office, Granger.”

“Again, the door … oh never mind. Let’s just get started.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Theo held up a hand, tears still leaking from his eyes. “I need a minute.”

Draco and Hermione sat somewhat patiently as Theo kept trying to regain his composure, promptly losing it every time he looked at either of them.

“I don’t have all fucking day, you twat,” Draco said after he finally had enough, crumpling a sheath of parchment and throwing it at his friend for good measure.

“Why? Do the two of you have plans?” When Draco stared silently and Hermione merely sighed at the table, Theo started laughing again. This time falling out of his chair and rolling on the floor. “Oh my God, you do! Can you take a picture for me so I can collect my money from Zabini? We have a decade long bet about whether you two end up dating.”

“Unbelievable,” Hermione shook her head, clearly unamused.

“No, we’re not going to take a fucking picture.” At least not one Draco was willing to share, but maybe they could take one that he could put up somewhere in his apartment.

He pointedly ignored Theo’s continued hysteria in the hopes of preserving the little sanity he had left. Instead, he busied himself with making Hermione a cup of tea, refusing to make one for his asshat of a friend, and setting up the Quick-Notes for transcription. Then he started the interview without further fanfare, having about as much patience in his reserves as a toddler did for bedtime.

“Did Elphora bring in a birthday card the Friday before the victim was murdered?”

“Draco, what the fuck kinda question is that? Has Hermione got your brain so addled -”

“Nott, I highly recommend you stick to responding to what’s asked. And it’s the kind of question that you’re required to answer as part of an investigation into a fucking homicide.”

“I mean, yeah, she did. Said it was for her grandson or some shit,” Theo shrugged.

“Do you have any reason to believe that she might be lying,” Draco asked evenly.

“About the existence of her fucking grandchild? No, Draco, I don’t. She forces everyone to fucking ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ at every new picture she gets her hands on.”

“Would you happen to know if Elphora might’ve left that card on her desk Friday,” Hermione quickly interjected before Draco could tell Theo to cut the fucking attitude.

“Why would I know that, Granger? Do you think I regularly search my secretary’s desk for shit she left behind? You know, it sounds an awful lot like you two have trust issues,” Theo smirked. “Might want to see a couple’s - ”

“I promise you if you finish that sentence I’m going to get arrested for battery.”

“Right,” Hermione bit her lip, clearly trying to find a question that wouldn’t set Draco or Theo off. “Did you clear anyone to work in the Department over the weekend?”

“Nah, it’s too early for that.” Theo scratched his jawline before continuing. “I mean, the Cup’s soon but not that soon. We won’t be pulling hours like those for another few months.”

Apparently if Draco wanted a better work-life balance, he just needed to transfer to literally any other Department in the Ministry. Though Games and Sports didn’t have pretty Muggle Analysts that he’d like to distract.

“Hmm, okay.” Hermione nodded, looking as if she were seriously considering her next follow-up. To be fair, you could fucking feel the tension in the room. Theo’s eyes were twinkling with mischief and Draco knew his mate was going to do something to make him snap. “Are you aware of anyone gaining unauthorized access to your Department over the weekend?”

“Yeah, a fucking murderer.”

“Anyone else,” Draco asked tersely.

“No?”

“Theo,” Draco growled in warning at his friend’s petulant fucking tone.

“Actually, on that topic…” Hermione said the words so loudly that both men winced. “You’ll be glad to know that the Patronus you received was Elphora’s. We got confirmation that her spell’s corporeal form is, in fact, a dormouse.”

“Thank Christ, Granger, that was really keeping me up at night,” Theo deadpanned.

“Don’t be a fucking dick to her when she’s just doing her job.”

“I wasn’t aware that she’d actually transferred, I just thought she was helping out because you’re obviously sleeping with her. A little tit-for-tat if you will.”

Draco paused the Quick-Notes transcription and promptly punched his friend in the face.

“What the fuck,” Theo shouted.

“Make any sort of derogatory comment about her again and I’m breaking your fucking jaw.”

Hermione was sitting next to him, her face resting on the tabletop.

“Hey, no need to worry, love. We can get Nott’s last response erased from the record.” Draco started rubbing her back in soothing circles. “And now that he’s learned his lesson, he’s just about to apologize.” When Hermione looked up wearily, she saw the tail-end of the staring contest that the two Slytherins were engaged in.

“I’m sorry for apparently making off-the-cuff remarks and for the fact that you are clearly dating a fucking psychopath.” Theo’s jaw was ticking in obvious irritation as he bit out the apology that he surely hadn’t been planning until a moment prior.

“Actually,” Hermione whispered, “we haven’t defined anything.”

“So you don’t care that he’s a psychopath, then?”

“He’s not a … he’s just annoyed. I’ve done similar things and I don’t think anyone would call me that.”

Draco was wondering if she was thinking about the time she punched him or the time she turned Rita Skeeter into a bug, a story Harry shared after one too many vodka shots this week. Either way, the thought made him smile.

“Christ, you two make a match made in heaven.”

“Getting back to the fucking interview then,” Draco muttered, starting up the Quick-Notes transcription as he did so. “Would it be out of the ordinary for Elphora to go into the Department without your knowledge?”

“Considering as I head it, yes.”

“Was there any reason for Elphora to have gained access to the Department on Sunday night,” Draco asked as he leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands in his lap. Hermione had scooted an inch away from him, probably to maintain whatever facade of professionalism she thought was required for this situation.

When Theo shook his head, Draco tacked on a follow-up just to be sure.

“Nothing? Not even to pick up a birthday card?”

“Why do you keep asking me about a stupid fucking card,” Theo groaned before narrowing his eyes. “Actually, why are you so interested in Elphora? She obviously didn’t kill anyone. I mean, she can barely lift a stack of papers without magic.”

“I wasn’t aware that you were interviewing us, Nott.”

“Oh fuck off Draco.”

“Anyway,” Hermione said a touch desperately. “Could you please just answer the question?”

“No. She didn’t tell me that she needed to swing by to pick anything up. Nor that she had done.”

Well, breaking this news was going to be the icing on the cake, wasn’t it?

Draco and Hermione exchanged a weighted look before he spat it out.

“Right, well someone definitely had access to your Department on two occasions preceding the discovery of the body Monday morning. That much was made clear by the detection spells performed on site.” Draco hesitated before continuing. “We have reason to believe that whoever gained access the first time had a purpose unrelated to the homicide.”

“There was quite a lot of magic cast at your office door, in particular, in an attempt to open it.” Hermione continued for Draco, using a much more gentler tone than he would’ve bothered with. “Clearly someone was interested in something in there. Do you have any idea what that might be?”

“I mean, everything confidential relating to the Cup is in my desk,” Theo responded, his face now white as a ghost.

“Okay,” Hermione nodded. “And have you checked if anything is missing?”

“How the fuck can I do that when there’s still an absolute pile crammed up against the Department walls!?”

MLE had taken their time casting additional detection charms at the scene given the initial discovery of magic. As such, Theo’s employees had spent the week working from home. Well as much as they could without any of their files, something Nott reminded him of every single morning.

“Watch your fucking language when you speak to her.”

“Draco,” Hermione warned, knowing all their words were going on the record. He just rolled his eyes, his jaw ticking in irritation. He wasn’t going to let people talk to her so fucking dismissively and get away with it.

“No,” Theo sighed, “I haven’t checked.”

“We’ll have the furniture cleared out of your Department on Monday. Then we’ll have someone accompany you into your office to verify if anything is missing.” Draco wiped a hand down his face, annoyed at yet another task in a never-ending list. “Do you have any reason to believe that you might be getting targeted?”

“Mate, I’m the fucking head of the Department for Magical Games. People send me death threats every fucking week when their teams lose. I got a cursed scarf in the mail from Ireland’s manager three weeks ago. Fucking twat is still upset that we upheld the permanent suspension of his Chaser after the bloke was found using uppers before matches. So … who the fuck knows.”

“You were meant to have a meeting with Bulgarian officials on Monday though, correct?” Hermione continued on after Theo nodded. “How’d that go?”

“It didn’t. I cancelled since all my fucking files are in my office that I don’t have access to.”

“Right, well let’s focus on getting you your shit on Monday and then we can go from there, yeh?” Because Draco would be fucked if he was worrying about this over the weekend. He stopped the transcription and studied his friend for a second. “I’m going to have to ask you not to say anything to Elphora.”

“What the fuck would I say to her? It’s not like we’re best mates and have tea together Sunday afternoons.”

“Well someone got into your Department two different times and the only person with fucking access is your secretary.”

“So you think she’s not only complicit in an attempted burglary but also a homicide,” Theo said in disbelief.

Draco and Hermione stayed mum.

“Fine, I won’t say anything. Though it’s going to be a fucking bitch to find a replacement if it’s true. No one wants to work for a fucking convicted Death Eater, do they?” Theo pointed at the Azkaban identification tattoo on his neck.

“You’ll find someone,” Hermione offered. “We can help you -”

“Absolutely not. Too much of your time is already being taken up by work as it is,” Draco muttered.

“Well it’s the right thing to do.”

“Then I’ll fucking do it,” he bit out before shoving up from his seat. “One last question, Nott, off the record, because I don’t think you have anything to do with this. But do you have an alibi for Sunday night into Monday morning?”

“Erm, yeah.” Theo shrugged, staring determinedly at the table.

“And that would be …” Draco turned his wrists, trying to coax his friend into just spitting it out.

“Pansy stayed over,” Theo pushed his tongue into his cheek and crossed his arms.

“Ha,” Draco laughed loudly. “Good fucking luck with that, mate. You’re going to need it.”

***

Hermione and Draco walked down the street, having decided to go out for a coffee for once. She really couldn’t face another lottery pull from the old Muggle machine on their floor. And she was in the mood for a muffin.

Rain spat down on their heads and she wondered if the sun had actually exited center-stage for the year. Two wet days in a row was a bad sign. She frowned, knowing that soon she’d be bundled back underneath her puffy jacket and wool cardigan - the heating in her flat notoriously touch-and-go.

“Do you have any dietary restrictions,” Draco asked suddenly, as though they were already discussing it.

It startled Hermione so much that she needed to take a beat to answer.

“Well I’m allergic to kiwis.” The admission made her wince for some reason because, in all likelihood, Draco wouldn’t be serving the fruit during dinner tonight. They weren’t even in season yet.

He didn’t say anything in response but looked to be filing that information away in his head. Similar questions had been tossed into their work chat throughout the day, their appearance always taking Hermione by surprise. Because no one had ever asked her what her food preferences were. So the small gesture made her heart swell every time it happened.

“Did we find anything out about Goyle’s security detail,” Hermione questioned as vaguely as possible, trying to be mindful of the fact that they were surrounded by Muggles.

“Yeah, we have an interview lined up with Stretton early next week,” Draco responded. “But, for the time being, he’s on leave and an investigation will be conducted as to what the fuck he was doing instead of his assignment.” He held open the coffee shop door for Hermione, the chatter of customers and the scent of roasting beans a welcome sign of its own.

There was a small line to order and Draco stood close behind her, running his fingertips up and down her arms, as they waited. When she looked over her shoulder, she could see that he was reading the menu hanging over the counter.

“This is my favorite spot,” Hermione smiled. “Oh, hello, can I have an oat cappuccino, please?” She hurried up to the till, realizing that it was their turn. Upon examining the pastry case, only to find the blueberry muffins were sold out for the day, she huffed in disappointment. “And I suppose a danish as well, thanks.”

Draco quickly added his own drink, a flat white, to the order before slapping down Muggle cash - not even giving Hermione the opportunity to take out her wallet.

“Don’t even think about paying when you’re with me,” Draco whispered as he brought a hand to her lower back.

“Draco, you don’t need to do that. I have more than enough to buy myself a coffee.” Though she didn’t actually have all that much, if she was being honest. And the Galleons to Pounds conversion was terrible at the moment.

“Save your money for getting more Sherlock Holmes novels I can tease you about the next time I’m over.”

The next time?

Despite her hesitancy to have people at her flat, she quite liked the idea of Draco being there. As often as he liked really.

“Very well then,” she said, biting her lip, a move that Draco seemingly devoured with his eyes.

Truth be told, she had never done this.

The playfulness in public and little displays of affection.

Her relationship with Viktor, if you could really call it that, mostly took place over penned letters during the summer holidays. Ron was really a friend more than anything else. Sure, they’d kissed twice. But each time had been sloppy and, quite frankly, a bit repulsive. They’d never even gone on a date - not seeing the point since they were already a couple.

So, all that was to say, this was very new and exciting for her.

When she looked back at Draco, she realized that she had been lost in thought. He’d taken the opportunity to step closer and almost looked like he was drinking her in, as though she was something to be worshipped.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

Draco cocked his head in question.

“Like you’re … I don’t know, like you’re trying to memorize me or something.” She shifted closer to him when she realized that she was blocking access to the table holding all the napkins and sugars.

“Ah, sorry love, no can do.” Draco tsked before walking away to collect their order. He brought everything to a table by the window, the green and white leaves of a pothos plant trailing along the glass.

“And why not?”

When they sat down, they scooted towards each other without a word. The end result being their knees pressed together and a puddle of coffee forming under each cup after the table got knocked. Draco threw down a few napkins to sop up the liquid while Hermione laughed.

“Because I am trying to memorize you.” He looked at her innocently, clearly knowing what those words would do to her, before sipping on his drink. “I want to have your face seared into my memory so that it’s the only thing I see every time I close my eyes.”

Hermione choked on her cappuccino.

“Too hot,” Draco asked, his mouth curved upwards playfully.

“In a manner of speaking.”

“You told me you preferred Greek,” Draco stated, pivoting the conversation away yet again. “But you never said what your favorite dish was.”

“Oh,” Hermione moved the danish between them so they could share. “I quite like moussaka, I suppose. The place just around the corner from me does an excellent chicken souvlaki as well.” She broke off a piece of the pastry, savoring the sugary glaze as it melted on her tongue. “We could go sometime if you want.”

“Are you asking me on a date?” He took another sip in a failed attempt to hide the smile on his face. And Hermione realized with a start that she’d never seen him look so happy before. Not even when he won a Quidditch match.

“It doesn’t have to be if you don’t want that. It could be a … partner-bonding experience.”

Merlin, she was absolutely dreadful at this. It was nearly painful, almost as bad as if she hadn’t managed to have a conversation in years and just decided to have at it again.

“A date it is then,” Draco quipped, taking a bite of the pastry himself. “Gods, this is good. Speaking of which, favorite dessert?”

Him.

Because not even the danish they were sharing came close to the taste of his mouth.

But she wouldn’t be saying that in a coffee shop. Or out loud … ever really.

“I quite like those chocolate lava cakes. And I suppose the occasional slice of baklava if it’s made well.”

“Hmm,” Draco looked down at her lips and she brushed them self-consciously, assuming she had flakes of pastry stuck there. But nothing came away when she looked.

“What about you?” She sipped gratefully on her coffee, glad that it wasn’t the absolute horror that the Ministry provided. “Favorite meal?”

“I’m a bit boring to be honest, just the traditional things.” Draco shrugged before raking his eyes down her. “Though I’m always open to change.”

“Good, I don’t think I could manage roast dinners five nights a week.” Hermione blushed violently when Draco unexpectedly laughed. “Not that … I mean, not that we’d do that. Eat together that often that is. Or ever actually.” She put her head in her hands and tried to will herself out of existence, only giving up when Draco pulled on her forearms.

“Seeing you flustered is now one of my favorite things in the entire world.”

“I have no idea what I’m doing, Draco.” He opened his mouth, clearly about to say something that was probably unashamedly romantic and would make her brain reset. “No, don’t say whatever you were about to. Because if you do, I’ve no idea how I’ll respond.”

“Fine. What do you want to talk about instead?”

He smiled when she knocked his knees playfully.

“Work! Because that’s what we planned on. So, with that being said, Ernie’s detail … do we know what’s going on there?”

Draco rolled his eyes, clearly preferring the last topic of conversation instead.

“She got a stern talking to from Bill this morning,” Draco finally responded. He hadn’t once talked between bites since they sat down, clearly knowing how much Hermione hated it. And that made her blush even more than the overt flirting.

Draco Malfoy was basically interested in a human tomato at this point.

“But all signs point to it being Macmillan’s fault,” he shrugged. “He said that he was so focused on getting Arthur’s all-clear that it didn’t cross his mind to tell Branstone where he was heading. But she’s been following his steps ever since.”

“Good because I’d rather not have anything else happen.” Hermione broke the last bit of pastry in half and held it out to Draco who just leaned forward and took the bite from her bloody fingers. Tension immediately shooting straight to her core as he kept eye contact while doing it. Her heart was threatening to stop its thumping in response.

“Neither do I,” he sat back and sighed, clearly content with himself. “Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, which is a fucking miracle considering my company, I wanted to get your take on our last victim.”

This time Hermione was the one to be disappointed. Because her mind was now on one track and that was exploring Draco’s lips at the first opportunity she could find.

But, instead, she nodded - taking his comment as a sign that they should probably leave the coffee shop and head back to the Ministry. After all, fellow customers probably wouldn’t appreciate overhearing details about a recent murder. She put her empty cup into the dirty dishes bin and headed out with Draco by her side.

“It was much more violent than I expected considering the one before but I wanted your thoughts.”

“I agree,” Hermione nodded, before continuing in a whisper. “Knives to … multiple dismemberments is exponentially worse. It almost feels -”

“Personal.”

“Definitely,” she stated while waiting for the cross-signal to turn green. “Whoever did it knew the victim and had a bone to pick with them.”

“Yeah, that was my assessment as well.”

“It could help us narrow down our person-of-interest list though. Anyone that knew Goyle and had a specific problem with him.”

“Maybe someone who went to school with us,” Draco murmured as the sidewalk filled with workers on their way back from a late lunch. “Though his parents aren’t going to help us there, pissed as they are that they aren’t allowed to talk to the press anymore.”

The rest of the day was spent with Hermione getting peppered about everything she liked and disliked.

Drinks. Fondness of garlic. Whether she preferred black or green olives.

When she finally left for the day to get ready for their dinner, Draco had an encyclopedic knowledge of her diet.

***

Ginny hadn’t had time to come over and help Hermione dispel her crippling indecision over what to wear, having needed to travel for a match taking place the next day in northeast England. Thankfully, she sent over a handful of dresses with Harry’s owl before she left, knowing that Pidwidgeon wasn’t up for the task.

The problem Hermione now faced was that she wasn’t sure if she could pull any of them off.

The first option was absolutely off the table. Not because it was unflattering. In actuality, it was the most beautiful thing Hermione had ever worn. She looked like a princess living in a castle in the white gown. The sleeveless bodice an almost transparent corset that flowed outwards from her waist.

But she had the sinking suspicion that Ginny had sent along a wedding dress.

Hence why Hermione wouldn’t be caught dead waltzing into Draco’s flat in it.

Though it really was lovely.

Of course, the second option was equally occasion-inappropriate. The forest green silk dress had straps that were barely there, the material clinging to her figure all the way down. Again, it was stunning, but more something she would wear to a person’s nuptials and not to her partner’s flat.

She had told Ginny that they were staying in, just planning to have dinner and watch a movie. It was really a dolled-up night of working late. So Fates only knew why the Weasley had sent those two outfits as an option.

Even worse, the note attached to the package told Hermione to keep whatever she didn’t wear tonight. Because “you never know when they might come in handy.”

So now she had to shove a bloody wedding dress into her small closet. Realistically, she would probably just prise up the floorboards and jam it into whatever crawl space existed underneath so that Draco couldn’t see it when he was over.

And that was nothing compared to the lingerie Ginny sent.

Which Hermione had absolutely not asked for.

But there were piles and piles of lace, straps, fur - all with the tags still attached. And another little note, this time threatening Hermione with a Bat-Bogey Hex if she didn’t wear one of them tonight.

So she was donning the most conservative of the lot, which still managed to show everything under a layer of black lace. But at least she didn’t have to tie herself in, like the first thing she’d picked up had required.

Hermione looked at the third and final option that Ginny sent, shivering in her scrap of underwear. It was either this dress or whatever she could find in her closet that didn’t make her look war-torn. So she was putting this on or getting back into work clothes that made her look like a stuffy librarian more often than not.

She slipped on the short black dress, outlined with a thin metal chain that served as a halter. She frowned, realizing the material cut far above the knee, making her legs look miles long. But it also meant that she’d never be able to bend over … unless she wanted to give Draco a different type of show tonight.

Right, there was that done.

She only had to do something with her hair and put on shoes. Her knees hit the ground with a thump as she rooted around under her bed for the black kitten heels that she occasionally wore to work before also pulling out a pair of sandals.

When she tried both on in front of her mirror, she frowned. The heels looked amazing but that seemed a bit excessive for what they were planning to do tonight. The sandals were fine … they just didn’t go nearly as well with the dress.

In for a penny, in for a pound it was then.

Hermione kicked off the sandals and committed to the heels.

She scrunched up her nose, scrutinizing her appearance in the low lighting of her room, now piled with discarded clothes and shoe options.

The dress was nice - but not too nice. Probably something she’d wear to that restaurant Harry wanted to take them all too.

Which was probably a good indicator that she was insanely overdressed.

She considered changing into something else for the umpteenth time before shaking her head. The only other thing she could wear were clothes that she fought in or her rota of work outfits Ginny bought her.

Plus, she thought she looked pretty.

And, maybe, Hermione wanted to feel that way for once and not be ashamed about it. Though she was sure she heard Lavender Brown cackling from beyond the grave as a result.

Whatever.

She was wearing this. A dress that she would likely wear out to a nice dinner with a person that she most definitely had a crush on and had now snogged a few times on their office sofa.

But there was that one quote about never being overdressed so …

Hermione began attacking her hair without another thought, not really sure what to do with it. Originally, she planned to straighten it with a magical potion and tie half of it up with a bow. But she was pretty sure that she would be running hours late if she attempted that now. And if she wasn’t thorough with the Sleekeazy’s, it would end up looking like something straight out of an 80’s music video.

Eventually, her hands thumped to her sides and she conceded defeat to her untamable mane. The more she tried to wrangle it, the more unruly it would become.

And if she wasn’t careful, she would walk out of Draco’s fireplace looking like a lion in a black dress.

She shrieked when she checked the alarm clock by her bed, realizing that she had approximately two minutes to get to Draco’s apartment before being officially late. And what a way to start their first date night than with her coughing up apologies alongside Floo powder.

Her heels tapped down her hallway, echoing off the walls, as she ran towards her living room.

“This will be fine,” she assured herself, “I’ll be fine.”

She grabbed Floo powder from the pot near her fireplace and threw it down at the exact moment she saw her computer laying on her sofa. The flames were slowly starting to turn red as she lunged back out with a hiss. She shouted Draco’s address and disappeared in a burst of faint orange and green flames - just on the cusp of getting burnt.

***

Hermione appeared in a massive fireplace, coughing and spluttering despite her best efforts.

After hacking up a lung comprised solely of magical dust and ash, she finally took stock of her surroundings. If Draco lived in a ‘flat,’ then Hermione was making her abode in a bloody broom closet. Maybe it would’ve been the term someone would use when renting these rooms in the late 1800s. But, to do so now, was under-generous given that his living room alone was bigger than her entire square footage.

It was also absolutely nothing close to what she expected.

For one thing, she assumed Draco would live in a space similarly designed to the Manor. A place with wooden or stone walls, tapestries depicting horrible things, furniture made for royalty and discomfort.

Instead, the walls were painted white with gilded crown molding.

A power-blue tufted sofa, with golden snakes for legs, dominated the center space. It looked comfortable, if not inconceivably old. She wondered if it would collapse if she tried to sit down on it, the wood splintering from being forced to hold the weight of insufferable personalities for centuries.

Heavy velvet curtains, tied back by golden ropes, revealed floor-to-ceiling windows.

Honestly, Hermione would never guess that Draco would live in a place without an ounce of gloominess in it. It almost seemed like the room was decorated by someone else.

The other thing that surprised her was the incredible lack of decorations. Considering he had commented on her own spartan living room, she expected to find portraits and baubles everywhere. Something like a dragon’s treasure hoard if she was being honest with herself.

But there was nothing. No side-tables filled with personal photos of the Malfoy family on holiday. No demeaning glares from painted Narcissas, muttering their disapproval over Hermione’s arrival. Not even a stack of bloody coffee books sat on the table in front of his sofa.

There was nothing that would indicate a life lived. His office had more personal effects than this space.

Though even with nothing adorning the walls, Hermione couldn’t help but feel abashed by her own meagre living arrangements. Especially now that Draco had already seen them. She looked absolutely destitute beside this display of wealth. So no wonder he insisted on paying for her bloody coffee.

Draco suddenly appeared in one of the archways leading out of the room, tossing a kitchen towel over his shoulder as he took her in. He was wearing grey sweatpants, a white t-shirt and … slippers.

It was the most informal she’d ever seen him. And the most Muggle too.

Her cheeks turned a brilliant red as she realized that you could, in fact, be overdressed. Massively so. And that she was getting to experience the embarrassment of that first hand.

But, again, it was either this or a bloody wedding dress.

She was absolutely going to murder Ginny the next time she saw her.

“Um, hi.” She was flustered by the sight of him. Even though she would’ve been loathed to admit it, she always found Draco to be attractive. But seeing him in an environment where he was comfortable enough to dress down?

She was going to combust.

That and it made her realize that she wanted to see him like this more often.

“Hi,” Draco smiled. “Admiring my mother’s handiwork?”

Hermione frowned, extremely confused.

“When I moved here, I didn’t know the first thing about decorating. So I just stole all the furniture from my mum’s living quarters at the Manor and painted everything so it matched.” Draco shrugged. “Not really my style though as I’m sure you’ll see when I give you a tour.”

“Oh … so you don’t just live in this one room?”

“Why would you think that,” Draco asked, frowning as he walked over to her.

“It’s just that you said you lived in a flat. Anything bigger than this in London and you’re basically living in a mansion,” Hermione smiled at her own joke.

Draco rolled his eyes and took her computer from her hand, setting it down on the sofa (which probably was centuries old knowing where it came from now) before bending down and kissing her affectionately.

“You look absolutely radiant tonight. Though I wish I knew you were bringing dessert, wouldn’t have bothered with mine.”

“I -” Hermione bit her lip, suddenly remembering what she was wearing underneath the dress. She didn’t know whether she would end up murdering Ginny after all. Maybe she’d … actually thank her. “You look lovely yourself, Draco.”

He looked down at himself and laughed.

“No, you do,” she said earnestly. “I like you like this.”

“Remind me to toss my suits in the fire then.” When she began to protest, he put a finger on her lips. “You can still admire my forearms in t-shirts, you know.”

She was absolutely never living that down, was she?

He straightened up and took her hand, winding their fingers together as he led her out of the living room.

“Come into the kitchen with me while I finish up. We can have a glass of wine before I show you my humble accommodations,” he looked back at her with a wink. And she couldn’t wait to see what the night had in store.

Chapter 18: She's His Undoing

Notes:

See you next week for more ...

*drops chapter and runs away*

Chapter Text

The Fates clearly decided that Draco had lived on this plane long enough and sent Hermione Granger to take him out. Because his heart was struggling to maintain a steady rhythm with her in the room.

But at least he could form a coherent sentence now. Considering he’d nearly forgotten the English language when he first came into the living room to collect her.

She was, hands down, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

And he absolutely planned to devour her.

They were currently in Draco’s kitchen, one of the only rooms he’d designed to his liking. It was also the place, apart from his bedroom, that he spent the most time in.

Which meant he’d be fucked if it had the insufferable weight of the Manor stamped all over it.

Hermione was still taking everything in by slowly turning in a circle, her heels tapping the cement floor with each pivot and her eyes pouring over every surface.

Draco had obviously decorated the room to match his aesthetic. Which meant that everything was painted black. The cabinets almost blending into the midnight-marbled backsplash behind his stovetop.

In fact, there were only three spots of color in the entire kitchen. The gilded faucet taps and oven knobs, the wall of cookbooks, and the herb garden growing on his windowsill.

While Hermione was preoccupied, he slipped his apron back on and checked the tomato sauce simmering on the stove. He wasn’t going to make a mess of tonight, which meant this sure as shit wouldn’t burn on his watch. He tasted it, humming in thought, before tossing in a sprinkle more sage. It was nearly there but could do with a few more minutes.

“Are you sure I can’t help at all?” Hermione suddenly appeared just behind Draco’s left shoulder. She leaned over the dutch oven to smell the simmering concoction and brushed his arm in the process. The contact nearly making him jump from how electric it was.

She’d already offered her assistance with dinner but Draco was determined to see her relax. Plus, he’d been rather excited at the prospect of cooking her something that wasn’t in the litany of boiled things she apparently subsided on every day.

“Hermione, I’m sure.” Draco brushed a hand down her hair before turning his attention to pouring her a glass of wine and seating her at his kitchen table.

To be honest, he desperately needed some distance from her if he didn’t want to burn his fucking flat to the ground. That little black dress was absolutely working a number on him, such that he already had to adjust himself several times while hiding behind his kitchen island.

Clearly, the attempts to conceal his hard-on failed as her eyes drifted down to his visible bulge for the third time. He watched, somewhat tortured, as her tongue darted out and swept across her bottom lip. Maybe he should sneak off to his bathroom for a few minutes before this became fucking embarrassing. It’s not like it’d take long anyway.

“Do I get to know what we’re having? Or is it a surprise?” Hermione blinked up at him after taking a sip of the wine Draco decanted thirty minutes ago. Her gaze inadvertently drifting down a fourth fucking time before she shook her head. “Merlin, this red is lovely.”

The comment was obviously made in an attempt to force herself away from whatever inappropriate thoughts she’d just been having.

But, her words still made Draco smirk no matter what their intent had actually been. Because he’d pulled one of the most expensive merlots in the Malfoy cellar upon leaving work today. Hermione enjoying a bottle purchased for a small fortune by his bigoted father was so fucking delightful that Draco nearly danced at the thought.

But he had to admit, it actually was fairly decent.

Lucius had been good at one thing. The man had an impeccable taste for wine.

Though it might’ve been better if he reserved his one admirable trait for parenting, but whatever.

“Well I thought for the appetizer we’d have a roasted green bean salad with navy beans and preserved lemon. I’m braising lamb shanks in that tomato sauce for the main, paired with hasselback potatoes and roasted asparagus. Dessert is … to be determined.”

He planned on having Hermione if she was on the menu. Otherwise, they’d be eating the cheesecake he made earlier.

Draco hadn’t wanted to fuck up the first meal he made her by trying his hand at her favorites. Especially when he didn’t even own a Greek cookbook.

Obviously, he took steps to correct that immediately, having already written the Muggle culinary store where he purchased his rarer ingredients to ask whether they could recommend something. And if there wasn’t a good reference point available in London, he’d just have to fucking Apparate to Athens, wouldn’t he?

“You didn’t have to do all of this for me.” Hermione bit her lip, clearly worried that he was making too much fuss over tonight. But only one of them was dressed to kill and it wasn’t him, was it?

Draco hummed, turning back around to check on everything roasting in the oven.

“You might as well get used to it.”

Because she wasn’t going to eat some version of fucking gruel for every meal now that she was his.

The next time he looked over his shoulder, he spotted her curled up happily in the chair. Those small heels she’d worn kicked off and her feet tucked underneath her. She smiled at him, having clearly been watching as he snipped a few sprigs of rosemary to finish off the sauce.

The only thing missing was a book and it would make a perfect fucking picture.

“It’s probably a good thing that you’re not allowing me to help,” Hermione said, twirling the wine-stem between her fingertips. “I really only know how to cook three things, none of which are on the menu tonight.”

“Let me guess: plain rice, buttered pasta and oatmeal?” He quirked an eyebrow before bending down to take out the green beans and asparagus.

She laughed out loud, tossing her head back while she did so.

Which caused Draco to lose his focus and promptly burn the shit out of himself. He hissed and she immediately jumped to her feet, padding over to examine his fingertips.

“Here, let me.” She turned on the tap and ran his swelling digits under the cold water.

Just his fucking luck. Hermione would probably never trust him to cook again.

“I think they might blister if I don’t properly heal them. Do you mind?” Draco shook his head, a touch surprised that she would ask before casting magic on him. Instead of just doing it as was his tendency. “I really should’ve checked before cleaning the coffee from your shirt. But I didn’t want the stain to set. That’s not a very good excuse though.”

“You know, people normally don’t ask permission before tossing magic about.”

“But most wizards weren’t forced to take the Dark Mark against their will.” She looked up at him steadily after healing his minor burn. “I imagine it feels a little different when people cast on you now.”

“It’s not great,” Draco conceded, his jaw ticking. What he actually meant to say was that it occasionally gave him flashbacks.

But who would fucking care that the former Death Eater had a hard time with people performing magic on him? He could just imagine the jeering that would happen if he bothered voicing a complaint.

But leave it to Hermione to be the first person that ever attempted to navigate his triggers, the exposure to which usually led to drug-fueled weekends and dangerous blackouts.

He kissed her forehead gratefully before turning away to check the lamb.

In all actuality, he was taking the opportunity to get his shit together. Which looked like curb-stomping his panic into fucking oblivion. It was a feeling that had been lying in wait, just underneath the surface of his happiness, ever since Hermione first showed interest in him.

Because the Fates were never this generous to Draco. He’d always been landed a shit deal and he forced himself to endure it accordingly. Until the next thing happened and the next.

So to have somehow won the affections of one of the most caring people he’d ever met?

It was so unbelievable that he had to think there was a catch somewhere.

An a-ha moment, the Universe waiting to fuck him over in a massive Karmic realignment.

But, the thing was: if anyone tried to take Hermione away, they would have to prise her from his cold, dead hands.

So good fucking luck to whatever divine being tried that shit. Because it would be a second Titanomachy all over again.

Draco wasn’t sure whether he deserved an ounce of happiness after joining Voldemort’s ranks. But he was currently drowning in it and would do anything to stay within its depths.

“Right, the lamb’s done.” He pulled out the thermometer and set it on the counter before donning his oven mitts to take out the meat. “I’m just going to let it rest for a few minutes and then we can eat. Can I get you another top-up?” Draco looked around to see that Hermione had moved away to examine the bright green leaves of his basil and marjoram plants.

“You’re a much better gardener than me.” She frowned, very clearly not wanting to admit that she might be bad at one thing in her life. Draco couldn’t help but chuckle at her incessant perfectionism rearing its head. “And certainly a better cook. The kitchen would likely be in flames had I attempted any of this.”

“I could teach you sometime if you wanted.” He walked over and placed both hands on either side of her, his imagination already running wild at the thought of her as his student. “How to cook, that is. Not much to do if you lack a green thumb.”

She tsked, earning herself a breathy laugh against her hair. “That might be nice actually.” She looked back at him as her fingers brushed the leaves of the mint plant, releasing its scent into the air. “But maybe we should start with something small?”

“Whatever you want,” Draco said, his arms wrapping around her in a gentle caress. “Shepherd’s pie, bouillabaisse, maybe something … sweet.” He placed a featherlight kiss on her jaw, getting the exact reaction he’d hoped for.

Her breathing hitched as she leaned away, giving him the access he wanted.

Draco worked his way to her shoulder before turning his attention to the skin at the base of her neck, alternating between biting and sucking. Which she seemed to enjoy by her breathy moans sending him into another plane of existence. His hands teased the hemline of her dress, her back arching into him as her head rested against his shoulder.

All thoughts of the cooling dinner behind them promptly evaporated from his mind.

After being spun around, Hermione pulled him down urgently to finally reacquaint their lips. His groan reverberated through her mouth when her hands moved along the lines of his abs before coming to dance over his erection. Which was doing its absolute best to break free from his waistband and join them.

She bit his bottom lip and tugged slightly while grasping him through the fabric. His eyes actually rolling into the back of his head, his hips jerking forward in desperation for more. She moved up and down, her rhythm so tantalizingly slow that he could feel the last dregs of sanity slipping away from him.

If she continued much longer, he’d need a change of clothes.

But, thankfully, Draco was nothing if not a gentleman. Well … he wasn’t really one of those either. But he could play pretend.

“Would it be rude of me to have dessert first?” He looked at her through half-lidded eyes as he knelt onto the cement floor, a cushioning charm wandlessly cast in the same instance.

Her lips parted slightly while his fingertips brushed over her exposed calves, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“If it’s not okay - “

“No.” She shook her head, a pretty pink making an appearance across her cheekbones. “Go ahead. I-I don’t mind at all.”

There.

That was the answer he’d wished for.

Draco smiled deviously before placing one of her legs over his shoulder. Taking his time, he let himself explore the taste of her skin from her knee to inner thigh. Relishing in her softness.

When he finally inched up her dress and grabbed her arse, her head fell backwards on a small moan.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathed.

Her black underwear literally made cum leak from his throbbing cock. It had a foil rose pattern on front, the back all lace if his fingers could be trusted. As he brushed his hand over her, he could feel a tiny gemstone hanging from the hemline in the back.

She looked fucking delicious, his mouth watering at the prospect.

“Did you wear these just for me?” He spoke softly, his lips briefly pressing against a flower. She nodded, her pupils already blown wide. She was going to destroy him if this was her reaction to so little attention. Or maybe it would be the other way around.

She moved her leg so that he could take off the scrap of fabric, which he placed in his pocket.

“Good girl, now come back.” He hummed in approval after her leg returned to its proper place.

***

Hermione’s eyes fluttered closed, a burst of pleasure shooting through her from the praise.

Draco wasted no time, immediately burying his face to suck on the bundle of nerves that was already pulled taut. Her hips hitching forward as her hands found their way into his hair.

She gasped when his teeth brushed against her core, replacing his tongue to apply enough pressure that a brief pang arose, which he quickly kissed away.

The intermingling of pain and pleasure was something she’d never experienced previously, but which made her toes curl with need. Already she could feel herself dripping onto his floor and she realized that she’d never felt desire quite like this. Had never been so wet for someone like she was right now.

As his tongue played with her center, she could feel herself winding tighter. Her moans becoming more desperate as her body started shaking.

“Tell me what you need, love.”

Hermione hesitated, having never spoken her desires out loud. She forced herself to push away the initial embarrassment she felt, instead allowing herself to get lost in the feel of him.

“I want you inside me.”

Draco groaned before returning to lick up and down her slit, the movements frantic as if he couldn’t get enough. His hands locked around her hips when she began to rock away, the contact of his mouth almost too much.

He readjusted her, pulling open her leg more so that he had additional room before diving his tongue in.

The pleasure was so mind-altering that Hermione thought she could happily die here.

Her back arched away from the countertop as her eyes rolled.

His fingers started playing with her clit as his tongue dipped in and out, drinking up her every drop as she moaned his name.

She felt him pull away, the loss of contact so disappointing that she nearly begged.

“I could easily spend the rest of my days worshipping you,” he murmured.

Draco didn’t give her a chance to respond before returning his mouth to her core. Licking and sucking and making her forget her name.

She was on the knife’s edge. On the verge of falling into oblivion.

“Please.” Hermione suddenly gasped when he inserted two fingers, pumping her hard and curling the digits until they hit some spot within her that made her see stars. All while keeping his tongue between the apex of her thighs, his mouth making obscene noises as he lapped at her.

His name was a cry of worship as he worked her through her climax, only stopping when his touch made her laugh from over-stimulation.

“Oh my Gods.” Hermione looked down at the state she’d put him in. His hair was sticking up in every direction, his face smeared in her desire. “That was -”

“Amazing.” Draco pressed his lips softly against her inner thigh before putting her leg back onto the floor. “And my new favorite thing to eat.” He stood up and ran his fingers through his hair, a smile spreading on his face.

She could taste herself on his tongue when she leaned up to kiss him, something that made her skin heat anew.

She glanced down at his sweatpants, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth, before he pressed his lips against her forehead.

“I should probably see if I can salvage what I cooked for us,” he said while turning around. She watched him adjust himself before pulling out his wand to perform a reheating charm on everything he’d made.

Hermione was done for.

She could never let him go.

Not after he made her see the Universe and then returned to dinner with absolutely no fanfare.

Nothing, and she truly meant nothing, would take him away from her.

Not when he made her feel like this.

After a few failed attempts at walking, Hermione finally made her way over to Draco on shaking legs. She wrapped her hands around his waist, nestling into his back while he plated their meal.

“Can I have my underwear?”

“If you want,” Draco shrugged, “though I should warn you that I have a sweet tooth.” He smiled at her from over his shoulder. “So I’m not sure there’s really a point.”

“Very well then,” Hermione laughed delicately into his shirt, wishing she could freeze them in this moment for eternity.

Even had he not been so … thorough in his attentions, she would feel completely at ease right now.

It felt immeasurably good to be taken care of.

To have nothing to worry about for an evening.

Harry and the Weasleys had coaxed Hermione into occasionally eating a few bites of soup after her hospital release. She’d basically been on life support after the war and, they, the oxygen pumping into her lungs. Without their interventions, she wouldn’t be alive today. But once she could breathe on her own, no matter how difficult that was, she’d been left to her own devices.

Not that she blamed them, of course. Everyone had to deal with the fallout from the war, learn how to cope with the losses they’d been gifted.

But this situation was completely distinguishable from five years ago.

Draco was taking care of her - not because he had to, but because it was something he wanted to do.

It was nice to take a break from the chaos of the world and the darkness in her head for a change. To bathe in the light that was this man in front of her.

Tonight would be a turning point, no matter what else happened. And it would be a good thing, she was sure of it.

Even if she was overdressed … and currently not wearing underwear.

She bit back a giggle as she realized that she would need to give Ginny her thanks after all.

Hermione followed Draco over to the small table positioned by a French door, overlooking a private garden square. He’d already nestled their chairs as close together as possible and refilled her wine glass. She sat down gratefully and kissed him on the cheek.

It was clearly impossible to ignore the urge of having her lips on him.

Because this night was perfect so far.

And it was being provided by none other than Draco Malfoy. The thought so hilarious, it split her cheeks wide.

“Cheers,” she held out her wine glass and tapped it against his, “to a delicious meal and excellent company.”

Excellent being an understatement given how sensitive she still felt from his earlier attentions.

“You haven’t even tried anything yet, I may have over-salted the lot just to see if you have any taste buds left.”

She swatted him as he laughed loudly.

They tucked into their salad (which was fantastic and definitely not over-seasoned) and Hermione realized that this was probably the best meal she’d had since her last Hogwarts feast.

“You know,” she said, blowing on a piece of lamb, “I’m genuinely surprised you own a pair of sweatpants.” She hoped that he had more. If not, she would use her meagre earnings to buy one in every color.

Hermione placed the bite into her mouth and moaned at the rich tomato sauce paired with the slight gaminess of the meat.

“Christ,” Draco was staring at her when she looked back up.

“What,” she asked, a bit hysterical. “Am I chewing too loudly?”

“I genuinely think you’re going to be the death of me, that’s all.” He cut a piece of asparagus and ate it. “And, for the record, I don’t care to stain my suits with red sauce every time I cook dinner.”

“I suppose that makes sense.” Even if it didn’t answer the question of how many casual clothes he kept in his closet.

She wondered how he would look in jeans while her eyes tracked down his body appreciably. His shirt revealed even more tattoos, ones which were normally obscured by long sleeves. She spotted a few constellations and what looked like lines of text on his arm, though she couldn’t read what they were from this angle.

Hermione fully planned to give her undivided attention to his ink later that evening though.

Because it was abundantly obvious to her that they’d taken extreme liberties as to what should happen when ‘working late’ with one’s partner.

And they’d already stepped into the unknown together, so they might as well keep going to see what they’d find.

“You do remember that we’re meant to be watching a movie after this? Can’t imagine you’ll be particularly comfortable.”

To be honest, Hermione assumed that they’d be tabling the movie for more intriguing seductions, her earlier undoing seen as a prelude for the rest of the night.

So disappointment shot through her when she realized that he actually intended to be productive instead.

Which would be a bit hard for her, given where her mind kept straying.

She pressed her legs together, a move Draco definitely caught since his eyes were staring at her thighs, a hungry glint having returned to his gaze.

She tried to stammer out a reply, all the while feeling a flush work its way down her chest. He’d carefully turned his attentions back to dinner, spending an exorbitant amount of time cutting into his lamb and taking a bite.

“You can always borrow something of mine, of course.” She noticed that his shoulders looked a bit tense when he said it, that his tone held a sort of forced casualness.

As if it didn’t matter either way.

But his suggestion felt like yet another tipping point for them.

They’d already taken one jump to explore the electricity that existed between them. But wearing his clothing, even if for the sake of practicality, held a different sort of weight. It felt like a physical claim, one that had only occurred in theory before now.

“Oh.” She tried on her own nonchalance in response. “I suppose that makes sense. I’d like that. I mean, that would be … thank you.”

And the award for Best Actress goes to anyone in the category besides Hermione Granger!

Draco turned his head, a smile curling his lips, as she made a very determined study of his ceiling, having already decided not to meet his gaze after that marked fumble.

Their conversation lapsed, the only noise in the room the sound of clinking cutlery and pouring wine.

In an attempt to dispel the feeling of vertigo, Hermione turned her attention to Draco’s wall of cookbooks.

They were a veritable puzzle in her mind. Because there were so many, reaching all the way to his ceiling in every color imaginable. She couldn’t decide if they were purchased for use or mere decoration to give the room a livelier feel. (Though knowing him, it must be the former. But he had so many that there was no way for him to cook every recipe printed.)

“I started collecting them a few years ago,” he nodded at the wall, having followed her gaze.

They’d finished eating the salad and meat courses. Though Hermione desperately wished she could have another potato, the crispiness of the cuts so divine that they would probably show up in her dreams.

It had been the best bloody meal of her life, hands down. Honestly, the food was so indescribably delicious that she didn’t want it to end, her moans on par from earlier every time she had a bite of lamb. By the end of it, she almost felt the need to apologize for the sounds coming out of her.

“And do you use them all,” she asked, a touch delicately.

“Of course. Do you think I would ever have something so bright in my kitchen otherwise? Though I did consider having their covers replaced so they wouldn’t give me headaches in the morning.” Draco smirked as he stood up, carrying their plates over to the sink. He returned to the dining table with a covered dish. “I bought them to teach myself how to cook the meals I grew up with.”

She supposed that made sense, given his lack of house elves. It also explained the abundance of French manuals.

“I’m impressed at how self-sufficient you are. Very different from Hogwarts Draco.”

He lifted the silver cloche to reveal a decadent looking Basque cheesecake, something she’d had only twice before but enjoyed each time. He handed her a fork after serving a hearty slice.

“A lot has changed since school, love.” He looked at her before placing a kiss on her shoulder. “Though some things are still the same.”

***

Hermione sat back and moaned after finishing her cheesecake, Draco’s grip tightening on his fork so much that his knuckles turned white.

He fucking loved the sounds she made, even though they were liable to drive him to the brink of insanity. His cock seeming to twitch every time she graced him with her delight. At this rate, their meal was likely to end with the worst blue balls he’d ever endured.

“This is a cute little breakfast nook,” she smoothed her hand over the polished oak wood. “I’m guessing your dining room seats fifty?”

“Actually, I don’t have one here,” Draco smiled at her genuine surprise. Not to say that it wasn’t fair considering the Manor had about 100 more rooms than his family ever required. “This is even a little big for me, to be honest, so I eat at the counter most days.”

“But surely, with all this space, you have people over all the time?” Hermione frowned as she looked around the room.

“Well a lot of my friends are still in Azkaban,” Draco said as gently as he could. “At least the ones I have left. Most of them died in the war.” Or he stopped speaking to them when their continued bigotry became apparent. “I don’t really have a social circle outside of Potter and Nott. Though Zabini gets out in a few months,” he ended with a shrug.

It looked like Hermione’s heart was in the process of fucking shattering, which was just great. That was absolutely the last thing he wanted. To see her upset during their first date.

Because even though she was under the impression that they hadn’t ‘defined anything,’ Draco thought it was fairly fucking obvious that they were together.

She was over at his on a Friday night having dinner and would soon be watching a film in his clothes. Something he’d never even let Pansy do.

This was absolutely not casual, at least not to him.

Plus, she’d been screaming his fucking name not an hour before.

“Draco, I’m so sorry. I didn’t -”

“Hey,” he picked up her hand and pressed his lips against her palm. “It’s fine. I don’t need much.”

“I just didn’t realize -”

That he was so fucking alone that he had more ghosts than beating hearts for company?

Because after Goyle’s death, he was down a third of his social circle until Zabini made it home.

Which was, admittedly, fucking abysmal.

Still, he needed to abort this conversation and move onto something else. Ideally, something that would make her smile - not bloody cry.

“Hermione, it’s really nothing to worry yourself over.” He brushed his thumb over her cheek. “I have more than enough to keep me happy.” And he did, so long as she stayed right here. “Now can I tempt you with another slice?”

“Yes, please.” She bit her lip as Draco cut her another serving of the cheesecake. He didn’t take any for himself because he was trying to leave room for something more appetizing later. “I would marry you if you made this for me again.” She hummed her approval as she took a bite.

Meanwhile, he was sure that his heart stopped beating for three or four seconds, that his blood froze.

And she just carried on, happily as ever, as if she hadn’t gifted him the key to the entire fucking cosmos and nearly killed him in the same breathe.

“Then I’ll just have to put it on the rota,” he said, his voice coming out strained as he fought his way back from the Veil.

He would fucking serve Basque cheesecake every single day, would become the best the world had ever known after she said that.

Hermione snorted, clearly unsure if his comment was a joke or not.

It wasn’t.

And the fever spreading across his face should’ve made that fucking obvious, that and the way he was devouring the sight of her.

He had to change track unless he planned to put her on the table and fucking feast on her again. Her underwear was still bunched in his pocket and served as a reminder of just how close to ecstasy he was.

“To be honest,” Draco cleared his throat, “I was a bit worried that I’d fuck up. That or you’d hate my cooking.” He took a sip of wine, sending a thanks to the Gods for not letting those particular nightmares come to life. “Glad to know neither’s the case.”

“You’re an outstanding cook though,” Hermione said, laughter coating the tail end of her words. “Why on Earth would you think either of those things?” She bit the tines of her fork, scraping off the last creamy residue of the dessert.

“Well I -”

Draco had made a game out of how many times he could steal the words from Hermione’s lips in a day. (His current record was seven.)

But for once, he was rendered fucking speechless.

Of course he knew that he could cook a meal without poisoning himself (though that hadn’t been a guarantee when he first started). But no one had ever complimented his culinary skills because … well, who the fuck would?

“Actually this is the first time I’ve cooked for anyone.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” her fork dropped to her plate with a clatter.

“I don’t make it a habit of sharing things I enjoy,” Draco said with a shrug, his eyes wandering over the treasure sitting next to him. Because that statement was entirely true. So if anyone had designs for Hermione’s affection, he would make sure to portal them into a meat grinder.

“I don’t see why not. You’re incredible.” She looked fully invested in their conversation as she took a sip of wine and turned to face him, her knees interlocking with his own.

“It’s just something I picked up during the war. If people have no idea what you care about, then it can’t be used against you.”

For instance, Draco would’ve personally murdered Potter if Voldemort had Hermione in hand at the end of the war. He didn’t particularly want to think about the lengths he would go to in order to protect her now. When she was finally his.

Hermione faltered for a response, clearly at her own loss for words. (And though this technically counted for today’s number, he didn’t particularly like to include the times when she was rendered silent from pity or despair.)

“Well thank you for trusting me,” she finally said, her fingers brushing over his thigh.

“You make it too easy, love.” He smirked before standing up to put away the cheesecake. “You’ve always treated me like a person, not some pawn.” Though there was that one time he was her punching-bag.

“Because that’s what you are, Draco. That and, quite possibly, the best cook I’ve ever met.” Hermione followed behind him, kissing him on the jaw when they reached the sink. He would never grow tired of the feeling of her lips on his skin. “I really hope this won’t be the last meal of yours I can appreciate.”

“It won’t be.”

In fact, he was in the process of designing tomorrow’s dinner and the one after that.

“You know, I don’t think Harry can ever convince me to go to that restaurant now,” she giggled.

“Careful, love,” Draco tsked. “My ego is already the size of Russia. Any more comments like that and it’ll expand to the European continent as well.”

“Maybe I can deflate it a bit for you because, though you know your way around a kitchen, you’re an absolute tornado about it.” Hermione looked around at the devastation that Draco wrought during meal preparation. There were dozens of pinch bowls with various seasonings poured in, the backsplash covered in splatters of tomato sauce, and asparagus ends sprinkled over the floor.

“Ooof, that might’ve been the puncture I needed.” Draco feigned a chest injury before turning on the hot water tap to start the cleaning process. “Go sit, this won’t take long, I promise.” He fully intended to throw a smattering of cleaning charms around the room and call it a job well done.

“No, you’re letting me help.”

“No, I’m not.” Draco looked her up and down before snorting. “You’ll ruin that dress.”

Plus, to be fair, he was only a fucking disaster during the act of cooking. Otherwise, he kept everything spotless.

Hermione pointedly looked at the small mountain of dirty dishes in the sink, a result of a recipe he tried out earlier but decided to toss last minute.

“Well, at the minimum, I’ll be doing those.” She knocked her hip against his, the movement so unexpected that he stumbled back a step. “Feel free to try and stop me.”

His inner dragon nearly purred at the challenge, thinking of all the ways he could do that. Most of them ending with those little cries he liked the sound of.

“Hermione, you’re a guest.”

“And you’ve just cooked me a meal that I’ll be dreaming about for the next two weeks. So I’m helping you clean, Draco Malfoy, and I won’t take no for an answer.”

Fuck.

Her bossiness made his cock twitch again, his mind immediately serving an image of him bending her over and …

Draco dragged Hermione away from the sink where she was currently coated up to her forearms in soap. Clearly she’d taken the opportunity to get started while he was fantasizing about fucking her senseless.

“Dreaming about me, eh?” He began working his mouth down her neck, his hard-on pressed right against the curve of her ass.

“Draco!” She stepped away and threw a kitchen towel at him. “You’re insatiable … and on dish-drying duty.”

His jaw ticked before he sighed, conceding defeat.

She could win this round since he was sure there would be others tonight.

“If you insist on helping, then at least wear an apron. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to that dress. It’s beautiful …”

“Oh thank you,” she looked down, stopping herself a moment before she brushed sudsy hands over the fabric.

“… on you.”

They’d spoken at the same time and Draco relished her response to the end of that sentence. She nodded her head several times, all while turning a shade more crimson. After a moment, she put on the apron that he was holding out. It was fucking massive, coming down to her knees.

He walked behind her, moving her hair out of the way and adjusting the strap so that it covered more of her outfit.

“Though you’re beautiful in anything you wear. I can only imagine what you’ll look like in nothing at all.” He dropped a kiss on her temple as her breathing hitched.

He assumed that she decided not to respond to that comment at all when she turned her attention to getting rid of a stubborn stain of hollandaise sauce left over from his failed recipe.

“Thank you.”

He snapped his head up, unsure if she actually said anything or if he imagined it.

“No one’s ever called me beautiful before.”

Draco froze, mid-cleaning spell as her words hit him with all the weight of a freight-train.

She wasn’t even blinking, just staring at the mound of dirty dishes in the sink. But he could see the fucking tears in her eyes. And he knew that she should’ve been made aware of the fact of her beauty tens of thousands of times before.

“Then I’ll make sure you never forget.”

He was rewarded with a small smile and he wondered if they’d ever stop speaking their gratitude for each other.

He hoped not.

“This is nice,” Draco murmured after a while.

“Cleaning dishes?” Hermione scrunched up her nose while a broom magically swept the floor behind her, carefully avoiding the both of them as it herded vegetable scraps towards a dust pan.

“With you, yeah,” Draco nodded.

She hummed in response, but it was clear from her widening smile that she was in full agreement.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

That was all he could think as they unmade the wreckage of his kitchen together.

***

“I never want to dry another dish in my life,” Draco moaned as he slapped the kitchen towel onto the immaculate marble countertop.

Hermione rolled her eyes, not feeling the slightest bit of sympathy for him considering as it was his idea to wash everything non-magically. Which had probably been intentional since his fingers whispered over her skin whenever he wasn’t drying something.

And when that distraction failed, he tried to give her less work by taking up a sponge himself.

In short, it was a miracle nothing shattered by the end with all the tussling that ensued.

“Still want a tour before we settle in for the night?”

“Yeah, let me just get my shoes.” She looked around with a small frown. “I know they’re around here somewhere.”

Wait … the night?

That sounded an awful lot like Hermione would be sleeping over.

Though she certainly wouldn’t mind given the events that took place before dinner.

But, still, it wasn’t something she assumed would happen.

After discovering her heels underneath the breakfast table, she followed Draco down the hallway, a smile playing on her lips from his insinuation.

His flat had such an unusual air to it, probably because most rooms were carbon copies of ones designed by his mother. Her taste being markedly different from his own.

He showed her through to two guest bedrooms, each with a massive bath attached. One was painted a pastel yellow, while the other was sage green. Each sported floral curtains and bed posts probably made when Emily Dickinson was still alive. Lace doilies covered bureaus bereft of photographs and cologne bottles. The layer of dust coating everything served as additional evidence of Draco’s solitude.

When Hermione expressed surprise at Narcissa’s stylistic choices, he just smirked. His eyes nearly glittered as he took in the room that looked so unlike the kitchen that it seemed impossible they occupied the same apartment.

“You can blame Lucius for the Manor being all doom and gloom. Well that and the fucking Dark Lord. But Father refused to give my mother anything more than a wing for her ‘floral nightmares,’ said anything else would make his ancestors roll over in their graves.”

“Well, I think it’s much better than the taxidermy and Dark magic.”

“Me too. Plus, being here reminds me of her, even if it does look like something you’d expect in a nursing home.” Draco looked around once more before raising his eyebrows. “Ready to move on?”

Hermione nodded though her mind remained hung up on his words. He hadn’t spoken about Narcissa much but it was clear he missed her. He basically constructed his apartment to almost be … a museum of her life.

She followed him down the hallway, her heels echoing loudly off the bare walls. There were only two rooms remaining, their doors facing each other. Obviously, one would be his bedroom. Though she couldn’t decide what the other would be.

Maybe a fitness center or entertainment lounge?

Though it was just as likely to be an office so that he could work from home.

“Right, come here and close your eyes.” Draco turned so that his back was against one of the two doors.

Hermione narrowed her eyes reluctantly before shutting them and shuffling forward, squeaking out a giggle when she bumped straight into his chest.

“To be fair, I did tell you to do it the other way around.” His voice sounded entirely too close, like his lips were a mere inch from her own. But, before she could lean forward to confirm her hypothesis, she heard the door creak open.

Draco grabbed her hand and led her into the room that Hermione instantly recognized from smell alone.

Parchment. Dust. Leather.

Her eyes shot open and she squealed in delight at the floor-to-ceiling bookcases covering each wall of the expansive space, with ladders attached to railings throughout.

It was abundantly clear that Draco had used an expansion charm, similar to the one she’d performed on her beaded clutch. Because the room looked big enough to be a building on its own.

As she walked into the library, the sound of her heels became muffled by a Turkish carpet. There were two leather chairs in front of an empty fireplace, a small table positioned between them. A bottle of whiskey sat on the oak wood alongside an empty tumbler waiting to be filled.

“Draco,” Hermione moaned. “This is amazing.” She pressed her hands to her mouth and took in the sheer number of titles just waiting to be explored. “May I?”

“Of course, take all the time you want.” He rubbed his hand across her back before sitting down. As her eyes skimmed along the spines in reach, she could feel him tracking her.

It was a pretty impressive collection for a private library. Though that wasn’t particularly surprising for a Malfoy.

“Are these all magical texts?” Hermione asked when looking back at him.

“For the most part,” Draco smiled, his head propped in his hand. He was probably the only thing in the world that could distract her from this room. The sight of his happiness almost lethal. “There are a few Muggle novels on that far back wall. But everything else came from the family archives. I didn’t think they should rot away in some box because we didn’t have room in the Manor library.”

Hermione wondered if it would be an inappropriate time to suggest getting married.

His casual mention of having multiple libraries, just for the sake of saving precious tomes, did something to her.

In fact, if Draco said anything else along those lines, she would need to have a conversation with her landlord about the immediate termination of her lease. So that she might live here, amongst all these pages.

It would take someone the better part of a lifetime to read everything in this room. The range of subjects were as vast as the Hogwarts library, though she noted the marked absence of volumes which would’ve found their home in the school’s Restricted Section. A bit of an interesting exclusion since, surely, the Malfoys had all manner of Dark texts.

Though Draco probably didn’t want to be reminded of that time in his life.

Hermione spotted quite a few things that made her inner student ache, disappointment shooting through her that she couldn’t dedicate the rest of her evening to this room.

Her hands brushed over texts as varied as the stars in the night-sky.

Alchemical Properties of Copper, Silver, and Gold: A Modern Reevaluation of an Age-Old Madness

Beauxbatons Academy of Magic: A History

Understanding Wand Cores: A Guide to Unlocking the Mysteries of our Magic

Manipulating the Mind: How to Heal Trauma with Spellcasting

She frowned at the last book before pulling it from its spot and holding it up for Draco to see.

“That was Bill’s gift to me for Christmas last year,” he shrugged, his thumb running along his bottom lip. She tracked the movement with her eyes, suddenly thinking that she might repay the favor from earlier. “Look at the note on the endpaper.”

Hermione opened the cover after a beat, seeing that Bill had scribbled a nearly illegible line on the first page.

“Malfoy, maybe this will finally tell you how to stop being a bellend.”

“Ugh,” she rolled her eyes in disgust and snapped the book shut. “Though you should actually read this, I’ve only heard excellent things.”

Despite the positive reviews though, she still hadn’t managed to finish the first chapter. Arthur having gifted her a copy for her birthday last year, a not-so-gentle reminder that her PTSD should probably be addressed either magically or non-magically at some point.

She walked over to the nearest ladder and looked up.

“You know,” she said as if divulging a particularly juicy secret, “I’ve always fantasized about having one of these.”

“You’ve daydreamed about owning your own ladder?”

“Well about having enough books to need one really.” She could feel herself blush as Draco got to his feet and steadily approached her. Almost like he were a predator stalking his prey.

She suppressed a shudder as he collapsed the space between them.

“Well if you wanted to indulge your fantasy, by all means. It’s completely safe to do so.” Her breathing hitched and he smirked before stepping back. “To climb, I mean.”

“Right, of course.” She looked down at his lips and then back up into his steel-grey eyes, her mind unwilling to let go of the new fantasy emerging there. One where Draco did unspeakable things to her on this very ladder. “I-I think I might just do that.”

Because if she stayed where she was, she was going to drag him back to his knees.

She wasted no time in kicking off her heels and scurrying up the ladder, eager to discover what she might find above.

It only occurred to her halfway up that she hadn’t managed to get her underwear back and she was wearing an incredibly short dress. Such that she was undoubtedly providing Draco something to look at.

She glanced over her shoulder, fully expecting to see him taking in the sight of her. But, instead, he was resolutely studying a tome covered in dust - its cover being held together by nothing more than his fingers.

Hermione smiled from the unexpected gentlemanly gesture before turning back to the volumes in front of her.

She nearly fell off the ladder when she spotted Huxtabull’s Manual to Translating the Indecipherable (Proto-Germanic Edition). The book was so rare that not even Hogwarts had a copy. It was written in 1487 by a witch in the Highlands that refused to allow printing companies to publish her work. As a result, there were only a few of the handwritten texts in existence.

And this was certainly in the best condition of all of them.

Completely forgetting her outfit mishap, she fumbled her way down - putting more emphasis on protecting the old book than her safety on the way. She felt Draco’s hands land on her waist just as she started to fall backwards on the last few rungs.

“I can’t believe you have this,” she said breathlessly, holding the book reverently against her chest. “This would’ve saved us hours and hours of work on our partner project in sixth year.”

“I know,” he grinned. “Which is exactly why you weren’t aware I had it.”

Hermione scoffed but couldn’t stop the flush from spreading further across her body. Especially when she remembered how they had to share her textbook after he “lost” his.

She was completely and totally gullible.

“I wish I could let you borrow it. You’re probably the only person in the world that gives a shit about the thing.” She opened her mouth to lecture him about priceless artifacts but he hurriedly continued. “Unfortunately, there are special wards on this room to protect the books. If you dropped that ten stories up, for instance, it would just float slowly down to the ground. It also means that absolutely none of them can leave this room.”

“Right, of course.” Hermione nodded her head in understanding despite her disappointment. Because those were absolutely the correct protective measures to have in place with something this valuable (especially considering its owner didn’t understand its worth).

“I’m not saying you can’t read it. Though I truly don’t understand why you’d want to, now that we’re done with Ancient Runes.” Draco brushed his hands down her arms softly. “You just have to come over to do it. That’s all.”

“Shouldn’t you wait for me to leave before asking me over again?”

“Well, you’re the one person I wished would just stay so ...”

If he kept saying things like that, maybe she would.

“Though I imagine that if I don’t drag you from this room in the next five minutes, you might bind yourself here permanently.”

“Hey,” Hermione bristled. He only laughed, taking the book and setting it on the oak table for her later perusal. Afterwards, she took his outstretched hand and reluctantly followed him out of her favorite room of his flat so far.

Draco Malfoy was doing a stand-up job of making her fall harder than she’d ever done before. She just hoped the landing wouldn’t be painful.

Chapter 19: Hermione's First Date Night

Notes:

okay, so when plotting this story, i made a little mistake.

i forgot to check when the movie mentioned in this chapter came out. (the answer is 2006, a full three years before this story takes place.)

so, if you could just gloss over that little issue and pretend the movie was already released, that would be amazing.

p.s. this was one of my favorite chapters, so i hope you enjoy it. :)

Chapter Text

Hermione emerged from Draco’s bedroom wearing his old Quidditch jersey from Hogwarts, the material just long enough to cover her bum. All things considered, her black dress had two inches on her current outfit. But this was markedly more comfortable. And it smelled like him too.

Or what she imagined his scent would be after a match.

Wet Grass. Sweat. Parchment. Juniper Berries.

Surprisingly, the combination wasn’t repulsive. Not in the way that Harry and Ron had been after their games, Hermione having needed to conceal her disgust by hiding her face in a book.

“You know, I always suspected you’d be an absolute vision in green.” Draco was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, as he dragged his gaze over her. “Glad to know I was right.”

Hermione frowned, looking at the shirt which had seen better days. Cleaning charms had obviously been used at some point to tackle the wear and tear. Though they fell short of making the jersey look anything other than threadbare. Mud stains and small tears along the neckline told the history of Draco’s athletic career, etching his wins and losses into the fabric.

In fact, out of all the clothes in his closet, his Quidditch kit was the only outfit that didn’t look brand-new.

“I’m still not sure why you insisted I wear it.” She folded her arms across herself, the sleeves almost falling to her elbow.

“Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder. And as I said earlier, my opinion of yours wouldn’t change even if you donned Dobby’s burlap sack.”

“Draco!” She swatted him, the attack giving him the perfect opportunity to catch her and bring her close.

“And maybe I just wanted the satisfaction of knowing that I’m the first to get you to wear a Quidditch jersey.” He placed a kiss on her nose before pulling away to admire her anew.

“And the last,” Hermione said breezily. “Because I despise that game.”

“Mmm, sure.” He leaned down before pressing his lips behind her ear lobe. The contact making her breathing stutter. “But, in all seriousness, this might be my favorite thing you’ve ever worn.”

“A ratty school jersey,” she snorted.

“More like my clothing.” While his mouth was working its own seduction on her body, Draco’s hands lifted up the shirt to roam over her. She leaned into his touch, her mind wondering if they were about to come together with nothing but the wooden floor for cushion.

But he soon pulled away reluctantly to ask where she wanted to watch the bloody film.

Which was somehow both the best and worst idea she’d ever had.

The best because it had led her to this point. The worst because she really would rather do other things with the night than watch the Da Vinci Code.

“Living room or bedroom,” he repeated, clearly knowing her mind was elsewhere.

Hermione pursed her lips, considering. “What would you prefer?” She imagined her eyes looked a bit wild from lust, her lips swollen from Draco’s attentions.

“That blue monstrosity you saw when Floo’ing in is, quite possibly, the stiffest couch in existence.” He smirked before adding, “the Manor portraits call it the ‘Buckingham Palace reject’ for a reason.”

“So your bedroom then?”

Which was what she’d wanted to say but knew that it was entirely irresponsible to do so.

Because how they would manage to actually work in there remained to be seen. As evidenced by his glittering eyes that suggested her response was the exact answer he’d hoped for.

“Good choice.” He let his hands drop away from her body, the loss of warmth making her shiver. “Go get comfortable and I’ll fetch us some snacks.”

Hermione nodded, starting to turn towards his room before spinning back around. “Underwear please.” She held out her hand expectantly.

Draco frowned, seeming reluctant to give back her undergarment that would provide her a bit more decency for the situation.

“I’m serious,” she laughed. “You can’t be distracted.”

Because one of them had to be on the ball and it wasn’t going to be her. Plus she’d already made the connection to their case, so her mind could wander. His couldn’t.

“Unfortunately, that’s not very likely with you here.” Draco sighed when she didn’t budge. “But fine, I’ll just coax them off you later.”

Despite the shock of anticipation buzzing through her, she managed to roll her eyes as she turned away.

Once she was alone, she stumbled through putting on her lingerie - somehow avoiding ripping the delicate lace. And when that was over, she let her eyes wander over his room.

Hermione hadn’t had the proper chance to explore when he picked out something for her to wear earlier, thinking it would be a touch strange to walk away from him and have a look-about. But now that she had a second, she intended to do just that. See what Draco held near and dear to him.

The definitive answer being not much.

Similar to the rest of his flat, decorations were few and far-between. Everything had been dressed in dark tones, either midnight black or forest green. His walls were the same as the kitchen, his satin sheets the color of his House. A plush rug covered wooden floorboards while his fireplace mantle had snakes carved into the stone.

Very much what she would expect from the person raised to be a Slytherin and the heir to his family name.

The room gave her the impression of restraint, of respectability. But it didn’t have the oppressiveness that the Manor wrought upon visitors.

It wasn’t cold. Just bare.

Hermione didn’t really understand the difference between those two things until now.

The Manor would never be a home, but this could be.

For instance, the green wingback chair in the room’s corner had the perfect view of his private garden. And she could see herself curling up there in late autumn, a throw keeping her warm while she spent the day reading with the pattering rain as her companion.

She shook away the image, the desire it brought forth still lingering, as she made her way over to the mantle. There were three framed photographs, all of them showing him and Narcissa before the war. One was taken just before he boarded the Hogwarts Express for the first time. Another after a Quidditch match. The third showcasing a birthday cake, party hats surprisingly on both of their heads. Lucius was nowhere to be found in any of them.

The only other personal possessions that she could see pertained to Quidditch. And even then, they were practical - not decorative. She spotted a broom near his closet, a sports bag resting beside it.

That was it.

Hermione frowned, realizing that Draco had whittled his life down to its bare bones.

No wonder he was grumpy all the time.

And that he was so fiercely protective of the few things he did let himself have.

As Hermione looked around the room, she came to the conclusion that the only place where they could watch the movie was in his bed. Unless, of course, he intended for them to sit on the floor or with her in his lap as he nestled into the room’s only chair.

In hindsight, Draco Malfoy had certainly pulled the wool over her eyes. She would wager all the Galleons in her bank account that the living room couch, in fact, felt luxurious. But she wouldn’t fault him his attempts to keep her close.

Because, in all honestly, she would likely do the same.

She tucked herself into his satin sheets with a moan on her lips, the feel of the fabric almost liquid against her skin. They were so unlike her own cotton ones, now washed a hundred times because of night sweats, such that they had a scratchy quality to them. But these were decadent.

Falling back against his pillows released even more of his scent into the air and Hermione quickly rearranged her favorite rooms in his apartment.

This came first, followed by the library and the kitchen. Narcissa’s rooms were last, an individualized ranking unnecessary since they were the same for all intents and purposes.

It had already crossed her mind that this had gone far beyond the pale of professionalism.

A line could theoretically be drawn between what happened before dinner and their plans to work afterwards, such that they could pretend to be run-of-the-mill partners. Because they did, in fact, have a serial homicide to solve.

But being in his bed with almost nothing on?

Well, this made it clear that whatever line she’d drawn in her mind had always been imaginary.

But she refused to take a page out of Bill Weasley’s book and make the entire MLE suffer through their affections. Not only was it the right thing to do but she really would prefer to keep confrontations with HR at a minimum. So they’d need to manage themselves in the office going forward. Ideally better than they had been doing.

It would be much easier once the case was over and she was safely ensconced back into MoMA. Though that thought didn’t fill her with any sort of joy.

Because she liked what was going on right now, both in her professional life and with him. She didn’t want anything to change.

Even though the man was absolutely insatiable.

It was a miracle that he’d given her anything to wear at all … and that he’d conceded her underwear.

Both wins should ensure that they could make it through the movie without any distractions. Though, admittedly, she wouldn’t stop him if something did get underway.

Because being here with him, as if she were a more permanent fixture in his life, brought her more enjoyment than she’d experienced in years.

Hermione Granger was happy again and that was nothing to turn her nose up at.

Not to mention that this was all relatively new to her, the thought bringing with it the dawning realization that Draco was securing a lot of ‘firsts’ in her life. But there simply hadn’t been time at the start of the war for dinners and movie nights. And during school, there were always more important things to do. Such as assignments needing completion or study halls to attend.

She had always been focused on the next task, never letting herself just exist. Because she used to be the one that everyone relied upon, even the Boy Who Lived.

And that had been exhausting.

Maybe that’s why everything fell apart around her. She never had something just for herself.

The relationship between Ron and Hermione had been a fallacy in more ways than one. Because, in reality, it had always been her, Ron and Harry. The boys coming as a package deal.

Even when she was seeing Viktor, it was something shared. Her two best friends always reading his letters before her.

Whatever romance she experienced in the past had largely been illusory. And when it did exist, it was crowded out by other considerations and people.

She wanted something just for herself for a change.

Something like this.

Because what she had with Draco was all hers, that thought awakening a hitherto unknown possessiveness in her.

Hermione sighed, letting her warped past go in favor of the present. Though there wasn’t anything to do but wait for him to get back with snacks and the computer she’d forgotten. Her mind danced back to the Huxtabell waiting for her in his library. Admittedly, she might be loathe to leave if she gave into that temptation. So, instead, she let her eyes wander until they landed on an unexpected marvel.

His ceiling was painted to look just like the enchanted awning in the Great Hall. Clouds magically swirling in front of her eyes, silver stars winking periodically in familiar constellations.

“See anything familiar?”

She jumped, not having heard him enter the room. Draco was watching her quietly from the doorway, a bowl of popcorn in one hand, her computer and drinks in another.

“Actually, I do.” She bit her lip, feeling a touch nostalgic as she recalled prior Astronomy lessons spent staring at the heavens. “That one there is the constellation you’re named after. It’s also on your arm.” Because, of course, she’d identified the stars inked on him instantaneously.

“Very good,” Draco smiled, making her flush deepen. He must know that she responded well to praise. Though really, anyone should be able to deduce that - given her behavior at school - so it wasn’t exactly a surprise.

“You also have the Gemini and Andromeda clusters,” Hermione murmured. Which made sense considering one was his star sign and the other, presumably, was painted in ode to the only sane sister Narcissa had.

Draco hummed in approval but still remained at the door, his eyes quickly casting about the room for a moment.

She frowned, wondering if he actually meant for her to get comfortable or if she took his words too liberally.

It was a difficult thing, navigating the space that they were occupying together. They were clearly interested in each other. But were they exclusive? In a relationship? Just seeing each other casually? It was hard to know where she stood in all of this.

“Are you sure you’re fine with watching the film here? I don’t want to make a mess of your bed.”

There, that would give him an out if he wanted it.

Instead, Draco arched an eyebrow, clearly biting his tongue on whatever inappropriate comment rested there.

“With crumbs, I mean.”

“It’s perfect, Hermione.” He finally stepped through the door to join her, depositing the popcorn bowl and computer in the middle of his bed. “Though I would personally love to see you fucking wreck my room.”

***

Draco was on track to beat his record of making Hermione speechless. He was liable to get into double digits tonight if he kept on like this.

She was still watching him with her lips parted from a breathy sigh.

Fucking decadent she was.

This would absolutely be a testament to his fucking patience though. She was sitting on her heels with knees splayed out, his Quidditch jersey not even covering her lacy underwear from this angle.

He slid into the bed beside her, hoping that his sheets would conceal his cock hardening in his sweatpants.

Because seeing her legs spread out like that was driving him fucking insane.

He wanted them wrapped around him while he bottomed out and made her hoarse from shouting.

Christ.

This was already off to a brilliant start.

He sighed, forcing himself to focus. She wanted him to watch this movie because she thought it was important. He didn’t want to toss her opinions into the bin just so that his dick might get fed.

After magically dimming the lights, Draco took out the licorice wands and chocolate frogs that he stashed in his pockets. If they were going to watch a movie, it would obviously be done properly. With all the accoutrements you’d get in the theatre.

“Now would you prefer wine or pumpkin juice?” He would be going for the latter so that he didn’t get so smashed that he couldn’t play later … if that was what she wanted.

He really hoped so.

But if the crime scenes were actually stolen from this film, it could put a dampener on exploring each other’s bodies until the sun rose. Who the fuck knew.

Though he might curse the Fates if that ended up happening.

Because, fuck, when would she ever be dressed like that in his bed again?

She was his wet dream come to life.

“Pumpkin juice, I think.” She pursed her lips. “Though we could always switch back to wine afterwards?”

He willed himself to get it the fuck together, to think about anything besides the fact that Hermione was in his bed, implying that she would be staying on after the credits rolled.

That had been his plan all along, sure.

But to hear her say it?

And to see that she was as happy with that prospect as he was?

Fuck him. It was the best feeling in the world.

Well, one of them, since he didn’t think many things could top making her come undone.

He sighed, reminding himself that this wasn’t what focusing looked like. Because if he didn’t get blood moving to his brain soon, they wouldn’t even get through the opening scene before his face was between her thighs again. And this time, he’d be taking off her underwear with his teeth.

Hermione leaned forward to set up her computer at the end of the bed. Her weight on her forearms as she gave him a perfect view of her ass, making him consider what it might feel like to take her from behind.

He was absolutely fucked, wasn’t he?

Draco groaned audibly and, when she looked back, he had to cover his face with his hands. His imagination was working overtime, cum beading on his cock from the vivid images his mind created.

He was doing everything conceivable to kill his boner. But anything he thought of was quickly replaced by the picture of him bending her over and fucking impaling her on his dick.

“Are you -”

“I’m fine.”

Or at least he would be through sheer grit and determination.

It would be a bad fucking look if he told her that he had to pop one out before the film, right?

He scrubbed his hands away after he felt the bed dip beside him as she returned to her spot.

Watching a film in his room (more specifically, in his bed) was absolutely a terrible idea. He originally intended to ignore that she was even here.

But it was a little fucking hard to keep that notion alive when their hands kept dipping into the popcorn bowl at the same time. Or when she kept rubbing her legs contently together beneath his sheets.

Based on the pink tinting her cheeks the next time their fingers brushed, she probably assumed that he was doing this on purpose. To make her that delicious flavor of flustered he loved so much.

But he wasn’t.

It was torture for him to feel her skin for a few milliseconds only for her to pull away, especially when he wanted nothing more than to bring her closer.

The movie that Hermione wanted to watch was something called the Da Vinci Code. Initially, he didn’t really understand why. Because their case had nothing to do with treasured relics or the Catholic Church.

But when Robert Langdon arrived on scene, Hermione sat bolt upright and smacked him on the arm with a licorice wand.

“This is it.”

He stared at her incredulously for a moment. She could’ve just said that instead of resorting to her usual whacking. Hermione was the most violent little thing he’d ever encountered.

Also, a cryptologist would never be fucking invited to a high-stakes murder scene. Though, technically, Draco had brought a Muggle Analyst to his latest so maybe he didn’t have room to talk.

He turned his attention back to the screen where a police officer was running through everything with the famed decoder. Draco paused when he realized that the victim was laid out like fucking da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. Which was all well and good except for the fact that the elder Zabini had been positioned that way as well.

Shit.

But, of course, it didn’t end there. And looking upon the faux murder scene made his hearing muffle, as though he’d shoved cotton balls in his ears.

Unsurprisingly, Hermione was right. Their murderer wasn’t original at all.

First and fucking foremost, there was a goddamn blood circle.

And then there was the fact of symbols drawn on the victim’s chest.

Admittedly though, that was where the similarities ended. Because the guy on screen did it to himself after being shot, just so he could lead Langdon on a wild goose chase. Obviously, their victims had already been fucking dead when they were carved up like prime cuts at a butcher’s.

But, still, she was absolutely on to something.

They were being bested by a fucking film enthusiast. Bill was going to be in hysterics if he ever found out.

“Can you play it back once more for me?” Hermione nodded before rewinding the clip.

They watched it through once more before she scrambled to bring the computer closer, once again giving him a lovely little distraction from the horror that was his work. But he didn’t say anything, knowing that they needed to concentrate.

He clearly needed to transfer after this case to whatever department was taking in strays. Because he couldn’t even let himself get distracted while watching a movie with his fucking girlfriend without feeling like a professional pile of shit.

They watched the scene on slo-mo a few more times before they sat back and sighed.

“See what I mean?”

Draco pressed his lips together before nodding tightly.

“That would be an insane coincidence,” Hermione looked at him from out of the corner of her eye.

“Yeah and in our line of work, those tend not to exist.” Draco’s voice was painted in shades of misery and despair as he watched his hopes for the evening circle down the drain.

Hermione put the computer back in place and they continued on at normal speed, both distracted - not by each other’s bodies but by the real case growing cold in front of them.

***

After the snacks had gone untouched for awhile, Draco put them onto his side table that was already littered with empty pumpkin juice bottles - holding out his arm as an invitation.

Hermione settled in silently, one hand resting on his chest and the other curling around his lower back. Though her eyes remained fixed on the computer screen, her mind was elsewhere. On the firm planes of his chest and the arcs his thumb made as it swept over her shoulder. His steady heartbeat against her cheek was a soundtrack of its own.

They were at the part where Robert Langdon was forced to solve the second puzzle at gunpoint. She hadn’t yet reached this point in the book, having forgone finishing the read in favor of looking nice tonight.

“Hermione, love, your taste in films is absolutely horrible.”

“Well I never said the film was any good,” she huffed a laugh before looking up, her hair brushing against his face as she did so.

“No, just the book,” he said, his eyebrow arching.

“Mmhmm.”

“I can’t imagine it would be such an improvement as to change my mind,” Draco smiled when she wrinkled her nose. “I love when you do that, by the way.” He lightly touched her face and her breathing stuttered.

All thoughts of continuing the film dissipated from her mind, thanks to the gentle caress and the revelation that he loved something she did.

And, really, she reasoned, it was a perfectly acceptable time to switch things up. They’d already seen the most important part, hadn’t they?

Hermione mentally closed the book on their detective work and eagerly turned back to the smut from earlier.

Without further thought, she leaned in and placed her lips against his.

He tasted sweeter than normal. Such that if she devoured enough of him, she’d be liable to develop a cavity. The flavor a byproduct of the pumpkin juice still on his tongue and the chocolate frog he finished a few minutes ago. The card he pulled being none other than Laverne de Montmorency, the inventor of several love potions.

A loud sound resonated from the speakers, making her jerk back. His face following hers for a few centimeters before stopping.

“I suppose I’m insatiable now, aren’t I?” Hermione laughed, the breath still unsteady in her chest. “I’m sure you’d rather know what happens instead.”

Because it really was frustrating not to know how a storyline played out, wasn’t it?

Draco closed the space between them.

“I’ve been waiting to do this again all night.” His voice was a whisper before he captured her mouth with his. “And I truly don’t give a shit about whatever transpires in that disaster of a movie.”

She couldn’t agree more and, as such, she gave herself to the kiss entirely. He was like a summer morning, soft and warm. The feel of him still so startling, so welcoming. Because she’d always thought that he would be as cold and hard as a winter night. The dichotomy between expectation and reality was so pronounced that it made her smile against him.

“You’re the best surprise,” she murmured as she pulled away to look into his grey eyes.

He hummed happily before tugging her back, his hands tangling in her curls while she climbed into his lap. Her underwear already damp from desire. Something which had been constant since having his mouth between her thighs.

She let out a breathy moan from the feel of his erection against her, the need for more friction causing her hips to rock back and forth. His hands dropped from cradling her head to find their place around her waist, providing needed stability for her movements.

Meanwhile, Hermione danced one hand up his neck to find a home in his hair with the other pressed against his chest. She luxuriated in the divots of his flesh, a result of scar tissue and muscle. All the while their tongues swept over each other, fighting for dominance.

There was no possibility that anything could be better than this. Being in his arms was sinful. Chasing her desire to the ends of the world, using his body - a thing that could drive her mad.

Hermione felt as though she was drowning in him again. But it wasn’t enough.

She wanted to feel him in every part of herself.

In her heart. Her mind. Her lungs.

She wanted him to fill her up, take what he needed from her body.

And even more than that, she needed him. All of him.

Because what she had right now wasn’t enough to satiate her.

Draco pulled away and cupped her face again before she had the chance to ask for what she wanted. His breathing was heavy, his pupils completely dilated.

“I’m more than happy to continue if you are,” she whispered, her own voice dripping in lust and desire.

“Hermione, I’m not fucking you to the sounds of whatever is happening behind us.”

Ah, yes, the film.

The only reason that she was even over at his apartment in the first place.

She’d forgotten that it was still playing considering her ears tuned it out minutes ago, focused as she was on the sounds of their coupling. Unsteady breaths and ratcheted heartbeats entirely more interesting than the search for the Holy Grail.

Hermione crawled away from him, something made all the more difficult by Draco physically holding the back of his jersey. But she made it far enough that she could just grasp the computer in her hands. Which she promptly shut and tossed on the floor, casting them into silence and darkness.

“There.” She looked back at him or, more specifically, his mouth. “No more distractions.”

After he pulled her flush against him, Hermione tilted her head to resume her ministrations. His lips already speckled with indentations from her teeth.

“We don’t have to do anything else if you don’t want,” he murmured between kisses. “I don’t want you to feel pressured.”

In response, she pointedly rocked her hips across his groin. Her eyelids fluttering closed as a burst of pleasure shot through her, making her toes curl.

“I want this.”

So much that she didn’t even feel the flicker of embarrassment from her desperation to have him.

She held his gaze as she took the jersey’s hemline in hand and yanked the material over her head, revealing the bra that matched the underwear he enjoyed so much.

Similar to the panties, it left little to the imagination. Rose foils covered her nipples with everything else draped in black lace. There wasn’t even padding to hide the hardened buds.

Draco’s gaze cascaded over her, his hands brushing across her thighs while she continued to move slowly against him. Doing her best to keep her pleasure at bay.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered.

His words sent a fire through her and he watched, awestruck, as she reached behind to unhook her bra. She felt him twitch against her when she laid herself bare.

Draco took his time brushing his fingers up and down her stomach, not yet letting himself move upwards. Eventually, he shifted their position until she was leaning away from him with only his hands holding her up.

And then he let himself have a taste.

She watched through half-lidded eyes as he bent his head down and took a nipple in his mouth, sucking and biting until she moaned his name. After giving the same attention to her other breast, Draco maneuvered her again so that she rested on her back - her head propped against the pillows.

He took off his own shirt with little fanfare, revealing a chest full of ink and white scars. Hermione caught a glimpse of a second dragon on his ribcage before getting distracted by him discarding his sweatpants and boxers in one move.

Draco chuckled as her mouth dropped open at the sight of him, his length. A bead of cum was leaking out and she swiped her thumb to collect it, depositing it on her tongue. The move making him groan audibly before she pulled him back down to her mouth.

His erection pressed against her as she writhed underneath him, his lips now on her neck where she could feel the beginnings of a love-bite develop.

Hermione whined his name, which he (thankfully) took as a sign to continue. Working his mouth down her chest and stomach, she gasped when teeth raked across her hip bone. Her skin already sensitive with anticipation.

He took the hemline of her underwear into his mouth as he pulled it from her body, a slight tearing sound coming from the material when he finally worked it free from her legs.

It was the hottest thing she had ever seen.

Once they were both completely naked, Draco returned to her lips. He kissed her sweetly while his fingers played with her core, winding her tighter until she felt like she would explode.

Every breath from her was a cry or a whimper, her limbs feeling electrified as she looked into oblivion.

“Wait.” She could barely say the word but Draco instantly froze. “I want you in me when I come apart.”

His jaw went slack for a moment while he processed what she was asking. The wait for him to nod his head feeling like eternity. But when he finally did, she could feel the static electricity arcing between them.

After whispering a lubrication charm, he positioned himself so that he could run his cock through the slickness at her center.

Hermione parted herself wider and hooked one leg around him, urging him on.

“So impatient for me, love,” Draco grinned before finally leaning down and taking her in one thrust.

Hermione’s eyes rolled in the back of her head as he stretched her, a moan falling from both their lips when he bottomed out. It was pain and pleasure all mixed into one, the first taste of a lifelong addiction.

“Fuck.” He said this against the skin of her neck before moving to meet her gaze, his limbs trembling. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay.”

She had never felt so full. Thought it improbable that she could take him in any other position. Not without a serious adjustment period.

But it was amazing.

She looked at the space where their bodies joined before meeting his gaze with a smile on her lips. Her hand brushed lovingly over his cheek, his head turning so that his lips pressed against her wrist. They stayed like that for several seconds, the intimacy heart-achingly wonderful.

And then he turned her inside out by withdrawing and smashing into her. His grin widening as she screamed, her back arching from pleasure.

He took her hard and fast, the leg locked behind Draco encouraging him with every thrust. He kept his mouth on her, moving between her neck and jaw. His efforts there nearly as demanding as his cock. And she knew that she would wake up to bruises all over her skin.

His marks were a claim on her.

That thought bringing with it a tidal wave of pleasure.

Draco groaned when her inner walls clenched around him. Her own moans were growing needier, wanting to find release amid everything he was delivering.

He put his hand between them and started rubbing circles on her clit. That coupled with him filling her over and over again made her eyes close as she fell into the space between the stars.

Draco followed her over the edge shortly thereafter, his shouts matching her own devotion.

Their cries were a promise to each other, to whatever this was between them.

Afterwards, they remained coupled - Draco still inside her as his touch became gentler. The kisses sweet as he savored her taste.

When he left her body, it was an unimaginable loss.

He pulled her into his arms and she curled into him, craving his warmth.

“Draco, that was … “

“I didn’t hurt you, did I,” his brow furrowed in concern.

And while his taking had been possessive, she lost herself in the feeling of it. Had loved every second of it.

She relished the lingering ache between her thighs, itself a memory that she never wanted to fade.

“No,” she laughed breathily. “I don’t think you could hurt me if you tried.”

“I’m not sure how to take that to be honest.”

“I didn’t mean. Oh Gods,” she muttered, hiding her face behind her hands. “I’m so terrible at this. I didn’t mean it in that way. You were amazing, I promise.”

In fact, she could probably go for another round if he could. Because now that she had a taste of him? She would always covet him. The feel of him was as addictive as the deadliest drug.

She leaned forward and began teasing him with her lips and tongue, making the heat in her known through her own marks.

“As much as I would love to continue this, it’s past two in the morning.”

She pulled back and met his gaze. He was looking at her with such a look of yearning that she felt her heart crack a little. He kissed her forehead after she nodded.

“Right.” She bit her bottom lip, still swollen and tender from his teeth. “Ever the responsible one,” she said on a small smile before pushing back the covers. “I should probably just Floo home.” She began searching for her clothes, spotting the bra near the doorway while her underwear remained elusive.

“You could stay?” She considered asking him if that’s what he wanted, but it was obvious. In the eagerness of his tone and the lingering desire in his eyes.

“In one of the guest rooms?”

Because she didn’t want to presume anything, not when things between them were murky and undefined.

“If you want.” A smirk curled one side of his lips. “But I’d much rather us sleep in my bed. Because, obviously, we’re sleeping together as Theo astutely observed.”

Hermione giggled before letting him pull her back in.

She really hoped that this meant as much to him as it did to her. Because she was damning herself if his feelings weren’t the same, setting herself up for an impossible hurt.

But even if that were to happen, she would chose this anyway.

Because she would be his in whatever way he wanted.

She fell asleep against his chest. The last thing she remembered before slipping away was the press of lips into curls and a whispered promise she couldn’t quite make out.

***

“This is it for me, Hermione. I’ll be yours for as long as you let me. Until my heart fails and I’m nothing but bones in the ground. And then I’ll worship you beyond the Veil and into eternity. Forever, I promise you my forever.”

Chapter 20: Is This a Thing?

Chapter Text

Hermione always dreamed of the war, frequently waking before dawn in a cold sweat from the nightmares.

More often than not, she relived the horror of Malfoy Manor and the Room of Requirement on repeat. But, in her slumbers, she never escaped either hell. Instead spending hours having her skin carved into by Bellatrix Lestrange before succumbing to the flames at Hogwarts, Ron already dead beneath the rubble.

Sometimes she received a respite from those traumas, only to be dumped back on the Horcrux hunt. Her stomach empty and her panic all-consuming as Snatchers fought to break through her warding. Only occasionally did they succeed, but her terror was always the same.

In all of these warped remembrances, Hermione was alone. Forced to fend for herself after being abandoned, the war having already taken everyone else.

All that was to say, she hadn’t known a night of real peace in years.

So when she woke the following morning, with a ray of sunlight warming her bare skin and birds tweeting outside the window, she was startled. Because she’d slept through the entire night in a dreamless state, perfectly tranquil.

And even better, she was no longer alone.

Draco lightly snored behind her, probably because her unruly curls were doing their best to suffocate him. They were completely intertwined, one of his muscled legs between hers while his arms wrapped around her body.

She was cocooned in him and there would be no way to untangle herself without rousing him. So, instead, she snuggled further into his arms and enjoyed the warmth. Her cheeks already smarting from the grin she wore.

Hermione was so unimaginably happy and, for once, believed that it was deserved.

She thought back to their conversation on the night Hermione took him home, when he asked where she was in Hogwarts. At the time, she thought it was such a silly question but responded that she was near the Grand Staircase. Her heart fluttering when he responded that he would wait for her at the bottom of those flights.

It looked like, maybe, they were going to make it out together after all.

Because Hermione had finally descended all of those stairs, walking straight into his arms. She didn’t plan on leaving anytime soon either.

Draco eventually stirred behind her but the pair remained silent. He absently rubbed her thigh, his thumb brushing back and forth across her heated skin.

“Last night doesn’t have to mean anything if you don’t want it to.” She was sure that he was aiming for casual but the reality of his delivery fell short of the mark. His voice was too taut, the words seemingly forced out.

She understood what he was offering: a night of sex with no real strings attached. The tension between them worked out through their collective release, the evidence of which was still present all over Hermione’s skin in dimpled crescents and black-and-blue marks. Not to mention the lingering ache between her thighs.

But based on the possessive way he now held her (and the erection making itself known against her back), there was still something there. Some spark present for him that he was willing to extinguish if she demanded it.

It didn’t have to mean anything to her, even if it did to him.

After all, Hermione had an infamous reputation nowadays for never going beyond the first date.

Except last night was more than just a one-night stand for her. Something Draco might understand but probably not to its fullest extent.

He was obviously her first kiss since dating Ron. (Because she wouldn’t count Ginny’s drunken attack under the mistletoe at Christmas last year.) Not only that, Draco brought her more pleasure than she ever allowed herself to previously have. His tongue excellent for both verbal sparring and turning her into jelly.

But he had also been her first. She didn’t like to consider the almost-deflowering that happened on the night of the Yule Ball. Viktor nearly inside her before she realized how wrong it felt.

And so, the realization that last night meant something more to him than a casual hookup was everything.

Hermione turned in his arms, a move made all the more difficult because it required the disentangling of their limbs. Only for them to come back together in a new formation. The question of their coupling not an if, but a how.

Once her body molded itself to his, she made an attempt to look at his face. But he just held her tighter, his hand winding through her curls. Just for a second. Which was enough to make his anxieties known.

“It meant something to me.” She paused, weighing how truthful she wanted to be with him. How vulnerable. But it only took a moment’s thought before she decided she was all in. No matter how he handled the truth, he deserved the whole of it. “I haven’t - that was my first time with anyone … in that way.”

Hermione hadn’t wanted to make a fuss last night, knowing that he would hesitate and treat her far more delicately than he otherwise would have. Chivalry was commendable, sure, but that wasn’t what she wanted.

She craved the knowledge of what it would feel like to be entirely his.

And the soreness between her thighs and the accompanying body aches told her that she never wanted to be anything but.

“I thought that might be the case.” He brushed a thumb over her lips, his grey eyes taking their time scanning her face. “I wouldn’t have gone that far with you if I couldn’t give you what you deserved.”

“And what’s that?”

“Everything.” He waited quietly, watching Hermione work through her thoughts.

Something made a bit difficult by her thundering heartbeat and the free-fall from the stratosphere she was currently undertaking.

In the moment she took to anchor herself, her eyes drifted over his room. The apartment had the pleasurable silence of a library, the quiet filled with promise as dust motes danced in the sunlight. At this angle, she could see the sturdy elm tree planted in his garden - leaves swaying in the breeze. It was much better than the intimate look her own flat provided of the shabby townhouse across the street.

Hermione thought what it might be like to wake up here, like this, every morning. She imagined padding down the hallway, now carpeted and filled with art paintings, to find Draco cooking in the kitchen. Her days would be spent combing through his library and redecorating with furniture that might not collapse when she sat down on it. Maybe, one day, they could get a pet of some sort. Another ginger tabby or even a dog that would run laps around the yard.

And Merlin, the picture she painted for herself filled her with such yearning that it actually hurt not to already have it.

Tears sparkled in her eyes, ones brought on by hope.

Because she really didn’t want to live in the past anymore, not when the future held such a sweet promise.

“I think it’s time for me to move on.”

It was clear that she wasn’t referring to this moment but the one from her past. The one she forced herself to stare at until its image was burned on her retinas, an injury that had taken a little over five years to heal. It was the memory that shackled around her ankles, keeping her in the dungeons of despair.

“You think?” He asked this in a measured tone, clearly not wanting to sway her in either direction.

“No, it is. I-I’m finally ready.”

Because of him. And a little bit because of her too.

She knew that to escape the darkness, she had to stop tormenting herself with it first.

A tear escaped her eye, his thumb swiping across her cheek before it could get further.

There was no guilt about what happened the night before. Not a trace of sadness. Her heart was just really bloody grateful that she was finally letting herself have something good for once.

Draco didn’t speak for awhile, his hand moving to trace patterns across her bare skin.

“Hermione, you should know that I don’t give my affections lightly. Not anymore.”

A laugh burst from her as she remembered every single horrible date she’d been on in the past five years. Her rejections enough to fill an ocean.

“Clearly neither do I.” She opened her mouth but her words stalled, suddenly feeling shy despite how much they’d already shared with each other.

Draco brushed her hair away from her face, whispering that she could tell him whatever was on her mind. That it would be safe with him, that she was safe with him.

“I want this more than anything, but I’m terrified I’m going to mess up. That I’ll freak out and push you away.”

“We’ll take things as slow as you want. Though, to be honest, you couldn’t fuck this up if you tried.” Draco gave her a smile she’d never seen before. It transformed his face into something utterly angelic, no signs of past trauma to be seen. “Because you’re all mine now. And I’ll be right here through the worst of it, I promise.” He let his mouth linger against hers for a second, her skin flaming at the touch.

“And does that mean we’re … together?” She bit her lip while smiling, feeling abashed by the question. At her need for a label, so she could mark him as entirely hers.

“Being fully fucking transparent, love, I’d been operating under the assumption that we’d been dating since our first kiss,” Draco snorted. “So I think so.”

Had they?

That was news to her.

“But you never asked.”

“Oh my sincerest apologies, I didn’t think it was necessary given the obviousness of it all.” He smiled deviously when she huffed out an annoyed breath. “Hermione Granger, will you be my everything?”

Whatever irritation she felt evaporated, the kaleidoscope of butterflies resident in her stomach suddenly taking flight.

“Yes, I think I will.”

***

Draco kept Hermione in bed for another hour, wanting to get his morning fix of her moaning incoherently underneath him.

Quite frankly, he could happily spend all day with his head between her thighs - feeling her fingers tug his platinum hair while she pleaded and begged for release.

It’s not like he needed to work anyway. The Malfoy vaults held enough gold that he could spend all his time on his newest hobby and not even make a dent.

Afterwards, Hermione drew him back up with shaking limbs before resting her head on his chest. Her mouth humming in approval as she traced his tattoos.

“You have so many dragons,” she murmured.

And he did. A Chinese-style drawing that roared against his ribcage. The Irezumi beast on his forearm. Then there was the American traditional inked on his left thigh, a Celtic dragon on the right.

“Well, sweetheart, it’s sort of in my name.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and continued working her fingers across his skin, her attentions making his cock twitch with interest. She was currently taking delight over the fact that he inked Muggle poetry on his arms.

Truth be told, Draco had never given a shit about anything made by the non-magical population. Until, of course, he was forced to complete the remediation program the Ministry created post-war. The lessons acting as an introduction into an entirely different world.

One just as strange and delightful as his own. Where people rocketed off into space in tin cans to explore the stars while others used their hearts as ink, producing works that Draco could actually relate to.

Hence why “In Flanders Fields,” that famous poem by John McCrae was etched down his arm. Or, at least a portion of it.

“We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.”

He chose the lines as a reminder of what was lost in the war. Of what he’d inflicted on others and what had been forced upon him.

“It’s so sad,” Hermione frowned after reading the stanza out loud.

“You should see the one on my back then,” Draco snorted before rolling over to let her examine the markings there.

“Hey, I recognize this, it’s from Homer’s Odysseus.”

He could only grunt in response because she had nearly climbed on top of him. Her breasts pressed against his back while she brushed her hands over the tattoo on his right shoulder blade.

But, fuck, did he absolutely adore what a little swot she was.

“Nevertheless I long - I pine, all my days - to travel home and see the dawn of my return. And if a god will wreck me yet again on the wine-dark sea, I can bear that too, with a spirit tempered to endure. Much have I suffered, labored long and hard by now in the waves and wars. Add this to the total - bring the trial on!”

He turned back to face her once she finished her recitation, his erection standing at attention.

She either didn’t see it or chose not to acknowledge it as her brows furrowed at him.

“Has anyone ever mentioned that you needn’t put such depressing things on your skin?”

“No,” Draco responded, his tone playful. “Can’t say it’s ever crossed my mind either.”

“Well, luckily for you, I actually have a poetry book or two of my own.” She brought herself flush against his skin, her legs straddling him. If she wasn’t previously aware of his cock, it was now pressing urgently against her. “I’ll bring it along so I can introduce you to something happier.”

“Mmm,” Draco mumbled, slightly drunk from the wetness he could feel. “And what might that include?”

“Well, obviously, Emily Dickinson. Though I quite like William Wordsworth and e.e. cummings too.”

Hermione’s birthday was coming up in a few weeks and he wondered how fast he could get his hands on a first edition for her.

He also made a mental note to comb through their entire works, just so he could discuss her favorites over cups of tea on rainy days.

In all likelihood, he would read anything she loved … even the bloody Da Vinci Code. Because he craved the brightness in her eyes when she discussed things that gave her joy.

“If you let me borrow your copies, I promise I won’t dog-ear or tab them to utter shit.” Draco laughed when Hermione batted at him, clearly picking up the reference to his Auror manual. “Always so violent.”

“I suppose I should apologize.” She rocked once against him, his blood flow immediately heading towards his cock in response. It was positively throbbing now. He probably deserved to be deemed insatiable with the fucking effect she had on him.

“The only question is how.” Hermione bent down, her hair blocking out the sunlight filtering into the room, as she started up a teasing kiss.

Draco groaned, desperately wishing he was fully seated inside her but not wanting to make her ache more than she already was. It’s not like he’d been fucking gentle last night, had he? Having bypassed the plan to take things slow in favor of fucking claiming her.

She pulled away from him, trailing her lips down his neck and across his chest. Her tongue flicked over tattoos, making them shudder and shoot flames while her eyes gleamed with delight.

He smiled, knowing that he would sit for a hundred more hours for whatever new ink he put on his body just to see her reaction when it moved across his skin. The pain would be fucking worth it to hear her joy.

Hermione kept peppering his flesh with the sweetness of her kiss and the pain of her teeth, all while his dick throbbed with need.

Missing her warmth and the tightness that took him immediately to the edge.

Christ.

He was fucking addicted and had only had her one time.

She had now made it all the way to his groin, her tongue circling the head of his dick and wiping away the pre-cum beading there. Draco fucking moaned when she licked across the slit before taking him slowly into her mouth. He had to pray to the Gods to keep his hips still instead of fucking her until she choked like he wanted.

He couldn’t even see straight, his eyes in the back of his head as she fought to have all of him. When she gagged, his cock hitting the back of her throat, he thought he was going to immediately spill inside her. His fists were clenched in the satin sheets as he willed himself not to move. To not place his hands in her hair and fucking keep her there.

Because feeling her struggle like this was a fucking sinful thing.

One that he’d want to experience over and over again.

“Such a good girl for me, Hermione.” Draco’s voice sounded strained as he applauded her. “You take it so fucking well.”

She obviously had a praise kink. Something that he was more than willing to indulge, loving how fucking wet he could make her by giving voice to his inner thoughts.

She moaned around his shaft, the reverberations of which nearly fucking broke him, before she pulled up and popped her lips around his head. Tears were fucking streaming down her face from her efforts, the state of her so pretty that it riled him up more. He watched as she took a beat to catch her breath, her tongue darting out to swirl his tip and along his veins.

Keeping him close.

Hermione worked herself down to his base again, finding a rhythm he liked.

Which wasn’t fucking hard because he’d probably explode if she just held his dick with her hands for two solid minutes.

Still the motion she used, alternating fast with slow, all while applying pressure throughout was fucking ecstasy for him and, all too soon, he was on the verge of a heart-stopping release.

“Baby, I’m going to cum. You don’t have -”

He didn’t get to finish that sentence, having shot his seed down her throat the second her hand grabbed his balls and pulled.

“Fuck,” Draco shouted, finally snapping and placing his hands in her hair to hold her around his pulsing cock.

When she sat back up, after licking him a few more times greedily, she wiped away her tears with the back of her hand - looking extremely satisfied by the wreckage of him.

“Was that okay?”

“Hermione, that was the best fucking head I’ve ever had,” he groaned while she absolutely beamed at him. “Now please come here.”

They would make it out of bed eventually, he just needed a few more minutes with his sunshine.

***

Draco absolutely insisted on making Hermione breakfast, even though it was now well past ten in the morning. The pair having gotten distracted a few more times before they left the mess of his satin sheets, so thoroughly stained that they were in the process of being washed.

Once he left the room in nothing more than his sweatpants, Hermione darted into his bathroom to take a quick shower and collect herself. Because the plans to work late on a Friday evening had somehow morphed into a relationship. One already more serious than she’d ever experienced before. And, frankly, her excitement about it was a touch embarrassing. Her hunger already nearly as bad as his.

Hence why the water hitting her back was ice cold. All in a vain attempt to get her desire to take a beat.

After throwing on the shirt he wore the night before, her underwear still missing and her bra not needed, she made her way to the kitchen. It smelled like cooked meat and butter, something that made her mouth water. She came up behind him, encircling his waist with her arms, while he stirred something on the stovetop.

“Have a nice shower?”

“How could I not with that rainfall feature,” she moaned, already thinking of ways to get him under the jets later.

“I thought you might like it.” He placed the wooden spoon down and turned around. “Can I make you a -” He faltered to a stop, staring at the hemline that ended at the top of her thighs. After confirming what he probably already suspected, his hands drifting up over her bare bum, he groaned.

“You might be the Devil.”

She giggled before asking him to explain the absolutely ludicrous statement.

“Because there’s never been someone so fucking beautiful and tempting in my life.” She smiled, her face aching from their activities from earlier and having spent so much of the morning in bliss. “Can I make you a coffee?”

She noticed yesterday that Draco had an espresso machine, much better than her French press that had grounds wedged into the metal coils.

“Yes please, though I don’t take dairy milk, so best make it black.”

Draco scoffed. “Love, I’ve been around you long enough to know you only drink oat. So I stopped at the store yesterday and stocked up.” He opened a cabinet above the machine to reveal five boxes, all different brands. “I wasn’t sure what you liked so I got all of them. Thought we could make our way through and see what you prefer.”

He had been in her life for such a short period, really less than a month. And yet, he already knew how she took her coffee. Maybe that fell below the bare minimum. But not even Harry managed to remember, always serving their post-dinner cup with a splash of cream that made her stomach turn.

Hermione proceeded to watch as her heart leapt from her body to find its home in the man that made the best cappuccino she’d ever had. She supposed the transplant wouldn’t kill her so long as he kept the organ beating. Because it was entirely out of her hands at this point.

With a squeal of delight, she soon found herself seated on the countertop with her coffee beside her. Draco having just deposited her a few feet from the stove so she could watch him cook. Though with his eyes returning repeatedly to her bared legs, she guessed he was considering delaying breakfast for a bit.

“So I’ve been thinking …” Hermione bit her lip as she wiped foam from the lip of her cup.

“That brilliant brain of yours never turns off, does it?” Draco smirked as he tended to the eggs he was in the process of scrambling. “You were in the shower for a total of twenty minutes. What’s on your mind?”

She considered disabusing him of the notion that she always had something circulating. Because, truth be told, he did an excellent job of clearing her thoughts and anxieties. Both by his words and actions. He knew how to bring her more calm than anything else. Better than the meditation books she received for Christmas or the stress balls Dean deposited on her desk.

“I want you to teach me about Quidditch.” She hastily amended her suggestion after he arched a brow. “Well, not really, I suppose. The rules are simple enough. But we should go see a game. Or, at the very least, I want to watch you play.”

“You told me yesterday that you couldn’t stand it.”

“Maybe I should give it another go,” Hermione shrugged. “I was wrong about you, wasn’t I?”

Draco’s grin was so wide it made her heart hurt.

“Okay, I’ll take you to a game.”

And you’ll let me come to your next pickup match with Harry,” she added.

“Deal. Though if I get hurt, don’t turn the player into a boar on my behalf, yeh?”

“What about a slug?”

“How about a centipede instead?” Their laughter joined together after Hermione agreed.

She kicked her feet, basking in the ease of being with Draco as her hands warmed around her coffee.

He’d made a spread of food in the short time of her shower. Bagels already sat on the kitchen table, piled high. Alongside a dish of sausages and bacon, sliced grapefruit and plums, and a bowl of yogurt and granola.

“Are we expecting company,” Hermione asked with a frown before realizing that she basically implied she lived here.

“No, we aren’t.” Draco looked absolutely delighted as he bent down to kiss her knee. “I just wasn’t sure what you wanted to eat so I made everything besides your usual tasteless splodge.”

She ignored that swipe. Her cheeks remaining a flaming red as her mind screamed at her to abort the conversation before she had a chance to say something else that would embarrass the daylights out of her.

“Can we talk about 6th year?”

She was curious about what he’d felt for her, Draco already admitting that he intentionally prolonged their study sessions. But he could’ve done that because she was the only student not whispering about his alleged recruitment into Voldemort’s army that summer. Her having already deduced that if it happened, it likely occurred under duress.

Hermione had her own complicated feelings for him back then. Even before the war forced them on two different sides. So there were many things that remained unsaid and she was eager to bring that history to light.

Though it quickly became apparent in the strained silence that she hadn’t said the right thing.

When she looked over, she found Draco tensed up - his knuckles bone white as he clutched the wooden spoon so tightly she thought it might snap.

And this was exactly what she meant by messing things up with him. Because there were parts that were still damaged that she might tread on unknowingly. Hurt him in a way that couldn’t be fixed without her even being aware of it.

His response made her seriously consider stealing a Time-Timer so that she could go back and stop herself from speaking the words. Even if she went mad from her own image.

“I didn’t mean it in that way.” She pressed her hands over her mouth as her brain scrambled for coherency. “I was honestly just thinking about Ancient Runes. And how you recently told me I’ve been on your mind since then. That’s all.”

He nodded, visibly releasing some of the tension buzzing through him before giving her a small smile.

“But if it’s not something you want to talk about because it brings up bad memories, that’s fine.”

Because of course, that was the year that he’d been branded a bloody Death Eater and forced into a horrible assassination plot against Dumbledore. Not to mention all the atrocities she wasn’t aware of.

He didn’t say anything, just turned back to slowly stirring the eggs, adding in salt and pepper when needed.

She was pretty sure the matter was closed. That he would kick her out and never speak to her again once he finished cooking.

“Over breakfast then. Don’t want to ruin these for you.”

She watched him quietly until he turned off the gas and scraped eggs into a serving dish, occasionally dropping a kiss on whatever bare skin he could. His affection the only evidence needed that he didn’t hold her words against her.

That the two were okay.

Well that wasn’t true.

Because they were perfect.

Chapter 21: A History that Doesn't Beget Forgetting

Notes:

this chapter is my favorite to date, so i hope you enjoy :)

Chapter Text

Draco almost reached for his mask, the one that shoved his emotions into a small box, when Hermione asked about sixth year. It was a knee-jerk reaction, a trauma response.

Something he had to consciously reject now that he promised to be the person she deserved.

He would never let their relationship develop cracks, ones caused by his emotional unavailability that itself would beget bitterness and anger on her part.

No, that shit wasn’t happening on his watch.

But sixth year had been the worst time of his life in many ways. So he tried not to fucking think about it. When his Occlumency failed, he usually relied on a drug-fueled oblivion to get rid of the memories. There was alcohol too. Whatever substance he went for really depended on what was in reach when the subject came up.

But this time, he chose to confront the emotions head on.

For her.

Because she should have a boyfriend with an emotional range larger than a fucking teaspoon.

He promised her everything and that was exactly what she’d receive.

That being said, this shit was hard.

Draco would prefer not to have a fucking panic attack before he even got started. So, as he sat down beside his girlfriend at the breakfast table, he decided not to break the silence until he’d collected his thoughts.

His resolve lasting all of two seconds when he looked at her plate.

With a frown, he noted that Hermione appeared to be having a plain bagel and exactly one sausage. Which was honestly better than her usual, but not by much.

“Have you tried the fruit yet? I can find something else if you don’t like what I’ve pulled out, it’s not a bother. There’s also the yogurt. I think I have some berries we can add to it if you’d like.” He leaned over and put a few slices of bacon on her plate.

Just in case.

“You know, I actually got scurvy.” She mulled over her options at the table and finally picked up a plum, purple juice running down her chin when she took a bite.

“Recently?” Draco tried asking this in a neutral tone because, well, her diet was pretty fucking abysmal. Unfortunately, he wasn’t kidding when he said that she lived off of oatmeal.

“Oh really.” Even though his gaze was averted as he spread cream cheese across his bagel, it was possible to hear the eye-roll that occurred with her statement. “No, not recently. We were about six months into the Horcrux hunt when it happened.” She shrugged as if this were a thing people usually experienced. “I always made sure Harry and Ron got whatever fruit we found first.”

“What a surprise there.”

“Hey,” she laughed. “Anyway, by the time they were done … well, nothing was left. We ended up going to a witch that lived south of the Lakes District. She was a true medicine woman, sorted me right out.”

“Christ,” Draco muttered, staring at his own plate dismally. Even when things were bad in the war, he always had access to whatever food he wanted. At times being too injured to eat, but that was different. “Catching scurvy like a fucking pirate all because you worry far too much about other people.”

“Well after bleeding from my gums, rest assured, I care a little less than I used to.” She hesitated a moment before eating the rest of the bacon on her plate. Draco sliced up a grapefruit and handed her half, which she accepted with a smile.

“Well thank the fucking Fates for that.” He watched as she speared another sausage and took a bite. His anxiety quelling a little at seeing her eat more.

It was obvious that Hermione wouldn’t push the subject of sixth year again, not after he froze like a fucking war memorial when she brought it up. But he also knew the time for delay was at its end. Because if they were ever going to talk about it, he’d rather it be now.

“Right, so to answer your original question.” Draco sighed heavily, trying to muster up enough resolve to go back in time without the assistance of his usual mind-altering aides.

“Actually, I thought that since I was the one who brought it up, it would only be fair if I started.”

He ticked his jaw before finally nodding his head.

Leave it to Hermione to drag him from the fucking darkness like she was wont to do.

***

September 1996

Hermione knew that Harry was under a tremendous amount of pressure. With that being said, if he accused Draco Malfoy of being a Death Eater one more time when she was trying to study, she would hex him.

Not in a way that would be permanent, of course. But she would be sealing his mouth so that she might finish the chapter she was reading in Advanced Rune Translation.

This was set to be a rather difficult year academically and, quite frankly, she couldn’t let herself fall behind.

“Look, you just have to trust me, I know I’m right about this.” Harry spoke quietly, seeing as they were in the Gryffindor common room. And even though it was half-two in the morning, you really never could be sure who might be listening. “Someone had to take Lucius’ place after he got sent to Azkaban. What better person than his own son?” He tugged at the ends of his unruly black hair, his green eyes darting between his two best friends.

It was a sound theory but that was besides the point.

“Harry,” Hermione’s voice rang out shrilly in the empty space. “I need to finish this before class tomorrow. It’s a bit difficult for me to concentrate when you’ve been going on about this for several hours now.”

Her summer had been one of carefully-cultivated plans. She had her reading mapped out for the entire semester, study guides already drawn up and waiting in the wings. This wasn’t the time to get behind, not when she was just getting started.

“But he was acting suspicious on the train tonight. How can you not see that?” He looked at Ron for back-up but only got a shrug in response. “He broke my bloody nose!”

“After you eavesdropped on him.” She snapped her book shut and crossed her arms, in disbelief that she was coming to Malfoy’s defense.

“He wasn’t bullying any students on the train,” Harry continued on as though he hadn’t heard her.

Except this was just a repeat of the conversation from an hour prior and again during the Welcome Feast that evening.

“As I’ve said three times already, that’s probably because he’s tired of being a Prefect after his little adventure on the Inquisitorial Squad last year. It isn’t a position cut out for everyone.” She glanced sideways at Ron before standing up and clutching her book to her chest, her feet turned towards the stairwell. “Just because he’s an exceptional arse, doesn’t mean he’s been Marked.”

And even if he had been, she doubted that he chose that fate for himself.

“Now I’m going to bed since you two clearly aren’t concerned about the right things.” She gave them each a judgmental glare. “Which are your grades, by the way. N.E.W.T.S. are next year.”

As she turned her back, she swore she heard Ron mutter something about a “nightmare” and Harry’s vehement agreement.

She tamped down the hurt that arose in her as she made it back to her room. It wasn’t anything new anyway.

Plus the only reason either of them didn’t feel the creep of burden at having another semester start so soon was because Hermione always held their hands through exams. It was an undertaking she didn’t necessarily enjoy. Spending time that should be used on her own studies.

But she was already five years into it, what was two more.

The following morning dawned with promise. Hermione woke before anyone else so that she could relish a bit of uninterrupted reading time. She sat beside the banked fire, the room holding a slightly crisp chill to it.

Harry trudged down the stairs just as she finished the last paragraph of Chapter 28 in her textbook, eventually coming to sit next to her on the overstuffed sofa.

“You know, Hermione,” he yawned behind a fist, having likely stayed up far later than was wise spouting theories with Ron. “You needn’t read months ahead to get good grades.”

She nearly rolled her eyes into the back of her head.

“I don’t tell you how to play Quidditch,” she said primly, determined not to have her first day ruined. “Don’t tell me how to study.”

“Sorry,” he winced, clearly hearing the threat in her voice. “Look, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Is the something a certain someone in Slytherin?” Hermione considered whether she could feasibly start Chapter 29 during this conversation or if her mounting irritation would distract her too much.

Harry didn’t bother giving her a direct answer, instead diving straight into his theory about Malfoy being a Death Eater because he pointed at his nose on the train. It was a bit of a convoluted addition to the evidence Harry was collecting against his enemy, but she thought it best to keep her opinions to herself.

“Malfoy and Parkinson are together, right? He was obviously just trying to impress her.” Not that it would take much with how vapid that girl was. “Look, Harry, can we talk about this later? I’m off to my first period.”

Which, thankfully, wouldn’t include him since neither of her best friends wanted to take Ancient Runes.

Unfortunately, it took Hermione another twenty minutes to make it to class because she stopped not one, but twelve students, with illegal contraband on the way. Being a Prefect really was an inordinate time-suck if done correctly.

Her chest was still heaving as she skidded through the open door, relief washing over her upon seeing her favorite seat unoccupied.

She wasn’t entirely sure why no one liked to sit in the front row.

Admittedly, Professor Babbling did have rather poor eyesight - everything beyond the first line of desks a blur. She also never called on anyone that she couldn’t actually identify.

But, really, that was a rather poor excuse.

Hermione unpacked her bag, uncapping a new ink pot and scratching the date on a fresh sheath of parchment. First days were always her favorite, filled with the exciting prospect of learning something new.

Her thoughts were interrupted when the classroom door slammed shut behind her. It was already crowded in here, particularly for an advanced course. The only other seat being … beside her.

Gods, please let it be anyone other than Luna Lovegood.

Dismay threatened to quell her excitement for the class when a flash of white hair appeared in her periphery. She was going to have to listen to the Ravenclaw whisper about all manner of imaginary creatures for the entire year, wasn’t she? Professor Babbling never let students change their seat assignments.

“Fuck my life.” Malfoy pinched the space between his brows when he looked at the only available spot.

“Oh no …” Hermione blushed scarlet, realizing now that Luna would be much better than this.

“Mr. Malfoy, please sit down.” Professor Babbling marked his name beside her own on the seating chart, sealing their fate. “Class is about to begin.”

The Gryffindor and Slytherin put as much space between them as their shared desk would allow as the teacher introduced the group project which would determine their final grade. Their eyes each boring holes into the chalkboard as they learned that they’d need to work together for the foreseeable future.

***

“You don’t need seven N.E.W.T.S., Hermione.” Ron said this between bites of roasted potato, the loud chewing causing her eye to twitch in anger. “Just drop out.”

“Will you stop eating?” She finally snapped, smacking him on his arm with the heaviest book in reach. His fork clattered to the floor and the first years around them stared curiously. “I’m not giving Ancient Runes up, he can do it if it bothers him so much.” Which it must do considering the way he was staring at her from the Slytherin table.

“No, this is great.” Harry had visibly brightened after Hermione arrived in the Great Hall to tell them about first period. “It’s what we need, can’t you see? You’ll be able to get close enough to get proof that he’s working for…”

“Harry James Potter, I’m not going to spy on another student for you just because you think he might be a Dark wizard. That breaks about fourteen school rules off the top of my head.” She grabbed her books and hastily packed them away in her bag. “If you’re so convinced, then figure out a way to get the answer yourself.” She spun on her heels and stormed out.

This time, she was sure that the words her best friends muttered were directed at her back. And they intended for her to hear them based on their volume.

But, if anything, Harry’s surety made Hermione even more determined to see Ancient Runes through.

Especially considering that it was needed to get into the Department of Mysteries after graduation. Hermione was leaving all her options on the table and, therefore, needed to secure an ‘Outstanding’ N.E.W.T. in the subject.

So every Monday and Wednesday, she sat beside Draco Malfoy for one hour. With every Friday doubling the fun. During each class, he found a way to call her a ‘Mudblood.’ To sneer in her face and report that a hag would be a far better seat companion.

He threw so many insults at her in those first two weeks that she suspected he might run out. But her armor was already so thick that nothing could penetrate it. What was an enemy hounding on about her flaws, when her best friends reminded her constantly?

But then he fell silent.

Hermione Granger would not be a spy. But she knew that the quiet which befell the Slytherin was, by far, the most damning evidence she could ever give Harry. Because Malfoy hated her and took every opportunity to tell her of that fact.

So when he stopped, she knew something was wrong.

She became even more convinced when he started forgetting things.

The first being the signet ring he always wore on his left hand.

The next, a quill. Since Hermione always carried several spares on her, she slid one over without a word. He probably wouldn’t have bothered asking, choosing to sit through the lecture twiddling his thumbs instead. But her final grade was, in part, dependent on his success. So he needed to take thorough notes.

He didn’t give his thanks, of course. If he did, she would suspect he’d been cursed. And, quite frankly, she didn’t care for his gratitude so long as he paid attention.

Which he did.

Malfoy was many horrible things, sure, but he was a far better student than either Harry or Ron.

His streak of forgetfulness continued though, such that a Rememberall would constantly smoke red in his hand if he had one.

Ink … parchment …

His textbook went missing by the fourth week.

Each time, Hermione gave up whatever spare materials she had without a word. Her copy of Advanced Rune Translation now placed between them, such that they had to scoot an inch closer to read it.

She even started copying the book’s text so that he could manage the homework assignments on his own. It took her precious time, hours she stole during Quidditch matches or Harry’s rants. But she didn’t mind it very much, her efforts clearly not wasted by the correct answers he always gave in class.

At one point, she weighed whether she ought to just give Malfoy her book.

After all, she’d already finished it.

Hermione started watching him in other classes and in the Great Hall. Even during the sports games she wasn’t working through.

Mulling over the question that was Draco Malfoy. Determined to find an answer.

She reasoned with herself, trying to find logic in her sudden obsession.

It wasn’t the group project. While time consuming, she could manage that on her own if she had to.

So it must be something else, she just couldn’t put her finger on what.

He was clearly struggling, both academically and socially. She saw him withdraw from his friends and from Parkinson (based on the rows overheard before Potions).

Malfoy wasn’t sleeping or eating like he should either. Purple shadows a fixture under his eyes so that he looked haunted, his frame more gaunt than advisable for a Seeker.

She didn’t tell anyone her observations nor did she goad the Slytherin into talking.

But she had made a decision. One that she would take to her grave.

Hermione Granger was going to save Draco Malfoy from himself.

***

Draco settled into the seat beside Granger, having not even bothered bringing his satchel with him to class.

Nothing fucking mattered anymore. Not if he couldn’t find a way to fix that blasted fucking Vanishing Cabinet and kill the Headmaster before year’s end.

All relatively simple things.

She promptly bent towards her bag, pulling out everything he needed to take notes.

He wished she would just fucking stop, leave him to drown. But, clearly, she was fucking determined that he’d have everything he’d need to succeed.

Of course Draco just had to get paired with a bookworm that had a fucking savior complex.

She slid everything over and Draco accepted the materials with a beleaguered air, her Advanced Rune Translation now a dividing barrier between them. His textbook was somewhere in his room, among all the other shit he no longer cared about. Herbology essays, Potions lists, Astronomy charts.

He frowned as he thumbed through the papers in his hand. By his count, it was nearly forty sheaths of parchment. Half were blank, Granger apparently worried he needed them for his other courses today.

He was going to have to put her on the Manor payroll soon if she kept giving him shit. His apathy clearly in the process of cleaning out her fucking bank account.

But among the usual reading assignments, Draco spotted something new. His frown only deepened when he saw lines and lines of her psychotically neat scrawl. Granger had made him a copy of her Runes notes for the last three weeks … all by hand. And it was bloody color-coded too.

His back stiffened as he looked over at her, quite possibly for the first time since September 2nd, to nod his thanks. She gave him the ghost of a smile before carrying on with ignoring his existence.

It was the first pleasant interaction they’d ever had.

It only got worse from there.

Obviously, he wasn’t making headway with the Dark Lord’s fucking art project. But if the man wanted someone to fix that appalling piece of furniture, maybe he should’ve hired a carpenter and not a sixteen-year-old. Just a fucking thought though.

But that wasn’t what plagued him.

Granger started giving him copies of all her bloody notes. For all seven subjects they were taking.

Something he suspected she wouldn’t do even for Potter and Weasley. After Herbology one Wednesday, the two followed on her heels and moaned about needing to see her parchment to make sure “they got everything.” She just fucking scoffed and stormed away, her stray magic setting fire to a bush. Her anger a flavor in the air - something like fire and brimstone.

Draco, of course, got her Herbology notes the next time they sat beside each other. Alongside a fucking study guide apparently prepped months before based on the August date at the top.

It was doing his head in. He didn’t want the Golden Girl to save him.

If he failed out, she would probably bash out this group project in a fucking week anyway.

Quite frankly, he didn’t even understand why he’d been selected as her latest obsession. Weren’t there still house elves to free? It confused him and fucking enraged him every time he thought about it. Which was to say, constantly.

Because, for fuck’s sake, why would she want to help him when he least deserved it?

It completely drained the bigotry from him though. Her (unwanted) assistance the antidote to the poison he’d been reared on. No amount of Cruciatus would get him to call her a ‘Mudblood’ again.

Not when she was single-handedly dragging his ass through lectures.

Christ, just last week she had mouthed the answer to him in Transfiguration. Almost fucking beaming when he understood her.

And then, she used her textbook to smash the back of Potter’s head in after he told Draco that he ‘knew.’

Knew what the Slytherin had no idea, besides the fact that Granger would make an excellent fucking Beater. The comment having riled her up so much that her best friend got escorted to Madame Pomfrey.

So, as far as he was concerned, if she was literally going to bat for him, then he was done torturing her.

Because not even his best fucking mates seemed to give a shit about what was going on with him.

Yet, he wouldn’t be surprised if she started bringing him apples or some shit - just to make sure he was eating enough.

***

Draco had absolutely lost the plot.

Just the other day, he found himself thinking about her.

Not about how fucking irritating she was, but about how nice her eyes looked in the morning light. He never realized that their usual distance from each other concealed the golden flecks in her irises. Something he still shouldn’t fucking know.

But they started meeting in the library for two hours every day, including weekends, all thanks to the group project Babbling set. Naturally, the pair had been given the hardest translation. Just another perk of being partnered with the Golden Girl.

So now Draco had the joy of staring at Proto-Germanic every evening until his eyes crossed.

The copy of Huxtabull’s Manual to Translating the Indecipherable waited for him at the Manor. He requested one of their house-elves to pull it out of the family archives just so he might finish this particular nightmare sooner.

Except every time he came home for a ‘meeting’ with the Dark Lord (one that involved Draco writhing in pain for an hour or two each time), he left the book on his bedside to collect dust.

Because the prospect of not spending his evenings hiding away in the stacks with the little swot made him fucking depressed. It turns out Draco had blinked and suddenly preferred getting battered by her hand or poked in the eye with a stray curl over sitting in the Slytherin common room with either Crabbe or Goyle.

He was fucked if anyone found out.

But, quite frankly, he didn’t know a single person at this school that was nearly as clever as her. And maybe he fucking enjoyed hearing her mutter about complicated runes for hours every night.

He definitely knew that getting rid of his signed first edition of Advanced Rune Translation was the correct decision. Having finally unearthed it just to toss it in his fireplace grate.

Because they’d done away with maintaining any sort of space between them in class, it being too impractical to read her book otherwise. And now their knees knocked together in the library as they poured over Spellman’s Syllabary, bickering over the right translation. Whiffs of her black pepper shampoo making him fucking salivate all the while.

Admittedly, he may have developed an extremely ill-advised crush on the one person that would absolutely get him killed.

But if he was going to die anyway, he might as well let himself be happy for a bit.

***

“Alright class, bring your essays to the front and I’ll see you on Wednesday.” Babbling tapped her lecture notes on the podium and smiled at the idiots sitting in the front row. (Draco, of course, included.) “Oh and read Chapter 14 please.”

He closed his eyes as a bucket of ice water effectively dumped over him.

To be honest, he wasn’t sleeping anymore so it wasn’t a surprise he’d forgotten about their midterm being due today. He couldn’t even manage to keep track of the days, let alone what assignments to turn in.

Granger was the only reason he made it to class, slipping a daily schedule to him each morning in the Great Hall. Honestly, she was pretty clever about it. Using bribed first-years, borrowed owls, and even the occasional disregard of norms to walk right up to him to discuss some rune they’d already translated.

Still, the essay was an oversight that he wasn’t happy about. It was sitting on his desk, Ancient Runes the one subject that he was actually doing well in. Him and Granger having looked over each other’s assignments during one of their ever-lengthening study sessions.

Much to his dismay, he now watched as the Golden Girl pulled out a second essay from her bag of tricks.

He’d taken to calling her that in his head. Granger not really having the tone he wanted, too mired in their complicated past, and Hermione too personal. Something he hadn’t earned.

Plus, she was the closest thing to sunshine on Earth. Especially when she bloody laughed.

But anytime someone else called her that nickname? He wanted to snap their head off. Because she was only that color for him. After all, the only time her shoulders released tension and her hands unclenched was when they were together.

“Here, you dropped this after Potions yesterday.” She held out the assignment to him, her hands shaking slightly from her yawn. “I didn’t get a chance to return it yet.”

Which was bullshit.

Potions most certainly happened before they studied until the wee hours of the morning. Pince having discovered them after curfew started, docking House points for each of them.

So if he theoretically dropped his essay in Slughorn’s class, she had ample time to hand it over.

“This isn’t mine,” he muttered under his breath.

Professor Babbling was busy talking with some brown-haired Ravenclaw Draco didn’t care to know the name of. But he still didn’t want anyone to overhear their words, especially when it could get Granger in trouble.

“It’s in your handwriting, see?” She said this with a neutral expression as she angled the parchment in his direction.

And sure enough, she was correct. If Draco hadn’t written his actual essay on an entirely different subject, he’d even find it believable. Of course, there was only one other person that knew his topic. And she was standing in front of him with a placating smile on her face.

It made him see fucking red. He assumed that she was losing sleep because Tweedledee and Tweedledumb were asshats. Not being she was serving as his fucking lifebuoy.

“Granger …”

“Just accept my help, Malfoy.” She turned up her nose and dropped the essay on his desk, pivoting away before he had the chance to argue further.

In what would be a surprise to no one, he received full marks. Far more than his original deserved.

It appeared Hermione gave him exactly one chance not to fuck up. Not that he knew that. Because, if he had, he would’ve double and triple-checked that his Runes essay was in his bag before leaving that morning.

Now she was including assignments with all of her bloody notes. What was once a few slips of parchment were now bundles of rolls spilling from her bag.

It was a horrible twist of fate. Her help ensuring that Draco’s treachery went under the radar. Because, had he failed a few courses, then maybe faculty would’ve looked into his actions further. Maybe Mrs. Norris could’ve found him kicking the Vanishing Cabinet, pleading with it to work.

But there was no reason to suspect the Slytherin when he was now tied for first place with Hermione Granger.

Because she never did things by halves.

She gave him his work whenever they were alone, which was now often.

They stopped studying in the library, sick of getting kicked out and losing an eye-watering number of House points. Plus, she started getting antsy in the stacks - constantly looking up whenever she heard a shoe scuff on the stone floor.

He assumed it was out of embarrassment until she muttered something about Weasley fucking harassing her over their study sessions. The statement borne of anger not for Draco, but for her … boyfriend?

Who the fuck knew what Weaselbee was other than undeserving of her attention.

So they’d taken to studying in abandoned classrooms instead. And Draco hexed the redhead whenever he got the fucking chance.

Whatever rivalry existed between them had been extinguished by the sweetest fucking friendship he’d ever known.

She was his respite from the darkness that surrounded him. And, sometimes, he suspected that he was her escape too.

When they weren’t studying in dusty rooms so cold that they could see their breath, they remained on each other’s minds.

Draco managed to purchase some new quills and parchment sheaths for her, telling his mother that someone in his House stole all his school supplies. Of course, Granger tried to refuse by saying that she didn’t need it. But she went through more nibs than anyone he’d ever seen. Really, the gold-plated ones he provided had better durability than whatever she used.

Meanwhile, Granger had taken to sneaking him snacks during the day. Oranges, nuts, biscuits, even the occasional carrot. She would wait for him outside his common room or after Potions in the hallway. Sometimes she would find him after practice, fresh out of the shower - her eyes lingering on his damp, ruffled hair.

They never stayed for long when they were out in the open, always depositing their gifts without a word before hurrying off.

It was an addicting game to him. One he hoped they could play without getting caught.

Because he was desperately worried his affection might get her killed.

Either by her hands or through his own.

She wasn’t taking care of herself anymore. His Golden Girl now so worn out that she’d fall asleep on his shoulder mid-sentence. And while he certainly didn’t mind being her pillow, he was fucking concerned that she couldn’t manage to keep her eyes open past eight p.m. on a Tuesday.

Fuck, he had to slip her a thermos of coffee before Astronomy just so she wouldn’t tumble over the railing.

And it made him realize that while he might need her to retain what little sanity he had left, it was destroying her in the process. This secret game of theirs. Running around in shadows to be friends because it wasn’t safe to do so in the light of day.

So Draco made a plan to stop it.

It’s not like he would see the end of the year, what with how little fucking progress he’d made. So far, he’d managed to transport one apple to Borgin & Burke’s. Which led to the deaths of about twenty cardinals in his attempt to prove living things could make the journey as well.

So what if he died more depressed than ever before?

The end would still be the same for him either way.

So the next time he found Hermione in the library, copying another day’s worth of lecture material, he caught her by surprise. Draco pulled her into an aisle and backed her up against the wall of books.

Based on the little huff of air she expelled, this was probably a fantasy of hers. One that Draco would happily explore with her in another world where they weren’t star-crossed.

“We need to talk.” His breath ghosted over her face, the distance between them non-existent. It was probably the first (and last) time a Gryffindor’s robes would intermingle with his own. The thought giving him fresh torment. “Why are you doing all of this for me?”

She furrowed her brow, her head cocking in confusion.

Draco pinched his nose before continuing in a heated whisper. “Helping me at the expense of your own well-being? Please tell me this is some farcical plot cooked up by your insane best friend. That way I have reason to hex him.”

“No.” She hesitated, her teeth leaving indents on her bottom lip. “I’m doing it because we’re friends. And, quite frankly, it’s clear that you need it.”

“Help?”

“Someone in your corner actually.”

Well fuck. Maybe she paid more attention to him than he realized. He often felt eyes on him, had assumed it was Potter and Weaslebee waiting for him to jump on a soapbox and preach about the Dark Lord’s goodness.

Clearly, he’d been wrong.

“I have friends, Granger.” They were just fucking terrible.

She looked down, breaking eye contact. The frown on her face something he’d grown unaccustomed to and which marked her displeasure.

“Maybe I need to do this then.”

Throwing caution to the wind, he hooked his finger underneath her chin to tilt her face towards him.

In another life, he would follow the movement with a brush of his lips, his tongue mapping out the topography of her mouth. His mind remembering every sigh made against his skin.

“I’m going to need you to elaborate.” Draco gritted his teeth, so desperately wanting to say her name to claim an intimacy he dreamed of. But he knew that it would confuse his heart and mind too much.

He couldn’t have this.

He didn’t get something good after what he was doing.

“Maybe I need a friend who isn’t constantly putting himself into mortal danger with absolutely no plan and then expecting me to come up with all the answers when everything goes wrong.” Her voice was shrill, fraying at the edges while a few tears slipped down her cheek. He caught them with his thumb, not caring who might see them in that moment.

To be honest, seeing her in this state was a fucking shock.

The information not so much.

Obviously, Granger was the mind behind Operation ‘Fuck Evil’ or whatever it was called. But to actually see the toll it was taking? Well Draco was sure he looked like he’d just been fucking smacked.

She shook her head, pressing her hands against her eyes - clearly willing the tears to go back in.

“This is the one thing in my life that I know I can fix. I’m not asking you to tell me your darkest secret. I’m just begging you to let me feel useful.”

She brought her hands to rest on the front of his robes for a mere second before they fell down by her side.

Even in her desperation, she knew that they were on opposite sides.

Draco, by contrast, had always had a bit of delusion in him. Likely a result of his parents reminding him that he would carry on the great Malfoy name, accomplish feats his ancestors would be proud of. All that pureblood shit the Sacred 28 tended to feed their kin.

So, it was in that moment that Draco made a decision that would (eventually) change the outcome of the war.

Hermione Granger would make it out of this alive.

He didn’t particularly care about anyone else. But it was clear that the Gryffindor was hardly holding her own life together and, yet, she still found time in her world-saving to care for him.

So, he could certainly find a spare hour or two in his world-ending to make sure she survived whatever fucking happened at the end of this year.

She was still looking at him as if he held the answer to remedy her melancholy. So, with absolute fucking reluctance, he nodded his head. His hands tentatively running down her shoulders until she stopped sobbing her relief. He wanted to pull her into his arms but he wasn’t sure how she’d react.

This seemed safe though. And he would take what he could get. The chance to comfort her more than enough in his book.

Once she could take a breath without risk of hyperventilating, he had to ask the question pinging around his skull.

“How do you even have time for double the workload with everything else you’ve got on?”

She sniffed once before a small smile finally cracked across her face. He watched as she reached under her robes and pulled out a golden thread with an … hourglass attached?

“Is that a fucking Time-Turner?”

She nodded her head before quickly recapping how she needed the device for her twelve fucking subjects in third year.

“So that’s how you beat me,” Draco teased.

“I didn’t need extra time to get better marks,” she retorted.

The tension having finally broken between them, he reminded her that she needed to be careful.

However, based on the bratty eye-roll he received, she’d misunderstood.

She obviously knew how to use the fucking thing having figured out the dangers of time travel when she was just thirteen. If anyone could use it without going mad, it was her.

“Granger, you look like you haven’t properly slept in a week. Not to mention, I haven’t seen you get through one meal recently that didn’t end with you storming out of the Great Hall. I know your friends are fucking arseholes, but you’re not taking care of yourself like you should. Sit by someone else so you can manage more than a few fucking bites, yeh?”

“I’m fine, Malfoy.”

“You have a quill trapped in your hair and your Prefect badge has been upside down for three days. So, no, you’re not.”

She looked surprised by his astute observations and obvious concern. Which fucking troubled him even more than her appearance because, surely, anyone that cared about her was bringing these same things up.

“Harry and Ron haven’t said anything. They’ve just -”

“They’ve just what, Granger? Not given a fuck that you need five cups of coffee every morning and countless Wake-Me-Up potions during the day? So long as you solve all their fucking issues, it doesn’t matter, right?” When her lower lip wobbled, he promised himself that he was upping Weasley’s torment by about four thousand percent in the upcoming week. “You can’t help me if you don’t start taking better care of yourself. You come before me, do you understand?”

“Okay.”

“Full meals, Granger, and giving yourself time to rest in your own bed.” Even though he did like her little naps on him. “If you can manage that, then help me all you want. Though I wish you wouldn’t. You deserve time to read things for fun.”

She snorted but he was serious. She fucking deserved to have a hobby. Several even.

He hadn’t heard her talk about house-elves for weeks at this rate. It was disconcerting.

On his end, Draco decided to put together an exit strategy for her in case things went to shit. False identity and international Portkey, a bank account with enough to set her up for a life in hiding (and luxury). All done on his family’s dime.

That and he planned on carrying food around in his own bag to slip her during the day.

It was clear, by their actions, that Draco and Granger were each other’s light in the darkness sixth year. Forcing each other to take care. To not fail out and find moments to laugh when things got too heavy.

Their bond was kept secret from their peers. But it was what kept Draco alive.

Memories he made with her were what kept him cogent through the torture suffered at the hands of the Dark Lord. The physical pain of Cruciatus enough to ruin his mind if he didn’t have her to think about when his muscles tore and his eyes bled.

He promised to stay alive just long enough so that he could get her out.

And all the while their friendship bloomed, he fell for her more and more. To the point it was a pain in his chest when she wasn’t near.

But he kept that secret locked tightly away. Afraid of how she would react if she knew. Because he truly didn’t know what he’d do without his sunshine.

***

April 1998.

Draco honestly didn’t think it was possible that things could get worse. He was wrong on several accounts.

In hindsight, he really should stamp out anything that looked like optimism if he squinted at it long enough.

Because his mind was convinced rock-bottom occurred one year ago, at the top of the Astronomy tower.

As such, he was mentally unprepared when Lucius summoned him from his bedroom for an identification of none other than Harry fucking Potter.

It was near Easter in what would’ve been his seventh year - if he hadn’t been confined to the fucking hellscape that was the Manor. Each day spent wiling away the hours until he got tortured or sent on some trauma-inducing raid with Fenrir Greyback.

There were only two reasons why Draco hadn’t tried to defect yet.

1.) The Dark Lord could just summon him back, what with the Mark inked on his skin. And then, presumably, he’d be boiled alive for being a disappointment.

2.) Being here gave him an unbelievable opportunity to ascertain just how close his psychotic boss was to catching the Golden Trio.

The answer, up until this afternoon, had been not very.

Draco sincerely hoped that the Snatchers waiting for him downstairs were mistaken.

Because if he did come face-to-face with that monumental idiot Potter, then that meant Draco’s Golden Girl would be here too. In the inferno right beside him.

Gods. Potter just had to do one fucking thing: not get caught. And it looked like he couldn’t even manage that without fucking it up.

The Dark Lord was basically a rotting pile of flesh and bone at this point. Give it a year or two and Draco doubted his father would even support that beast.

Even now, it was pretty embarrassing that his boss couldn’t best three untrained teenagers on the lam, all of whom seemed to fall back on Expelliarmus as their spell of choice.

The Malfoy heir entered the drawing room, with its purple walls and taint of Dark magic, to find his father perched in a chair - glee written clear across his face. By contrast, Draco had a hammering heart and a fear strong enough to break him into a cold sweat.

He wondered miserably how Granger would look now, nearly a year on.

If someone fucking hurt her, he would absolutely lose control.

Kill the whole lot of them to get her out.

While he waited to see whether his world would come crashing down, his hand fiddled with the Snitch in his pocket. It was the first one he ever caught. Though nostalgia wasn’t the reason he kept it on his person tonight. Instead, it was recklessness. Because, unbeknownst to pretty much everyone, it was also an international Portkey. One that would only activate at Hermione’s touch.

It was strange enough to warrant a bit of digging if someone found it on him. And, well, if that happened Draco would be labelled a blood-traitor and promptly executed.

His ancestors painted in severe lines and aristocratic garb, chattered excitedly on the walls. Only shutting up after Lucius threatened to slash their oiled canvases and set them ablaze.

At least father and son could agree on something for once.

Lucius having deemed Draco a waste of an heir for not being a fucking fanatic about the Dark Lord’s blood-purity platform. Draco pretty much wishing his father a violent end whenever they were forced to interact.

Before the elder Malfoy could start up a conversation about ‘expectations,’ three people were led into the room by a handful of Snatchers, all of whom could do with a bath. Narcissa brought up the rear, but her ashen face wasn’t needed to tell Draco that they were fucked.

Because he had already blocked out everyone but her. His heart having fallen out onto the floor, the cold seeping in through the wound left behind by the Fates.

Granger looked relatively okay, all things considered. Shaken, sure, but with no visible signs of injury. It was obvious that she spent months camping without access to enough food. She had fewer curves than last year, her collarbone pronounced through her shirt. Her hair was even wilder than normal, tangled with twigs and leaves. The defiant stare he’d grown to love now missing.

Alright, on second thought, she was fucking terrified and doing her best to hide it.

Because besides Potter, her life was most at risk. Weasley was a ‘blood-traitor,’ sure, but that could theoretically be remedied with a little brain-addling. But not her.

Her life would be forfeit in just a few hours if Draco didn’t find a solution. All because of some ideas of purity that were so antiquated Merlin probably made them up himself. And that fucker had been batty as shit if you asked the portraits in the room.

He forced his runaway thoughts into a semblance of coherency, only to realize that he was fucking helpless to prevent the events soon to take place.

Draco was a fast caster. But to take down two Snatchers, Greyback and Lucius before any of them turned their wands on him? That would be a near impossible feat.

And if he threw the Portkey at Granger now, she would just travel to New Zealand right along with the Snatcher holding her arm. She probably didn’t even have a wand.

It made him fucking distraught working through the possibilities and coming up empty, his mind on overtime to find a viable answer.

After Dumbledore’s death, Draco thought that he would never see her again. At the time, he reckoned that was the worst fate for him. Their last goodbye something that, even now, made his heart stutter dangerously. He would rather endure unimaginable torture than living through that a second time.

It turned out the Fates would always find a way to surprise him.

Because this was, by far, the worst outcome. Seeing her captured and staring down her imminent demise.

He knew that the hatred she likely felt for him was overwhelming, now knowing that Potter had been right all along. Draco had been a fucking Death Eater throughout their entire friendship, his deception literally inked on his skin. The mantle he wore antithetical to everything she stood for.

And he never got a chance to explain.

She had no idea that she saved him from a lifetime of hatred.

Granger briefly met his gaze before looking down at the grey rug covering his wooden floor. She didn’t even seem angry at him in that brief moment. Just fucking hurt.

It took Greyback four times at saying his name before he heard it. Now apparently being the time for the identification that could end this war with a green bang.

And, without a doubt, it was Potter. Sure his face was absolutely fucked from whatever jinx Hermione threw at him the last minute. (Because that was exactly the sort of shit she’d pull. Try to save her best friend when they were both staring down the barrel of a gun, willing to sacrifice herself for just about anyone.)

But if Draco told the truth right now, well then … where did that leave her?

In a world ruled by the Dark fucking Lord. And knowing that psychopath, he’d probably find the most painful method to stop her heart. Perform some Dark spell to shred her soul so that she wouldn’t even get a peaceful afterlife. All because she had the audacity to be fucking clever.

So, no, Draco would not be honest right now.

Fuck that and fuck the consequences.

Granger came before him in sixth year and that was the case now as well.

After Draco voiced a string of definitive noes, his horrible fucking father turned away from the blob of Potter’s face to examine Granger instead.

If the Malfoy heir ever got the chance, he would happily indulge in a little patricide before personally making a deal with the Devil so that Lucius suffered for all eternity.

Narcissa shook her head minutely from Draco’s periphery, having caught her son going for his wand.

Because his mother knew where his loyalties lay.

She immediately clocked onto the change when Draco came home for Christmas last year. To her, it was evident her son had fallen hard for someone. That he was in so deep, he would probably never crawl his way back out.

Draco told Narcissa everything, every random fucking thought in his head.

So when he wouldn’t tell his mum which witch caught his fancy, well, it only took her the remainder of break to guess right.

She insisted on helping ensure Granger’s safety all because she knew Draco would do anything for the Gryffindor. Including diving straight into the deep end of Dark magic to protect her and conceal her identity.

So Narcissa greased a few palms all to keep her child away from magical corruption a little longer. She helped set up the international Portkey with him and the bank account. Would be damned right alongside him if ever someone found out.

All because she thought, one day, the pair could be together. A laughable notion now that they were all in one room, standing on ideologically-opposing sides with a ravine in between. But it was a nice idea.

Regardless, the secret of Draco’s affection was agreed to be taken to the grave.

Something likely to occur sooner than he expected because he could feel his control slipping. His pupils dilating as all manner of Dark curses came to mind.

They couldn’t have her.

She was his.

Draco’s hearing cut back in time to hear Lucius confirm that it was, in fact, Hermione Granger - having seen her picture in the Daily Prophet.

These proclamations were followed by the creak of the door opening and closing. Draco’s eyes falling on none other than his mad fucking aunt waltzing through the room. Probably half-cocked on violence already.

Bellatrix Lestrange, with wild black hair and even wilder eyes, sauntered around the prisoners before asking what was going on. Her gaze landing on the one fucking person that Draco wished were invisible.

“I know you, little Mudblood.” His aunt’s voice was quiet, her delight clear.

Draco was actually vibrating with his rage, his knuckles white on Dumbledore’s old wand.

Surprisingly, no one seemed to notice. All eyes on Bellatrix and Lucius as they considered options, eventually deciding on stunning all the Snatchers and imprisoning the trio until a better plan could be crafted.

And then his aunt fucking cast Draco out to deposit the Stunned bodies in the courtyard.

When he returned, it was to Granger’s screams.

He didn’t even bother keeping the mask in place, running straight in and screaming at Bellatrix to stop. A hex flying through the air, one easily waved away by the mad woman.

And then Narcissa restrained him, whispering in his ear that she would think of something, all while Bellatrix carved a fucking slur on Hermione’s arm.

He would never forget the first time the Cruciatus landed on her body. Or the second. Or the third. And on and on.

Draco knew how to keep sane through torture, his sunshine didn’t.

But, thankfully, he’d been working on his Legilimency skills with Narcissa. And so, Draco used the full extent of what he learned to ease Granger’s suffering - calling forth every happy memory she ever experienced to get her through the worst of it.

He saw a life painted in light and laughter, raised hands and pride, new quills and private smiles.

The last memory he saw before Ron actually saved the day (for once) was not one that Draco called forth. But one she did.

It wasn’t a snapshot of Draco and Granger. Though there had, surprisingly, been plenty of that.

Instead he found himself in her childhood home in Hampstead Garden Suburb, looking down at a much younger girl. One just on the cusp of a new magical adventure. As he cast his eyes around the room, he saw a packed trunk and the Hogwarts letter resting on top.

She was speaking to someone, not visible in the memory. But the young girl clearly wanted comfort, tears at the corners of her eyes and splattered down her cheeks.

“Don’t leave me,” she whispered. Instead of hearing the voice of the 11-year old as Draco expected, it was Granger’s voice now that filled his head.

Before being pulled out of the memory, he promised that he never would again. No matter what it cost him.

She probably didn’t hear. And even if she did, it was a terrible fucking consolation prize.

***

Present Day

By the time Hermione and Draco finished their narration of sixth and seventh year, afternoon was in the process of becoming evening. The sun casting long shadows on the cement floor and the remains of breakfast still on the table.

Tears had been shed by the both of them. Heartache felt at what they each endured.

“When I had a choice, I hope you know that I chose you.” Draco stared at their intertwined fingers, unable to meet her golden-brown eyes as he said the next part. “I only made it out because I promised to look after you. You were one of the few people who ever really knew me. And you gave me a second chance, even when I didn’t deserve it. So I’d quite like to spend whatever time I have left on this Earth, finding a way to deserve the third.”

***

Hermione sat quietly for a few minutes after Draco finished speaking, her eyes unfocused as she thought back to the choice she made.

To save Draco Malfoy from himself.

Even when she hated the man, she never wavered from that decision. Though some would disagree, Hermione had a very good sense of the division between right and wrong. She just often chose to ignore it.

For instance, it wasn’t a very good thing to transform reporters into beetles. There had been better ways to get the desired result. She just didn’t care at the time.

She also knew that it was always a good idea to save someone from themselves. An even better thing if you could also get them away from the trappings of darkness.

So Hermione was aware that the choice she made was the right one.

It was just the first time that she was genuinely happy that she did it.

“We should order in for dinner, I think.” Draco moved to stand up but Hermione wouldn’t let him go. Thought she might have a panic attack if he walked away, especially when her memories of the Manor were a little too close for comfort. She would be plagued by Bellatrix Lestrange tonight. The only difference was that Draco would be there when she awoke to wipe her brow and quell her fears. “I was planning on making cassoulet but, if I started now, we’d be eating at half-nine.”

This man had come into her life as her tormenter and, now, they were mulling over what to have for a meal.

Funny how fate worked.

“We could do leftovers,” she suggested as he pulled her into his lap, seeming to understand that she needed to be as close as possible to him.

“You’re not just eating Basque cheesecake for dinner, love.” He kept his tone light, evidently trying to downplay the vulnerability that he’d shown earlier that day.

“I never told anyone what I meant, you know.” She murmured the words, still partially tangled up in the past, as she scanned his features. Drinking in the light grey of his irises and the pink flush of his cheeks, his pointed nose and tussled hair.

“Meant by what?” Draco looked confused, which Hermione supposed was fair.

After all, it was a rather vague statement. But her throat wouldn’t expand on the words, a lump forming every time she tried.

“That you saved my life.” Her voice was a whisper when it finally came out.

Draco still looked completely bewildered, but she really was having a bit of an issue getting the full truth out in one go. Thinking about it made her heart rate skitter and a sweat break out on her neck.

“I wasn’t referring to the Room of Requirement in my testimony. I didn’t think I would ever thank you for that.” Hermione brushed away the tears spilling down her cheeks as her voice broke on the words. “I was referring to the night at the Manor.”

She touched her arm, the expanse of skin clear.

Just before heading to his apartment yesterday evening, ahead of her clothing debacle, she cast a long-lasting Disillusionment Charm. It would probably fade sometime tonight if she didn’t refresh it. But she could feel how irritated the scar was underneath from being hidden away for so long.

And so, Hermione decided that she was done with it.

Done with hiding, at least from him.

With a shaking hand, she pulled out her wand and unwound the magic currently concealing the carving on her forearm.

He stared at Bellatrix’s handwriting etched across her pale flesh for a long time, his jaw working as he wrestled with the obvious anger he felt.

“I didn’t do anything to save you that night.”

“Yes, you did, Draco.” She punctuated the sentence with a kiss on his forehead. “You saved me from losing myself.”

Chapter 22: Blueberry Muffins with a Dash of Romance

Notes:

this is a long one guys. i thought about breaking it up into two but that clearly didn't happen in the end. hope you enjoy :)

Chapter Text

Hermione managed to untangle herself from Draco, eventually wresting her lips from his own, on Sunday morning. Rain pattered against his windows as she Floo’ed home in his shirt and joggers to make herself presentable for a day with the Weasleys.

But if her mouth looked a little bruised when she arrived at the Burrow, stumbling from the large fireplace twenty minutes later than she agreed - no one said a word.

Though she did catch the smirks exchanged by Ginny and Bill, the Galleons passed from Percy to George, and Harry’s cocky grin.

She didn’t really understand what they all saw in her arrival to elicit such reactions. Because she did manage to heal the many love-bites Draco left behind, a task harder than she anticipated just by the sheer number of them.

When Arthur rounded the corner, four birthday hats attached to his head, even he seemed to spot something different about her. “Hermione, happy birthday! Just brought yourself I see?” After encasing her in a fatherly hug, he studied her with a knowing look. “You know we’d welcome anyone you wanted to bring along?” He rested his hands on her shoulders for a moment before nodding once and stepping away. “Looks like one of your presents might not be needed after all.”

He spun on his heel, calling out to Molly that they needn’t give the Golden Girl the gift he’d wrapped that morning in Christmas-themed paper. All while leaving Hermione to her complete bewilderment.

“I see you and Malfoy managed to sort things out.” Harry elbowed her playfully after giving her a replica of the crown already on Ginny’s head.

Even though Hermione’s birthday was not yet for many weeks and Ginny’s having already past, the pair had split the difference for years and celebrated with one party at the Weasley’s. Percy, of course, also being included given that his birthday was just three days prior.

Though based on how harried the new father looked, Hermione wasn’t sure he remembered. She watched as he took the fussing infant from his wife’s arms to try his luck at rocking the babe to sleep. Penelope shooting off to find something stronger than the tea she’d been sipping on when Hermione came in.

“Well, yes, we did. But that’s besides the point.” She placed the crown on her head, her curls making the paper so taut she thought it would rip. “Why does everyone look so bloody pleased with me?” She scooted Harry further from the kitchen so that Molly didn’t accidentally overhear the tale of Hermione moving on from her youngest son.

“Because you obviously got laid.” She shrieked when Bill whispered in her ear, having not seen him sneak up behind her. She spun around, ready to give him a black eye before he danced away and out of sight.

“He has a point,” Harry shrugged while she muttered curses under her breath. “I don’t think I’ve seen you smile like that since you received your O.W.L.s. Also you missed a hickey under your ear.”

She slapped a hand against her neck, turning the color of Ginny’s flaming hair, and forced Harry to heal the bruise immediately. It was at such an awkward angle, she clearly didn’t see it when she was craning her head this way and that to check for the lingering evidence of Draco’s affections.

After Ginny managed to escape the Tangling Twine enchantment George was testing out for the shop, she darted over with gleaming eyes.

“I want to know everything. Leave nothing to the imagination.” She tapped her fingers against her chin eagerly. “An enemies-to-lovers arc in real life. Gods, you lucky bitch.”

Harry looked merely amused as Hermione tried to recover some dignity from the conversation.

For her part, she did leave some things unsaid - ignoring Ginny’s persistent badgering as to Draco’s skills in the bedroom. But eventually she managed to update her two friends on her relationship status before Molly called them all in for lunch.

And though no celebration could happen without a few tears shed by the Weasley matriarch, it was a good day for everyone. Even the youngest of them who finally managed to fall asleep in an exhausted Percy’s arms.

After multiple slices of cake (thankfully none Chudley Cannon-colored) and the unwrapping of gifts, Hermione eventually made it home with the moon high in the sky. Her arms clutching an armful of presents, with one notable exception.

But she didn’t really think she needed to read How to Move on After Loss: Finding New Life in Love after all.

***

Having decided to spend Sunday night in her own bed, Hermione woke up alone on Monday - a cabbie’s horn blaring outside her window before the sun even had the chance to crest over the horizon. The noise surely a sign from the Fates that she made the wrong call.

She had another nightmare last night, this time something horribly new. One in which Draco’s duplicity was discovered by Bellatrix Lestrange, his torture taking the place of her own. She screamed as his bones cracked and his eyes rolled, never once looking away - not even when his chest stopped moving.

It turned out that the Gryffindor would much rather stare down her own demise than bear witness to that unrealized horror ever again. Her nerves so fraught when she peeled back the sweat-drenched sheets that she nearly Floo’ed to Draco’s apartment, just to check that she hadn’t dreamt the weekend up.

That he was, in fact, sleeping soundly in bed and not entombed in the Malfoy crypt.

She only stayed put because she imagined it would be a touch alarming to wake up next to someone who hadn’t been there upon falling asleep.

Hermione never considered what it would mean to let someone have her heart. Now she understood that it would fill her with the highest of highs and, unintentionally, the lowest of lows. Because she had a new fear. Not that her past would one day rear up to claim her, that her scar tissue would disappear only to be replaced with fresh wounds. No, now she needed to worry that she couldn’t protect a person who had her heart.

And she had a rather terrible track record of ensuring the safety of those she cared for.

Only, if she failed this time, Hermione thought it might actually kill her too.

Once the sky had the chance to paint itself in reddish-blue hues, she headed into the Ministry at an acceptable hour - having made a promise to Draco not to spend every minute in the office - only to find that he was already in.

Hypocrite.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t dust off my French press for this.” She stacked the two cups in one hand, her chin resting on the topmost lid so that they didn’t crash to the floor, as she closed the office door behind her.

In truth, she had attempted to make the both of them coffee. Unfortunately, her well-loved cafetière chose this morning to shatter into a million pieces after being filled with boiling water. Hermione was just lucky she avoided the glass shards, not wanting to imagine how Draco would react if she ended up in the medical clinic.

He would probably never allow her to do anything nice for him again.

After cleaning up the mess, she stopped by the cafe on her way in to work, picking up her pace when the sun disappeared behind an expanse of grey clouds. Autumn was definitely here, the rain an ever-present threat and the cold on the horizon.

She faltered to a stop, her eyes zeroed in on her desk. Draco had placed a blueberry muffin, steam still rising from it, on her blotter.

He was currently facing away from her, his attention on the evidence wall he occasionally updated. Goyle’s crime scene photos were now tacked underneath the ‘victim’ section. But her partner seemed more interested in the upper right corner, where he was collating information on their killer. She could see ‘Da Vinci Code’ written in his slanted, crisp hand as the top item.

“What are you on about, love?” He stepped back, his eyes darting over the scraps of parchment pinned here and there. “Oh and I brought you breakfast.” He gestured somewhere behind him, his forearms once again on show.

“Me too.” She smiled wanly though he didn’t see it.

She had the strangest urge then to Apparate them to someplace no one could find, maybe even stay on the run so that misfortune never graced their presence again. Because seeing him so alive after her sub-conscious tried to convince her otherwise had put Hermione on the offensive.

She wouldn’t let anything get the chance to rob Draco of his life.

They would have to go through her first and, well, she would absolutely rent the heavens apart if anyone tried.

With a start, she realized that her hand was wet and something was dripping on her shoe. Her emotions causing her enough strife to crush the bottommost cup, splattering her outfit with brown liquid.

It was probably a good thing that Draco wasn’t turned towards her because she was positively crimson - from the hot coffee and her spike of embarrassment.

She walked over to the trashcan and threw out what was, thankfully, her drink.

Unlike her quick nip into the shop, it appeared that Draco had made everything by hand. Evidenced by the glass Tupperware of muffins on his desk and the Thermos containing her coffee on hers. She could also spot a paper airplane smashed under the metal container.

“Pansy tried to send me an answer to your question, by the way, so I’ve made sure that her memo arrived at the correct destination.” Draco looked over, his grey eyes immediately seeing the blush of her cheeks before scanning down to the cup she was holding.

“As I said, I - I didn’t make it.” She shrugged, trying to downplay the disappointment she felt at not bringing something lovingly crafted by her own hand. Maybe she ought to knit him a hat for winter. “It’s just from the shop down the street.”

He cocked his head, a gleam in his gaze as he sauntered over.

“Perfect, I’m in dire need.” He took the coffee from her, murmuring his thanks as he kissed her temple, nose and mouth in slow succession. And even though he spotted the puddle on his floor and her stained work-clothes, he didn’t say anything other than a whispered cleaning charm to put her fabric to rights.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you have your flat white there.” She nodded at the steaming mug that waited for him on his desk, her head feeling fuzzy from the quiet intimacy he easily offered her.

“Nonsense, don’t know what you’re talking about.” With a flick of his fingers and a soft smile on his lips, the coffee he made for himself Vanished out of sight.

Merlin, he made Hermione’s heart flutter. Just in the casual way he made space for what she could give him and how readily he accepted it.

She didn’t have to be perfect for once and it was an absolute earth-shattering revelation.

“I bought some pastries as well,” Hermione gestured toward her purse which was positively brimming with small brown bags. Grease already soaking through the crinkling paper.

“Croissants,” Draco asked hopefully.

“I think I managed to get a few.”

Because she had, in fact, purchased every variety the shop made. Pistachio-flavored, a few chocolate, even a twice-baked almond one. And if he wanted something simpler, she also claimed two of the plain.

Hermione had Harry to thank, her best friend giving her a heads-up yesterday about Draco’s love of the buttery pastries.

“Seems you’ve discovered the way to my heart,” Draco smiled. She beamed in delight before he stole another kiss from her, taking her breath away while he was at it.

After depositing her purchases on his desk, Hermione sipped her drink happily. It really was unfair that he was better at making oat cappuccinos than the actual baristas. His foam unparalleled, the hearts he drew on top always perfect.

As the caffeine dispersed through her body, shaking away the last dregs of unease left over from her nightmare, she tore open Pansy’s memo. Sure enough, the coroner could confirm the existence of injection sites on all the bodies.

However, blood taken near the punctures didn’t come back with anything remarkable.

Hermione and Draco frowned at the news, mulling over what that might mean while finishing their coffee.

So they were looking for something that might cause cardiac arrest but wouldn’t necessarily show up in lab testing. Which, again, gave credence to her theory that it wasn’t an outright toxin.

While it wasn’t much to go off of, it was far better than her initial research range (which was to say, anything that caused heart attacks).

Hermione soon joined her partner at his evidence wall, moaning as she bit into the still-warm muffin. The sound making his eyes darken slightly, his teeth brushing against his lips as he turned towards her.

“I love blueberry muffins,” she explained, only slightly embarrassed by the sounds she made while finishing her first.

“I know, Potter told me.” He had stepped in front of her, his hands having already worked their way down her shoulders and over her hips before resting on her bum. She giggled when he gave it a squeeze, his mouth already pressing against her neck’s pulse point.

“Did he now?” Hermione tried to remind herself to keep a level-head because, evidently, her boyfriend decided to do away with being responsible. But the voice that echoed her promise not to follow in Bill’s footsteps was markedly quieter now that Draco was doing an excellent job at distracting her.

Gods, it was a rather good thing nothing happened at Hogwarts. She really would’ve done quite terribly in her classes otherwise.

“Mmhmm.” His teeth pressed into her ear lobe, his hands tugging at her hair so that he could have better access to her skin.

She expelled a tiny huff of air when he ground his hips against hers, his erection tenting his fitted pants.

“Maybe now isn’t the best time.” Though she didn’t sound convinced of that. Because with the exception of a library, there were few places Hermione thought more thrilling to have sex in than an office.

But that was something to be explored late at night.

Not at an hour when anyone could walk in. But if they locked the door several different ways …

“Very well love.” He nipped at her shoulder one last time before pulling away. “I’ll just table making you scream for later today.”

Hermione planned to suggest Floo’ing to his apartment for lunch, where the risk of discovery was virtually non-existent. Not that she particularly wanted to keep their relationship a secret. But coupling with one’s partner actually was a violation of MLE rules and regulations.

She was rendered momentarily speechless when Draco resumed his scrutiny of the pinned notes with little pageantry. As though he hadn’t been mere seconds away from laying her bare.

How he could collect himself so quickly was absolutely beyond her.

Because she felt that a cold shower was in order.

“Oh and I helped get Theo into his office this morning.” He grinned devilishly at the way Hermione was prodding at the indentations on her bottom lip. “Didn’t think you wanted to be interrogated about our weekend together. Or be an accomplice to murder if Nott said something out of hand.”

“Was it awful?”

Draco canted his head, considering. “Not after I threatened to dismember him. Though he did say he was ‘happy for us,’ especially now that Zabini owes him five hundred Galleons. Apparently, I still looked freshly fucked enough for him to deduce something happened.”

“Well I suppose that’s nice.” She rested her head on his shoulder, her arms wrapping around his waist. “Did you learn if anything was missing?”

“No, they hadn’t managed to get in after all.” Draco drew his fingers through her curls. “Apparently Nott had a few ‘off-the-book’ security measures installed a few months ago.”

“Is that double-speak for Dark magic?” She looked up, her frown deepening when her partner nodded. “Why on Earth would he risk something like that at the Ministry?”

“He said that he had a funny feeling about it, so he extended the blood wards used on his manor to the office.”

“This feels like something different than the serial murder.”

“Yeah, but since we’ve found it, it’s now our fucking problem.” Draco sighed before muttering, “yet another joy of being an Auror.”

Hermione, for her part, was absolutely vibrating with excitement at possibly getting to solve another mystery.

“Maybe we should look into Elphora a little deeper.”

“Says the woman who adamantly believed she had nothing to do with it,” he snorted.

“Well she must do if she was in the Department on Sunday.” Hermione pursed her lips. “Her alibi is pretty terrible since it just places her there when the attempted burglary occurred. I bet she didn’t even think to cover her tracks because she couldn’t get in.”

“And it’s not like she’s a fucking Seer and knew magical detection charms would be thrown about by the MLE several hours later.”

Hermione nodded, “but if it was Elphora, why not use a key?”

“Because Theo changed the locks after he placed the blood wards.”

“Merlin.”

“Yep,” Draco rubbed her back. “We’ll interview her … again. Maybe get a warrant for use of Veritaserum.”

“That shouldn’t be difficult. Not with what we have. Plus, Bill seems to use it for every interrogation he does.”

“Well, he wasn’t a former Death Eater, was he?”

Draco said this so grimly that it made Hermione pause. There must be so many aspects in his life made all the more difficult because of his past. No matter how redeemed he was, it would haunt him forever.

“Then put my name on the application as well.”

“Hermione, the Wizengamot will want an explanation as to why a Muggle Analyst is being listed on a request. And when I clarify, they’ll have even more questions - like why you were on scene in the first place.” He hesitated a moment before explaining that he was planning on keeping her involvement a secret for as long as possible. In case everything went “tit’s up.”

“We’re a team, Draco. From now on, we stand or fall together.”

He nodded before hugging her tightly.

“I don’t deserve you, you know.”

But the problem with that statement was that her eyes were affixed to the Snitch fluttering on its stand, the sunlight bouncing off the ball so that gold shimmered on the surrounding walls.

Of the two things he had kept in his office, one was the object magicked to whisk her away and save her life.

“I suppose we’ll need to agree to disagree on that.”

***

“I forgot to ask you Friday. Just how popular was the Da Vinci Code amongst Muggles?”

They were seated across from one another, Draco with an almond croissant in hand and Hermione with another muffin.

“Fairly … why?” She was distracted as she asked this, busy sucking away the blueberry residue on her fucking thumb while he watched.

Maybe he should turn his desk around so that his mind didn’t constantly have a half-hard dick to contend with.

“Because our suspect clearly saw the movie.” Draco brushed off the sugar dust on his hands and turned around to stare out the window. “So they’re familiar with Muggle culture since films aren’t really a thing for wizards, are they?”

“No, you’re right. We’ll need to consider the possibility that the killer is either Muggleborn or half.” Hermione bit her lip before adding, “especially considering everyone who’s died thus far was a former Death Eater.”

“You’re not wrong, love.”

“At least … well, there aren’t any more on the Board of Governors, right?”

He could feel her eyes on the back of his head, clearly wanting confirmation. Because Draco would fucking know considering he’d been one. And the dirty little truth of it was that Voldemort’s servants weren’t always pulled from Slytherin ranks. There had been people from all Houses, all schools.

And when the war was over, they just went right back to their fucking lives as if nothing happened.

No matter who ratted them out, no one believed how widespread the fucking rot went.

But Draco shook his head because, of the Death Eaters he knew from other Houses, none were on the Board.

“Maybe the murderer’s done then?” She said this hopefully and he couldn’t help but look back with a grave expression. Because she was being naive.

Though maybe she was trying to stay hopeful considering her boyfriend was very publicly tied to the case, the worst mistake he’d ever made something society would never let him forget.

***

Their interview with Jeremy Stretton, a former Ravenclaw and Goyle’s assigned security detail, was taking place in thirty minutes. Something that both Hermione and Draco would be present for, even though she still seemed hesitant.

He watched her systematically destroy a third muffin between her fingers, crumbs spilling in an ever-widening circle on her desk and lap. Her shoulders were tense, her feet tapping on the wooden floor.

“Hermione.” She finally looked up, her hands pausing their devastation. “It’ll be fine.”

“Will it though? It feels like I’m crossing a line, interviewing an Auror when technically I’m just on the MoMA payroll.” She frowned, the disappointment evident in her tone.

Draco had already gotten the sense that she preferred working in Magical Law Enforcement. Her zealotry for detective work never dimming, not even when she almost got concussed at the autopsy.

“I’m not worried,” Draco shrugged nonchalantly. “You handled yourself well when I shoved off the day of Goyle’s memorial.”

“How could you possibly know that? I mean, I obviously didn’t set fire to the office. But …”

“Bill mentioned it in passing,” Draco smirked while Hermione literally bristled with irritation.

“That’s why he made so many bloody tea runs past our office,” she rolled her eyes. “Even so, nothing happened that could affect the outcome of this invest -”

“Hermione,” Draco leaned forward and snatched the muffin’s paper wrapper from her hands, depositing it in the trash. “It’ll be fine. You can’t be any worse than Edgar Mulhaven was.”

“Who’s that?” She frowned.

“Some bloke about fifty years ago that arrested the wrong twin for a pretty violent murder. Let the other one go. By the time they realized the mistake, the innocent guy had spent ten years in Azkaban and lost his mind. The actual guilty bastard having killed an additional four others.” Draco shook his head. “We learn about him during training.”

“Blimey - ”

“You’re not Edgar Mulhaven. You’re Hermione Granger and you’ll be great.”

Though she didn’t seem particularly assuaged by his confidence in her.

“Would you feel better about the interview if you went into it … more relaxed?” He couldn’t help but punctuate the question with a pointed look at where her cunt would be underneath her pretty black dress.

“Draco!” Hermione threw a quill at him, one easily dodged because of her terrible aim. His smirk turned into a smile as she turned a shade redder. “You’re insatiable. If you don’t stop … propositioning me, you’ll get us both fired.”

And then he could spend all day making her speechless in all manner of ways. The idea much more enticing than working until retirement.

“I’m not sure that’s really convinced me, love.” He stood up and crossed to her desk predatorily, a feral grin on his mouth.

“Don’t you dare,” Hermione giggled as she got to her feet and darted away.

“You have no idea what I have in mind yet.” He grabbed her and pulled her back flush against his chest. “Maybe I want to see how well you foxtrot.”

“I think I have some idea,” she said softly, “and it’s not that.” A moan soon escaped her lips after he worked his mouth along her jaw.

Maybe he was predictable but Draco thought laying her down on his desk and nestling his head between her thighs would be an excellent way to cut the tension from her body.

And, really, he wasn’t insatiable.

He just was with her.

Because Hermione was pretty fucking restrained as a person. So to see her come undone? Well that was just a fucking treat that he wanted to have daily.

He couldn’t help himself.

Draco had spent, what felt like an eternity, mired in darkness after sixth year.

So to be cast back into sunshine was enough to cut through whatever fucking restraint he had.

“Am I going to walk in on something every single fucking time I come in here?” Bill’s voice made Draco growl, his vision going red. And even though his boss sounded annoyed, his eyes betrayed his mirth.

Which was just fucking dandy for him because Draco felt on the cusp of murder.

Surely when someone confronted a closed office door, they had enough sensibility to fucking knock. But, apparently, he was deluded for thinking so since it never fucking happened.

He suspected that Hermione was fumbling for some excuse as to why his lips had been on her neck, the idea of getting caught in anything unprofessional surely enough to send her into a panic.

But, of course, she was forever surprising him.

“Well, if you don’t want to stumble in on something, might I suggest not coming in unannounced?” She said this as primly as possible as she crossed her arms and leveled Bill with a stare that would make the Dark Lord shudder.

“You could just not fuck each other in the office,” the Head Auror bit back, his eyes narrowed.

“We’ll stop when you do.” Hermione actually jutted her chin out as if her words settled it.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Draco had to press his lips together and pray to the Fates to not burst out laughing. She was goading Bill on as if the fucker wasn’t a ticking time bomb.

“Touché, Granger.” He looked between them before shrugging. “I only came in here to remind you not to eye-fuck each other for the entire duration of the interview. If you need to get a quickie in before, then by all means.” Bill gestured to their lower halves vaguely.

Draco had to grab Hermione to stop her from lunging at him. The absolute violence in her astonishing.

What the fuck was with Gryffindors?

“He really kills the bloody mood,” she muttered after Bill left, causing Draco to descend into tear-streaked laughter.

***

“Right, Stretton, you ready to do this?” Draco looked at the Auror after setting up the Quick Notes, Hermione seated beside him with a cup of tea in hand. Her frustration, both sexual and otherwise, still very much unresolved.

“To be totally fucking honest with you, Malfoy, I can’t think of any place I would rather spend my Monday afternoon.” The Ravenclaw looked at Draco irritably as his voice dripped with sarcasm. His bulbous nose was disproportionate to his otherwise angular face, giving the appearance that it had been pasted on that morning. His blue eyes were filled with a disdain that the Slytherin knew all too well.

“Great! Because this is going to take … “ Draco looked at the pocket watch he attached to his waistcoat that morning, hoping Hermione would think it aristocratic enough to tease him about. (He’d been delightfully right.) “… the rest of the day. So glad you don’t have other plans.”

Stretton cursed under his breath and settled his stare on Hermione, who was fiddling with the teabag string nervously. The movement like blood in the water for a shark.

“What’s she doing here then? I thought you worked in that Muggle Department across the way.”

The man should know, he was among Potter’s fanbase that tried to bed her for a chance with the Chosen One. Which made Draco even angrier as he thought about it. His possessiveness rearing up into a desire to protect her from this bellend.

“It’s Misuse of Muggle Artifacts, actually. But, I’m just on loan at the moment.” She held her head high, her eyes defiant as the other Auror failed to cut her down with his words.

“Well that’s just fucking rich then, isn’t it? The Muggle expert whore and Death Eater scum teaming up to question a former Order member. For fuck’s sake, this is a joke.”

Hermione cocked her head in such a way that made clear she was in the process of deciding just how eviscerating she should be.

All while Draco wondered whether his view from Azkaban would be nice. Because he was going to fucking kill the man in front of him.

“I’m sorry, Jeremy Stretton, was it? I don’t remember you at any of the Order meetings I attended.” Her chest expanded and contracted rapidly as she fought to get her anger under control. Her hair was starting to shimmer with errant magic. “Which was all of them, if you must know.”

“Well I -”

“Save your breath, won’t you?” She sneered at the Ravenclaw in what would’ve made an excellent impersonation of Draco. “As my partner informed you, we’re here for quite a while.”

Honestly, Hermione really knew how to steal words from a person’s lips.

Though Draco much preferred her sweetness to her bite.

Stretton, for his part, now looked abashed. Because when did anyone ever go up against Draco’s Golden Girl and win?

The Slytherin walked over to the man and bent down, his lips almost brushing the Auror’s ear.

“If you make a comment about who Hermione chooses to share her affections with again, I will tie you down and cut out your fucking tongue.” He leaned away to look Stretton in the eyes. “Do you understand?” The other man nodded. Draco, now satisfied, straightened and returned to his seat. “Right, so now that you’ve wasted five minutes on being a prat, why don’t you walk us through the events preceding Goyle’s death?”

The Ravenclaw ticked his jaw, evidently wondering how much disrespect he could throw at Draco before getting fired … or hexed. Which wasn’t much considering the Malfoy heir had a short temper and was the lead detective in the MLE. Someone the Aurors couldn’t afford to lose, who Bill himself had trained in his own image.

Whereas Stretton was just a low-level employee.

Christ, he was basically glorified security detail.

“Tick fucking tock.” Draco crossed his arms and waited for the other guy to realize he had to cooperate if he wanted to keep his job.

“Goyle received an urgent message at home around midnight Sunday.” The Auror huffed out his displeasure when Hermione asked the follow-up, wanting to know what the letter said. But Draco’s eyes promised murder so Stretton opened his mouth and answered. “Something to do with planning permission issues.”

Draco pursed his lips, immediately recognizing what was wrong with that statement. Because the two Slytherins were working together with the Ministry to build an orphanage and primary academy, a place fit to educate young witches and wizards (of all blood statuses) much earlier.

Getting enough acreage would, of course, be the primary issue. (Unless two of the benefactors were Sacred 28 heirs.) But with the exception of his own home, Goyle didn’t have anything viable in his family’s estate holdings. And, even if they did, his parents wouldn’t agree to just hand over something to the Ministry out of the goodness of their hearts.

Draco didn’t have those same issues.

The Malfoy Manor was obviously available. But curse-breakers had been steadily working on the property for the last year and a half without much progress. The Dark magic mired in the stonework nearly impossible to pull out. Even if they demolished the whole fucking lot, it wasn’t guaranteed to get rid of all the curses and blood magic that seeped into the lay lines. The site might as well be a nuclear contaminant for all the use he could make of it.

But that wasn’t the only house Draco had access to.

It just so happened that the Black family had a nearly abandoned estate out in the Oxfordshire countryside, something given to Narcissa following the deaths of her parents. A place Cygnus used to bring the children for Christmas and the New Year, filled with punched-through walls and lingering traces of terror. Only a hair better than Grimmauld Place because you didn’t have to deal with the scary fucking apparitions Moody installed during the war.

And while extensive work needed to be done on the property, given the rotting roof and the mildewed walls, it was much more promising than their other option.

So if planning permission got denied, the Ministry would be informing Draco of that fact.

Not Goyle.

And unless his friend had been planning on building a massive estate somewhere on his own dime, something was amiss.

But Draco wouldn’t be keying this fucking Auror in on that fact, would he?

“And did Goyle tell you what he planned to do about that message?” Because the Slytherin had been instructed to let his security detail know if he was leaving his accommodation, where he’d be going and when.

“Yeh, he did.” Stretton bit his lip and rocked back on his chair.

“You can either give us full answers or I’ll pour an entire fucking bottle of Veritaserum down your throat and get Bill to sign off on it after.”

Of course, the other Auror was still so green that he had no idea that the potion’s use was only authorized by the Wizengamot.

“What the fuck.” The Ravenclaw let the front legs of his chair fall to the floor with a clatter. “That’s so messed up.”

“Former Death Eater, remember?” Draco smirked, his eyes positively fucking glittering. Because the only time his fuck-up actually helped him was when he needed to scare the shit out of witnesses.

Case in point: Stretton was actually shaking with fright in front of him. Draco wondered if the guy was going to piss himself.

“Not to mention I have a rather poor reputation of setting things on fire and transforming people into various critters when they displease me.” Hermione scanned the Auror up and down. “Which you are in the process of doing. So what would you prefer?”

“I’m not sure I’m -”

“I can set fire to your clothes, transform you into a centipede or you can answer the bloody question.“

Maybe Draco did have a thing for her violence and defiant air after all.

Because his cock definitely twitched at that threat.

It was so fucking good not to be on her bad side but, fuck, did he still love to see it.

“R-right.” The Ravenclaw looked between Draco and Hermione, undecided about who the real threat between them was. (Draco had the feeling it was her.) “He, um, yeah, he let me know. Told me that he was heading into the Ministry to sort it ASAP.”

“And you didn’t find that odd? That he was going into a closed administrative building at a time when most people would still be sleeping?” Hermione’s tone indicated that she thought the Ravenclaw had exactly two brain cells floating in his head.

“Well I actually didn’t see it. The owl, I mean. Until later on, when I woke up to come in to work.” Splotches of crimson appeared on Stretton, such that he looked in the process of developing a horrid full body rash. “I was out and about with a few lads earlier that night. Didn’t believe anything would happen on a Sunday, you know… I really didn’t think I’d been too in my cups either but I didn’t hear the owl at my window until about eight a.m.”

Which was well after Goyle had been killed.

“You left an animal outside all night because you were too drunk to hear it?” Hermione’s voice had dropped low with her rage, the promise of violence almost crackling in the air. Draco having already decided that he wouldn’t stop her if she decided to hex the shit out of the other Auror.

The protocol developed in the wake of the Ministry serial murders dictated that those assigned security detail had to wait for their MLE guard before leaving home.

“So he went on without you after you failed to answer,” Draco asked, even though it was unnecessary. Because Goyle had done that, the oversight one that cost him his life.

“He did, he confirmed as much with a second owl.”

Un - fucking - believable.

How could anyone be so drunk that they couldn’t hear two bloody owls pecking at their window all night?

Well, the Auror should probably turn in his badge at the front desk because Bill was going to go fucking ballistic when he found out. Draco wouldn’t be surprised if his boss set fire to all the shit on Stretton’s desk and dragged the Ravenclaw out by his ankles.

Meanwhile, they would need to change their strategy so that those on assignment stayed with Board members 24/7.

“So you were at home at the time you received both messages?” Hermione furrowed her brow after the Ravenclaw shrugged his shoulder in a non-committal way. “And is there anyone that can confirm that?” Stretton shook his head before stating that he obviously hadn’t killed Goyle.

“I would say the only thing that’s fucking obvious is your sheer incompetence,” Draco gritted out while mentally adding the Auror to their suspect list.

***

“I know what you’re doing.” Hermione poked her head into Harry’s office, narrowing her eyes at her best friend. The interview with Stretton only took an hour, the partners having silently decided they would rather spend their afternoon doing anything else.

“Is the answer trying to avoid three million questions about Ginny’s training schedule from Witch Weekly reporters?” He waved an inch-thick stack of letters at her. “Because I’m currently drowning in them.”

“Why are they asking you?” She tripped over the waste-basket, sending its contents spilling over the floor - her gaze having been fixed on the bundle in Harry’s hand. “Sorry,” she muttered, picking up a banana peel and redepositing it in the trash.

“Ginny has apparently directed them all to me as her new ‘manager.’” Harry knelt down beside Hermione to collect torn parchment and broken quill nibs.

“That’s rather vicious,” she laughed loud and bright. “Did you two get into an argument?”

“Erm, well, sort of.” Harry sheepishly scratched the back of his neck. “I might’ve told her not to send you that absolute pile of undergarments.”

“You knew about that and didn’t warn me!” Hermione turned a bright red as she battered her best friend with a stained file-folder.

“I wasn’t really sure how to go about it. Hey, Hermione. Gin sent you enough lingerie to seduce an army. Enjoy with Malfoy or don’t.”

Hermione cringed, thinking she might’ve died on the spot if Harry said that. “I would’ve liked to know something though.” Maybe a head’s up about the bloody wedding dress.

“Well I’ll include a warning label next time,” Harry grinned. “Or maybe you’d rather I not?” He ducked to avoid the sailing ink pot sent his way. “So what’s up?”

“You’ve been telling Draco about me,” she accused.

Though she wasn’t exactly angry about it. More surprised if anything.

“Of course I bloody have. For the better part of half a decade too.” Harry shrugged as if this were an entirely normal thing to do.

“What?!”

“Well if someone has a question, it’s normally considered polite to answer it.” His green eyes were nearly twinkling. “And Malfoy had quite a lot about you.”

“Again with the not telling.”

“Didn’t want to spoil the surprise when he finally got around to wooing you.” Harry sat back and assessed his best friend. “Something you should probably start thanking for me, I imagine. It’ll certainly take you awhile.”

“Don’t hold your breath, you might die of oxygen deprivation.” Hermione turned up her chin. The utter nerve of him. “Though I did appreciate the blueberry muffins Draco made for me this morning.” She grinned, her own happiness surely infectious at this point. “I’m pretty sure I’m doomed.”

“Oh, you don’t stand a chance,” Harry agreed. “Malfoy’s had a thing for you for years. He’s going to make you completely fall in love with him before you even realize it.”

Hermione scrunched up her nose, thinking that her best friend might be right.

“I really like him, Harry.” She bit her lip, somewhat abashed to admit her feelings for her once-enemy.

“Thank the Fates. He probably would’ve Obliviated himself if you didn’t.” If Harry saw her flinch, he didn’t comment on it. “Plus I was getting worried you might never let yourself be happy again.”

“I know. But now that I am, Gods. We should all plan something. Maybe a dinner!”

“Absolutely,” Harry’s stomach grumbled. “Speaking of, I’m bloody starving. Want to go pick up lunch?”
“Oh, um, actually, we were planning on -”

“Don’t say anything else.” He held up his hand. “Just go.”

***

Lunch ended up being a two-hour affair, a siesta really.

Draco agreed to Floo back to his apartment, the suggestion not even fully out of Hermione’s mouth before he committed to it.

Neither of them had really considered the effect their relationship might have on other people. Specifically, what the reaction would be upon seeing them together - joking and whispering in the elevators, walking a bit closer than workmates would while crossing the atrium.

Hermione jolted at the flash of a camera somewhere by the fireplaces, the reporters still congregating there in the wake of Goyle’s murder - looking for a story scoop.

It looks like they may have just found one.

She was sure the society pieces would soon be filled with speculation. The Golden Girl and former Death Eater were obviously something. Why else would they be seen together?

The question was, what?

Because enemies certainly didn’t look at each other like that.

But nothing would spoil her mood. Not the disgust directed solely at her for having the audacity for forgiving Draco’s stint in Voldemort’s army. As if they had any right to tell her how to feel. After all, she’d been the one tortured because of her blood.

She didn’t even bat an eye at the bloke that called her a whore. Though she did see Draco’s eyes swivel to the person and Hermione suspected that they might need to have a conversation about the necessity (or lack thereof) of defending her honor.

She imagined that if news of their relationship actually leaked, it would get far worse than the occasional comment questioning her sexual propriety.

Once out of his fireplace, Draco (quite literally) swept Hermione off her feet. Carrying her, giggling, to his room where he tossed her onto the bed. She leaned back on her forearms, having already kicked off her ballet flats somewhere in the hall, as he wasted no time undressing himself. His pocket watch clattered against the wooden floorboards, his tie landing on the wingback chair. His loafers smacking against his closet door.

Draco Malfoy naked was a beautiful sight. Michelangelo would’ve had heart palpitations at seeing him, his fingers itching to immortalize him in marble. Because he was cut like a Roman God. Or, well, one that was heavily tattooed and scarred with a rather pointed nose and chin.

After Hogwarts, the Slytherin became all muscle. His shoulders now broad, the lines of his abs pronounced even at rest. His thighs thick and, quite frankly, begging to be ridden.

Every inch of him delectable and the best part was that he was hers.

He leaned over her, moving her legs apart so that he could stand between them as he took her bottom lip between his teeth and pulled. The slight pain making her moan from both anticipation and desire.

Her panties were already soaked, him having turned her into a puddle in a matter of seconds.

Unfortunately, he chose to take his time with discarding her own bloody clothing. Simply tutting when Hermione tried to speed up the process by shrugging her shirt off and tossing it with his things littering the floor. Once he took over, it felt like ages before she lost her pencil skirt and hose. He kept stepping back and staring at her, his gaze almost wondrous.

And when Draco discovered the matching emerald lingerie set (another thanks owed to Ginny), he paused in his efforts altogether.

“You can’t keep these,” Hermione laughed while he looked hungrily at the picture she made. The underwear was made of illusion tulle, with scalloped edges and deco embroidery. It revealed absolutely everything too.

“Why not?” Draco sucked his bottom lip between his teeth while he flicked a nipple, eliciting a needy whine from her.

“Because I can’t go back into the office without a bra.” She arched her back when he started swirling his fingers over her bundle of nerves. The fabric giving her an additional layer of friction that scattered her thoughts. “And it would be indecent not to wear underwear.”

“Fine, so long as you stay over tonight so I get the pleasure of taking this off you a second time.” Hermione nodded, unable to give him anything verbal beyond the sounds of her own pleasure.

When he finally peeled the bra and underwear off her, she was still shaking from her first orgasm. Something ripped from her after Draco shoved the fabric aside and pumped two fingers in her. His thumb circling her clit until she felt tears cloud her vision and she was begging for a break.

And, once she was naked, he wasted no time in ensuring she had a second. Thrusting into her at a languid pace, he took her against the edge of the bed with her face smashed into the covers.

He was so deep in her that she didn’t feel like she could breathe. But when he asked whether he should stop or change positions, she pleaded for more.

Hermione Granger had been reduced to a bumbling mess all because of Draco Malfoy.

When she felt his finger push at her arse, she wasn’t sure what it would feel like. But she knew that she wanted to find out either way.

After all, Hermione had always had an inquisitive mind.

And she was basically putty in Draco’s hands.

Her eyes rolled into the back of her head after he whispered a lubrication charm and pushed up to the knuckle.

“Oh my Gods,” she moaned, nearly incoherent.

He took the comment as an indication that she wasn’t enjoying it. But her toes were curling from the feeling of him everywhere.

“D-don’t stop, Draco. I like it, keep going.” She grunted as he pushed his finger back in, timing the thrust of his cock with the digit in her arse.

“You know, with a little bit of … training, you could take a lot more than my finger back here. Would you like that, love?”

Hermione came apart at the thought, her second orgasm being delivered with the promise of future pleasure.

And, of course, her third happened after Draco started slamming into her harder and deeper. Having clearly enjoyed the feeling of her clench around him.

He asked her for another. Told her that she could do it for him.

So, Hermione did what she could to meet him thrust for thrust in her position. And when his cum shot deep into her, it was with her own tangled cry and nerves fraying.

Afterwards, they collapsed together into the bed. Hermione having no bloody idea how she could walk into the Ministry after Draco fucked her completely senseless. She had to wipe drool from her mouth once he was done. Merlin, she didn’t even remember ever feeling this relaxed, her body still occasionally shuddering from the pleasure he’d given her.

“I was thinking sandwiches for lunch.” He pulled her flush against his chest, kissing her shoulder as she came down from her high.

How can you pivot so quickly,” she asked breathlessly.

“Quite easily,” he murmured in her ear. “You see I’m always thinking about either fucking you or caring for you. So after I do one, I turn to the other without a moment’s hesitation.”

“I’m actually doomed,” Hermione laughed, thinking back on her earlier conversation with Harry.

“How so?”

She moved onto her back so that she could look at him while she smoothed her hand over his cheek.

“Because you’ve already got my heart and now you’re positively running away with it.” She grinned, a giggle escaping her. “And I’ve always been terrible at sport.”

***

After a delicious lunch of paninis and sliced watermelon, Hermione and Draco returned to the Ministry of Magic for some afternoon sleuthing. She still on shaking legs and him with a smug grin on his face from having fucked his girlfriend’s brains out.

It was pretty obvious what they were doing. Having left in the same Floo together and returning hours later, looking like two kids stumbling from a broom closet. Draco always had tousled hair these days. But, he’d forgotten the tie he put on this morning and his shirt was indecently wrinkled.

Hermione … well, her hair was completely wild. There was nothing to be done about it either, not until he managed to figure out what haircare products she used so that he could purchase some for the flat. Her lips were also swollen and her gaze a bit dazed.

So, yeah, they were obviously fucking.

And the reporters were having a field day throwing questions at them and snapping photos.

He wasn’t exactly thrilled about people putting two and two together. Absolutely despised the notion that she might be vilified for daring to get into a relationship with him.

If they’d been smarter, they would’ve used two separate fireplaces and come back at different times. Maybe taken more care in getting dressed.

But he was genuinely fucking happy for once. And this was the first time he’d been so love-drunk that he hadn’t considered what a situation would look like beforehand.

Hence why they were essentially caught with their pants down.

Still he wouldn’t change a thing.

Well … he wished he could hold her hand in the atrium. But when he brushed his fingers against hers, it earned him a lecture on the various “rules and regulations” he had to abide by.

After stepping out of the crowded elevator, they made their way over to the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Department. Hermione wanted to see whether Arthur knew of any places to watch Muggle films. The Weasley patriarch being the safest option since he had some knowledge of what she was doing in MLE. So he wouldn’t pry unnecessarily.

Though Hermione did extensively warn Draco about the safety hazard of the man’s office, littered as it was with all manner of Muggle devices.

“Okay so if we see anyone, we need to keep the investigation under wraps,” he sighed.

Apparently, Arthur hadn’t bothered to protect her reputation by saying she was on loan. Which, unfortunately, meant that everyone would assume Hermione just jumped on his dick and moved offices for better access, completing a massive Muggle research report when she wasn’t laid out for feasting.

“Yes, unless we want to serve our heads to Bill on a silver platter,” Hermione added with a nod.

Draco thought that might be preferable to someone else calling his girlfriend a slag.

She showed him her office, an opportunity which Draco took to point out its various issues. There was a water stain on her ceiling that looked ready to bring the paneling down on their heads. The paint job a mess, just based on the way that he could pull off strips without difficulty.

All in all, he thought her stuff was better placed with his since, between the two of them, it looked like they had an acceptable amount of trinkets for one person.

He argued that once the investigation was over, there was really no point in her moving back here. She could just work for MoMA in the MLE, where she had better supplies. And a boyfriend to keep her stress to a minimum.

She snorted (her presumed agreement) before running smack into Ernie Macmillan in the hallway.

The Hufflepuff seemed absolutely horrified at the state of her, his eyes looking between Draco and Hermione with disgust slowly dawning on his face.

Fucking twat.

“I thought you of all people would have standards.” Macmillan turned on his heel, his purple three-piece nearly headache-inducing for its brightness. His comment would’ve been enough for Draco to respond violently.

Because that was his girlfriend being disrespected.

But when the Hufflepuff had the audacity to call her a slut after Nigel Vector did the same hours earlier?

Well … let’s just say, Draco decided that the Auror pledge to ‘serve and protect’ didn’t apply in this scenario. At least, didn’t apply to anyone besides her.

Thankfully, Hermione didn’t try to intervene when Draco blasted Macmillan down the rest of the hall - using one jinx after another in a rapid, nonverbal casting. The Hufflepuff’s body making a concerning smack against the wall before falling limp, the exposed skin starting to swell and peel and change color.

The Auror watched the man impassively, waiting for a sign that he would be getting up anytime soon. (Though the Malfoy heir was pretty sure he turned Macmillan’s bones to sludge, so … )

When he was satisfied that the arsehole would need to be taken to the infirmary for a long stint, he allowed Hermione to drag him away before anyone could see them.

“That really wasn’t necessary,” she whispered even though he could see the glint in her golden-brown eyes. Maybe his sweetheart was as turned on by his violent streak as he was by hers.

“It was,” Draco ticked his jaw, knowing that she was probably going to bristle at his next words. “I’m not letting anyone defile you in name or body …”

“Oh my Gods,” Hermione looked ready to burst into tears from laughter. “That’s the most archaic thing I’ve ever heard you say. Especially after … well, after, we just - after lunch.” She ended this with a definitive nod and blush to her cheeks.

He counted her comment as part of his daily tally - her floundering essentially speechlessness in his book.

“You’re mine, darling.” He did try to keep his voice down but the effect was more of a growl than anything else. “So if people want to gossip about you, then they’ll be dealing with me and my antiquated ways of handling disrespect.” Which was to say, he would be sent to Azkaban for committing murder.

“Oh hey, Hermione.” Dean waved them into his office, not seeming remotely phased by how close they stood as they went back-and-forth. “Malfoy.” The Gryffindor held out his hand with an easy smile.

So this was it then. The meeting of friends (who could’ve ended up with Hermione had Draco been an unluckier bastard). Best not fuck this shit up.

“Thomas, good to see you again.” Draco clasped the man’s hand and shook firmly, his grasp maybe a little bit tighter than needed.

“Here to finally clean out your office then,” Dean teasingly asked. Draco casually considered dropping the man into the Arctic circle for the comment directed at his girlfriend.

“Not quite,” she bit her lip while her eyes darted to the door which she promptly closed. “We’re doing a bit of investigating actually.”

“Hermione,” Draco warned.

“He can help us better than Arthur, I promise. Also, I’ve already told him everything and he hasn’t said a thing so…” She shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly.

The Auror sighed heavily. What was the fucking point of a gag order when absolutely no one heeded it?

“How’re things with you?” She clasped her hands in her lap, taking a seat in front of Dean’s desk. Apparently, they were doing pleasantries first and business later. Draco dropped into the chair next to her, wondering if she would mind if he grabbed her hand.

Dean wasn’t really a threat, not after Draco secured Hermione’s affection. But his inner beast couldn’t be convinced otherwise. Especially considering that the man had been the last to take her out publicly. Something the Slytherin may never manage without slurs being thrown in their general direction.

“I head to Paris next week.” Dean turned to him to explain his art residency. “So leaving drinks are this Saturday if you’re both up for it?”

Hermione looked to Draco hopefully and he nodded his head, making the connection that she had apparently told Dean about him. Having said enough that the Slytherin was getting invited as her plus one.

Alright so maybe the Gryffindor wasn’t someone that Draco need worry about after all.

“Whereabouts in Paris are you staying,” the Malfoy heir asked conversationally, falling into the easy pattern of polite chitchat that he was raised on. He did end up leaning over to intertwine his fingers with Hermione’s, not out of jealousy but simply because he wanted to.

“No idea,” Dean sighed heavily. “I assumed that residency being included in the title meant they were giving me board. Guess I should’ve read the fine print.”

“You’re kidding,” she responded indignantly.

“Nope and finding a place to live for such a short stint when I don’t speak the language is near impossible.”

“Just stay at mine,” Draco said on a shrug. Both the Gryffindors turned to look at him, a bit shellshocked at the offer.

But if the Auror was going to be the man Hermione deserved, it wouldn’t come from being an asshole to her friends. Even ones that tried to win her over for themselves.

And Lucius had gifted Narcissa a Parisian loft (amongst other properties) for her birthday one year.

Really, no one should ever be surprised at how much money was in the Malfoy vaults when you took a cursory glance at their real estate portfolio.

“It’s really not a bother,” Draco continued on. “It’s centrally-located in the 7th Arrondissement. So you can walk to the Eiffel Tower whenever you want. There’s an excellent grocer located down the street. Pierre will undoubtedly thrust produce on you if you mention me.”

Mainly because the Slytherin was his landlord and only asked the man to pay fifty Euros in rent each month. So, the shopkeeper insisted on stocking the Malfoy’s cupboards anytime they were in the city.

Hermione was looking at him like she might whisk him off in that moment to go elope somewhere. Draco suddenly deciding that, maybe, a custom-made engagement ring and the very best wedding planner that money could buy weren’t necessary. Because he would say yes to her before his heart could beat twice.

“If you’re sure …” Dean murmured hesitantly.

“Never been more so.” He didn’t take his eyes off of her, not until he had that look in her eyes fucking memorized. He kissed the back of her hand before turning around. “Give me your address and I’ll Floo you over the apartment key tonight.”

“Never thought I would be grateful to a Malfoy.” Dean settled back in his chair as he rubbed at his stubble. “But here we are. So how pissed was Seamus when you guys finally went public?”

“Oh, well, we haven’t really addressed it.” The Gryffindor looked surprised by Hermione’s admission given their current display of affection, so she quickly added that it wasn’t technically allowed while they worked together.

“But Bill Weasley’s an absolute sexual menace,” he frowned.

“Well he’s not dating anyone, is he?” Hermione bit her lip. “Honestly, I think we’ve done a relatively good job at keeping things quiet.”

Draco snorted, thinking about Bill catching them on two separate occasions in compromising positions. Not to mention the walk of shame that they just performed mid-day. And the time he punched a Department Head for making snide comments about her.

Quiet was the exact opposite of what they were.

“Well it’s not like we’ve broadcast anything.” She looked over at him completely flustered.

Well, dear, Draco thought. A public statement’s not really necessary when you still can’t walk straight. Not to mention your tendency of biting your bottom lip whenever you look at me for too long.

“You did move into his office without explanation,” Dean shrugged. “So the rumor mill’s been churning for a few weeks. You two getting caught just added fuel to the fire. I’m guessing HR will let it slide since you’re … well, you.”

“I suppose,” she cocked her head. “I really thought we were being more discreet about it. Though Ernie was just absolutely vile so … I guess not.”

Draco pulled his hand away from hers so that he could rub her back, glad that he could finally be affectionate with her in front of, at least, one person.

“Whatever. If everyone knows then maybe we’ll need to have a chat with Bill for a waiver,” she said with a determined nod. “Because, frankly, if he can bend the rules then we should be able to as well.”

The men laughed loud, as if they were sharing an inside joke.

Which they basically were.

“What?”

“Hermione, love, there’s never been a person more keen to break the rules than you,” Draco smirked.

“That’s not true,” she bristled.

“Let’s see here. You set Snape on fire, cursed Neville, entered the third-floor to steal the Philosopher’s Stone. And that’s just first year. Am I missing anything, Malfoy?”

“She punched me in the face. Among many, many other things I dare not mention in the Ministry.”

“Oh honestly.” Hermione crossed her arms. She seemed a little less annoyed after Draco pressed a kiss to her temple and agreed to speak to Bill. “Now that you two have gotten the teasing out of your systems, we’d like your help.”

“With what?” Dean furrowed his brow, looking between the two of them.

“You’re our movie guy. So … do you happen to know of any place that shows films? Ideally in wizarding London.” She thankfully didn’t provide any context to the question or explain their predicament.

Because, realistically, if their killer went into non-magical society for their entertainment fix, this would be another fucking dead-end.

“Are you going to tell me why,” Dean asked, clearly confused.

“We can’t,” Draco interrupted before Hermione could offer up more tidbits about their confidential investigation.

“There are a few I can think of off the top of my head,” he said. “I’ll send over a list this afternoon once I have a second.”

Great, and then they could start cross-referencing the patrons with possible suspects.

That and maybe Draco could find a discrete enough place to take his girlfriend on an actual date.

Chapter 23: At Least One Weasley is Happy

Notes:

fun little fact about this week's chapter: the cocktails are inspired by the Death & Co bar in New York.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“You could leave a few things at mine if you wanted.” Draco said this casually as he fixed the unevenness of his tie in the mirror.

As agreed, Hermione stayed over on Monday night. Only for that to be followed by Tuesday and Wednesday as well. Each time leaving work ahead of Draco to grab her things for the evening, packing her beaded bag with pajamas (that she never wore) and an outfit for the morning.

She’d decided against telling him about the steady stream of remarks thrown her way as she stepped in and out of the Ministry Floos. Most came from reporters hoping to goad her into a comment.

Somewhat surprisingly, the Daily Prophet moved away from the Goyle murder to focus almost entirely on the speculation surrounding Hermione and Draco. Witch Weekly reporters bringing their own tents to the Ministry atrium to join the fray.

The former enemies had, unwillingly, become the story of the bloody decade.

Somehow the papers wrangled a handful of damning quotes from Harry’s MLE fanboys - all remaining anonymous in fear of ‘Death Eater retaliation.’ (Which was, frankly, a load of bollocks.)

Anyway, now Hermione Granger was a whore for Dark wizards. Having seduced the most famous one in his office in the Ministry itself.

The Golden Girl had become … the Golden Slag.

At least that’s what people called her behind her back, each morning and evening.

She knew that if Draco was aware of the full extent of the hate she faced, he’d probably get himself thrown in Azkaban. And while the words were hurtful, it was nothing she couldn’t handle.

Molly’s silence though - well that was something else entirely.

“You okay, love?” Hermione startled when Draco cupped her face in his hands, a frown marring his angelic features. “It looks like I lost you there for a second.”

Okay, maybe the comments were bothering her a bit.

“I was just thinking that might not be terrible. Having a few extras here.” Though, admittedly, Hermione didn’t have that large of a wardrobe. “I’ll bring an outfit or two next time I sleep over.” And maybe a few novels.

“I’ll clean out a drawer,” Draco grinned, rubbing his hands down her arms. “Pack as much as you want.” Hermione’s own smile felt plastered on by comparison.

Because he didn’t deserve this backlash either.

His entire life, from cradle to adulthood, had been mired in the inherent hatred of blood supremacy. He was raised to be disdainful of anyone outside the Sacred 28. Taught to see others as lesser beings because of their DNA and surname. Forced into bearing a mark of those beliefs forever.

Society hated him for his lack of choice. But they despised him even more for his redemption.

Draco was still spat on in public, hexed behind his back by former Order members and Death Eaters alike, told that he should off himself by strangers.

The hatred he was taught thrown back in his face.

And now she was getting a taste of it.

It was horrible.

“What do you want for breakfast?” Draco kissed her nose, concerned eyes raking across her face. Hermione being, once again, reminded that she made for a terrible actress. “We could go out somewhere?”

She wasn’t ashamed of being with him but, still, she shook her head.

Because Hermione knew herself rather well. Saying she had a bit of a temper was an understatement. If anyone called Draco a Death Eater while she was there, well, she would hex them into St. Mungo’s.

Jeremy Stretton had been rather lucky he revealed his prejudice during a transcribed interview. He was undoubtedly getting fired for the remark. Hermione having already filed an extensive complaint with HR, now in the course of investigation.

But, if the Ravenclaw had said that comment outside of work? He would be a nesting pigeon in Trafalgar Square right now.

“Okay, I’ll see what we have in the kitchen.” Draco pressed his lips against her forehead and stepped out of the closet (which was the size of a dressing room).

His words immediately cleared the fog in her mind. It was probably unintentional, the switch from “I” to “we.” But they did feel like a unit.

Them against the world, especially given the blowback from the Prophet articles.

She frowned. No, he really didn’t need to know how bad it had gotten.

He should have one thing unmarred by the darkness.

She clicked down the hallway in her heels, thinking how someone actually tried to hex her in the elevator yesterday. (If they succeeded, she would’ve bled out before reaching the fireplace - the flash of a camera probably the last thing she saw.)

It was incredulous how people thought they had a say in who Hermione took to bed, all because of the role she played in the war.

Draco was in the process of carefully depositing poached eggs on crumpets when she walked in, the hollandaise sauce waiting to be drizzled on top. He was an absolute marvel in the kitchen whereas she was an unmitigated disaster. (He’d gently suggested that they try a simpler recipe to cook together after she blackened the carrots she was meant to be roasting last night.)

“Looks amazing.” She pecked his cheek before carrying the plates over to the breakfast table, breaking out into a smile when she spotted the bouquet of peonies waiting there. The blooms were pink, tipped in red. “Where’d you get these?”

“They arrived this morning without a card,” Draco shrugged. “Looks like you have a secret admirer.”

Considering very few knew Draco’s address, she doubted that. Unless the flowers were sent by Harry (unlikely) or Nott (possible).

“Maybe you’re the one with the beau considering they’ve come here.” Hermione giggled, before thanking her boyfriend for the gesture.

Based on the lingering kiss that tempted her into letting breakfast cool, she’d guessed right.

***

Draco and Hermione arrived to the Ministry together, now so late that it didn’t matter if they Floo’ed in separately. The reporters would note the time of their appearance and have some fucking comment about it either way.

If it was after ten a.m., the two had slept in after spending all night debauching each other at an undisclosed location. Rita Skeeter speculating that their coupling occurred in the Manor drawing room, the Dark Lord’s crypt (wherever that was) or the Chamber of Secrets.

When the partners came in early, Draco was having his way with Hermione in the office. All surfaces now covered in bodily fluid, the room only safe when wearing a hazmat suit from all the sex and Dark magic.

The working theory being that Hermione was willfully engaging in lewd acts with a known Death Eater in a ploy for more power. The wasted potential of the Golden Girl transformed into an active threat to wizarding society as she delved into dangerous spells.

Last Draco checked, there was an actual petition circulating for Hermione to get professional help. Another to have her wand snapped.

It was the most unbelievable shit Draco had ever read. Of all the fucking people to accuse going bad, they landed on her.

It was fucking laughable … well, to a degree.

Yesterday, he burned twenty Howlers calling her a ‘sell-out Mudblood’ so she didn’t have to hear that shit. And though the Auror was taking note of every person daring to call her a slur, he could only bring them in on hate speech. Their trials would inevitably get delayed by bureaucratic red tape once they found out the charges and who was bringing them.

Luckily he had a solution in hand. That being writing the names in fading ink on scraps of parchment that he passed to Bill.

Draco may have Ministry HR on him at all times, as evidenced by the wand report he had to turn in yesterday. But Bill Weasley? That fucker could do as he pleased.

And the man was currently on a witch hunt, so to speak.

His boss had also gone through the bullpen like a tornado and informed every one of Potter’s fucking devotees that if anyone spoke to the press again, he would find out who they were (through illegal means) and fire them without reference. All before he put them on watch lists for whatever he liked.

The Head Auror took to threats against his family, blood-related or not, as well as Draco did to moves on his beloved treasure. Needless to say, the men were getting on for the first time in years.

But, of course, Hermione didn’t need any more to worry about so she didn’t exactly know all this.

“Malfoy, Granger.” Bill grunted at them, seeming worse for wear, as he walked down the hallway. He sipped on a mug, either tea or whiskey Draco wasn’t sure. “My office now.”

They followed him in, taking a seat as his heavy boots thumped on his desk. Based on the fresh mud on his soles, Draco would wager that his new best friend hadn’t had much sleep the night before.

“Give me a status update, yeh?” Bill rubbed blearily at his eyes, the red scars standing out in stark contrast to his pale skin.

“We’re dating,” Hermione blurted out.

“Congratulations,” the eldest Weasley muttered as he lit a cigarette with his fingers. “Glad to know you’ve found time for love between the necromancy and sex rituals.”

Draco rolled his eyes, the comment being pulled straight from the headlines that morning.

“HR has been looking for a reason to punish Draco for ages. You need to grant him a relationship waiver so they don’t have an excuse to sack him.” Hermione stared at the Head Auror, daring him to defy her. “He’s the best you have, you won’t solve the case without him.”

“Or her,” Draco added with a smirk.

“And you’re not breaking up,” Bill stated, seeming bored of this conversation. He dragged open his bottom drawer and topped up his drink. Whiskey then.

“Correct,” Hermione nodded.

“Hades fucking take me. This is what you’ve been focused on? Let me guess, your next steps are to head over to the fucking courthouse before finding the murder weapon.” Draco sneered while Hermione fumbled for a response. “No wonder the case hasn’t been solved yet.”

“The case hasn’t been solved,” Hermione clarified, “because we’re dealing with a wizard that’s choosing Muggle means to kill their victims. It’s not our fault that they aren’t being Avada’d for ease.”

She then proceeded to explain the progress they’d made before Draco could say something snarky.

“That’s what I wanted to know when I asked the question the first time. Not a play-by-play of your bedroom antics.”

If Draco wasn’t relying on Bill to tackle the issue of Hermione’s hate group, he would’ve lunged across the desk to strangle him.

“And as for our waiver,” Hermione asked, her arms crossed.

“Yeh, fine, it’s granted.” Bill crushed his cigarette out on the carpet, his boots grinding ash and mud into the floor. “I’ll tell them not to sanction the git for cavorting with the Devil alongside you.”

Hermione grabbed Draco and pulled him out the door before he could respond.

***

The second they entered their office, the Howlers exploded. One after the other. The screaming continued for several minutes. In its wake, their ears rang and the bullpen was deathly silent. She could even hear the flutter of interoffice memos taking flight and landing, the whisper of parchment normally concealed behind chatter.

Neither Draco nor Hermione bothered to cast Muffliato, everyone already knowing that she’d been branded a slut and him a blood traitor.

Her partner was fuming by the end of it, his chest heaving and his fists clenched by his sides.

This was what she wanted to protect him from. Having the good in his life become tainted from the fallout of his past.

“Draco …” Hermione trailed off.

Because what was there to say?

That he shouldn’t be bothered by the absolute barrel of animosity being thrown their way? Doing so would just dismiss his feelings should he be upset, which he clearly was.

“You weren’t supposed to hear those,” he sighed, his face filled with regret when he finally shut the door.

She opened and closed her mouth, rendered speechless. Understanding dawning on her as to why Draco made sure to arrive first every morning.

It looks like they’d been protecting each other this entire week.

She wouldn’t lie to him and say that it was fine. That the Howlers didn’t bother her in the slightest.

Because he deserved better than false platitudes.

“I -” Hermione felt tears welling in her eyes as she sniffed. “Everyone’s always found a reason to hate me. I was too much of a know-it-all at Hogwarts. Then I was just wasted potential after the war, all because I dared have trauma from being put on the front lines at seventeen. And now I’m a whore for being in a bloody relationship. You know I can actually count on one hand how many people I’ve snogged in my life and I wouldn’t need all the fingers.”

“This is my fault.” He pulled her into his chest where she finally let her tears fall. “I should’ve been more cautious, kept things professional in the office.”

I was the one who kissed you.” Her voice was muffled, her hysteria was not. She pulled away to look into his storm-grey eyes. “I’m not apologizing for it either. I just want to be in a relationship without everyone having a say in the matter.”

Apparating to North America and resuming life under false identities was looking better by the second. Though Hermione wasn’t sure she could convince Draco of that.

“Love, you had no way of knowing that this would happen. Whereas I’ve had an excellent seat to other’s opinions about me for years.” He brushed the tears on her cheeks away with a light touch. “You shouldn’t be receiving death threats because of me.” He sighed, ticking his jaw. His irritation written plain on his face. “Maybe we should take a step back from this. Obviously, I can’t protect you the way I’d like and …”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She leveled him with a stare nearly as fierce as the one she’d managed before breaking his nose in third year. “This isn’t your bloody fault, Draco. And I better not hear you suggest that ever again.”

“Are you threatening me,” he asked, a glint in his eyes despite the severity of their conversation.

“As a matter of fact, I am. You’ll not breaking up with me because people don’t like us together. Their words might sting, but I’m not letting them win. They don’t get to take this away from me.” She circled her arms around his waist protectively. “No one does.”

“Not even me,” he remarked. He smiled faintly when she shook her head against his chest. “Fine by me, love. But if you want to be less … public because of all this, I’d understand.”

Hermione snorted despite herself. They were about as private as they could get, rarely leaving Draco’s apartment.

Yes, they’d been caught a few times making out. But it’s not like they went out on dates in Diagon Alley. Though, with that thought, defiant energy sparked in her chest.

“If I’m in a relationship, I’m not hiding a single thing. Why should I care that people are upset that I’m not wallowing over a dead boyfriend from half a decade ago? They don’t care that Harry has made other friends.” Hermione nodded her head firmly as if coming to a decision. “We’re going out publicly, the Prophet be damned.”

They couldn’t shield each other by hiding for the rest of their lives.

Draco’s eyebrows had shot up in amusement as she continued.

“And if anyone has anything to say, so help me I’ll be bloody arrested.”

“I’m not letting you commit murder for me,” Draco said archly as his hands ran down her arms.

“Please,” she snorted. “It would be a far better punishment to turn someone into a spider and simply forget about it.” She smiled, somewhat deranged, before turning to the pile of remaining mail on Draco’s desk.

“Your talents are being wasted in Muggle Artifacts.” He moved to stand just behind her, such that she could feel his erection through his pants. Her quickness to violence clearly a trait he enjoyed.

“And you’re insatiable.” Hermione swatted his roaming hands. “You already had your fill of me this morning.”

“Sweet tooth, remember?” He bit her earlobe and pressed against her.

“You’re not having your way with me in the office,” Hermione remarked, “at least not right now.”

Draco nearly purred, clearly happy at the possibility of future debauchery, before reaching around to help with the post. Of course, he could’ve stepped to the side to do so. But her boyfriend seemed to prefer being pressed up against her while reading through parole decisions and hearing postponements.

Not that she particularly minded.

“Dean got back to us,” he murmured after awhile.

“I imagine he’s been swamped with packing.” She turned partially to read the note in his hand. “I know I’ve said this, but it’s really lovely you’re letting him stay in the flat.”

It was actually the tenth time she’d brought it up.

Not to mention she’d also seen him sending a parcel containing introductory guides to French, directions to Dean’s art studio, and a breakdown on what museums were actually worth visiting.

And he was doing this because the Gryffindor mattered to Hermione.

It filled her with a bright spot of lust every bloody time. Such that she usually ended up on her knees or on top of him, her eyes fluttering closed as he dripped out of her.

Hermione bit her lip at the thought.

“Feeling needy?” Draco looked at her before tossing the note on his desk, his other hand grabbing her arse. “I can help with that if you’d like.”

“We just got to work,” Hermione giggled. “We’re not even trying to be better than Bill at this point.”

We have a waiver,” Draco started sucking on her neck. “He doesn’t.”

Her boyfriend was a terrible influence on her. Considering she let him deposit her on the desk, her shoes falling to the ground with a clatter.

“That doesn’t mean we can have sex in here whenever we like,” she sighed, his teeth raking against her pulse point. It really was a shame that that wasn’t a viable option though. She pushed him away and returned to Dean’s note.

“Malfoy,

Things have been utterly mental, sorry for the delay. Oh and cheers for the recommendations!

Here’s the promised list:

Bodice Rippers to Meet Cutes: A Group for Romance Enthusiasts (Sugarplum’s Sweets Shop, third Monday of every month)
- This is a book club and film society for, you guessed it, people that love love. Not sure if this is Hermione’s thing but you two might want to avoid next month if so. I heard they’re doing “enemies to lovers” in ode to the most famous duo (a.k.a. you two) finally getting together.

MoM Film Society (Ministry atrium, last Friday of every month)
- Hermione already knows about this since I mentioned it during our weekly several months ago.
- This is limited to Ministry workers (ideally ones actually interested in Muggle culture). So it naturally has a smaller attendance. It might be good for you two if you want a date night devoid of the stares and glares.

Muggle Moving Pictures Society (ZA Coffee, first Friday of every month)
- By far and away, the most popular. Line usually starts forming about an hour or two before the event.

Wizards Against Muggle Encroachment (Ye Ole Curiosity Shop, invitation only)
- I only put this one on here to be exhaustive. You can only imagine the stuff these arseholes get up to. But, rumor has it, they do put on fantasy films occasionally (to make fun of how magic is interpreted). I’m surprised they could figure out how to make a projector run, to be honest.

As you can see, there aren’t very many in operation. I know of one that’s just started up in Hogsmeade, but you specifically mentioned London so I didn’t include it. These types of groups are more popular in North American circles. (I actually created the MoM society after reading about MACUSA’s.)

By the way, if you’re interested, we’re doing an action movie this month. We’re showing that Spiderman film that came out last year.

P.S. Justin Finch-Fletchley is taking over the society while I’m away. So be prepared for a lot of nature documentaries.

P.P.S. Looking forward to seeing you guys Saturday!

- Dean”

“I’m guessing by the look on your face that you weren’t aware of the Ministry one,” Draco asked with a smirk.

“Of course not! I’ve never paid attention in the weeklies. It’s only ever progress report after progress report.”

“I don’t blame you,” he shrugged. “Well considering our killer is likely a Ministry employee, it’s obvious where we should start.”

“First official outing as a couple tomorrow night?” Hermione studied him with hopeful eyes.

“Investigating a murder as our second date might actually be the worst thing I’ve done.”

“Draco!” She swatted his chest and he stumbled back with a chuckle.

“Obviously kidding, love. That accolade goes to letting a fuck-ton of Death Eaters into Hogwarts.”

“Oh honestly,” Hermione rolled her eyes. At least he could talk about it. “Well, if we go, we can figure out who frequents the club.”

“Maybe we’ll get fucking lucky for once and see our guy hiding in the shadows with a needle in hand.”

She snorted before stating that she was quite keen to see the film anyway.

Draco frowned, obviously mulling over the title in his head.

“Action films are just war stories, right? So why the fuck is there one about someone that likes spiders?”

“It’s a superhero film,” Hermione bit her lip but a giggle still escaped her.

“What fantastical ideas Muggles come up with.”

***

“Just how deep does your betrayal go?” Hermione narrowed her eyes over the rim of her cocktail, a gin and tonic that was currently turning flamingo pink before cycling back to dandelion yellow. The magical color-effect thankfully not altering the botanical flavor of the gin.

She was meeting Harry and Ginny at a new pub in Diagon Alley. The youngest Weasley suggesting the location since every time she entered the Leaky Cauldron, she got harassed by Quidditch enthusiasts. With the World Cup coming up next summer, everyone had an opinion on her training schedule, her diet, and flying technique. (Someone even gifted her a vial of Felix Felicis ‘for the betterment of England.’)

As such, they were currently sat on two sofas at the Raven and Foxglove. Purple and blue lights pulsed in time with the electronic music playing through the speakers, turned down enough so people could converse freely. The space was filled with white couches low to the ground and golden-rimmed high tops. A dance floor sat in the middle of the room, a disco ball slowly spinning over head.

Apparently, it was the spot to see and be seen. Everyone wearing the latest slim-fitting robes and wide-brimmed hats.

All of this was an absolute nightmare for Hermione, of course. Because wizarding society wasn’t letting speculation of her new relationship go.

Someone having just informed her in the loo that they weren’t aware that “Golden Girl” was a euphemism all this time for being a money-hungry whore. (Hermione, of course, responded that she hadn’t a clue either.)

“I ran some interference on you two in the pastry department. That’s all.” Harry frowned down at his cocktail that kept belching iridescent gas into the air. The drink itself being their signature vodka cocktail, containing yellow tomato and black pepper.

If it were a contest of who wanted to be here least, the Chosen One might actually win. Having pleaded unsuccessfully with Ginny to just have drinks back at Grimmauld instead.

“Don’t forget you invited him to our catch-up a few weeks ago without telling her,” the Weasley added before sipping her own cocktail. It Transfigured her eyes into the slitted pupils of a cat, her nose even taking on a feline quality. Hermione was pretty sure there was a splash of Polyjuice Potion in the concoction. “I think I want to learn how to be an Animagus.”

“After one drink,” Hermione asked in disbelief. “Honestly, it’s probably not even accurate.”

“Oi, don’t ruin my fun. I’m imagining having a go at George’s ankles over Christmas.”

“I’m simply clarifying,” Hermione added primly, a frown marring her features. She imagined that this would be the first Weasley holiday she’d be uninvited to.

Molly always read the Daily Prophet in the mornings (before attending to her sons’ graves after a spot of breakfast). So she knew what was being said about the Golden Girl. And, yet, the Weasley matriarch hadn’t had a single comment to make about it. (Even Arthur sent Hermione a note telling her not to let the “haters get her down.” The phrase coming from the flock of posters he found in a Muggle thrift shop last week.)

“Okay, I’ll admit that I probably should’ve told you Malfoy was interested.”

“You made it seem like an obsession.”

“It was.” Ginny had her head cocked while she batted at something on the wall, her hands several inches short of the target.

“Cats are near-sighted,” Hermione added. “And I’m not complaining. I just think being your best friend for over a decade warranted some information.”

“I didn’t tell you about a few things, Hermione.” Harry shuddered. “This cocktail tastes like a sandwich, Gin. Can we please go someplace else?”

“A few things? How do you explain this then?” She pointedly looked down at her brand-new jeans and cashmere sweater. The loafers on her feet conditioned and spelled for comfort.

Lo and behold, when she Floo’ed home to get ready for tonight, she nearly broke her neck on the fifty parcels waiting for her in the living room. All containing clothes for every occasion under the sun. (And, yes, a few pieces of lingerie were included as well.)

“That wasn’t me,” Harry said earnestly.

“Yeh, he can’t take credit.” Ginny slurped down the remainder of her cocktail. “That was me and Malfoy. I told him that you’re basically living in the same clothes you fought the war in. So he gave me a Gringotts account number and I picked out some stuff for you.”

In hindsight, the lingerie made sense now.

“I have an entirely new wardrobe,” Hermione spluttered.

“And you didn’t even make a dent in his vaults,” Ginny smiled placidly.

Hermione murmured her thanks while brushing her hands down the soft blue pullover. Anytime the youngest Weasley forced her to go shopping, they’d been limited to charity shops. The priority always work clothes. The Golden Girl having neither the inclination to replace her war uniform nor the budget to do so.

“I don’t get a thank you?” Harry asked incredulously. “I told him about the muffins!”

Hermione snorted before conceding her gratitude for that as well.

“Would you honestly have given him a shot if I told you everything upfront?” Harry was reading the drinks menu with a frown in place, soon muttering how everything seemed mental from a magical perspective. (Hermione agreed, wondering how the proprietors got permits to serve some of these ingredients.)

“Probably not,” she finally huffed before draining her own drink. “So I suppose your treachery was for the best.”

“I told you she would see my side.” Harry glanced at Ginny before shivering. “Merlin, we need to get new drinks ASAP. Your eyes are really starting to freak me out.”

“Kill-joy,” Ginny muttered. “Oh and Mum’s positively delighted for you, by the way.”

Hermione was mid-sip, having slid Harry’s drink over for a taste. The resultant coughing and spluttering catching the attention of several nearby tables. She really hoped they didn’t take a photo while her hair was still charmed to mirror the colors of her last cocktail.

“But she hasn’t said anything all week,” the Golden Girl finally managed. “I thought she’d come down on hating me forever.”

“Ach no, she’s known for ages,” Ginny smirked. “Like ever since Bill caught you basically fucking Malfoy in his office.”

“Again, we were just kissing and the door was shut!” Hermione stared at her two friends who were fighting abysmally to keep their laughter in. “And you’ll telling me your mum knew at the birthday party?”

Molly had been undeniably pleasant to the Golden Girl that afternoon, littering her with hugs and presents, even as she cried over the absence of Fred and Ron.

“Absolutely. Bill Floo’ed home the minute he got confirmation that you two were an item.”

“We weren’t an item,” Hermione said hotly.

“Just fuck buddies,” Harry grinned.

She briefly wondered if it would be worth casting on the Chosen One, an Auror, and getting arrested in the middle of the trendiest bar in wizarding London.

“You know how much of a twit and gossip Bill is. He’s been telling Mum everything going on between you two since your transfer. Down to the contents of the memos even. She’s been rooting for you guys for weeks now.”

“Yeah, Mrs. Weasley sent everyone a warning to welcome Malfoy into the family whenever you brought him round,” Harry nodded. “She threatened George within an inch of his life if he pulled any pranks on him too.”

“Not to mention the bet,” Ginny added, a glint in her eye. (Which was decidedly not a good thing.)

“What bet,” Hermione asked, feeling extremely reticent about hearing the answer.

“Her and Bill have one going for how long you’ll make it before shagging in the office.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped open while Harry took off his glasses to wipe the tears from his eyes, his entire body jostling from laughter.

“I bet ten Galleons you’d go two weeks. So if you could get a move on, that’d be greatly appreciated.” Ginny didn’t even bother looking up from the menu as she said this.

“Just two,” Hermione scoffed.

“Mum didn’t think it’d even be one, so she’s lost fifteen Sickles.” Ginny nodded her head, having decided on her next order. “She’s already selected Malfoy’s sweater color for Christmas and started worrying about whether you’d be upset over getting green.”

“So why hasn’t she reached out?”

“She doesn’t want to push you to talk. New relationships are tricky,” Ginny’s smile was kind. “She never wanted you to stop living because of what happened to Ron, not like she’s done. You’re family, no matter what. Even if you end up with a horde of white-haired little snots instead of a clan of red-headed babes.”

“I - um, right.” Hermione decided not to comment on that particular remark. “She’s really not mad?”

“Well she did just lose her bet. So maybe give her a few days. But otherwise, she’s honestly really happy for you.”

A waitress came up and took their drink order. Harry having chosen a cocktail with gin, dill and coconut that promised a ‘full sensory experience.’ Ginny selected a levitating cocktail with whiskey, Aperol and strawberry while Hermione pointed at something that seemed on the safer side, a drink with bourbon, ginger and birch.

It was like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. Although Molly’s reaction wouldn’t cause Hermione to second-guess her relationship with Draco either way, she wanted to keep everyone in her life. Not having to sacrifice one for another after losing so many during the war.

“There’s no timeline when you’re with the right person,” Ginny glanced over at Harry with a smile spreading across her face. “Take him to the Burrow when you feel ready.”

Hermione mulled over the idea of bringing her partner to meet her ex-boyfriend’s family. She had a hard time imagining it (for obvious reasons), even knowing how changed Draco was from the schoolhouse bully of years prior.

But neither of them really had family anymore. Unless they planned to visit St. Mungo’s and weather through an awkward visit with Lucius Malfoy. Or Portkey to Australia and watch her family from afar.

No, neither of those seemed particularly festive.

So maybe she should bring it up to him … so long as she didn’t bollocks up their relationship in the next several months.

Hermione nodded in agreement, her mind filling with images of the two of them making snow angels in the Burrow’s front yard, his stocking next to hers on the hearth, their matching sweaters.

But these thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of their second round. With a sigh, Harry explained that he could now see the music pulsating around the room. Ginny giggled as she levitated in the air beside her drink.

Hermione hesitated, wondering what would happen with the dark green concoction in front of her. It smelled like a forest, her nose even catching the faint undertones of wet soil. She tentatively took a few sips, frowning as her surroundings started growing moss and leaves. When she brushed her hand over the formerly white sofa, it felt fluffy and damp.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the only thing that transformed before her eyes. She stifled a scream when she looked over at Harry and Ginny who now appeared Nymph-like.

“Yours can’t be as bad as mine,” Harry reached out his twig-like hand and took a sip. “I take that back. It’s definitely worse. Now the music looks like tendrils of ivy with spiders crawling over it.” He shivered and then yelped when he peeked over at Ginny. “Why did we choose this place again? I’ve already seen several cameras directed at the three of us so we’re not exactly flying under the radar.”

“Yeah, but none of those camera-wielding witches have come up to me to ask what dietary supplements I’m taking and if we’re using protection in the bedroom. Plus, I thought this place seemed fun.” Ginny grinned, emitting a delighted laugh when she slurped Hermione’s drink and saw the room bloom into a forest. “Glad I was right!”

“At least one of us is enjoying it,” Harry muttered, pressing a hand against his eyes. “We’re all proud of you for putting yourself out there though.” He shuddered when Ginny brushed a finger along his cheek. “Stop, please, you feel like a bloody tree branch.”

“You make it sound like I’m the pinnacle of Gryffindor bravery for snogging someone,” Hermione snorted.

“Bravery comes in all shapes and sizes, ‘Mione.”

She nearly scolded him out of reflex for using the forbidden nickname, the one that Ron always fell back on. But, with a start, she realized it didn’t hurt so much to hear. Which was yet another indication that she was finally leaving that night at Hogwarts behind.

Though she still flagged down the waitress to order a third cocktail. One with tequila, banana, and gochujang. She didn’t actually bother reading the magical effects, having just selected the first thing she saw.

“But you’ve just ordered that one,” the waitress frowned down at Hermione’s half-full drink. “Did you not like it?”

“With the way this conversation is going, I’ll be done soon.”

“In that case, he’ll have the ‘Fantastic Flyer’ and I’ll do the ‘Venus Trap.’” Ginny smiled as the waitress wrote everything down and walked away. Then she promptly snatched the menu from Harry who was trying to find the drink his girlfriend selected for him. “It’s a surprise! Don’t worry, it sounds fun.”

“That’s what I’m concerned about, Gin. Your idea of fun is very different from mine.”

“Can we please change the topic from my love life before I die of embarrassment?” Hermione finished her tumbler that made her pretty convinced she’d stepped into a portal to the fae realm. At least it tasted nice.

“Sure,” Ginny shrugged. “How’re things with your partner at MLE?”

Harry snorted and Hermione nearly wailed in frustration.

“You’re unbelievable!”

“I’m merely interested in your life,” the youngest Weasley shrugged, feigning innocence. “Harry told me you have a working theory on what’s killing everyone.”

“Ginny,” Hermione flapped her hands, shushing her friend. “Draco will kill me if anyone overhears. Then Molly won’t get to put him in any Weasley sweater because he’ll be in Azkaban. You aren’t meant to know anything about the case, let alone get bloody updates from an Auror.”

Maybe she should start taking the gag order a touch more seriously. It was just difficult keeping anything exciting from her friends. (Admittedly, most times people disagreed what was actually interesting. No one batting an eye over the extremely fascinating account of how the Grand Staircase was constructed, as detailed in Hogwarts: A History.)

“Spousal privilege,” Ginny grinned.

“You two aren’t married,” Hermione replied archly.

“Not yet,” the Weasley singsonged. “But we will be.” Ginny pulled out half of a Snitch, which contained a dazzling ring with a large topaz stone in the middle. Diamonds studded the band throughout. “I’ve not put it on because I don’t want the evening Prophet to tell Mum before I can.”

“You’re engaged?” Hermione stared in shock at her friends. Unfortunately, they did still look like forest creatures with orb-like eyes, so it was a bit unsettling.

“I was planning on telling you beforehand but Ginny already suspected something … and you’re a terrible liar.” Harry sheepishly scratched the back of his neck before nodding his thanks to the waitress depositing their next round on the table. Ginny having already hidden the Snitch away so no one could catch a glimpse.

Hermione supposed that she was dreadful at keeping secrets. But it seemed like Harry was routinely not telling her anything of importance. She wasn’t that fragile, was she?

But even as she thought this, she felt conflicting emotions swell inside her. So close to the surface that they threatened to burst from her body.

There was a deep well of grief that sought to crack her chest open. Because Ron really should be here, beside her, to celebrate this news.

And, of course, she was overcome with joy. Love, especially in the aftermath of war, always made Hermione feel soppy.

She noted a touch of relief, glad that Harry finally got on with asking. Everyone wondered if he was ever going to.

And then … well, there was the strangest sort of curiosity at the bottom of it. It was almost an eagerness to know what it would feel like to be Ginny. Not that Hermione would want to marry Harry. But she was intrigued by the notion of tying yourself to someone so completely.

She forced herself to tamp down all the feelings waging a war inside her, fixing a smile on her face. Though it was probably peeling at the edges. Because Ron’s absence was palpable. After all, this was his sister and their best friend.

“Tell me everything,” Hermione sipped her drink. She winced, having chosen the wrong one yet again. It was so spicy that her tongue was going numb, her body naturally producing more saliva to deal with the heat. She supposed “Devil’s Bargain” was an apt name.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t all. Before Ginny could even open her mouth, Hermione screamed.

Because a little demon had just appeared on her shoulder, politely whispering in her ear that she should inform Ginny that her haircut was crooked. Oh and that Harry looked like a toad on the best of days.

She tried to stop the Weasley from taking a sip but the ginger had far faster reflexes given her time on the pitch.

Ginny yelped as her own little devil appeared before grinning at the Golden Girl. “Ooh, this one might be the best yet. Try it,” she slid the drink over to her fiancé. “If you don’t like yours, Hermione, you can always have mine.”

She tentatively took the Chaser’s cocktail and tasted it, hoping that nothing horrible happened. All while her apparition whispered the most horrid things in her ear.

Thankfully, Ginny’s order was much nicer and the two agreed to switch while Harry moaned and shuddered over whatever he was being told.

“I don’t think yours has any magic to it,” Hermione stated, her head cocked as she waited for something to happen.

She caught a glimpse of a blond witch in her periphery, which made her wonder what Draco was up to tonight. If he was free (which he probably was), he might want to join them. She could just pop into the Floo and invite him along. Though if she was at his … well, there really would be no reason to come back.

And she was wearing a set of lingerie she thought he’d like. The piece being all bows. An absolute nightmare to put on but quite easy to take off. He could just unwrap her like a present.

“Hermione.”

“Hmm,” she answered, still thinking of all the ways Draco might take her in the library. Up against the shelves, in front of a roaring fire, his head between her thighs on the ladder.

“You’re drooling,” Harry watched her, cringing.

“What?” She snapped to attention, her gaze narrowing on Ginny. “Is this a bloody love potion?”

“No,” the Weasley scrunched her nose, though her eyes were doing their trademark glint again. “It just has a small dose of one … among other things. Don’t blame me, it was the demon’s fault.”

Hermione clamped her legs tightly together, where wetness was starting to accumulate. Though she instantly regretted it from how nice the pressure felt. Even though she’d like more friction … maybe even a pointed nose.

“There’s lust potion in here as well then.” Ginny nodded her head, a devilish grin curling her mouth. “That’s got to be illegal.” Gods, this place was horrible. “Harry, let me try yours.”

Hermione reached over but her best friend batted her away.

“You’re going to want this even less. It makes you think there are nearly seven Bludgers flying about.” He ducked at an imaginary ball, ending up face-down on the floor as he swore.

“Right, engagement story then.” Hermione’s eyes were most assuredly wild with lust. But she thought a distraction was in order until the effects wore off. Otherwise, she would be stumbling towards the fireplace, her hands tearing at her clothes before long.

“Oh right.” Ginny continued to drink happily on the cocktail that made her hallucinate a devil on her shoulder as though it were a normal vodka-cranberry. “We had a pick-up match before this. Harry asked me to sub in as the opposing Seeker last minute.”

“And I made sure that we both saw the Snitch at the same time,” Harry added.

“Oh come off it, you noticed me diving and followed suit to save face,” Ginny snorted.

“Whatever the case, we ended up neck-and-neck. But I pulled away at the last second to let Ginny win.”

“That was going to happen anyway,” she rolled her eyes. “When I turned around to tell him off, he was on one knee.” She smiled at the recent memory. “The Snitch in my hand was lit up with the question. You know, ‘will you marry me?’ Though I needed context clues for what it said because Harry’s handwriting is so bloody terrible.”

“Gee, thanks, Gin.”

“That’s quite clever actually.” Hermione was impressed by the idea. Though she pointedly ignored the suggestion that it was a rather amateur charm, all things considered. “It sounds a bit like the spell Dumbledore used on the Snitch he gave you.”

“Good catch,” Harry said with a wink. Though it could’ve been a flinch since he promptly rolled off the sofa to avoid a Bludger. Both Ginny and Hermione snorted in response (obviously not at the pun, but at his ridiculous feinting).

“When I told him yes, the Snitch opened to reveal the ring.”

“If she didn’t agree to marry me, it wouldn’t open again. I could only figure out how to spell it in the affirmative.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, actually acceding with the demon that it was a simple charm after all.

But then it hit her.

Harry asked Ginny to marry him at a Quidditch match. Meaning that there were other people that knew before her. Possibly ones not even close to the couple. Obviously Hermione hated flying and refused to play Quidditch. But he could’ve asked her to show up and spectate for Fate’s sake.

She felt a bright spot of pain hit her heart. They were likely telling her hours after the fact because they were worried over how she would react. Knowing there was a possibility that she would ruin the mood.

That there was a 50/50 chance that she’d be a sobbing mess, something that tended to happen whenever she felt Ron should be somewhere.

And while she did feel horribly sad, it wasn’t the dominating emotion anymore. Happiness and curiosity were now locked in first place. (Which Hermione firmly told herself was the result of the love potion.)

She wondered how it would feel to have a ring of her own. And try as she might, she wasn’t able to shake off her imaginings of a certain platinum-haired detective on one knee - box in hand. The idea of it not making her feel guilty, but giddy with excitement.

If it wasn’t the bloody drink, then she was doomed.

“Harry James Potter.” A tear splattered down Hermione’s cheek as her voice cracked. So much for not crying. “Now look who’s proud of who. We might just have to knick the Sorting Hat from Hogwarts to see who can pull the sword out first.”

“Well we’ve already done a run on Gringotts and the Ministry,” Harry grinned. “A heist at our alma mater shouldn’t be an issue at all.”

Hermione choked out a laugh before joining the couple on their couch and pulling them into a hug.

“I’m so happy for you. Gin, you get to deal with him full-time now! Only knowing how to spell the Snitch in the affirmative, honestly.”

“I’m the Chosen One, not the brightest witch - remember?” Harry said cheekily. This time, he wasn’t quite quick enough to dodge the (actual) attack from Ginny and Hermione, the two women swatting his arms one after the other.

“If there’s anything I can do, let me know,” Hermione beamed while going back to her side. She eyed her cocktail skeptically before taking another sip.

“Actually, there are two somethings.” Harry said.

“You’ve just got engaged like two hours ago,” the Golden Girl responded with a laugh.

“I know … but there’s a reason we wanted to wait and tell you.” Harry seemed nervous as he said this, his leg starting to bounce. “We both have to ask you something.”

“Okay …” Hermione furrowed her brow in confusion.

“You can say no to Ginny, but not to me.” He nodded, the matter internally decided. “I’ve known you longer.”

“Harry,” Ginny said, the warning clear in her voice.

“Obviously, Hermione, you’re my best woman. There’s no one else I want up there with me that day.”

“Besides me,” Ginny snorted.

“Right, obviously.” Harry said, clearly abashed. “Besides Ginny.”

“And I want you to be my maid of honor,” Ginny sighed. “We’ve not figured out the logistics of where you’ll be standing yet.”

She looked between the two of them, speechless before descending into a cascade of giggles.

“Erm, Hermione?” Harry frowned at her. “Is that a yes?”

“Of course!” She nodded fervently, happy tears shaking free.

And then the three got absolutely irresponsibly drunk.

As in no Apparition allowed, you have to Floo home intoxicated.

Which was how Hermione wound up in Draco’s fireplace at two in the morning, seeing pixies and tasting color, soot covering every inch of her.

Notes:

okay, little writing update from me. i'm six chapters ahead of my posting schedule and only have five more chapters to draft/edit! <3

Chapter 24: Someone's Falling in Love

Notes:

just a fun little one today. <3

next week will be a double post since i wrote a little over 12k and thought it should be broken up.

as for my writing update on this story, i only have four more chapters to draft. :)

enjoy!

Chapter Text

“Who the fuck is that,” Draco muttered after hearing the roar of his living room fireplace. It was past two in the morning so he obviously wasn’t expecting company. (Not that anyone ever came over.) He pocketed his wand in his joggers and headed towards the commotion.

Unexpected company was never a good thing in his experience.

It was only ever Dark wizards wanting a place to plot the breakdown of society or a gaggle of teenagers trying to defeat said persons.

Occasionally, there was the drunken friend that forgot their own address and wanted to sleep on his bedroom floor. (But that hadn’t happened since Christmas break fifth year.)

He sauntered into the living room, drink in one hand and a book opened in the other. Maybe he should be more concerned with a serial killer on the loose, one targeting former Death Eaters no less.

But he’d already lived through one deranged murderer wrecking havoc on his life.

What was one more.

He turned the page with his thumb, his mind focused on the author’s theory that scarab beetles might be used to transform Dark magic into something, if not good, then neutral.

The Slytherin was currently reading up on curse breaking. It would be nice to actually make something out of the Manor one day, well something other than a tourist destination for the Dark Lord fanatics not in Azkaban. And as he was losing faith in the Ministry’s efforts by the day, he suspected it would be up to him.

“Nott, I told you I’m not lending …”

He trailed off when he caught a mass of curly brown hair in his periphery.

Hermione was sitting on his living room floor, absolutely fucking plastered and covered in gray soot. She somehow managed to knock over his fire grate when Floo’ing in, such that there was now a fine layer of sediment everywhere.

Which she was currently in the process of trying to sweep up with her palms, giggles slipping out as she got dirtier and dirtier.

“Darling, what’re you doing on the floor?”

She paused in her efforts to look up. But instead of meeting his bemused expression, she kept her eyes locked on his body.

Oh right. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, only the black sweatpants hung low on his hips. She licked her tongue across her bottom lip as she tracked the ink on his arms and ribs.

“Hi there,” Draco placed his glass and book on the mantle before squatting down until they were eye level.

“You’re here.” Her voice was breathy, her pupils nonexistent. She smelled like booze and sugar, the combination not altogether unpleasant.

“Funnily enough I live here,” he smirked.

“Oh.” Her mouth rounded, her head turning to take in the blue tufted sofa and velvet curtains. “I think I said the wrong Floo address.” She frowned, wiping her forearm across her cheek and leaving a streak of ash in its wake. “Your apartment’s absolutely filthy, you know.” She looked around before finding her wand a few inches away. “Just because I’m yours, doesn’t mean I’ll do all the cleaning. I’m not some docile housewife like you’ve been taught to expect.”

She murmured an incantation, her words slurring at the wrong moment so that a gust of air shot soot towards the ceiling.

“Of course not, love. I’d never expect such a thing.” Draco was trying to choke back a laugh as it rained grey upon their heads, Hermione fully dismayed that she’d gotten a spell wrong. “Though, in hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have freed the elves.”

When she tried to whack him, he easily caught her hands - wandlessly Vanishing the sediment from the floor as she fought him.

“This definitely falls into the ‘for worse’ category, doesn’t it?” Hermione’s nose scrunched in dissatisfaction at her ruined sweater and scuffed loafers.

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, love.”

“Wedding vows.”

The Fates did actually want to kill him after all. There was no other explanation for those words to come out of her mouth. Nor for her to mention being a bloody housewife, even if just to dismiss the idea.

He was inches away from her, mere seconds from helping her up, when she said it. Even now, her sweet breath ghosted across his face as the air stalled in his lungs. His pupils were probably as dilated as hers, the grey just a thin band around the black.

Yes, she was exceptionally drunk. But those words set his blood aflame, his heart racing at the images playing in his mind.

Hermione in a white wedding dress because, obviously, she wouldn’t bow to wizarding tradition and wear robes. He would surprise her day of with a Muggle suit, both of their backs turning on society’s expectations for them.

Until the Manor was freed from Dark magic, they would live here. At least one cat, maybe two. Paint would splatter her clothing as she insisted on doing the renovations herself. He would smile every time he saw blue flecks on the expensive flooring because she forgot to secure the plastic drop cloths.

Maybe more than that one day. The bedrooms redecorated with tiny sailboats or castles.

Fuck.

Obviously, he wanted to keep Hermione forever. But he’d been bordering on obsessed since sixth year.

With the exception of their temporary Hogwarts truce and the past few weeks, the Golden Girl had always toed the line of disdain with him. (Which was more than fair given the shit he put her through.) So, for her to consider anything that long term, was …

Well, it was everything to him.

He just wished she wasn’t so bloody drunk when she said it.

She looked vulnerable as the silence stretched between them, Draco not realizing how long he’d lost himself to his dreams.

“I can’t imagine when you’ve seen me worse.” She shrugged before her body froze entirely. It was clear that they were both thinking of the night in Malfoy Manor. She bit her lip, the pain of her torture seeming to pass across her face. All while he was filled with soul-aching regret. Because, for however much he wanted a future with her, there would always be the past holding them back. “Well maybe once,” she whispered.

Draco would never forgive himself for playing a part in the worst night of her life. He didn’t understand how she could. But, right now, she was looking at him with such sadness. Like she’d just broken his heart and not the other way around.

“Hermione, I - ”

“What happened wasn’t your fault.” She smiled - the moment of her disquiet already passed. “You saved my life that night and I’ll keeping saying it until you believe me. Though given how much of a muck I’ve made, maybe that wasn’t the best decision. I suppose it can only get better from here.”

“You mean, you don’t plan on surprising me in the middle of the night again?”

“No, at least not covered in your banked fire.”

“Maybe I like seeing you make a mess,” he teased.

Hermione’s eyes raked down his bared body once more, her lust on full display.

But she was far too drunk for anything to happen and he knew his potion stores were running low. If he was lucky, he may have a spare sobriety draught lying around. So, before she could lunge herself at him (which she seemed on the cusp of doing), he pulled her to her feet.

“You need a shower and then we need to sleep.” He said this with marked disappointment. Because he fucking hated being the responsible one.

Hermione didn’t look especially keen that their night would end in such a boring fashion. But it wasn’t his fault she drank the pub dry with Harry and Ginny, was it?

“I shouldn’t keep you up any later.” He could tell that she was hurt from being rejected, likely wanting to lick her wounds in quiet. “I’ll just Floo home so you can get a good night’s rest.”

He was about to tell her that, in fact, he only seemed to sleep well when she was beside him. His nightmares abating completely. But he didn’t get the chance.

She tried to bat him away in the same moment that she pivoted towards the fireplace. She didn’t quite make it, instead stumbling over the fire grate and face planting right into the stonework.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Draco pinched the space between his brows before jumping into action.

She was crouching on the ground, holding a hand to her nose while blood dripped onto the floorboards.

“Love, let me see.” He pulled Hermione’s hand away to take a closer look. “That’s it.”

Well it was definitely fucking broken, the blood pouring out and her eyes already starting to blacken.

“It hurts,” she murmured. Her lower lip trembled as tears splattered her cheeks.

“I know,” he cooed. He brought her against his chest and quickly cast a healing charm to undo the damage. “C’mon, darling, let’s go to my room. You can wear something of mine.”

“What will the Prophet think when I show up in your clothes,” she asked, slightly hysterical. “And Bill and Harry would never let me live it down. We’d have to change our names and move to North America after all.”

It took him a second to realize that she was initially talking about tomorrow morning, the thought making him laugh. Though he had no fucking idea what she meant by moving to an entirely different continent.

“Probably they’ll think we’re fucking,” the Slytherin shrugged. “But since that’s already their opinion, I see no reason to worry.”

“No, I don’t think I can face it.” She shook her head, her curls whacking him in the face. “And I should probably go back to mine for once.”

“At the risk of sounding overly possessive, no. You’re not going home, not unless I’m coming with you. It’s too dangerous. And there’s no way you have anything suitable for breakfast.” He pulled her tighter against him, kissing her temple. “I’d much rather you stay here and let me take care of you.” His voice was firm, the matter closed.

In his mind, he was thinking that it’d be preferable if she stayed forever. His mind hungry for the fantasy from earlier. She could Floo back to his apartment every single day and he could make sure she was safe.

“Fine, but I’ll not wear your Quidditch jersey in tomorrow. It has your name on it.”

“Unfortunately, that’s the only thing I have clean.”

“Liar,” she pouted.

“You can’t blame me for wanting to see my name on your back again.”

This time she didn’t fight him, instead letting him lead her down the hallway - his hands on her hips to keep her upright.

As she stumbled her way to his room, he silently simmered with rage. It was a miracle she’d even made it to his apartment in the first place given how drunk she was. If he lived even a few fireplaces away, he was sure she’d have wound up falling into some stranger’s home.

It was fucking unbelievable that the proprietors allowed her to Floo. They probably wanted her to make a fool of herself, photographs of the Golden Girl having a wild time undoubtedly good for business.

But Draco could remedy that. He would be gently suggesting to Bill that they look into the Raven and Foxglove. Make sure all their permitting and shit was in order. Nothing worse than having the Ministry step in so soon after opening.

But doing so would make it clear: no one would put his treasure in the path of danger and come out unscathed.

“You really shouldn’t spell the floorboards to move. It’s bad for the foundation. If you read Hogwarts: A History, they actually detail the dangers.”

Draco smiled over how inherent his girlfriend’s swottiness was. No amount of alcohol was enough to stop a lecture apparently.

“Tell me about it in the morning and I’ll see what I can do.”

***

Draco was in the bathroom with her, running a warm shower despite her specific request for a bath. Apparently, he was concerned that she might drown herself.

Which was rather absurd.

Hermione only had a few drinks at the bar.

And she’d only fallen twice since arriving. Once at the fireplace and then upon entering his bedroom. She’d been aiming to jump straight into the sheets but missed by several feet. Draco immediately bending down to heal her busted lip and twisted ankle.

Hermione turned, her hand now magically glued to the marble wall so that she wouldn’t fall over. He really was putting up too much fuss.

She couldn’t even do anything about it. Her wand was waiting for her on the bedside table where Draco placed it after she set his curtains aflame. She’d been trying to cast more light in the room. The blue fire licking up the fabric not her intention, but gave the desired effect.

And as an unfortunate consequence to that mishap, she was stuck until Draco freed her.

Though after nearly falling a third time when kicking off her shoes, one eventually coming to land in the sink and the other nearly colliding with his head, she was grateful for the charm.

Maybe she was a little more intoxicated than she cared to admit.

She leaned back against the wall, letting her eyes close for a moment while she battled against a wave of nausea.

Hermione vowed to never touch alcohol again, at least not in that quantity.

Once the room stopped spinning after reopening her eyes, she was momentarily convinced she was back at school. The illusion gone after a deep breath and shake of her head.

His bathroom was so similar to the one the Prefects used at Hogwarts. His clawfoot tub spanned the length of the room and had several dozen faucets - all seeming to do different things. One made bubbles while another scented the water with sandalwood. (At least that was what Draco told her. She hadn’t gotten the chance to properly investigate it yet.)

He’d chosen black marble for the walls and flooring as opposed to the white stone the school installed. Though the floor-to-ceiling windows were an exact replica, the stained glass even depicting a mermaid.

For someone who had horrible memories of the place, she was surprised he’d decided to pay homage to it at all.

Of course, the shower was entirely new. She never had access to one in Scotland. The Board of Governors agreeing to the school’s first renovation after the Battle of Hogwarts. So the rainfall feature she enjoyed here was an absolute treat.

After studying, what she presumed, were golden faucets and wiggling her toes on the heated floors, she decided it would take her several lifetimes on a Ministry salary to afford this one room.

“Bloody rich wizard,” she muttered.

“What was that?” He walked over to her, dispelling the magic keeping her locked against the stone.

“Nothing,” Hermione answered, wondering what it would take to get him into the shower with her.

“Are you going to be okay while I check my stores for sobriety potion?”

So much for that fantasy, the dreams promptly dashed by his question.

She rolled her eyes in response, walking into the shower fully clothed - having already decided that was the least embarrassing option. Because there was no way that Hermione was gracefully getting her clothes off in this state.

Draco watched for a second while she attempted to pick up the shampoo bottle but ended up swaying and knocking everything to the tiled floor with a clatter.

“Actually, maybe I -”

“Out!” Because she had the feeling that if her boyfriend got into the shower now, it would just be to mother hen her to death. Which wasn’t what she wanted, wishing instead that he’d eat her out under the warm water. When he still lingered, she waved a hand dismissively behind her as she sat down amongst the scattered products to find the one she wanted.

Unfortunately, one of the last cocktails she drank was ‘Lost in Translation.’ It worked some charm on her so that every word she tried to read appeared in Old French.

Ginny and Harry, fully in the celebratory spirit after sharing their news, had ordered every cocktail yet untried. Then they drank fast and hard, such that Hermione was dealing with multiple magical effects at the same time.

Case in point: she hiccuped a bright orange bubble that played a musical note when it finally popped. That would be ‘Bubblegum Fun,’ based on the lingering flavor it left on her tongue.

With Draco finally gone, she went through the effort of peeling her sopping clothes from her body. It really was a shame that she drank too much. He would’ve loved her underthings. Though they were small enough to hide, so maybe it could still be a surprise.

After shoving what ended up being little more than untied ribbons into her jeans pocket, she tossed the soaking heap on the marble outside the shower. And then she attacked her hair with, what she hoped, was shampoo. It was impossible to know, Hermione having studied the middle variant of French instead. She couldn’t even base her decision on scent or texture, Draco’s products far nicer than her own. And all in the same black bottles too.

By the time she was done washing her curls and body, the water no longer running grey down the drain, her hair smelled like petrichor and her body like an evergreen forest. Though that might’ve been another magical reaction, it was hard to tell.

She stumbled out of the shower, nearly smacking her face into the glass door in the process, and wrapped herself in a fluffy ebony towel. She’d planned on brushing her teeth and combing through her hair, but a wave of exhaustion hit her once the water stopped flowing. So, instead, she sat down on the floor. Which is where Draco found her two eons later. (Likely a result of the cocktail ‘Awhile Ago’ which messed with the drinker’s understanding of time.)

“Here this is my last one,” Draco held out a potion to her. “It’ll taste like shit, but it should help you feel better.”

“It’s not more experimental cocktails, right?” She hiccuped a bright blue bubble and winced when it made the sound of a French horn. “We sampled all the ones on the menu and the side-effects … not good.”

Not only was she unable to tell a second from a decade, Hermione could only see in inverted colors. She’d also developed an irrational fear of bunnies for some reason.

“No, love.” Draco uncapped the bottle and held it to her lips. “Just a sobriety draught.”

She hummed happily at the pet name before chugging the viscous solution, the moldy cheese flavor promptly making her throw up everything in her stomach.

For better or worse, indeed.

Not only did Hermione spew acid green liquid across the marble, she also managed to get it all over him. The potion taking immediate effect, shame quickly replacing the haziness of the booze.

In hindsight, she thought it would be better to stay drunk and deal with the resulting hangover the following day than live through this.

It was, single-handedly, the most embarrassing thing she’d ever done. And that was saying something considering she mistook the symbol for ‘partnership’ for the one meaning ‘defense’ in her Ancient Runes O.W.L. exam.

For some reason, Draco didn’t seem absolutely horrified to be covered in her bile. His face a neutral mask as he instantly spelled the floor spotless before Vanishing his sweatpants. Green splattered his chest and arms, the smell of spun sugar wafting from his skin.

She wondered if it were possible to Obliviate herself before he managed to intervene.

While he showered, keeping up a steady stream of conversation about Egyptian curse-breaking, she brushed her teeth five times. Then she scraped her tongue, flossed and mouth-washed. Once satisfied, she darted into his dressing room and pulled on his Quidditch jersey.

Because if she was going to throw up on him, she might as well do something to make up for it.

She sighed, looking at herself in the mirror with a frown. All she could manage in the way of affection were greasy croissants and stolen clothing. While he’d saved her from the darkness of her past.

Hermione padded back into the bathroom, his eyes immediately catching on the Slytherin green uniform as he rinsed his hair.

“Perfect choice,” Draco noted with a smile curving his lip, his hands working the soap into a foam.

“I thought you might appreciate it.” Admittedly, she didn’t hate wearing his kit. The fabric felt like silk against her skin, the lingering musk bringing her comfort.

“Do you think Bill will try to clean out my vaults if I ask him to break the Manor?”

“No, but even if he does, Molly will make him use a family discount.” Hermione pursed her lips, slightly distracted by the way Draco scrubbed his chest before working the suds down lower. “Ask at Christmas. That’s usually when he’s in the best mood.”

“You didn’t happen to … take anything at the bar tonight, did you?”

Hermione felt like a witness under interrogation with the way Draco was now examining her.

“What would give you that impression?”

“Just answer the question, love.”

“No, I haven’t taken any drugs.” She didn’t mean to snap at him, but it was all too easy to remember Harry stumbling home with powder on his nose and his pupils blown wide for days at a time. Ginny frantically checking that he hadn’t choked on vomit in the night while Hermione hid beneath her covers.

“It’s just that you suggested I spend Christmas with the Weasleys. A family that has every reason to hate me.”

“Well the invite’s already extended since Molly’s planning to knit you a sweater,” Hermione said hesitantly. “I haven’t spoken to her about it. But everyone’s fully onboard with our relationship. I didn’t mean to bring it up in quite this way but …”

“You’re ravenous for me and forgot your words,” Draco smirked.

“More like exhausted from being up so late,” she sniffed - refusing to admit he was right. “If you don’t feel comfortable going, you don’t have to.”

“Would you only spend the holidays with me if I go?” His voice was so vulnerable then that it broke her heart.

“No,” she said softly, “of course not.”

“Okay,” he nodded. “But I want a second Christmas with you after the one at the Burrow.”

“Fine,” Hermione agreed - amused they were negotiating this while he was in the shower at half-three in the morning.

“Excellent,” Draco said as he turned off the water. “In that case, I’ll bring it up to Bill in front of Mrs. Weasley to reduce the chance of him hexing me.”

If you asked the Golden Girl five years ago if the Malfoy heir would ever go to the Burrow willingly, she would’ve said no. Obviously not. He would have to be bound and gagged before going to the house that constantly seemed on its last legs.

But, of course, she hadn’t realized that the war had changed him. That she had done so.

And now, Draco was far too good for her.

His faith in others should be completely shattered after his childhood. Yet he trusted her so implicitly - assuming that she wouldn’t put him in harm’s way.

He didn’t seem to care that she never gave him quite what he deserved. He was just happy to be around her.

And now that she was painfully sober and seeing things in a normal light, she felt ashamed by her actions tonight. Though he hadn’t been sleeping when she Floo’ed in, he was clearly getting ready to head in that direction.

“Draco, I really can’t apologize enough.” She stared at her feet while he dripped water on the floor. “I’ve never made such a fool of myself, I have no idea what I was thinking.”

“Obviously how much better it is to wake up in my arms.” He brushed a kiss against her temple before drying himself off. “Now go sit and let me detangle your curls.”

Hermione frowned, feeling skeptical. Something had to be done about them though unless she wanted to batter people with her mane in the elevator tomorrow. But her hair was a veritable nest with exactly one tamer.

And she wasn’t even very good at it.

“If it makes you feel better, I read Mulligan’s Magnificent Manual for Managing Your Mane.

“Oh,” her eyes brightened at the sweet gesture. “Well I suppose you can give it a go, if you want.”

“I’m not a total nonce,” Draco smirked, guiding her over to the edge of the bathtub before pulling out all manner of products from his vanity cabinet.

“Harry tried to brush my hair a few times during the war.” Hermione smiled at the memory. Back then, they were lucky to find a shower - often washing up in brutally cold rivers with a single bar of soap to do the job. “The comb snapped before he got halfway down.”

“Did he bother wetting it first?”

“What do you think?”

Draco snorted and then sat behind her, dividing her hair into sections. By the time he was done, she had started drifting off to sleep in his arms. Her curls more defined that she’d ever seen them.

“Definitely better, I think.” She must’ve been dreaming when she muttered this. Because she swore she heard Draco whisper the most nonsensical thing as he bundled her into his arms and carried her off to bed.

***

“There’s nowhere I’d rather be than taking care of you, Hermione. No matter what condition you’re in. For better or for worse.”

***

Draco was wrapped around Hermione when she began batting him, the morning sun hidden behind thick clouds.

“Wake up.” She poked him in the ribs and he groaned. “You can’t have a lie in, we have work!”

“I’m not done sleeping love,” Draco pulled her tight against his chest, the fight going out of her. “Then I have a rather busy morning of seducing you before I can even think of going to the Ministry.”

After all, most of their investigating would take place tonight during the MoM Film Society screening. And unless someone had been murdered, there wasn’t much to do until then.

He was sure she murmured something about him being the insatiable one but his eyes were already drifting closed, appreciating her warmth.

***

Draco roused sometime after his cock did, which was already twitching at the prospect of being buried deep inside his girlfriend.

“Morning love,” he pressed his lips to hers, her own greeting a deepening of the kiss. As her tongue demanded entry, her fingers started dancing down his chest and across his ribs before finally wrapping around his shaft.

She pumped him while her thumb slid the pre-cum across the tip, his eyes already rolling into the back of his head.

Fuck, he was such a sucker for morning sex.

He moved to push her down on her back but Hermione clearly had other plans, pressing against him until he was laying against the satin pillows.

“I wanted to try something new today,” she nipped at his lip, her body remaining to the side. “I thought you could play with me more … back there.”

She was getting better at requesting what she wanted from him, her timidity lessening the more he encouraged and praised her.

“Of course, love. Just tell me what to do.”

Hermione swung around and straddled him, his eyes gifted an excellent view of her ass. Fuck if this wasn’t bordering on a fantasy …

“I think I just need to. Sorry,” she kicked him as she scooted back to hover over his dick. “That seems about right …”

Draco cast a lubricating charm before helping her press the head of his cock into her cunt.

“You should probably go slow.” This being said right as she started taking him with no warning. Working herself down until she was fully seated. “Fuck.” He was already seeing stars, the breathing stuttering in his chest.

“Oh this is …” He could see goosebumps had erupted across her skin. “Different. Good though, but .. a lot.”

He readjusted so that he was sitting against the headboard, the movement eliciting a moan from her. As she was getting used to the feel of him at such a different angle, he started playing with her ass. Pressing a finger against the opening before pushing in fully, his movements slow as she whimpered.

“That’s my girl.”

Her hips started to twitch forward and back as he worked her from behind, losing herself in the pleasure.

Soon she was moving herself up and down his shaft, her hands pressed against his legs for balance. He could see his dick disappearing in her, her internal warmth and clenching walls making him forget to breath.

It was fucking filthy the sounds she was making, the way her back arched and her hips ground as she used him just the way she wanted.

“Give me another.”

She moaned when his middle finger joined his index to fuck her arse, needy little whines coming from her as he pulled the digits apart inside her. She was going to take him so fucking well when she was ready.

Her movements became frantic, more of a bouncing than anything else and Draco wrapped his other hand around to rest on her abdomen. If he pressed just slightly, he could feel his fucking cock inside her. That was how deep he was.

He couldn’t see Hermione’s face but based on the way her tongue was worshipping his name, she was close.

“C’mon love. Be good for me.” He timed his words with the thrusting of his fingers and she shattered with a scream. His own release promptly following. He was still running out of her minutes later after she collapsed against his chest.

“Was that what you wanted, darling?”

Hermione could only mumble happily as she nuzzled against him and fell back asleep.

Chapter 25: Scandals in the Workplace

Notes:

this is one of two chapters dropping today. :) enjoy lovelies, we have a mix of plot and not-plot this week.

Chapter Text

Hermione woke up in Draco’s bedroom, alone, with a sore pelvis and no idea as to the time. Though she suspected it was shockingly late.

After groaning into the satin bedsheets that could use another wash, the Golden Girl sat up. A note on the opposite pillow informed her that Draco had already left for the Ministry. He told her to take her time and, if anyone asked, he’d mention something about a doctor’s appointment. Oh and breakfast was in the kitchen.

Between drinking her weight in alcohol yesterday and then taking her boyfriend as deep as she could earlier that morning, her body felt used. The additional sleep he’d gifted her was necessary. Though what she really craved was a nice bath for her aching muscles. But that should probably wait until after work.

Her clothes were on the armchair, already washed and folded. She sighed heavily before dragging herself from the comfort of Draco’s bed, only to curse her way through tying up the green ribbons of her underwear. This had to be the most impractical thing she owned.

She padded into the kitchen in her clothes from last night to discover a silver dish beside the peonies, a full English breakfast tucked away underneath the cloche.

Draco was spoiling her rotten to the point that no one would ever compare.

Though that was probably the point, wasn’t it?

“Ginny’s going to win her money after all,” she muttered while spearing a mushroom.

Because, truth be told, the Golden Girl was falling hard. If Professor Trelawney had predicted Hermione and Draco were inevitable, the Fates themselves weaving the relationship with unbreakable thread, she would’ve thought the woman mad. Now, the Gryffindor might hesitate to make such an accusation.

Despite the short time they’d been together, she knew this was it. That the two of them were as natural as breathing. Neither of them were perfect but they accepted the other’s flaws, cherishing the imperfections alongside the virtues.

Realizing that made her love-drunk, prone to making reckless decisions like seducing him in the workplace on a Friday morning. Which Hermione thought would be an excellent way to thank him for taking such good care of her.

Though he would have to do all the bloody ribbons himself because she couldn’t be bothered with it again. She was essentially being held in by nothing more than magic and luck at this point. Yet another reason she needed to bring clothes over.

It was only when she finished her third fried egg that she looked at the clock.

“Oh my Gods.” The words were barely audible over the clattering of her fork and knife on the plate.

It was half-eleven in the morning.

***

“Draco didn’t tell me you’d gone for Plan B.” Bill winked at Hermione from his office door before blowing a plume of smoke at the ceiling. He was dressed for battle, his old combat boots from the war on his feet. His threadbare sweater appeared scorched by flame while his hair hung limp around his harsh features.

Hermione sighed, looking down to examine her own clothing dismally.

The Prophet and Witch Weekly morning editions printed several photographs of her outing at the Raven and Foxglove. Which the Gryffindor should’ve anticipated since the spot was trendy and she was rarely seen out. Unfortunately, the fact she was still in that same outfit made it clear she hadn’t been home.

“It’s not what it looks like,” she explained, hating the idea of being caught out. But the words made her wince for their falsity.

Anyone seeing her would automatically assume she’d gone to someone else’s flat for debauching, only to saunter in to work hours late the following morning. And, well … here she was, proving them right.

No one even needed to speculate where she’d gone either given the media frenzy surrounding her and Draco.

“Whatever you say,” Bill shrugged. “But, next time, swing by my office. I always keep a pack in my desk just in case.”

Hermione shot a Stinging Jinx at his face in response, irritated he had the nerve to blithely discuss her reproductive decisions. Her spell landed right on the middle of his nose and his curses followed her down the hallway.

“Morning love,” Draco looked up from his desk as she stepped into the office. “What did the fucker say to you this time?”

In hindsight, she should keep more things to herself.

Because the Golden Girl was now back in Weasley’s office, trying to mediate a shouting match between two very hot-tempered people.

Her Slytherin was in the midst of a stream of verbal threats, mostly of the violent end sort, if an apology wasn’t quickly made. An idea that made both Gryffindors snort. That was about as likely as Bill Weasley joining the circus.

“I was only being helpful, ferret.” The Head Auror tugged at his cigarette and blew a stream of smoke from the corner of his mouth. Her jinx made his nose so large that it was now weighing down his head. “You two basically admitted you’re fucking. And if you hadn’t, it was obvious by the number of times I’ve walked in on it starting. I’m just ensuring a baby snake doesn’t come before you solve this case.”

Draco didn’t bother responding, choosing instead to punch Bill’s already swollen face.

Before he could do even more damage, Hermione dragged the Auror out of the room and sent him to procure a coffee. Once he was out of sight, she made Bill swear on his magic that he wouldn’t fire her boyfriend for the transgression. He readily agreed, if not to get the Golden Girl out of his office so that he could nurse his injuries with a healthy dose of booze.

Draco was steadily pacing when she returned, his knuckles white from clenching his fists too tightly. A steaming cup of Ministry-provided caffeine sat on her desk. She blew on the quadruple espresso and watched him silently.

“I’m not sorry.”

“You don’t need to defend my honor every time someone says something untoward,” Hermione stated, wincing as the bitter liquid hit her tongue. She really wished the machine played nice today and produced a cappuccino. “You’d have to quit being a detective just to deal with the Howlers alone.”

His steps faltered for a second and her gaze narrowed as she set down her cup.

“Draco - ”

“Yes, love?” He asked the question as evenly as possible, though his jaw continued to tick steadily.

“What have you done?” She stepped into his path, wrapping her arms around him before he could set a new track into the floorboards.

“Nothing at all.”

The thing about Hermione was that her two best friends growing up loved playing pranks. Not only that but she spent every Christmas with George Weasley. So, she recognized the telltale look when the truth wasn’t being told.

As such, the Golden Girl produced her own colorful string of threats until Draco finally admitted to his deal with the Head Auror. The Slytherin provided the names, the Gryffindor meted out the violence.

“That explains why Bill isn’t sacking you or pressing charges,” Hermione scoffed. “Because you could send each other to Azkaban!”

“Casting on a Head Auror has far more severe penalties than physical violence does. So really, I should be the one telling you off.”

“That’s only because the wizarding community is loathe to admit that, sometimes, magic isn’t the most effective solution.” She stomped her foot in irritation and Draco smirked at the childish gesture. “Gods, have you lost your mind?”

“Since meeting you, most assuredly.”

She rolled her eyes, trying her best to hold on to her anger. But it slipped through her fingers all the same. Because hadn’t she thought of all the horrible things she’d do to those wizards shaming Draco behind his back?

“As for Bill, I won’t let him treat you like my casual plaything. No matter what arrangements we have on the side.” He brushed a hand down her hair and she tucked herself under his chin, collapsing the space between them. “I won’t have you thinking that.”

***

“Fuck,” Draco groaned, his body all taut muscles in his leather office chair. The sounds of Hermione lapping at him the only response.

Things had quickly escalated between them after their brief argument.

Her lips tilted up to meet his, her tongue slipping into his mouth for a tantalizing devouring. And then she’d guided him back until he was sitting down, her intentions made clear by the unbuckling of his belt while she sank to her knees.

He looked through half-lidded eyes to where his girlfriend was hiding, partially underneath the desk. Her cashmere sweater lay in a tangle beside her, her tits literally wrapped like a present in the green satin ribbon. Her nipples were hardened buds, Draco having asked her to play with them while he locked up.

He obviously secured the door physically by flipping the latch. Then with his wand. He added a simple blood spell when Hermione wasn’t looking before tilting her old wooden chair underneath the handle. The only way someone could come into this office was through the fucking wall.

She was currently tonguing his slit, her hand working his shaft.

“So fucking good,” Draco praised. “Aren’t you?”

Her pupils immediately blew out from the words and she bent down to take him fully, her cheeks hollowing as she gagged on his length.

He placed a gentle hand in her hair, for no other reason than to be touching more of her. While he dreamed of fucking her pretty little mouth, now was not the time. He only wanted to sit back and revel in the softness of her lips and the worship of her tongue.

His cock started beading with cum when her fingers palmed his balls. She moved up to swirl her tongue around his tip again, licking the drops greedily. He sighed, perfectly content and horny.

He whimpered as she worked him up and down a bit faster, the noise causing her to pop off and focus on his sack. She would only return to his dick once Draco calmed down enough to no longer be on the precipice of exploding.

She’d been fucking edging him for the last twenty minutes. If she kept this up, he’d be Vanishing her jeans and taking her against the desk.

Based on the way she was eyeing him hungrily, that was probably what she was looking for.

But she knew the rules. If she wanted something, she had to ask.

Though he was liable to give in if she kept fucking with him like this.

“Hermione, sweetheart. If you don’t let me finish, I can’t promise that we won’t be escorted out of the Ministry for the number of complaints filed against us.” Because he would make sure her cries shattered any Muffliato charm cast.

She mumbled her discontent but went back to laving his cock, her eyes streaming from him hitting the back of her throat.

When he finished with a groan, she drank every single fucking drop. Her eyes shined as she leaned over to kiss up his stomach, her barely-concealed breasts brushing him like the temptation they were.

“You’re going to get me fired, love.”

She grinned, her chin still shiny from her spit. He didn’t think he’d ever seen someone as beautiful as her.

Afterwards, he helped her back into the sweater or, really, fondled her breasts and sucked on her nipples while she batted at him to let her change.

They were, unfortunately, due for an interview with Theo’s secretary that afternoon. It hadn’t even been on his list of things to do today, but shit happened.

Namely that his urgent application for Veritaserum use on Elphora Wright was approved with no fuss.

Draco had been all too aware when handing off the form that his past would likely come back to haunt him. A decision hindered for several weeks while the Wizengamot debated the merits about giving a former Death Eater the tools to do his job. It was what always happened.

But, apparently, having Hermione Granger as the secondary applicant was the Midas touch. The colorless potion having appeared on his desk when he got in around ten.

She followed his gaze and picked up the bottle.

“It’ll be fine, Draco. What’s the worst that can happen?”

***

The worst that could happen was hearing Elphora drone on about the wretched state of her knickers after Hermione innocently asked about her day.

Draco decided that he’d prefer to Apparate into the path of a Manticore than listen to another fucking second. Something he conveyed to his beloved partner with a deadened stare.

Hermione dosed the secretary’s tea with three drops, which was more than needed. But she wanted to make sure nothing was held back. So, as a result, the Auror now knew far too much about the woman’s preference for cotton whites.

“While that’s all very interesting, we’ve a few follow-up questions from our initial interview.” His Gryffindor sat back and clasped her hands primly on a stack of papers, one of which was the transcript from their last meeting.

Hermione was doing her best to maintain a professional front, despite being called ‘looser than a two-Sickle whore’ by the avid Prophet reader in front of them. He’d nearly snapped his wand at the comment, the wood creaking ominously as he clutched it. His mind ringing with all the spells Bellatrix taught him.

Afterwards, a battle ensued underneath the table, his Golden Girl eventually wrenching the instrument from his hands. It was now resting on her lap, her eyebrow arching as a silent reminder to behave himself.

But Draco preferred casting without any assistance, especially when using magic that could get him arrested. Not having his wand didn’t make a smidge of difference to him. One more comment and Elphora would be spliced in two.

He looked at his partner blankly as if to say: I’ll behave if she does. Hermione’s eye-rolling told him his message was both received and unappreciated.

“In your original interview, you stated the candle flames were nearly at ceiling height.” She glanced up from her notes, assessing the secretary. “Could you talk us through what you saw again?”

When discussing strategy, Draco explained the most effective way to use Veritaserum was to start with a known lie and work from there.

He requested the crime scene techs to investigate the awning for scorch marks while they combed through the Department of Magical Games and Sports. It had been clean, just a few water spots from leaky pipes.

But flames with the height Elphora reported would leave residue. The Room of Requirement still had a blackened ceiling even after all these years, for example. So it wasn’t a question what the partners would be starting with today.

“I thought that’s what you wanted to hear.” Ms. Wright’s wrinkled hands tightened around a bright purple mug, her tea more milk than anything else. “I didn’t get a close look at anything other than the body.”

The Auror sighed. It was just as expected though he fucking wished she’d said that before wasting MLE resources.

“Is there anything else in that interview you lied about,” he asked tersely.

“One or two things.”

Elphora sat back, nervously readjusting her teal sweater which matched her pressed pants. She looked, more than ever, like a jeweled bug.

“That being?” Hermione made a note in the margins, a reminder to research the statute on interfering in a criminal investigation.

But, instead of responding, the secretary burst into tears. He heard a few mumbles about not wanting to go to Azkaban and how sorry she was before everything got lost in blubbering.

“What precisely were you lying about in your last interview?” Draco really didn’t want to waste additional time on theatrics, knowing the Wizengamot would flay him if he needed a second dose for the woman.

“The birthday card,” the secretary wailed through shaking hands.

“About the existence of it,” Hermione clarified.

Elphora shook her head, her tears leaving streaks in her powdery makeup.

That was the problem with Veritaserum. The truth-telling potion didn’t require people to be particularly forthcoming with their information. You needed to be incredibly specific about the questions asked, leaving no room for interpretation.

“What about the card was made up?” Hermione shot him a warning glare at the obvious note of irritation in his voice.

“I didn’t leave it behind the Friday before.” She sniffed, wiping away her tears with a red paisley handkerchief. “I’d never forget my grandbaby’s birthday like that.”

“So you were in the Ministry for what reason Sunday night,” Draco asked.

“To fix the mess that man has made of the World Cup.” Elphora blew her nose loudly. “He’s biased … the lot of you are.”

The secretary turned an accusing gaze on the Auror after collecting herself, seeing him as the seventeen year-old he would always be in the eyes of the magical population. If it hadn’t been for his promise to Ron Weasley, those looks may have been enough for him to turn his back on this world entirely.

“He only chose France as the location because he’s going to become filthy rich from the ordeal. Everyone needs a place to stay since they’ll be no camping. He’s set up quite nicely for that, isn’t he? What with all the places he has there.”

“I assure you, Nott doesn’t need any more money,” Draco deadpanned. “You’re also confusing him with me. His family came from Italy about seven centuries back where he still owns several villas.”

“Well you’re all the same, aren’t you.” Elphora’s lip curled in disgust looking at the Auror. “He scratches your back and you do his.”

He had to applaud the woman for pivoting to a new theory so quickly. It didn’t make her accusation any easier to swallow though. No matter how much Draco tried to distance himself from his father, people would always see Lucius in him.

“Anyway,” Hermione cut in with a touch of heat in her voice. Draco promptly leaned over and stole both wands, a move made difficult by his partner’s unwillingness to relinquish hers. “How exactly were you planning to fix what Theodore did?”

“I agreed to give the Bulgarian Minister, Yordan Petrov, access to Mr. Nott’s office. He spelled documents that made it appear our Department took a bribe from France.”

“Because no such document exists,” Hermione added curtly.

“None that I could find. That’s not to say there wasn’t one at some point. He’s probably burned it, covering up his tracks. Just like his father.”

Maybe Draco should hand off their wands to Bill in a quick intermission. Because it was taking everything for him to remain calm and collected after that bullshit.

No one wanted to believe that Theo had about as much choice as Draco did when it came to taking the Mark. As in, he was also held down by his father while it was burned into his flesh. He didn’t need to go to Azkaban because living under Nott Sr.’s hand had been punishment enough. Not that the Wizengamot gave a fuck when handing down his sentence.

His friend was as similar to his dad as Draco was to Lucius. Their fathers had been absolute fanatics while their sons had been forced to stand beside them and play pretend.

Not that Elphora would believe any of that.

Draco gave Hermione a long look. It appeared that he would be dedicating an obscene amount of time to interviewing candidates for Nott’s secretary position in the near future. Maybe Bill could find him a Time-Turner.

“And just how were these planted documents going to be discovered?” Draco questioned her with a weary tone, mentally seeing the paperwork pile up on his desk the more they talked.

“I was planning to find them Monday morning while preparing Nott’s meeting notes for later that day.” The one he had scheduled with the Bulgarians, Draco remembered. “Then, being the good citizen I am, I would’ve taken it straight to the Minister himself.”

“Fantastic plot,” Draco retorted.

“But that didn’t work because you couldn’t get into the office.” Hermione seemed fully invested in hearing the end of this tale. Not that it particularly mattered since they got what they needed for an arrest.

“No,” Elphora shook her head. “My key didn’t work. That Death Eater changed the locks. Probably because he was up to something illegal in there.”

Draco stood up and tossed the two wands out the door before returning to his seat.

There, problem solved.

“Maybe he did that because he suspected someone was planning something.” Draco passed a hand over his face.

“So when the key didn’t work, you … what?”

Elphora turned to Hermione and addressed her, probably because the Golden Girl was the only one in the room maintaining a respectful tone.

“Petrov told me to stand back and started casting spells at the door. I saw a knife come out at one point. But, after forty minutes, the lock wouldn’t budge. So we agreed to part ways and try again after the Monday meeting.”

“Which never happened,” Hermione finished.

“Correct.” Elphora frowned, her features scrunching together in thought. “You know, Nott probably killed -”

“Stop,” Draco roared. “I truly don’t want to hear another one of your crackpot theories. Just tell me how much you were getting paid.”

Hermione looked surprised by his words. But there was no way that Elphora was doing any of this for less than cold hard gold. Especially with the ‘good citizen’ bullshit she was putting on.

“A million.”

“Pity,” Draco stated bluntly. “If you wanted a little Christmas bonus, you should’ve asked Nott. Well, Elphora Wright, you’re being arrested for attempted fraud, attempted burglary, and World Cup competition interference. We’ll throw in fucking with our criminal investigation free of charge.” He smiled thinly before adding, “I hear Azkaban is fucking horrible this time of year.”

***

Hermione was still riding the thrill of the arrest, hours later.

It wasn’t the street-chasing, wand-wielding fight she imagined would be her first. Elphora didn’t put up any sort of resistance. Just held out her hands to be magically bound while the absolute dismay of being thrown into prison overrode every other instinct. Regardless, Hermione didn’t get the chance to nab criminals every day.

The affair even ended with an unexpected twist of fate.

The only thing the former secretary requested was that someone go home and feed Puddles, her cat, while she was gone. But, with the charges levied against the woman, it would be an effective rehoming since Elphora was likely to die in prison for her crimes.

Draco immediately agreed, if not to see the horror on the woman’s face that a former Death Eater would be taking care of her precious animal. The Gryffindor had been on the brink of opening her own home to shelter the pet, but the Slytherin beat her to it. Which was all well and good since she was never in her flat anyway.

So, now, her boyfriend was the owner of the cutest Scottish fold. He didn’t know the first thing about owning a pet either. His cluelessness something Hermione found adorable on its own.

She helped him collect the cat from a little cottage in the Lakes District, her face nestling into its black fur as it stared at the Auror with bright yellow eyes, screaming a meow. She left the pair at Draco’s apartment where her boyfriend was currently assembling a cat tower in the living room. His last question on her way out was how many litter boxes they needed.

Draco had started referring to Puddles as theirs before the couple even left the Ministry, explaining that the animal was an unfortunate consequence to their detective work. Something to be shared.

Hermione snorted, knowing that her boyfriend simply wanted another reason to have her stay more.

She was currently rooting through her closet, a towel wrapped around her, while her oatmeal bubbled on the stove. Her beaded clutch was being stuffed with as much as it would carry before she Floo’ed back to the Ministry.

It already contained two dozen books, several pants, and a number of dresses. She added in her underwear and blouses before tipping in shoes. Hermione nodded her head, satisfied, and surveyed what was left. None of her old clothing made the cut, her sentimental attachment to her war attire severed in a matter of days.

She quickly changed into a white shirt, boyfriend jeans, and green sneakers for the movie before throwing a Weightless Charm on her bag and heading to the kitchen.

Then, the Gryffindor ate a dissatisfying dinner of oatmeal topped with cinnamon and bananas. Not that there was anything particularly bad about the food. It just wasn’t comparable to what Draco usually made.

Hermione blew on her spoon so that she wouldn’t burn her tongue as she thought about tonight.

There was a possibility, however small, that their perpetrator would show. Maybe even getting a seat near them, knowing Draco’s role in the investigation. It was both thrilling and terrifying, the pages of her favorite murder mysteries coming to life before her eyes.

Then there was the matter of her relationship. Dean assured her that the Prophet and Witch Weekly reporters would clear out for the night, but that wasn’t a guarantee that photos wouldn’t be taken of the couple.

She hadn’t changed her mind about not hiding her affection though. It was more she didn’t want every time they appeared in public to be something reported on.

But, possibly, this was the way things had to be.

Ever since the war, Draco and Hermione faced the court of public opinion for every decision they made. Her, as the Golden Girl and him, as the Slytherin Prince. Society viewed them as polar opposites, both then and now.

He was the villain redeemed. She was the mind that won the war but lost herself in the process.

But all that would change tonight. Because the couple was taking control of their own story, no longer willing to let others dictate the steps they took.

Still, even though Dean promised a smaller attendance, she was a touch nervous.

About what people would do to him for winning the Golden Girl’s affection.

***

Hermione stepped out of the Floo with her clutch in hand, sweat accumulating on her brow and the back of her neck. But there was only so much magic could do to ease the heaviness in her hand.

She sighed, her arms straining as she looked around for Dean. He asked her to come an hour early to help set everything up for the event. She agreed, thinking she might get some sleuthing done at the same time.

The atrium was clear of tents, the mad dash to get the latest scoop on Draco and Hermione paused until Monday morning. It was a relief seeing the expansive space emptied, her sneakers treading across the tile audible for the first time in a week.

“Glad you could come,” Dean called from a pile of ottomans, bean bags, and blankets. “Mind helping me spread these out?”

Hermione nodded before tossing her purse to the floor. It made the sound of a bookcase collapsing as it landed. She winced, thinking about the additional novels she added before coming here.

“What in Merlin’s name is in there?”

“A bit of light reading,” Hermione shrugged.

“You’re moving in with Malfoy, I take it.”

“No,” she scoffed. “We’ve just started dating. I’m leaving a few things at his, that’s all.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean answered, a dimple appearing in his cheek as he smiled. “Mind adding the whisky I bought him as a thank you? I didn’t have time to find anything else.”

“He’ll love it.” Hermione accepted the bottle the Gryffindor had placed beside a rolled up bit of vinyl. She studied the Dewars Double Double, aged 37 years, before casting a Cushioning Charm around it and placing it in her bag. “Though if you see any cat toys in Paris, feel free to send them along.”

“You convinced him to get a pet with you?” Dean laughed as he tugged over a bean bag to the far side of the room. “There isn’t going to be room for your books with Malfoy’s ego competing with a mouser’s.”

Hermione snorted in response.

Admittedly, Puddles seemed quite taken to Draco. Having lightly nipped him on his hand while her boyfriend tentatively scratched the cat’s back.

“We actually happened into pet ownership after arresting someone today.”

“A tale of modern love if I’ve ever heard one.”

She laughed before placing two beaded ottomans together, one pink and the other purple.

“You two are going strong then,” Dean asked after a time.

“We are,” she confirmed, her cheeks flushing when she replayed the last few days. “I’m glad you told me to take a chance. I would’ve regretted it otherwise.”

Hermione quizzed him on elementary French while they hung up the vinyl projection screen on the Ministry’s main statute. He kept confusing the words for store and magazine but that was the worst of it. Once done, they stood back to take in the full effect.

It certainly wasn’t a movie theatre by any stretch of the imagination. But it looked close with the dim lighting and intimate seating. It was cozy, perfect for a first (real) date night.

“This is nice,” Hermione beamed at the transformed space. “It’s good to get wizards familiar with the other world.”

“I agree,” Dean turned his attention to distributing popcorn and miscellaneous candy at each seat. “Though you can’t imagine the amount of issues we had at the first event. People went to absolute pieces that Muggles invented movies before the magical community.”

“I’m not sure why anyone would be surprised, it happens all the bloody time.” Hermione frowned, remembering a similar sentiment in her Muggle Studies class in third year.

“Actually, now that I have you, do you have any suggestions for Valentine’s Day? I’m utter crap at romance.” He winked at her, in seeming ode to his ill-fated courting attempt.

Hermione rolled her eyes before reminding him that it was only September.

“You underestimate just how many Howlers I’ll receive after Finch-Fletchley plays his third David Attenborough in a row. I promise you, I know what I’m talking about.”

“Well, unfortunately, I’m just as clueless.” She scrunched her nose before suggesting he speak to Ginny. “It might be a bit awkward with your history, but she’s your best bet. Would you mind if I asked a question of my own?”

“Is it about the case?”

“Maybe?” Hermione tilted her head with a coy smile. “I’m technically not allowed to tell you.”

“Okay, one moment.” Dean pressed two fingers on either side of his temples and closed his eyes.

“What’re you doing,” she laughed.

“Imagining you with a deerstalker on your head,” he smirked. “Now ask away.”

“What movie did you show in May?”

“That’s oddly specific,” Dean opened his eyes and studied her. “Though easy enough to answer since that’s the first one we ever did. I played the Da Vinci Code.

Hermione nearly combusted from excitement.

***

Draco arrived to the Ministry five minutes later than promised, a kitchen towel wrapped tightly around his arm. Puddles decided to show his mean streak after Hermione left the flat, having swiped his claws down the Slytherin’s chest and forearm.

The Auror had a sneaking suspicion the little menace only played nice in Hermione’s presence in order to court her favor. Because as he stepped into his fireplace, dripping blood over the floorboards and stone hearth, the Scottish fold hissed at him from underneath the sofa. The sound a declaration of war.

His Golden Girl spotted him instantly, having already secured a seat for them in the exact center. Thomas sat on a beanbag chair next to her, biting the head off a chocolate frog.

Her face was painted with worry as she made her way over, not watching where she was going and stumbling over a couple making out. She didn’t even look their way in apology before running the last few feet.

“What happened?!” She looked around quickly then dragged him between two fireplaces. Wasting no time, Hermione unwrapped the towel to examine him. The brush of the fabric against the wound making him hiss.

He couldn’t fault her assumption that someone attacked him. This wasn’t the sort of gathering the Malfoy heir was usually welcomed at. And to be fully fucking transparent, he hadn’t planned on showing up looking like he lost a duel minutes prior.

“Your cat.” Draco watched as she rooted through her clutch, the sound of several books knocking together accompanying the movements. “Though I wouldn’t be surprised if you managed to pick up another Kneazle.”

“Crookshanks was only half and I thought he was our cat.”

He could’ve sworn her lips twitched in amusement before asking if she could heal him. Draco nodded, sighing in relief as she dropped Essence of Dittany on his cuts.

“I’m afraid I can’t do much about your shirt.”

“It’s fine,” he shrugged. “I know a few spells that get out blood.”

Silence descended as the war blanketed the space around them, the heaviness of what had been required of the two a tangible thing. But the moment passed quickly, Hermione turning to more practical matters.

“You fed him before you left?”

“I put food in the kitchen after the thing mauled me, yes.”

“He needs time, like I did.” She smiled before standing up on her toes and planting a kiss right on his lips. “Soon you’ll be begging me to take Puddles off your lap.”

Draco snorted, letting Hermione lead him back to the main hall. He could feel eyes boring into them, taking in their clasped hands and the way she looked at him. As though he were worth cherishing.

They made their way to a pair of ottomans, through sprawled legs and popcorn buckets. The Auror walked with his back ramrod straight, his wand accessible on his holster. With his relationship now public knowledge, he was on high alert.

Draco scanned for the telltale signs of disgruntlement turning into something dangerous. Seen in people scowling, their hands twitching or outstretched in battle. Their focus solely on the couple and not their friends surrounding them.

Ghosts of smiles were visible in his periphery while his ears picked up the faintest of whispers. Wizards muttering about losing bets and disbelief over the Prophet actually being right. But not outright animosity, at least none he could detect.

Draco caught a glimpse of red hair several feet where Hermione saved seats for them. He’d made Bill aware of the couple’s plans shortly before Elphora’s interview. It felt like being fucking chaperoned by a half-crazed uncle, but he was grateful to have someone watching his back.

Though, if anyone wanted a spat to occur, it’d be Weasley himself. Just to break up the monotony of living.

“There’s something you should know.” Hermione’s voice was nearly inaudible as the lights flickered out and the movie started. Her eyes were positively glittering so Draco guessed she made progress on their case.

When she told him what movie was shown in May, the same month the killings started, Draco found he was completely unsurprised. Relieved, sure. But not an ounce of shock flooded through his body at the revelation.

The Auror started reviewing everything he knew about their perpetrator, just as a spider bit Peter Parker.

1.) They attended the first screening of the MoM Film Society, which took place the same month as the anniversary and first death.

2.) Whoever the fuck they were, they worked here. Whether on the janitorial staff or in the Obliviator Headquarters, they walked through this atrium every day.

3.) They were familiar with Muggle culture. (If Draco had to guess, at least one of their parents were non-magical. Purebloods usually didn’t bother learning anything about the mundane, unless forced to by the Ministry.)

4.) Whether due to magical ineptitude or preference, they were killing their victims in a non-magical manner. Injecting a solution that was deemed untraceable days after death their weapon of choice.

5.) Slytherin students and/or former Death Eaters on the Board of Governors were being targeted. (Though none remained at this point so it was unclear what the killer would do now.)

Their perp undoubtedly hated the Dark Lord and his old sycophants, likely due to losing someone important. And while those who fought in both wars ended up with life sentences, the ‘first-time offenders’ were starting to get out. People like Theodore Nott, Blaise Zabini, and Millicent Bulstrode.

Now that all these convicted criminals were being assimilated back into society, it was probably enough to make the killer snap.

That also tracked with those fucking runes, didn’t it?

Sorrow. Justice. Revenge.

Now he just had to find who had enough motive. (The answer being relatively easy. Because who didn’t want to kill a fuck-ton of Death Eaters that murdered their family?)

But, at least, it finally felt like they were getting somewhere with this investigation.

Draco settled back, wrapping his arm around Hermione as she leaned into his chest. She smelled like the black pepper shampoo she used in her flat, her skin velvety soft against his calloused hand.

“What the fuck is happening,” the Slytherin whispered after Parker started donning red spandex.

“Shush,” she pressed a finger to his lips, one he kissed until she drew away with a giggle.

When the guy started jumping off buildings and shooting fucking jizz from his palms, Draco was out. He didn’t understand what a superhero movie was and had no interest in seeing any more. So he spent his time scanning the crowd and kissing Hermione’s forehead. (Which, in his opinion, was a far better use of time.)

***

After saying their goodbyes, the couple made it back to the apartment to find Puddles asleep on Narcissa’s uncomfortable tufted sofa. The cat tower completely ignored.

“At least someone’s using it,” the Slytherin muttered.

The little demon blinked sleepily and mewled, stretching out its paws towards Hermione pathetically.

So, naturally, Draco was now alone by the cold stone hearth. His Golden Girl carrying the creature immediately to their room. The thing was purring in her arms, her smile dazzling as she cooed at it.

They were cuddled up on her side of the bed, a peace immediately ruined by him walking through the door. His appearance enough to cause the Scottish fold to hiss and dart between his legs.

“He hates me,” Draco muttered.

“Let’s go out before drinks tomorrow and pick up a few toys,” Hermione suggested. “You can play with him, maybe he’ll see you as less of a threat.”

“I wasn’t aware that cats did anything other than sleep and catch mice.”

And maul arms, but he didn’t feel the need to add that.

“That’s why you have me,” she smiled.

“I’d like to think it’s because I’m the best at making you fall apart.” Draco smirked when she whacked him. “Darling, you still haven’t told me why you’ve moved all your furniture over in this beaded bag of yours. What we have here is better quality than -”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” she cut him off. “And I’ve not moved in. It’s just a few books.”

He’d insisted on carrying her bag after watching her heave a little sigh before hoisting it against her chest in the Ministry atrium. And when Draco took it from her hands, he understood why. Despite a charm being placed on the thing, it must’ve weighed fifty pounds.

“I’ll make sure to spell the library bigger sometime this weekend then.”

“Maybe just a shelf or two,” she grinned while dragging him into bed.

Chapter 26: Draco Malfoy is Whipped

Notes:

and this is the second. :) featuring a scene heavily inspired by the film, Atonement.

next week we are investigating!

Chapter Text

Hermione was relieved she finally managed to bring over a few clothes, the drawer Draco cleared for her now filled. (And another already waiting for further additions.) She looked forward to not needing to go back-and-forth between the two apartments in a bid to shower and change clothes. Though, admittedly, it was less of an issue on the weekend when she tucked herself into his castaway shirts.

Her presence was beginning to feel more permanent here. A cluster of books sat on her bedside, the others waiting for shelving space in the library. Everywhere she looked were pieces of her hair: on the wooden floorboards, the shower walls, and the wingback in his room. She even had two dedicated mugs: one for cappuccinos and another for tea.

And while things were moving at a fast pace, it didn’t feel rushed. Their steps had a certainty about them, almost as if the Fates were guiding their hands and telling the couple to throw themselves headfirst into their happiness.

She padded down the hallway after pulling on one of his button-downs, the sleeves rolled up so they didn’t hang past her wrists. Even though she could wear something of her own, she liked being wrapped in his scent. (His clothing a practical alternative to his person.)

Puddles was busy scratching his nails against the cat tower, seeming uninterested in being interacted with. Draco was out getting breakfast for them, the plan being to have a lazy morning before walking to the nearby pet shop that opened in a few hours.

“Darling, I’m home.” The sound of the front door shutting was accompanied by a crinkle of a brown paper bag. “I bought bagels.” He kissed Hermione’s temple, his cheeks red from the harsh autumn wind. His coat was damp with rain, the sounds of which could be heard splattering against the window. “Hellion.”

The cat meowed at him before turning tail and sashaying into the guest bedroom. It turned out Puddles much preferred the spaces designed by Narcissa. The couple having found the black Scottish fold sleeping on one of the pillows in the sage-green room that morning.

“I got you a bacon, egg and cheese.” Draco let her pop her head into the bag, a knowing smirk on his face when Hermione moaned at the cheesy smells wafting from the paper. “I’ve a sausage, egg and cheese. If you want to split?”

“Yes, please.” She pulled out a small package wrapped in aluminum foil. “What’s this?”

That’s bribery.”

She followed him into the kitchen, opening up the cabinet to take out their coffee cups. Though she may not have an ounce of cooking acumen in her body, she was proving herself a quick study of the espresso machine. So far, she’d only splattered milk up the walls four times. Making any shapes with the foam was still proving difficult.

While the machine heated up, she watched Draco tear bits of bacon into the cat’s bowl and carry the dish out of the room - only to come back smirking a few minutes later.

“Just got nipped once when putting it down.”

As she made their morning dose of caffeine, the two discussed everything seen at the Ministry last night.

Dean confirmed that all the regulars attended, though there were also new faces. Bill Weasley being among them.

At the time, Hermione didn’t have the heart to tell her friend not to get his hopes up on seeing the Head Auror at future events. His presence likely a result of whatever half-cocked plan he formed with Draco. Likely one that included drawing and quartering the person that dared say anything inappropriate to her face.

Her boyfriend still refused to tell her about the nature of the threats Bill was issuing to those targeting her. She was sure that the Head Auror was, at a minimum, threatening their personhood, committing arson, and maybe snapping a wand or two. It made her livid, their idea she couldn’t defend herself. (Though people stopped trying to hex her, so that was something.)

She shook her head, dispelling thoughts of that issue and turning back to their murder case.

“Almost everyone in attendance last night works in MoMA,” Hermione said dismally.

She wasn’t exactly thrilled at the idea she’d been working alongside a murderer for months before her transfer. It made her feel uneasy, like the halls she walked down for years were unsafe. It was eerily similar to being back in Hogwarts sixth year, if she was being honest.

“But not every person,” Draco countered while sipping gratefully on his coffee. Hermione attempted to make a heart today but ended up with a circle. (Which was progress!)

“True, there was Finch-Fletchley from Magical Transportation.” She pursed her lips, thinking back to the people sitting around them last night. “Lee Jordan in Magical Games. Cormac McLaggen from Mysteries.”

“Colin Creevey was there too, I spotted him in the back.” Draco sliced the two bagels in half and plated them.

“I’m not thrilled that any of them would be the killer,” Hermione sighed. “Though McLaggen always gave me the creeps. Actually, I don’t think I saw Stretton.”

“No,” Draco shook his head. “He definitely wasn’t there and, apparently, never has been. Given that he’s from a pureblood family, that crosses him off our list. Unless we find out he’s a secret aficionado about Muggle Affairs.”

Her attention got diverted by trying to eat her sandwich with as minimum moaning as possible.

She never really let herself eat out all that frequently, given how empty her vaults were. The only reason she managed to afford the Greek place was because the owners thought she needed more meat on her bones and gave her a discount. But, Gods, she missed the richness of food outside her boring staples.

“You know,” Hermione said tentatively, “I could put feelers out on Monday if you want.”

“You’re not interviewing a possible serial killer alone.”

“Well, they’re less likely to do something to me, all things considered.” She winced but it was true. None of their victims had been Order members, the target clearly established as the other side.

“Fine, but we need to agree what questions you’ll ask in advance.” Draco grew quiet, his gaze on the elm tree in the backyard. “I also want to talk to Bill. See if he can make you a panic button so that we can know if you’re in danger.”

“That’s ridiculous, but fine.”

***

Puddles seemed perfectly indifferent to their reappearance hours later, their arms filled with shopping bags and their noses pink from being out in the terrible weather too long.

Hermione insisted on getting a certain brand of litter, several wand toys, various types of cat food, and a hoard of treats for the creature. And Draco had the sense Puddles knew a sucker when he saw one. Because the little demon walked right up to her and wound its way through her legs.

“See!” She was positively beaming at the thing. “I told you he just needs time to warm up.”

“He bit my ankles this morning when I didn’t feed him breakfast fast enough.” The Scottish fold sat down on its hind legs and started attacking the Slytherin’s jeans with a paw. Draco yelped when claws met skin. “And apparently my bacon offering meant fuck-all.”

“Maybe he’s just feeling a little grumpy.” She picked up the feline without fear and kissed his head, his purring sounding like a small motor.

“I think he doesn’t want competition for your affection.” Draco pressed his lips against Hermione’s hair and started unpacking everything they bought. “Which I can sympathize with.”

That didn’t mean he wasn’t happy about his Gryffindor having another cat to care for. After all, Crookshanks had been her bloody pride and joy at Hogwarts. She deserved to have that again.

It was more that he didn’t want to share his time with an actual devil that took every opportunity it could to give him tiny wounds.

Draco eventually dragged Hermione from her new best friend and into the kitchen.

He was absolutely ravenous for something sweet.

She giggled when he started peppering her with kisses, backing her up until her bum hit the breakfast table.

“If you want to delay lunch in favor of other activities, that’s fine by me.” She bit her lip and looked at him through half-lidded eyes. “Though if that’s the case, shouldn’t we be in the bedroom?”

“Sweetheart, the benefit of having no one know my Floo is that I can fuck you wherever I want.” He picked her up and sat her on the table. “And I think here is as good a place as any, don’t you?”

She didn’t have a response other than to open her legs and drag him closer.

Draco nipped her lip as she began to rock herself against his erection, though their jeans were too thick for anything to be felt. She blew out a frustrated breath and he laughed.

“You’re the most impatient witch I’ve ever met.” He started unbuttoning her jeans while she did the same for him. “I fucking love it.”

Once their clothing was unceremoniously cast off, he started drinking his fill.

It was his intention to take her on every surface of the house. And this was just the tip of the iceberg.

Draco knelt down on the floor, his face hovering between her thighs. She widened herself infinitesimally, urging him on with a needy little whine. But he wouldn’t be rushed, choosing to take his time with fucking her whenever possible.

He leaned forward and started to bite her inner thighs. She seemed to enjoy when he left love-marks, spending less time healing them than she did looking at the bruises in the shower.

Hermione hummed happily, resting herself on her forearms as she watched him work ever so slowly towards her center.

She wrapped her legs around him when he finally turned his attention to licking and sucking her clit. Such that the only thing he could hear was her moaning and him lapping at her wetness.

Her fingers soon threaded through his hair so that she could hold him still while she moved against his face. The second he pushed two fingers inside her, pounding her hard and fast, she started begging.

“Draco, please.”

“Are you gonna be a good girl for me?” Pressed as he was against her bundles of nerves, his mouth brushed against her core as he spoke. “Are you gonna come?”

She immediately spasmed, shouting his name while her heels dug into his back.

He only pulled away after she finished writhing, watching her calmly as he sucked his two fingers clean.

And then he did the only reasonable thing in this situation, which was to get started on round two.

He braced her legs against his chest and pushed himself to the hilt, her cunt still trembling from his earlier efforts. She moaned incoherently as she took him deep, his thrusts unforgiving and making her toes curl.

It was unfathomable to see Hermione like this, so cock-drunk that she couldn’t form fucking thoughts.

She began pinching her nipples, a sight he loved so much that it made him drive into her harder. The only thing stopping her from being shoved across the table was his grip on her waist.

She started twitching when he swirled her clit, mumbling that she couldn’t give him anything more.

Which was bollocks.

He’d made her cum four times in a row just a few days ago.

She started tightening on him again, her fucking warmth and wetness absolutely addicting. And when she shouted his name with a cry, tears leaking out of her eyes, he followed her into oblivion.

“That’s a good girl.” He dropped her legs and bent down for a kiss while still inside her.

***

Hermione didn’t even manage to make it to the bedroom before falling asleep in Draco’s arms. A blanket of stars had replaced the expanse of grey when she woke several hours later. Her panic immediate at the sight, fearing that they’d missed Dean’s leaving drinks.

After taking the quickest shower she could manage, Hermione threw on a camel sweater and a pair of jeans. She found Draco in the living room, trying to coax Puddles into playtime with a feather on a stick. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, a pair of grey sweatpants indecently low on his hips.

“Please tell me it’s not as late as I think.”

“No,” Draco shook his head. “I was about to get you up actually. We still have a few hours before we need to leave so I thought we’d make dinner.” He dropped the toy with little fanfare, the wand clattering on the floor as he walked over to place a kiss on her nose. “You look absolutely beautiful, love.”

She laughed against his mouth when his hands started exploring underneath her pullover.

“Absolutely not. If you have your way with me again, there’s no hope of us showing up.”

“Fine.” He playfully bit her jaw before wrapping his arms around her waist and hoisting her over his shoulder.

“Draco!” She smacked his back, her vision now of Puddles laying in front of the fire as she was spun around and taken from the room. “Put me down.”

“I’m only delivering you to the kitchen.” Though Hermione suspected that wasn’t his only intention when picking her up, given that one hand was casually resting on her arse.

After abruptly setting her down in the middle of the room, he began rooting through a drawer for her apron.

“Are you sure?” Hermione picked at her lip nervously. “I almost caused a fire to break out when I forgot the carrots.”

“Nonsense, they were more charcoal than anything. Not a fire risk at all.”

He brushed the curls back from her face once she got the strap over her head.

Frankly, it was a miracle he hadn’t suggested she cook naked to better preserve her clothing. Which was less a testament to his sex drive and more a statement on how much of a hazard she was in the kitchen.

“Everyone makes mistakes when they’re learning.”

“I used sugar instead of salt when seasoning the broccoli the other day,” she retorted.

“Which is why everything is now labelled.” He smirked before taking out the ingredients from the fridge. “I thought baked salmon with shaved fennel, couscous, and green beans sounded nice.”

“Okay,” Hermione said wearily. She was actually thinking it would be the thing to order in a restaurant, not something to cook at home. “What do you want me to do?”

“I think the best bet is the couscous.”

“You mean the safest,” she sniffed. Because what he wasn’t saying was that he was absolutely petrified of her knife skills after she cut off the tip of a finger the other night. Blood squirted everywhere and they had to order takeout instead. (That was before the carrot and broccoli debacle. Really she hadn’t had a single win in the kitchen yet … unless you counted lunch. But she didn’t really have to do much of anything.)

“Sure,” Draco smiled. “Just put a cup of the pasta into a pot with an equal measure of broth. Then let it cook down.”

“Sounds easy enough.” Hermione nodded her head determinedly. It was as similar to potion-making as she could get. There was no reason this wouldn’t work. Plus, she’d made pasta for herself at home.

She set to work while Draco cut up and seasoned the vegetables before he placed everything in the stove. And the fact that ten minutes passed and then another five without blood welling or smoke billowing seemed like a marked success.

Truth be told, she only had to let the pot simmer while Draco distracted her until the timer went off.

Which is how they wound up eating salmon and vegetables for dinner.

Hermione having put the hob on far too low for anything to cook down in the time they had remaining. She supposed it was another lesson learned. Her boyfriend brightly commenting that it was a marked improvement from the day before.

***

“Jesus fucking Christ, there’s no way she’s brought that motherfucker here, has she?” Seamus Finnegan’s Irish lilt could be heard from several paces away as Draco and Hermione worked their way towards the back of the Leaky Cauldron.

Taxidermy animal heads dotted the walls wherever there was space, every other inch covered in illustrations of ships. It gave the anteroom the appearance of a gentleman’s club. The only thing missing was smoke curling overhead and blatant misogyny.

Draco’s hand was placed on the small of Hermione’s back, his movement towards the far wall purposeful. That position would grant him the best view of drinkers’ comings and goings.

He was unsurprised to find a photograph of him kissing Hermione in the Ministry atrium as the hot-ticket item for the Prophet’s Saturday paper. Even less so when every single opinion column focused on the couple.

And though nothing happened at the MoM screening, Draco suspected this might be the time someone felt inclined to do something about society’s war-torn lovers.

After all, alcohol mixed with a superiority complex was a hell of a thing.

Which was precisely why Draco wasn’t imbibing tonight. He wasn’t keen on getting poisoned by some mad bloke with a flickering light bulb for a brain. He also needed his reflexes sharp in case he had to send someone into their afterlife.

Dean approached them looking absolutely ridiculous. Someone had drawn a curling mustache on his face and shoved a beret on his head. A baguette was sticking out of his back pocket.

“Can’t thank you guys enough for coming,” Dean said with an easy smile. He was already starting to slur his words, well in his cups from his friends buying him round after round. “You’ve already won me seven Galleons.”

Draco followed the Gryffindor’s eyes to find Finnegan glowering at him, one hand on Harry’s vodka soda and the other twirling an empty pint glass. Ginny elbowed him in the ribs when he tried to take her ale, shoving him away from the table and towards the bar.

“If anyone’s responsible for the Irishman,” she called to the cluster of friends, “please take him home.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, holding a gin and tonic in hand. Though she hadn’t touched it, saying she couldn’t stand the thought of alcohol after her night at the Raven and Foxglove. Potter seemed of a similar opinion, shaking his head when Neville Longbottom offered to get the next round.

Draco glanced around, realizing that he was the odd man out tonight. Nearly everyone here being from Dean’s old House.

“Alright, Hermione? You’re looking well.” Longbottom walked over and gave his friend a brief hug.

The Herbology professor had finally grown out of his awkward looks, now sporting a chiseled face and ripped frame. Likely thanks to his time in the Amazon post-war, discovering new magical species.

“Malfoy, good to see you again. I’m just off to the bar if you’re wanting anything?”

The Slytherin paused for a beat, surprised the Gryffindor was so welcoming.

Maybe it was the way that Hermione clung to Draco, her free hand wrapped around his waist while she placed a kiss sweetly on his jaw.

Though it was just as likely the man’s nature. Longbottom wasn’t one for holding grudges. Despite everyone treating him like shit in first year, he was still friends with all of them.

“I’m not having anything tonight.” Draco gave the man a tight smile. “Thanks though.”

“It’s always the Aurors that refuse to cut loose and have a good time. When, really, you all probably need it the most.” With a nod of his head, he turned around and threaded through the crowd.

Draco watched Harry inch his way over, only arriving after several minutes of getting dragged into other conversations. Hermione was coaching Dean on French, trying to explain the difference between avant and devant. The Slytherin bit back a laugh as the artist got it wrong for the fourth time.

“Luna’s just diagnosed me with something else,” Potter groaned. “Apparently, a family of Aquavirius Maggots have infested my brain and are slowly eating it.”

“That’s absolutely ridiculous,” Hermione snorted.

“Yeah, well, tell that to my coffin in four months time.”

“I hear congratulations are finally in order,” Draco said evenly, changing the subject from his cousin’s fascination with imaginary creatures.

“Same to you apparently.” Harry’s eyes widened innocently when Hermione smacked him. “What? You two are now the proud parents of a cat.”

“I’m not sure ‘proud’ is the word I’d use,” the Slytherin muttered.

At least they now knew, with absolutely certainty, that Puddles was just a Scottish fold. The Auror thought back to the creature running straight into the French door in a bid to catch a bird pecking at the grass that morning. He was starting to think their new companion didn’t have much in the way of brain matter. But, at least, he made Hermione deliriously happy.

She scoffed before turning to her best friend. Under no circumstances would his Golden Girl admit their cat was just a bit dumb.

“Not drinking either, I take it?”

“No,” Harry shuddered. “I think I’m done for good after that night out. I keep having flashbacks of Gin as a tree in my sleep. It’s bloody horrible.”

“You two are just dullards,” the youngest Weasley butted in. “But, if the stories I heard in the Great Hall were true, Malfoy’s quite a bit of fun when he’s drunk.” She nudged his arm playfully. “We should go out after a match. I’d like a drinking buddy that isn’t whinging the entire time.”

Draco smirked before stating the only way he would agree was if he choose the establishment. Because there was no fucking way he’d be welcome in the Raven and Foxglove once word got round about the permitting investigation.

“Deal.” Ginny spat in her hand and held it out.

“That’s fucking disgusting,” he sneered. “I’m not doing that, Weaslette.”

“Whatever,” the Chaser rolled her eyes before wiping her hands on Potter. “So you’re coming for Christmas then? Mum makes an absolute killer pudding.”

“Ginny!” Hermione whirled on her, having stepped away briefly to place her drink on a nearby table. “What happened if I hadn’t brought it up yet?”

“Well, by your answer, that’s not an issue. Plus, you two are basically shacked up so I think it’s a fair question. Speaking of which, you’ll need to give me your Floo address.”

“I haven’t moved in with him, for Fate’s sake!”

“What’s this I hear about Malfoy going to the Burrow?” Dean poked his head in, sipping on a glass of house red.

Potter was literally fucking wheezing from laughing so hard while Hermione batted at him to stop.

“Hermione’s bringing me to the Weasleys for Christmas. I hear ferret’s on the menu,” Draco smirked as everyone around them howled. Well, everyone except his girlfriend who had ceased her violence in favor of beaming at him.

She returned to his side, tucking herself contently underneath his arm.

“You know, Mum’s already started her sweater for you. Wants to make a good impression and all that. She’s chosen the finest red wool the shop had, which is bloody ridiculous since she always gets our colors from the bargain bin.”

“Yeah,” George said over her shoulder, having just come in from a late night at the shop. “I’ve been given vomit yellow for the last three years.”

“Red wool,” Hermione asked in confusion.

“Mum thought it’d be nice for you two to wear each other’s House colors for once,” George winked.

“Well Hermione does look dashing in Slytherin green.” Draco pressed a kiss on her nose while she started stammering.

“Oh my Gods, you bloody traitor!” Ginny narrowed her eyes accusingly. “The minute you get laid, your loyalties change.”

“Well,” Hermione said primly, “I’m not a Hufflepuff, am I?”

Whatever the youngest Weasley had to say was drowned out by a raucous near the entrance.

“I’m not bloody leaving, Tom.” Draco could hear Finnegan slurring his words and the Auror guessed the Gryffindor was starting to feel the effects of all that alcohol. “He should be the one kicked out. Him and his Death Eater whore. Absolute fucking embarrassment she is, prancing around the person that got Dumbledore killed.”

Draco sighed heavily, his hand tightening around Hermione’s waist. Of course such a lovely evening had to sour like old milk.

Without further thought, he pushed his girlfriend behind him so that she was sandwiched between him and the wall. Draco and Potter pulled out their wands, soon followed by the two Weasleys and a very drunk Thomas. All prepared to fight in case Finnegan made his way to the anteroom and started something.

“C’mon Seamus, I’ll get you home.” Longbottom’s gentle voice could be heard from the other room.

“Fuck that. I’ve earned the right to drink here.”

“You leave now or you’re banned,” Tom shouted.

Draco could see a few wizards through the door jamb holding back (or, really, up) an extremely intoxicated Finnegan. Longbottom was dabbing at a bloodied nose, apparently a reward for his kindness.

“Draco Malfoy’s a good man and I won’t hear a bad thing about Hermione,” said the innkeeper. “So help me, you try anything and I’ll hex you myself.”

Surprisingly, the Slytherin heard a few murmurs of agreement from the other room and his shoulders relaxed slightly. He’d expected to face a constant barrage of vitriol being with Hermione. It never occurred to him that some people would be fine with it. That former Order members would stand with him against the people that would do his girlfriend harm if given the chance.

After Seamus had been promptly tossed on his ass outside the pub and told never to come back, Draco turned around to examine her.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

She nodded but her expression looked pretty hesitant. She’d wound her arms around Draco during the quarrel as if to hold him back from any physical altercation had one occurred.

For the rest of the evening, Hermione stayed on edge. Her eyes cast nervous looks at the people she didn’t know, those strangers drinking in the booths and tables nearby. Her arm always brushing his, as though to assure herself that he was here and safe.

He hated that she felt the need to do such things. But, then again, he was the exact same wasn’t he?

It took awhile but soon everyone fell back into easy conversation.

Draco talked at length with Longbottom about Hogwarts. Apparently, the Gryffindor thought teaching was fine. Not nearly as fun as his research in South America but the long distance with Parvati Patil hadn’t been sustainable. (She’d taken up Trelawney’s old post and the two shared a cottage now in Hogsmeade.)

Then the Slytherin turned his attention to Ginny who threatened to castrate him if he ever broke Hermione’s heart. The Chaser offering to help Draco design an engagement ring in the next breath. In turn, the Malfoy heir asked about her training schedule and how she was feeling about Worlds. He promised to bring Hermione to the Cup, joking that he might need to gift her a library to do it. (Though, really, he just wanted an excuse to give her the rest of the books in his archives.)

Potter even wrangled a reluctant agreement from the couple to have dinner at Grimmauld sometime in the near future. (He’d tossed out Ginny’s suggestion to go out in Diagon Alley, not wanting any more leaked photographs of him spewing on the dance floor pasted across the papers.)

Draco was actually looking forward to the double-date. Though he wished he suggested theirs instead. Because, really, that bloody Dumbledore apparition was fucking horrifying on the best of days,

By the time Tom rang the bell for last call, Hermione’s head was glued to his shoulder. Her yawns against his chest happening every minute. So the couple took their leave, wishing Dean the absolute best before Floo’ing back home.

***

Hermione finally put her foot down with Draco on Sunday. She was going to spend an entire day reading without interruption. He would not crawl between her thighs, sitting on his knees with puppy eyes until she caved. Nor would she give in to that glimmer in his gaze as she sat on the kitchen counter while he cooked sausages for breakfast. She even swatted him away when they took a shower together, his excuse of it being more efficient clearly a ruse.

He was absolutely insatiable. But he could stay like that until tomorrow once Hermione finished a few books.

And for the past few hours he’d been good, sitting in the armchair next to hers as the fire roared in front of them. Puddles had finally made his home in the cat tower, discovering that it was an excellent location to swipe playfully at Draco whenever he walked into the kitchen.

Hermione finished the last chapter in the Huxtabell manual, finding the author both witty and insightful on the translation of Proto-Germanic text. It was a shame they hadn’t used it sixth year.

She wondered aloud if the Malfoy archives contained the writer’s other work on ancient Sumerian, Draco promising to check the next time he went to the estate.

The Gryffindor stood up and stretched, her back cracking in the