Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Hello, and thank you for giving this story a chance! I started writing ADOC at the beginning of the pandemic, and I’m so excited to share it with you.

ADOC is a wartime Dramione set six years after the Deathly Hallows. I’ve put us a bit later to allow for some ~character development~ and also a very endearing and adorable five-year-old Teddy Lupin. I’ve basically written the kind of story I like to read, and I (obvi) take full responsibility for any plotholes/inconsistencies/head-scratching moments. 

What you can expect:

• Updates once a week or so (edit: life outside of writing is quite busy atm, so no update schedule, but I'm constantly writing and editing, and I update as soon as I can!)
• Typos (think of them as rewards for paying attention, you beautiful grammar aficionados)
• Angst (yikes)
• More angst (double yikes)
• But also comfort (yay)
• It’s slooooooow burn
• But I like to think it’s worthwhile 
• Three parts (because of the sloooooow burn and also my anxiety)
• My favorite tropes n things, which include
• Enemies-to-lovers
• Touch her and die vibes
• Exasperated Doctor, Stubborn Patient (if it isn’t a trope it should be)
• Forced proximity
• Delayed use of first names 
• Comfort after nightmares
• “Oh. Oh.”
• Hot Tom Riddle because I said so (but also for the pLoT)
• An unreasonable number of aesthetic collages and quotes and poetry because I’m dramatic thx 

Since both Hermione and Draco are grieving and it’s a wartime story, some chapters are inherently quite dark. That being said, I’ve tried to situate these components within a softer narrative about devotion and friendship.

Eeek last thing, I promise - I just want to thank the online Dramione community and other fanfic authors. Without you and your stories, I wouldn’t have returned to my childhood dream of becoming an author. I’ve read too many fics to list them all here, but I want to acknowledge the ones I keep coming back to: 

• The Fallout by everythursday
• Remain Nameless by HeyJude19
• Isolation by bexchan
• The Measure of a Man by inadaze22
• The Rights and Wrongs Series by LovesBitca8
• Bring Him to His Knees by Musyc
• All You Want by senlinyu
• Manacled by senlinyu
• Draco Malfoy and the Mortifying Ordeal of Being in Love by isthisselfcare

Okay I’m done! I hope you enjoy!!! And if you are so inclined, please leave a lil comment or note with your thoughts. I will quite literally cry authorial tears of joy. Regardless, though, thank you, thank you, thank you for reading.

Chapter Text

They say that Hermione, daughter of Menelaus of Sparta and Helen of Troy, was a lonely and careful child. Lonely, because her mother had left her, and careful, because she reminded her father of the wife he had lost. Passed between men who desired her and invoked by narratives that failed to mention her by name, she was both integral and anonymous: the shadow that pushed the sun through the sky.

Her Shakespearean namesake did not fare much better. In A Winter’s Tale, Hermione was praised for her measured temper and steady conscience, but patience and prudence never meant much to jealous men. And so she was accused of adultery and locked away with a body still raw from childbirth, eventually dying from the grief of losing her son. 

Considering the fate of her counterparts, it was perhaps unsurprising that Hermione Granger found herself sprawled across the wet earth so many centuries later, her lungs fighting a battle they were destined to lose. As her lifeblood mingled with the mud beneath her, a soft cry punched from her lips. The men on either side of her – the one man in particular for whom she had given so much for so long – would survive. Of that, she was certain. But Hermione’s fingers were heavy and cold, and the rain on her cheeks and in her hair already seemed so far away. As she stared at the cold morning sky, a dawn that heralded a day she would not see, she waited to join the bloody legacy of her namesakes. Another woman sacrificed in a selfish, vain war fueled by selfish, vain men. Another life lost to grief and love’s aching absence. 

Perhaps, she thought as her breath rattled in her chest, the next Hermione would do better. Perhaps war would not linger on her doorstep and bury itself in her shadow. Perhaps – perhaps she would live free of duty, death, and loss.

There on the muddy ground, she took comfort in this, and in the friend beside her for whom she had traded her own life. With a final exhale, she allowed her wand to roll from her fingers onto the earth, felt her eyes flutter shut against the distant voice calling her name.

Had someone come to help? 

Hermione pushed away the thought. What use had she for heroes? 

Chapter Text

It was a quiet morning at St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, and Draco Malfoy quickly completed his first set of rounds. He left the trauma ward soon thereafter – after all, he possessed enough self-awareness to know that his presence was not welcome on the floor. Helpful, yes, perhaps even essential, but not welcome. No matter how many broken bones he set or wounds he mended, eyes narrowed and jaws clenched upon his arrival. Most interactions outside of healing turned into a ritualistic sort of penance in which apologies were traded for accusations and insults were borne with a weary resignation.

Not that he didn’t deserve it, Draco reminded himself, but his masochistic tendencies were limited, and he much preferred solitude to prostration. And so, instead of passing his rare reprieve with his colleagues in the break room, he found himself on the roof in the unforgiving cold of a November morning, a smoldering cigarette in one hand and a cup of Earl Gray in the other.

The irony of smoking in his Healer uniform did not escape him, nor did it phase him much. It was a habit he had picked up not long after the Dark Lord’s return, and he had no intentions of quitting. His mother, of course, had been horrified by this development. To his mind, though, smoking was a perfectly reasonable response to the past several months: Voldemort, back. Potter and Weasley, missing. The hospital, constantly overrun. 

The ink in his skin was a glaring reminder of his own complicity and cowardice. 

As far as coping mechanisms went, he figured he could do far worse than a nicotine addiction. 

That argument hadn’t done much to assuage Narcissa’s concerns, but, then again, not much had in those final days.

While Tom Riddle and two-thirds of the Golden Trio had not been seen since June, Death Eaters and Blood Supremacists had emerged from the shadows, their sadism all the more virulent after years of exile or confinement. Following the loss of his mother, Draco threw himself into curse-breaking and potion-making, attempting to contain the darkness of this new war. In a way, healing was just another coping mechanism.

That, and smoking.

It really was ironic.

Draco took a drag, feeling the heat of it press against his lungs, and then let out a slow breath. He stood there long after his exhale was swallowed by the grayness of the morning.

Late the following evening, Draco sat down to complete an imposing stack of paperwork. He was looping a signature across a release form – Susan Bones was finally going home – when a Patronus materialized in the hallway. Lee Jordan’s voice boomed across the tile floor, warning of battle…and the casualties that always accompanied it.

Draco barely had time to grab his robes before apparitions sounded from the corridor. 

Then came the screams.

“Death Eaters attacked Portsmouth,” an ashen-faced Neville Longbottom tensely explained several minutes later. His hair was wet with blood he promised was not his own, and his lips thinned with impatience as Draco insisted on scanning for brain damage. 

“Muggles everywhere, Malfoy,” he said, his jaw tight. “It’s designed to overwhelm. It’s terrorism.”

Within thirty minutes, all of the beds in the trauma unit were full. Healers took to transfiguring tables and chairs into cots. Draco lost track of the number of times he had vanished blood from his coat. Whenever he turned around, he was met with another muggle, arms outstretched, eyes rolling with confusion and fear. 

Draco raced to apply burn paste to a curly-haired woman whose right shoulder was slowly being eaten away by the effects of Feindfire. Nearby, Lavender Brown was counteracting a decomposition curse traveling up an elderly patient’s leg. One bed over, a man coughed up pieces of his own lung. Draco’s wand moved so quickly he barely heard his lips muttering incantations.

At 23:30, there was an eerie lull in traffic. According to Oliver Wood, a well-aimed curse had exploded the building Order members had been using as a side-apparation point. The ceiling had partially collapsed, trapping at least ten fighters in the wreckage. No one could get to them, and no one knew if they could get out.

Draco kept a wary eye on the doorway as he and Michael Corner prepared for the next wave of injuries. Just as his mind settled on the possibility that the explosion had been more fatal than Wood had let on, a series of cracks sounded in the hallway. A trio of figures appeared, and as he, Brown, and Corner rushed towards them, Draco realized only one of them was standing unsupported.

Hermione Granger, covered in dust and debris, stood in the foyer. Her face was taught and grim, and there was an angry cut above her left eyebrow. One of her arms was wrapped around Dean Thomas, and another was supporting Luna Lovegood. Thomas’s left knee jutted out at an unnatural angle as he sagged against Granger. And Lovegood...even Draco’s well-trained stomach heaved at the ugly burns covering her body.

Corner got to them first and quickly transferred Lovegood to a gurney. Draco and Brown positioned themselves on either side of Thomas, whose forehead was covered in a sheen of sweat. They eased him onto a bed and cut the fabric of his pants, revealing the sight of bone sticking through his skin.

Brown hissed through her teeth and immediately cast a non-verbal anesthetic on Thomas.

“We’ll need to set it before an Episky will work,” she muttered. “Malfoy, can you hold him steady—”

“Tell me when—“

“Listen to me!”

The cry cut through the din of the trauma ward, and Draco spun to see Granger standing between Corner’s wand and Lovegood’s prone form. Her face was pale, a shallow cut shining red on her cheek. 

“Michael,” she said loudly. “I told you, a frigus spell won’t work. It was magical fire and—”

“I know what I’m doing.” Corner’s tone was defensive and impatient, and he moved to step around her.

“No.” Granger stepped with him, her eyes flashing. “A spell like that could react with the magic in the burns and accelerate them—”

“That’s ridiculous, Hermione,” Corner shoved towards the cot. His wand glowed blue with an expanding cooling spell.

In a flash, the frigus spell died. Draco inhaled sharply at the sight of Granger’s wand pointed directly at Corner’s chest. Her eyes were narrowed, dark, and unwavering, and her hand was devastatingly steady.

She glared at him. “No.”

In an instant, Draco crossed the ward and inserted himself between the two of them. 

“We don’t have time for this,” he hissed. He pointed Corner towards the adjacent bed. “Go help Brown with Thomas’s leg.”

The Healer’s expression was mutinous. “You’re not in charge—”

“Count your blessings, Corner.” Draco glared at him. “Now go.”

Before Corner could argue, Draco turned towards Granger.  

“What happened?” he asked quietly, sending diagnostics spells into the air. They flashed an alarming red. 

“I didn’t recognize the type of fire they used,” she explained without looking up. Her voice was tight and low. “The flames were red, and the cuts are too open for boomslang. I cast some healing spells back in the building, but I couldn’t see—”

“I know this spell.” He cut away the remaining fabric of Lovegood’s shirt. “Dolohov invented it during the second war.”

Lovegood’s torso was covered in the dark purple blisters, her skin bloody and angry. As Draco catalogued the injuries, he understood why Granger had been so adamantly against Corner’s frigus spell. While frigus was an ideal choice for burns from an open flame, dark curses often reacted with traditional healing spells explosively – and fatally.

Corner should have known better.

Granger had likely saved his life.

Particularly severe burns stretched along Lovegood’s ribs, opening painfully with every jagged breath. Draco tasted bile in the back of his throat. The devastation and scale of the injury, along with the flashing red diagnostic charm, told him they were running out of time.  

“The flames were red, you said?” he asked. 

“Yes.”

“Smoke?”

“Yes.”

“What color?”

“I told you, red—”

“Not the fire. The smoke.”

“Oh. Black. Opaque.” Beside him, Granger sucked in a breath. “Do you think it’s—”

“Iron-based.” He nodded and glanced at her. “A variation on Hünefeld’s Charm should work. Can you—”

“—cast the warming charm?” Granger was already rolling up her sleeves, her wand hand steady. “Tell me when.”

Draco studied Granger. Temperature-altering magic drew from a caster’s energy – it was tricky on the best of days, and certainly not an easy undertaking following a battle. Any interruption in its casting could result in a rapid descent into hypothermia. But Granger’s jaw was set and her eyes were determined, and when she turned to him, her expression was full of urgency.

“Malfoy?” she said, gesturing with her free hand. “Ready when you are.”

He cast the spell. Blue smoke twisted from his wand and coiled around Lovegood’s chest. Simultaneously, the gold glow of Granger’s healing charm blanketed Lovegood’s body.

For a moment, everything was as expected. The spells pulsed in the air above the cot, and Lovegood’s purple burns began to fade.

But then, dark red tendrils began to unfurl from her body, spiraling away from the cot. Draco readjusted his grip on his wand as smoldering vines twisted into a contorting sphere. He watched in shock as the ball grew larger and its movements more violent.

“What the...” he breathed. Hünefeld’s charm was supposed to neutralize excess iron, not remove it from the patient.

“It’s the dark magic from the curse.” Granger’s voice was tight. “It’s regrouping.”

The orb was almost the size of a quaffle now, and ominous power rolled off it in waves.

Draco forced his heartbeat to remain steady. He had never seen anything like this. It was as if the spell were occurring in reverse, which meant...

“Fire,” Granger gasped beside him. “It’s going to turn into fire. Malfoy, quickly. Take over my charm for me.”

If he had had any type of experience with this brand of curse, perhaps he would have tried his own solution. But as it was, he acquiesced without a word, a warming spell stretching from his wand as he kept his eyes on the convulsing mass above his head. Granger immediately cast a containment shield around the dark magic as her free hand reached into a bag tied at her hip.

As if sensing it was under attack, the orb began to hiss and crackle, and its contortions grew more agitated. Draco watched as red flames began to lick along the surface.

“Granger...” he said, trying to keep his voice calm as the flames began to test the integrity of the shield. “Any time now...”

“Trying,” she growled, her arm sinking into the bag up to her shoulder. “Where the fuck is...”

The shield flickered.

“Granger.”

“...almost...”

“GRANGER!”

The shield evaporated. Red flames leapt triumphantly into the air, snaking towards Draco and Lovegood’s prone body. He screwed his eyes shut and braced himself for the heat, waiting for the searing pain of magical fire...

But it never came.

His eyes cracked open to find Granger holding an unassuming glass jar in an unnaturally steady hand. Beneath its lid, the remnants of Dolohov’s curse pulsed angrily.

Draco looked from the jar to Granger back to the jar. “How...?”

“An old trick I learned at school,” she said, frowning at the fire. “I had no idea if it would work for iron-based flames, though. I cast a reinforcement charm on the glass.” She glanced at him. “That’s why I needed to take my shield down.”

He could only stare at the jar.

“I...I’ve never considered using magical glass to contain fire,” he said finally. 

Lovegood’s diagnostic spells relaxed to a pleasant rose color. Draco wiped a hand against his brow. It came back damp.

“I’ll make sure she’s stabilized,” he said, prodding at a signal with his wand. He frowned as a thought occurred to him. “You should take a revitalizing potion after that warming charm.” At her silence, Draco glanced at her, only to find the place beside the cot empty. 

“Granger?” He turned to the chaos of the ward around him, but she was nowhere to be seen. 

A sinking feeling settled in his chest when he realized she’d likely already apparated back to Portsmouth.

Draco pressed his lips together at the thought of what awaited her there. 

As he bent over his next patient, he tucked his concern away. Granger knew what she was doing, he decided as he murmured a disinfecting spell. 

An even if she didn’t – they both had a job to do.

Chapter Text

Hermione kept her hands steady as she tied a cloth around Finley McClaggan’s nose and mouth. Smoke from Dolohov’s fire hung heavy in the air, its oily fingers pushing along her hair and into her eyes. She blinked rapidly. 

“Hünefeld’s charm,” Angelina repeated to the circle of Order members. “It’s elemental magic, making it similar to Aguamenti and Incendio. Same key elements, just add the Ferrous incantation at the end. Maintain the warming charm throughout. Then, get in for rescue and recovery.” She glanced around the group. “Any questions?”

“How many of our people are in the building?” Seamus asked. He was sitting cross-legged on the ground to escape the smoke.

“7 fighters, at least 15 civilians.” 

A collective hiss sounded from the group. 

“Keep your heads on, everyone.” Angelina’s voice was low and steady. “Any other questions?”

“I’ve got one.” Finley shifted from one foot to the other. “What do we do if we lose our partner? If they can’t maintain the warming charm?”

Angelina stared at her. “Don’t lose your partner.” At the girl’s recoil, Angelina sighed. “It won’t happen, Finley. Hermione and I will be running cover, and you’ll have more than enough time to contain the fire.” 

“Are two people enough to cover all of us?” Zachariah Smith looked doubtfully between them. 

From her place against the wall, Ginny raised an eyebrow. “You must be new here.” 

Smith stuck out his chin. “Two people just seems—”

“Not just two people.” Ginny pushed off the wall and nodded her head towards Hermione and Angelina. “Those two people.” 

“Right, but—” 

“Lina and Hermione are two of the best duelists in this hemisphere, you fucking idiot.” Ginny scowled at Smith. “Shut the fuck up or go home.”

Smith shifted uncomfortably and stared at the ground. Beneath his posturing, he looked nervous.

“Any other questions?” Hermione asked, tearing her eyes away from Smith.

“Going once…twice…gone.” Angelina rolled her shoulders back and stepped forward. Her gaze swept the group. “Stay sharp and stay smart. Let’s go.”

The Wizarding War of 1999 had been less of a war than a reaction. Dueling, when it occurred, was less about one’s opponent and more about the broader effort – which, more of than not, was intimately connected to Harry Potter.

This war was different. 

Battlefields were chaos. Curses shattered concrete and bone. Death Eaters flew through the air, shrieking and hissing, lashing out with fists or magic or blades. Dark magic bubbled up from the ground as if summoned. The air was heavy with the smell of sulfur and the sound of screaming. 

In this kind of battle, there was no time to think. There was no plan, no order, no purpose, it often seemed, other than one’s own survival. Any sense of a broader strategy was subsumed by visceral, all-consuming instinct. 

Hermione’s breathing slowed. Her heartbeat became her metronome.

In. Curse. Out. Deflect. In. Shield. Out… 

When she was fighting, her rage had room to stretch, to breathe, to roar until the very earth shook. The blistering fire she worked so desperately to contain now raced through her veins, guiding her wand and baring her teeth in a snarl.

In battle, Hermione became a different version of herself. She did not question, she did not hesitate. The parts of her no one wanted – the parts of her she tried to hide – were now her most powerful assets. Her magic consumed her, and she allowed it to.

It made her relentless. It made her terrifying.

It made her a weapon. 

It was for this reason that Death Eaters backed away at her arrival, their eyes wide as they called for reinforcements. It was why both Rodolphus Lestrange and Fenrir Greyback were now in Azkaban.

It was why Amycus Carrow was dead.

When Hermione was dueling, she didn’t recognize herself.

Maybe, she reflected hours later as she scrubbed blood and soot from her hands, that was why she liked it so much.

Chapter Text

THE DAILY PROPHET

Sunday, November 12, 2007

War is Not Over - A Weary Country Eyes an Embattled Holiday Season

Morag McDougal

In his most recent address to the nation, Minister of Magic Kingsley Shaklebolt warned that war with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named will likely continue into December. After months of fighting with little advancement, Shaklebolt has promised to reevaluate his military strategy.

But it will take more than a handful of victories to galvanize the British people. While the border of Death-Eater-controlled territory has held steady just north of Bristol since September, several small communities have been terrorized at random by inhumane, brutal attacks. Just yesterday, Portsmouth was devastated by magical fire, killing fifty and wounding over one hundred. As Death Eaters continue to target communities at random, British citizens look to their Ministry for guidance and leadership. 

For more reporting on Portsmouth, see p. 4.  

For information on how to protect yourself and your family from unexpected violence, see p. 5.  

Granger: Not So Golden? - War Hero Continues to Avoid Press and Promises

Bronson Bulstrode

[Pictured above: Hermione Granger in the Ministry Atrium, early Saturday morning.]

With Harry Potter and Ron Weasley still believed to be prisoners of the Dark Lord, the country is hungry for a new hero to believe in. Hermione Granger, however, has largely avoided the press since a public confrontation between Granger and Rita Skeeter landed Skeeter in the hospital in late July. When spotted at the Ministry last week, Granger refused a formal interview, citing confidentiality concerns. She agreed to a rushed photo (see above), but only after a terse exchange with our photographer. A case of vanity, perhaps? Or Granger’s infamous cold-shoulder?

Whatever it is, one thing is clear: the Golden Girl’s charm is fading - leaving behind an unlikeable personality, standoffishness, and an undertone of tarnished silver.

Runcorn Doubles Down - Accuses Shaklebolt of Fraud

Hannah Abbott

Alarik Runcorn, Leader of the Opposition in the Wizenagemot, has reiterated allegations that Minister Kingsley Shaklebolt is stealing money from the British people. This past Friday, Runcorn’s office hosted a press conference, during which the controversial politician stood by his claims.

“The Minister cannot keep asking the British people for handouts without first answering to unbalanced books,” Runcorn said at the conference. “We deserve to know where our money is going and why.”

Runcorn has implied that he has access to documentation confirming the alleged money laundering. At the time of reporting, the Prophet has no evidence such documents exist. Runcorn’s office declined to comment.

For her part, Wizenagemot Warlock and Majority Leader Katherine Leung has dismissed Runcorn’s accusations as baseless.

“The Minister for Magic does not have access to any of the accounts funded by civilian donations. If the Minister even attempted to access them, a series of bureaucratic stopgates would fall into place, automatically triggering a formal inquiry from the finance department and a Wizenagemot investigation. Simply put, the Minority Leader’s allegations against the Minister are absurd.”

Leung went on to reference Runcorn’s continued contact with his brother, Albert Runcorn, an unapologetic Blood Supremacist who played a prominent role in Pius Thickness’s puppet regime. She encouraged the British people to contextualize Runcorn’s comments - as well as his ongoing campaign for Minister for Magic - within the broader conflict with the Dark Lord.

“I’m confident the British people are capable of distinguishing between lies designed to drum up press and honorable work intended to serve and protect our country,” she said.

“War is expensive,” she added. “The costs of essential goods, including grain, floo powder, and medical supplies, are only increasing as Death Eaters target the supply chain.”

For a recap on the race for Minister for Magic, see p. 2.

For directions on how to request your ballot for the February election, see p. 3.

Also in this issue:

Quidditch World Cup Postponed Until Peacetime - p. 4

Mary Cattermole, Foreign Policy Minister, Introduces a Strategic Plan for Muggleborn Protection - p. 5

Progressive or Poisonous?: Parents concerned by liberal slant at Minevra McGonnogal’s Hogwarts - p. 3

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy was a private man who had lived most of his life in the public eye. It was an internalized conflict, a fundamental contradiction that had kept him looking over his shoulder for cameras since he was a small child. His father had adored the attention. His mother had tolerated it. 

Draco never really had a choice, making his opinion on the whole matter irrelevant.

Now that both of his parents were gone and Draco himself was an adult, he was better able to protect himself from the scrutiny of the wizarding world. The remaining Malfoy fortune was securely tucked away in France, and Draco’s day-to-day routine at St. Mungo’s had long-since ceased to interest the public. 

Perhaps that was why, on a dreary Wednesday morning, it was entirely too easy for Draco to slip away from magical London to a small muggle community in Sevenoaks. To the average passer-bye, Draco Malfoy, one of the wealthiest men in the country, looked like any other man fulfilling an uncompromising element of his routine: going to church.

The Church of St. Cecelia, to be exact. By good luck or by good fortune (his mother had always insisted the two were different), St. Cecelia’s fell within the border of Order-controlled territory, making travel between St. Mungo’s and the old, Gothic-style building easy.

At this point, it must be clearly said that Draco Malfoy was not a religious man. Far from it, in fact, for he had internalized a suspicion and independence that had turned much more traditional men away from faith. Indeed, the reason Draco found himself seated on a worn pew, seven rows from the alter, a hymnal propped open on the cushion next to him, had very little to do with God. Instead, Draco was there for the reason that propelled him to most places these days: his mother.

When Draco turned five and the Dark Lord’s first defeat had seemed permanent, Narcissa Malfoy took it upon herself to dismantle Lucius’ bigoted instruction. While the blood magic that lived within her union with Draco’s father prevented her from truly leaving him, the curse did not affect her capacity to travel with their young son. 

And so, Narcissa found a muggle congregation far enough from the Manor and close enough to magical shopping locations to ensure their trips went unquestioned and unnoticed. Their Sunday visits became a sort of secret adventure for the two of them, and they would giggle over the ridiculous backstories they created for their church-going characters. Narcissa was a retired astronaut-turned-cook who specialized in marshmallow-based pastries. Draco was a car-racing prodigy who was recruited at the young age of seven.

Despite their outrageous alter-egos, no one at St. Cecelia’s ever questioned them. In fact, one of Draco’s earliest memories was of Father Samuel, a graying man with a kind smile and kinder eyes, kneeling down to introduce himself.

“Hi there, kiddo,” Samuel said in his strange American accent. 

“Hello,” Draco replied from behind the safety of his mother’s skirt.

Now, about two decades later, so much and so little had changed. St. Cecelia’s was still on the corner of Dexter and Holly, and the Oak tree outside still stretched its languid branches across the increasingly cracked pavement. At Christmas time, every window was decorated with a wreath of white roses that glittered in the golden candlelight.

The people, of course, had changed. Father Samuel’s eyes were the same warm brown color, but they now twinkled behind a pair of lilac reading glasses. Women who had once tenderly patted their pregnant bellies now entered the sanctuary with toddlers in tow – walking advertisements for the children’s boutique down the street.

The greatest change, though, had to do with the space immediately beside Draco. For where there was now cold silence, just six months ago there had been a beautiful woman with careful eyes and a warm smile, who smelled of honey and lavender and Draco’s favorite cookies, who had sat next to him and held his hand and rubbed his back during lengthy sermons. 

Indeed, for Draco, the most excruciating reminder that time had passed was his mother’s absence.

Despite the sorrow that settled within him each time he took their habitual place – for it would always be their place, even if she weren’t there to sit with him – Draco went to church every Sunday and Wednesday. The familiarity of the sanctuary, the comfort of the exchanges and service gave him time and space to process his aching grief, grief he tucked away when he was at the hospital. 

Here, at church, he could cry if he needed to. He could smile unreservedly at the children he had known since birth. He could shake hands with the older woman who always sat three rows back, walk her to her car, and thank her for the sympathy cards she had written every month since his mother’s passing.

“My boy,” Father Samuel said in the empty sanctuary, long after everyone had left. “How are you?”

Draco was standing behind one of the pews, his eyes trained on the cross that overlooked the room.

“I miss her,” Draco admitted quietly, because here, he didn’t have to hide.

Samuel placed a hand on Draco’s shoulder and let out a gentle, knowing breath. Together, they watched the morning sun turn the cross to gold.

Chapter Text

It was 7:00 in the morning at Grimmauld Place, and the house was still. Hermione preferred it that way – when the dust of battle-worn boots settled in the hallway and chests rose and fell in dreamy rhythms.

She sat on a worn purple sofa, a mug of herbal tea cupped in her hands, and took a breath. While her childhood hadn’t been very religious, she couldn’t help but feel that her daily vigil was something like a prayer. Sitting, existing, listening, watching the sun stretch across the wallpaper. If there were a god, it seemed like a good enough place for a conversation.

Hermione took a steadying sip of tea. 

For her, the cases for and against God’s existence weren’t philosophical, or even explicitly religious. They were simply feelings. Feelings and moments.

Morning walks with her mother, ice cream in the evenings with her father. Midnight laughter with Harry and Ron, delirious and delighted in one another.

Empty bedrooms, empty picture frames. Cracked glasses on the Ministry floor. Molly Weasley’s voice tight with panic, laced with accusation: where are they, what happened, why weren’t you there

Why weren’t you there?

Hermione pressed her eyes together, stomach muscles protesting as she shifted in her seat. Her side ached terribly from the explosion and the subsequent fight, but she was far better off than Luna. 

Luna had screamed, she recalled. It had been the type of cry that shattered windows and lived in nightmares. Hermione had screamed too, if her sore throat was any indication.

When she picked up her tea again, her hands were shaking. She stood and left the room.

She didn’t feel like watching the sunrise anymore.

“—and frankly, Minister, I am sick and tired of Granger acting as if the rules do not apply to her, sick and tired of—”

“John, take a seat, please, and—”

“—absolutely no respect for auth—”

“John.” Kingsley’s brow was raised in warning. “Sit. Down.”

Hermione, for her part, looked on dispassionately as John Dawlish yanked out a chair. Molly Weasley had once remarked with a blistering glare that the man sorely lacked the temperament of a Head Auror.

As Hermione watched Dawlish careening towards a self-imposed heart attack, she couldn’t help but agree.

Not that Dawlish didn’t have reason to be distressed. Voldemort’s second return had warranted a complete overhaul of the current Auror system. With both Harry and Ron gone, Dawlish had filled the leadership void rapidly and effectively. In order to do so, he imposed a strict military structure in which all Aurors reported to a supervisor, who then reported to him.

It wasn’t a bad system. But Dawlish had also demanded that the Order of the Phoenix be subsumed by Auror Department. That, along with his prickly temper, unilateral decision-making, and unwillingness to fight himself, made for a tense relationship with Order members on the best of days.

It seemed like today was not one of their best.

“—time and time again, Granger shows complete disregard for the chain of command,” Dawlish was saying, perched on his chair as if it were a firebolt prepared to take off at any moment. “My directives are not requests to be followed when convenient. They are explicit! Military! Orders!”

Hermione wasn’t quite sure what she had done to upset Dawlish this time, but she imagined it had something to do with apparating to Portsmouth without notifying him first.

“John.” Kingsley calmly removed his glasses and began polishing them with his robes. “We’ve discussed this. Hermione is not an Auror. She is a member of the Order—“

“She is reckless—“

“She is sitting right here,” Hermione interrupted, arching an eyebrow. 

Kingsley nodded in her direction. “As a member of the Order, Hermione reports to Lee Jordan—“

“Who reports to me!” Dawlish thundered.

“Who collaborates with you, at my behest,” Kingsley corrected. 

Dawlish clenched his jaw so tightly Hermione swore she heard teeth cracking.

“Kingsley,” he said, his voice low. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times. Dividing our military assets is a grave mistake—“

“Yes, John, you’ve made that quite clear.” Kingsley offered him a thin smile. “And while I appreciate the advice, I—“

“Your political career will not survive losing this war!”

A shadow passed over Kingsley’s face. In the dim lighting of his study, he suddenly looked very old. 

“If we lose this war, John,” he said softly after a moment, “I doubt I’ll be alive long enough to mourn my career.”

“But Minority Leader Runcorn—“

“I think we’re done here.” Kingsley pushed to his feet. “Hermione, I apologize for calling you in. And John.” Kingsley’s voiced hardened. “Next time a mission doesn’t go your way, I’d appreciate you not blaming the nearest Order member.”

Dawlish flushed an ugly purple color. “Minister, I—“

“And that, to be clear, is an order.” Kingsley set his jaw and narrowed his eyes. “I trust you know how to follow it?”

Dawlish looked between Kingsley and Hermione indignantly before deflating.

“Yes, sir,” he muttered, glaring at his shoes.

“Then it’s settled,” Kingley said with a grim smile, returning to his seat and reaching for a pile of reports on his desk. “You are both dismissed.”

Dawlish stood and, after glowering in Hermione’s direction, thundered out of the room.

Hermione watched him leave with a frown. His recent tantrum was yet another indication of low morale and unraveling strategy. 

“Hermione,” the Minister said without taking his eyes off of the document before him, “is there a reason you are still in my office?”

“Yes, sir.” She shifted in her seat and frowned at the soreness in her side. “I wanted to speak with you about Alarik Runcorn.”

Kingsley reached for a quill and scribbled something in the margin of the report. “Saw the article in the Prophet, did you?”

It wasn’t really a question, so she remained silent.

After making another note at the bottom of the page, Kingsley glanced up at her. “Hermione, you know better than anyone how Rita Skeeter can twist a narrative.”

“I do,” Hermione allowed with a grimace. “But Runcorn—“

“Is not my first political challenger, nor will he be my last.” Kingsley set down his quill and folded his hands. “I’ll handle it.”

“But he—“

“Hermione. I’ll handle it.”

“I just…“ She faltered and sighed. “I worry about you.”

He offered her a weak smile. “I know.” 

She pressed her lips together and absent-mindedly fingered the lose thread of her coat sleeve.

“And you?” Kingsley asked suddenly. “How are you doing?’

All she could do was blink at him. 

“I know, I know,” he said, waving a large hand in her direction. “It’s a useless question.” His eyes narrowed. “Are you sleeping, though?”

Hermione leaned back in her chair and shot him a look. “Are you?”

Kingsley arched an eyebrow. “I’m not the one in the field every day.”

“I’m fine.”

“Hermione.” 

“Minister.”

He tilted his head and his expression softened. “It’s been six months—“

“Don’t—“

“You have to start preparing yourself for—“

“I’m not—“

“Harry and Ron might not come home, Hermione.”

His words stole the air from the room, and Hermione recoiled as if he’d slapped her. She jerked her head to the side and stared out the window. Angry tears pricked at her eyes.

When he spoke again, Kingsley’s voice was achingly gentle. “I can’t imagine how difficult this is for you, and—“

Hermione pushed to her feet, the wooden chair screeching across the floor. 

“Is there…is there anything else, Minister?” she asked, voice tight. 

Kingsley looked at her for a moment, his eyes sad. Eventually, he shook his head slowly. 

“No,” he murmured. “That’s all.”

Hermione jerked a nod and turned to go. Her hand was on the doorknob when Kingsley spoke again.

“Hermione?”

She looked over her shoulder and found him watching her carefully. 

“I’m here,” he said after a moment. “No matter what, I’ll be here.” 

She looked at him for a long moment before nodding. The door - along with Kingsley’s words - closed behind her.

Chapter Text

In hindsight, Hermione’s visit to St. Mungo’s could have used a bit more planning. Even in a nondescript t-shirt and jeans, she was easily recognizable, and news that Hermione Granger was in the hospital spread like wildfire.

She didn’t exactly mind the handshakes or the introductions, but she was exhausted from yet another sleepless night, and it was difficult to muster enthusiasm or reassurance. The most recent article in the Prophet hadn’t helped the perception that she was cold and inaccessible. As Hermione’s cheeks began to cramp from smiling, she tried to remind herself that these people – these patients and their families – were just as much victims of the war as she was. And with Harry and Ron missing – missing, she reminded herself, not gone – she was acutely aware of her own reluctant symbolism.

It was still a relief, though, when she made it through the lobby and into the recovery wing of the trauma ward. 

Hermione closed the door behind her and exhaled. She hated hospitals, but as far as wards went, this space was one of her favorites. Along the eastern wall, floor-to-ceiling windows brightened the room, turning the world beyond into sunlit honey. Hibiscus vines wove along the walls, ceiling, and screens. Their leaves and flowers moved gently back in forth, as if the room were breathing along with its patients. 

In a way, it was.

After checking with a nurse, Hermione made her way to the far corner. She passed several beds, many of which contained muggles she recognized from Portsmouth. As she walked, she reached for the Occlumency wards she used whenever she visited the hospital - tucking away the smell of antiseptic and her own blistering memories of operations gone wrong and cold-faced Healers and a searing pain in her arm—

“Hi, Hermione.” Elora Dunn, one of the Healers, nodded at her. “How are you?”

“Elora, hi. I’m just looking for—“

“She’s up ahead.” Elora smiled gently. “Sleeping, but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind a visitor.”

“Thanks.”

A few meters and several privacy screens later, there was Luna: wild blonde hair strewn across the pillow, a single radish earring resting on the beside table.

At the sight of her friend, Hermione’s chest caught painfully. Luna’s arms were heavily bandaged and, even in sleep, her breathing was shallow. Dark bruises hung beneath her eyes and trailed down one of her cheeks.

Hermione sank into a chair and removed her scarf with shaking hands. Remus Lupin had once told her that the hardest part of war was the silence. In the thick of a battle, there were simply reactions – curse, countercurse, apparation. But there in the hospital, after the adrenaline evaporated, fear and exhaustion inevitably rose to the surface.

When Luna and Dean had been trapped by Dolohov’s fire, a jagged desperation had torn at Hermione’s magic. She managed to reach them. She managed to apparate them out. Somehow, she and Malfoy contained the curse. And yet, despite all the heroism the people in the lobby applauded and expected, Luna almost died. 

Hermione blinked at the hot tears clouding her vision. She wanted to blame someone for this, wanted to grab them by the shoulders and make them fix it, make them feel the rawness and the wrongness of this war—

“Hermione?”

She looked up to find Neville at the foot of Luna’s bed, a bouquet of daisies in his hand.

She mustered what she hoped was a smile.

“Neville, hi,” she said. “How are you?”

He gave a half-hearted shrug and looked at her knowingly. “’Bout as well as you, I expect.” His gaze moved to Luna, and his mouth tugged down at the corners. “Malfoy says she’ll make a full recovery, but...” He trailed off and readjusted his grip on the flowers.

There was nothing to say to fill the silence. Neville pulled up a chair beside Hermione, and they sat there together, watching the sun move across Luna’s bed.

“Don’t you find it fascinating,” Neville said a long while later, his eyes still on Luna’s bandages, “how unbelievable this feels?” He shook his head. “I mean, we knew that this sort of thing could happen, but...every time it’s one of us, I just….”

Hermione looked at him, the tension in his shoulders, and the shadows on his face.

“Sometimes,” she said quietly, “it feels like it would be easier not to love.”

Neville’s jaw tightened. “Yeah.” He nodded once. “I suppose it feels like that.” 

Somewhere further down the ward, someone began to cry.

Neville shifted, the lines in his face growing deeper. He gave her a sidelong glance. “Did you sleep at all?”

She raised her eyebrows in response.

He huffed a laugh. “Yeah. Me neither.”

In the ensuing quiet, Neville’s tired gaze returned to his girlfriend, his hand running absently over the stubble along his jaw. Hermione reached into her purse and pulled out a glass jar. She tapped it twice, and it stretched into a simple vase. She offered it to Neville.

He took it with a thin smile and stood to place the flowers on Luna’s bedside table. The sun from the window caught the petals, and they seemed to glow.

“Beautiful,” she heard herself say.

Neville did not reply. He stood fixed at the head of the bed, gazing down at Luna. Hermione suddenly felt as if she were intruding on a very private moment, so she murmured a goodbye and made her way out of the ward.

A familiar loneliness settled over her as she walked, and she folded her arms tightly across her stomach. The way Neville looked at Luna – that tenderness, that devotion — when was the last time anyone had looked at her like that? 

She shook her head against the thought. 

Irrelevant. Unproductive.

She would deal with such things when Harry and Ron were safe and home. 

Despite her conviction, a shade of desolation settled over her like a shadow. It followed her along the hospital corridor, through the floo, and into Grimmauld Place like a single radish earring looking for its lost pair. As she passed the kitchen, Hermione caught sight of Order members debriefing after a training session. She moved down the dusty corridor, but not before Lee caught sight of her.

“Hermione!”

She grimaced and backpedaled. “Hi.”

Lee and Katie Bell were frowning down at a map on the table. Lee glanced up at her.

“We’re choosing new apparation points,” he said. “Want to help?”

Hermione accepted the opportunity for the distraction it was and pulled up a chair.

As the late afternoon sun grew heavy in the sky, though, so too did the weight on her shoulders. When Katie, Lee, and the other Order members excused themselves after dinner, Hermione realized that tonight was not a night she wanted to spend alone.

When she exited the floo in Andromeda’s living room, the woman barely looked up from her knitting.

“Hello, dear,” she greeted. “The kettle’s on.”

With a grateful smile, Hermione moved past the couch into the cottage’s small, warm kitchen. Ted’s hand-made oak cabinets lined the walls, their surfaces carved with scenes from muggle and wizard fairytales. Over the sink, a stained-glass depiction of Hogwarts shimmered with the last vestiges of sunlight. 

Hermione glanced out at the darkened clearing behind the cottage – the clearing where Teddy had taken his first steps before tumbling headfirst into Harry’s arms, where Andromeda planted tulips every fall, and where Harry and Ginny had planned to marry. On the round wooden table were the placemats Andromeda had knit for each member of the family, each with its own color scheme and design. Hermione’s, with its warm pinks and purples, had become a permanent fixture over the past several months. She allowed her fingers to run over it fondly as she made her way across the room.

“Teddy’s asleep?” she called over her shoulder as she reached for a mug. She selected her favorite – a pale blue one decorated with a baby niffler reaching towards the golden words You Shine Brighter than the Sun. 

Andromeda hummed. “Ostensibly.” Even with her back turned, Hermione could tell she was smiling fondly. “Lately, he’s become partial to nocturnal fingerpainting.”

Hermione laughed, already feeling lighter. “Sounds like he’s taking after his grandpa,” she said.

“Merlin help us all.” 

When Hermione returned to the sitting room, she folded herself into her favorite armchair and let out a slow exhale. She leaned her head against the back cushion and took in the comforting familiarity of Andromeda’s evening routine: gold-rimmed reading glasses, purple dressing gown, camomile tea on the coffee table.  

The first time Hermione met Andromeda, she had been viscerally alarmed by the woman’s resemblance to Narcissa Malfoy. Now, though, she noticed the little things that set her apart – the firmness of her jaw, the dark green in her eyes, and the smile lines forged by years of resilient laughter. Andromeda was joyful like an early springtime flower: emerging after months of hard winter, stubbornly beautiful and endlessly prepared.

Because of her, Hermione believed things could – would – get better.

Because of her, Hermione had survived. 

“So.” Andromeda set down her knitting and looked at Hermione knowingly. “What’s wrong?”

“Does something have to be wrong for me to visit?”

“On a weeknight? Yes.”

“Fair enough.” Hermione blew on her tea. “Everything’s alright now, but Luna was hurt yesterday.”

“Badly?”

Hermione nodded. 

“That’s terrible news.”

Hermione wrapped both hands around her mug, allowing the warmth to press through her fingers. “I went to see her today, and Neville was there. It just got me thinking about…” She frowned and glanced at Andromeda. Her voice was small as she said, “I just felt a little alone.”

The older woman was watching her closely, a mixture of patience and pain in her eyes. 

“The hospital is always hard for you, after everything that happened two years ago,” Andromeda said after a moment. “It makes sense that visiting Luna would be particularly difficult.”

“Yeah.” Hermione went to take a sip and winced at the temperature. “I just wasn’t prepared for it, I think. Neville, Luna, and I are so close, but I still felt…” She frowned at the fire as she reached for a word. 

“Separate?”

“And distant.” Hermione nodded. “Like I wasn’t fully there, and it didn’t matter. Because they have each other. And I…"

“You have many people in your life who love you, Hermione.”

“I know, I know.” Hermione offered Andromeda a weak smile. “Just not like that.”

Andromeda tilted her head in a way that was so maternal, so caring, that Hermione had to avert her eyes.

“You’re doing beautifully,” Andromeda murmured. 

“Am I, though?” Hermione glared at the ceiling. “I was almost too late—”

“But you weren’t.”

“I could have been, though. A second later, and—”

“—someone else would have been there instead.” Andromeda’s voice was firm. “You’re not alone in this, even when it feels like you are.”

Hermione exhaled.

“I’ve said this before,” Andromeda continued, “but you’re…you’re too young for this. You’ve always been too young.”

Hermione shrugged. “That goes for all of us, I suppose.”

The fire cast shadows on Andromeda’s face as she nodded. Her eyes searched Hermione’s face carefully. “Will you have to go back tonight?”

Hermione shook her head and rested her cheek against the chair. “Angelina and Dean are on-watch tonight, and Ginny and Seamus take over tomorrow.” She frowned at her tea. “Dawlish sent a memo out earlier. We’re waiting three days for a counter-attack.”

“Three full days?”

“Yes.”

Andromeda hissed. “What’s Dawlish playing at?”

“I wish I knew.”

“That man is going to lose this war before he realizes caution and timidity are not the same thing.” Andromeda sighed and shook her head. “But never mind that. You’re here tonight, and that’s what matters.” She slowly moved to her feet. “Dora’s old room is ready. I put clean sheets on this morning.”

Hermione looked up apologetically and opened her mouth.

“I know, I know,” Andromeda interrupted, raising a hand. “I know you haven’t been able to sleep. But if you would like to try. The room is yours.” 

Hermione swallowed her protests and offered Andromeda a weak smile. “Thank you,” she said.

Andromeda crossed the room and placed a gentle hand on Hermione’s cheek. “Thank you for coming to see us.” 

Before she disappeared up the stairs, Andromeda turned around one last time, her brown eyes twinkling.

“Hermione?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t forget to clean up my kitchen.”

By the time Hermione finished her tea, deep midnight had settled over the house. The air was heavy with sleep – even the fairy tale characters on the cabinets had returned to their caves and towers and canopied beds. Hermione allowed herself a moment of nostalgic wonder at the tiny worlds that Ted had created along the walls – individual universes of happiness and home, creativity and consistency. 

She moved to the kitchen table and summoned her mother’s recipe book. 

Jean Granger was an excellent cook – the best, her father liked to say – but Hermione hadn’t learned her signature recipes until the summer after sixth year. They had shared two beautiful months full of messy aprons and dirty dishes, and when the time had come for Wendell and Monica Wilkins to move to Australia, Hermione couldn’t bear to leave her mother’s cookbook behind.

Over the years, the book became an emotional crutch. Hermione would lose herself in the familiar loops and twists of her mother’s handwriting, running her fingers over the faded notes they had made together. The cake burns easily, cautioned one page. Excellent with Merlot, remarked another. Sometimes, she swore she could hear her mother’s voice, lilting along the instructions, exclaiming Perfect! after Hermione completed each step.

Now in the middle of her second war, Hermione found herself relying on the book more than ever. Her magic was paranoid, and it thrummed relentlessly through her veins long after the others had settled into sleep. 

And so, to pass those restless nights, she baked. She made her mother’s famous lemon squares and her father’s favorite chocolate cookies. She baked loaves of pumpkin bread and burned three batches of caramel before she managed to get it right. When the morning came, the products of her sugary vigils were small but consistent comforts, passed between calloused hands and shared in rare moments of reprieve. 

On this night, after the events at Portsmouth and the grief at St. Mungo’s, Hermione’s magic was more agitated than ever. She thumbed through the dessert section and settled on one of her childhood favorites.

As the clock struck one, she rolled up her sleeves and got to work.

Hermione stayed at Andromeda’s long enough to kiss a bleary-eyed Teddy good morning (“Minnie, look! My tooth is loose!”) before she left for St. Mungo’s. There were four bags of muffins tucked in her purse, one for each of the Healers who had helped with Luna. The hallways were quiet, the sun a tentative glimmer over the skyline. 

Hermione stopped by Lavender, Elora, and Michael’s office first, leaving their bags on their desks. As she quietly shut their door, Hermione scanned the room labels along the hallway. With a sinking feeling, she realized she had no clue where to find Malfoy’s office. She wandered down the corridor, boots squeaking on the tile floor, and searched for his name on the door plaques. There was one for Harold McMillan and Winston Bones, even a Fizzy Fingleberry, but no Draco Malfoy.

As she approached the end of the corridor, she began picking at the worn yarn of her coat. Perhaps this was a sign that she was overstepping. Of course, Malfoy was a calm and steady presence in the ward – he had been for the past several months. But his commitment to his work didn’t mean he wanted to see her. What would she say? Hi Malfoy, good morning. It’s me, your good friend Hermione. Have I mentioned I bake when I’m stressed?  She snorted. Maybe she could leave the bag anonymously. Yes, that could—

“Granger?”

She jumped and spun around.

There he was, walking towards her from the end of the hallway. He held a folder in one hand and mug in the other, and he was moving with purpose.

“Granger, I asked if you’re alright. What are you doing here?” He stopped a few feet from her, and his eyes were concerned, as if he’d caught her seeking medical attention at the end of an administrative corridor.

“Oh, hello,” she said, shifting nervously on her feet. “I’m fine, thanks. I just...erm...I was looking for...is your office on this floor?”

“My office?” he repeated, frowning. “No, I work upstairs. I was stopping by to see if Brown could sign these release papers for—”

“She’s not here. In the office, I mean.”

“Yes,” he said slowly. “It seems she’s taking the later shift this morning.”

“That’s good. She deserves a break.”

“She does.”

For a moment, they just looked at each other. Faced with his meticulously kept Healer’s robes and fancy dress shoes, Hermione became acutely aware of her tangled hair and the blotches of flour on her jeans. Malfoy opened his mouth just as she reached for her bag.

“I brought these muff—"

“I guess I’ll leave you to—”

But it was too late. The red bag was already in her hand. Malfoy glanced down at it and then returned her gaze with polite detachedness.

“Are those for Brown?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he reached for the bag and continued briskly, “If you’d like, I can put them on her desk for when she re—”

“No.” She pulled the bag away.

He raised a brow and dropped his hand. “No?”

Hermione shook her head. “No, I mean, yes, there are some for Lavender...but these aren’t...I mean...” She felt a flush creeping across her cheeks.

Malfoy looked properly confused. “Lovegood then?” he offered. “I’m happy to drop them off—”

“They’re for you.” It came out more quietly than she had intended.

“Sorry?”

“The muffins. These muffins.” She held up the bag. “They’re for you.”

He stiffened, and at that moment, she wanted nothing more than to sink through the floor.

“Why?” His expression was unreadable, and his eyes were distant.

Hermione chewed on her lip and glanced down the corridor. “Just to say thank you.”

“Why?” he said again.

“For helping Luna.” She waved a hand vaguely. “And everyone else.”

“Why?”

“Merlin, Malfoy.” She exhaled roughly. “Is that the only word you know?”

His eyes narrowed. “I just don’t understand.”

“What is there to understand?”

“I’ve only been doing my job, nothing extraordinary or—"

“For the love of God.” She scowled at him. “They’re only muffins, Malfoy! Just take them.”

Hermione didn’t remember raising her voice, but the word echoed down the hall as if it had been taken up by a flock of particularly vocal parrots. 

Hermione flushed. Malfoy’s gaze lingered on her face before his lips twitched.

“Alright,” he said, holding out a hand. “Thank you.”

She passed the bag over and nodded tightly. “You’re welcome.” She wiped her sweaty palm on her leg.

He inspected the bag in his hand, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He looked up and tilted his head. “Is this normally how you give people gifts, Granger? Berating them until they accept?”

Hermione planted a hand on her hip, cheeks warm with embarrassment. “Is this normally how you receive gifts? Chastening the person until they regret trying?”

Something unexpected passed over his face. “No,” he murmured, the mirth gone from his expression. “No, I…” He cleared his throat. “I…I appreciate it, Granger.”

Hermione blinked at the sudden change in energy. “It’s…like I said. It’s a thank you, so...” 

They stared at each other.

“Well.” Hermione took a step back, cringing at the awkwardness. “It was…uh…nice to see you.”

Without waiting for a reply, she walked by him towards the stairwell. She kept her head low, mentally cursing herself for not getting to the hospital earlier.

“Granger.”

His voice was a low, tentative murmur of her name. She stopped and willed her face to return to its normal color before turning.

“Yes?”

He looked a bit absurd, the garish red of the muffin bag standing out against the monochrome of his uniform.

He seemed to hesitate for a moment. “Would you like some tea?” he finally asked, his voice echoing down the hall. He raised his mug. “I was just about to make more.”

As she took in the uncertainty written into his brow, Hermione had the disconcerting impression that she was looking at a mirror.

“Alright.”

The trauma ward’s break room was a depressing place, Hermione decided as she placed her bag on a table. The walls were a sickly orange color and the countertops an affronting bright green. Faded flyers were pasted to the wall, advertising an assortment of medical products and quick fixes. She moved closer to them and could just make out logos for Mrs. Rasure’s Rash Remover and Miraculous Menopausal Mix. One cartoon showed a man winking cheekily at the room with the caption “Is your man not up to the challenge? Use Jacobson’s Virility Capsules to wake up his wizard!” Hermione fought the urge to roll her eyes.

“Earl Gray or English Breakfast?” Malfoy’s voice floated over her shoulder. She turned to find him preparing a kettle across the room.

“English Breakfast would be lovely.”

The truth was, she didn’t really drink Earl Gray anymore, not since she said goodbye to her mother all those years ago. But she wasn’t prepared to have that conversation with Malfoy. Or anyone, for that matter.

“These flyers are ridiculous,” she said, gesturing at the wall.

Malfoy glanced up and smirked. “Those have been here for ages. Do you take anything in your tea?”

“Milk and sugar, please.”

Malfoy nodded, and with a wave of his wand, a tray of various creams and sweeteners appeared.

“So,” he said, levitating two mugs to the table.

“So,” she repeated, blowing on the tea. 

His gray eyes were steady on hers as he broke the silence. “What brings you to the hospital?”

“Luna,” Hermione said quickly. And restlessness. She added sugar to her tea. “I wanted to see her.”

“Her recovery is going smoothly.”

Hermione nodded. “She looks much better. All thanks to your quick thinking with Hunefeld’s charm, really.”

Malfoy pressed his lips together and glanced down at his mug. He took his tea black, she noticed. 

“How’s Longbottom doing?” he asked.

“Neville?” Hermione frowned. “He’s doing…I think he’s doing alright. It’s not been easy for him. For anyone, really.” She grimaced at the table. “Anyway. Are you going to try the muffins?”

“Are you going to tell me what poison you added to them?”

For a moment, she stared at him, confusion twisting her brow. Then, she noticed the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

Suddenly, she was smiling – a genuine, surprised smile, and it felt unfamiliar on her face. “Where would be the fun in that?” she heard herself say.

Malfoy reached for the bag and shrugged, his broad shoulders sloping gently. “At least I would know the cause of my untimely demise.”

“Oh please.” Hermione rolled her eyes. “If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t use muffins to do it.”

He paused mid-unwrapping, his eyes wide. “That’s not at all comforting, Granger.”

Hermione grinned. “Actually, though, are you allergic to bananas or gluten? I should have asked—”

Malfoy waved away her concern and took a bite. As he chewed, she quickly looked down at her mug. She suddenly felt very self-conscious. 

“Granger, these are excellent.”

She allowed a small smile to creep onto her face. “I’m glad you like them.”

As she watched his expression relax into something close to contentment, Hermione realized it had been years since she’d truly looked at him. Except for a curt nod or passing acknowledgement in the hospital or Ministry, they hadn’t spoken much. She knew very little about him, other than the fact he’d completed his NEWTS abroad and returned two years ago to join the St. Mungo’s trauma team. In fact, he arrived not long after Hermione’s operation at the hospital, which was another reason their paths rarely crossed. 

Maybe that was why she was only now noticing the shadowed angles of his features – long lashes, severe cheekbones, dark gray eyes. His hair was longer than it had been at school, but still pale blonde and well-kept and – 

Fucking hell.

Draco Malfoy was good-looking.

He was devastatingly good-looking.

When had that happened?

To cope, Hermione took a rather large gulp of tea. Her eyes watered at the hot temperature, and she coughed inelegantly. Malfoy looked at her strangely, and she redirected her stare to the bag of muffins. He tracked the shift in her attention with alarming accuracy.

“Would you like one?” he asked.

She looked up, blinking. “Pardon?”

“A muffin. Would you like one?”

“What? Oh.” She exhaled once to gather herself. “No, thank you.” She offered a thin smile. “I had enough batter last night to last me until Christmas.”

Malfoy’s gaze lingered on her mouth before he tilted his head. “I never took you for a baker, Granger.”

“Oh?” She raised an eyebrow. “And why not?”

He leaned back in his chair and shrugged.  “Seems like it would require leisure time you don’t currently possess.”

“Fair enough.” She sipped her tea. “We’ve divided up watch so people can get some rest.”

“I take it you aren’t on duty?”

“Not today, no. And our next mission isn’t for another forty-eight hours.” At the thought of the delay, Hermione pressed her lips together.

Malfoy was watching her closely. “You don’t agree?”

“I don’t. But it doesn’t really matter what I think.”

Malfoy’s eyes glinted. “Seems unlikely.”

“Not when it comes to John Dawlish.”

“What’s he like?”

“Dawlish?”

“Chief of the Auror Department, yes?”

“That’s the one.” Hermione exhaled roughly. “He’s…traditional? Very strict. Loves a good institutional hierarchy.” She shook her head. “You wouldn’t get along.”

“Oh?” He tilted his head. “What makes you so sure?”

She looked at him then, at his careful distance and disarming focus. “Call it intuition,” she said, more softly than she’d intended. 

Perhaps it was her imagination, but she could have sworn his eyes sharpened. Silence stretched between them – charged and uncertain and new.

Malfoy was the first to break it. 

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes intent upon hers. “How long have you had trouble sleeping?”

She blinked. “What?”

“Your sleeping problem. How long has it been going on?”

“I don’t…Malfoy, I don’t have sleeping problem.”

“You’re lying.”

She stiffened. “I’m not—”

“Your eyes are bloodshot, your breathing pattern is unsteady, and the dark circles under your eyes would put a vampire to shame. You’re not on-duty, nor are you preparing for a mission, yet you show up to the hospital at the crack of dawn. The muffins, which, it stands to mention, are delicious, are freshly baked, which leads me to believe you were up all night making them.” He folded his hands on the table, his eyes flashing in warning. “So, I’ll ask again. How long have you had trouble sleeping?”

“I…” Hermione stared at him. “I don’t—”

“You do.”

“Malfoy, what the actual—”

“—every indication—”

“—none of your busi—”

“—defensive and petulant—“

“Five months.”

She said it so quietly she thought he hadn’t heard. But then, his lips thinned. Hermione fought the urge to flinch at the intensity of his gaze. 

“Five months?” he repeated, his eyes darkening. “Five months?”

She rolled her eyes. “If you say it three times, a butterfly will appear.”

“Granger, this isn’t funny. Sleep deprivation is—"

“Are you diagnosing me?”

“Am I—” He stared at her. “No, Granger. I’m just…I’m just concerned.”

“Trying something new?”

He exhaled roughly. “I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean, but—”

“And I’m not sure what you expected.”

“Come again?”

“Did you think that being a soldier would mean easy sleeping? That I could compartmentalize losing my two best friends once my head hit the pillow?” 

His knuckles had gone white around his mug. “Your questions are rhetorical.”

“And yours,” she said, “are irrelevant.”

“They are not—"

“I don’t have to justify myself to you, Malfoy. My choices are none of your concern.”

“On the contrary. Choices affecting the health of Order members are the definition of my concern.”

“I am not your patient.”

“Well, maybe you should be!” His eyes were blazing. “Granger, you have to take care of yourself—”

“I’m doing the best I can!”

“You are not.” 

“And how would you know?” she snapped. “Are you tailing me like every member of the fucking Prophet?”

“Christ, no. But you apparated in with Lovegood and Thomas the other day—”

“And?”

“Granger, side-long apparition is dangerous with only one other person.”

“Believe it or not, I did complete fifth year—”

“You could have been injured.”

Hermione looked around the room in mock-surprise. “You mean to tell me I could have been injured? Fighting in a war?”

Malfoy took a sip of tea and muttered something about stubbornness and witches.

“What was that, Malfoy?”

“I just don’t understand—”

“Seems to be a habit for you—”

“What is so consuming that you possess no regard for your own well-being?”

Her retort caught sharply in her chest. She swallowed around the sudden pain. “You…” She pressed her lips together and reached for her Occlumency shields. “You know the answer to that question.”

Malfoy didn’t relent. “Potter and Weasley wouldn’t want you to—”

“Don’t.” She held tightly to the mug in front of her and willed her voice to remain steady. All of her animosity gave way to bitter exhaustion, and she simply…she simply couldn’t. Not now. 

“Don’t,” she said again, as the cool apathy of Occlumency settled over her. “Don’t tell me what Harry and Ron would want. I…you have to understand, Malfoy. I would do anything.”

They considered each other across the table.

Malfoy’s gaze lingered on her face. If anything, his scowl deepened. “Fine.” He nodded curtly. “Fine.”

They fell into an uneasy silence. For a reason she couldn’t quite articulate to herself, she wasn’t willing to meet his eyes, so she stared at the horribly green table as she finished her drink. Malfoy seemed to feel similarly – he barely moved except for the periodic sip of tea.

“Lovegood will be ready to go home tomorrow.” The words were hollow, his voice low and inflectionless.

“That’s…” Hermione cleared her throat. “It will be good to have her home.”

“You live together.”

It wasn’t a question, but Hermione nodded anyway.

“She may need assistance applying boomslang to the burns on her back.”

“I’ve done it before.”

“Good.”

“Good.” She looked at him then and found his gaze tracing the shadows beneath her eyes and lips. She looked away. “I should get going.”

“You should,” he agreed. His aristocratic tone made it sound more like a dismissal than anything else. 

“Thanks for the tea.”

He didn’t look up. “See you around, Granger.”

As Hermione made her way back to Grimmauld Place, Hermione couldn’t shake the shadow of their conversation. By all counts, Malfoy’s lecture should have incensed her. After all, she hadn’t asked for his opinion, and she certainly hadn’t invited his concern. With today's notable exception, her interactions with Malfoy had consisted of curt nods and cold, simple efficiency. Now, though, his criticism hissed from its home beneath her skin. And when evening fell and Hermione began preparing for another sleepless night, she couldn’t fight the feeling that Malfoy was more right than he was wrong.

It was an unsettling realization.

Even as the other Order members turned off their lights and Hermione took her habitual place in front of her mother’s recipe book, the uneasiness persisted. How was she to make sense of Draco Malfoy, her childhood antagonist, showing genuine concern for her? Why did he seem to care so much?

He’s a Healer, you dolt, she reminded herself. It’s his job to care.

A tapping at the window shook her from her reflection. She frowned and wiped at the frosted glass with her sleeve.

“What the—” she breathed as she made out an impressive eagle owl hovering at eye-level. She rushed to open the latch, and the bird swooped into the room with a rush of cold air. A brown parcel was tied to his leg.

She stared at the owl as he settled on her desk. The wards around the building were strong enough to keep out any unfriendly mail, but still...

She carefully untied the package and found a card attached to it. With one last skeptical glance at the bird, she opened the envelope and was met with a short note in elegant script.

Granger,

Enclosed, you’ll find a vial of Dreamless Sleep designed particularly for those suffering from magical enervation. Two to three drops under the tongue will be more than sufficient.

Thank you again for the muffins.

~ DLM

Hermione read the letter twice over and then unwrapped the parcel to find the distinctive blue of Dreamless Sleep glittering in a small glass vial. She unscrewed the top and her eyes widened as she took in the strong scent – the smell of licorice still lingered, meaning Malfoy had likely brewed this immediately after their conversation.

In a daze, she scribbled a hasty response and gave the owl – Malfoy’s owl, she reminded herself – a treat before reopening the window. As she watched the bird disappear into the evening clouds, a frown pulled at her lips. Malfoy wasn’t the first to notice her exhaustion, not by a long shot. But he was the first to challenge her excuses, push past her self-imposed martyrdom, and force her hand. 

Hermione shut the window and glared at the small blue vial. After a moment’s hesitation, she closed her mother’s book, grabbed the potion, and made her way upstairs.

The room she shared with Ginny was small – roomy enough for a dresser, a bedside table, and a double bed. Before the war, it had been Harry and Ginny’s guest room. Now, Ginny was unable to enter the room she and Harry had made their own. Hermione was staying indefinitely at Grimmauld, so the stark guest room had become their refuge. 

The first time Hermione and Ginny had shared a bed was two nights after Harry and Ron’s disappearance. Neither woman had slept since they’d received the news, news that had shattered their lives indiscriminately. They’d spent a sleepless night attempting to piece together the fractured narrative, gather search parties, and process their shock. By the time the following evening came around, they were both bone tired and terrified, a combination that inevitably escalated to panic. Hermione spent the better part of two hours staring blankly at the ceiling in her flat in London, silent tears leaking into her hairline, trying to stop her imagination from spiraling as she confronted her best friends’ absence. 

After a particularly disturbing image flashed before her – one that involved Harry and Fenrir Greyback – Hermione pushed the covers off of her and blindly felt for her wand. Two minutes later, she was stepping through the floo of Grimmauld Place. Between Hermione’s weariness and disbelief, she barely mustered surprise at the sight of Ginny, floo powder in hand, preparing to step into the fire.

“Oh,” Ginny had gasped, her eyes red-rimmed and heavy. “I was just...” She bit her lip and glanced at the ceiling. “I can’t…can’t sleep alone.”

No other words were spoken that night – the grief and pain they shared did not require them. Instead, Hermione followed Ginny up to guest bedroom, where the two women held to one another until the grayness of dawn crept across the floorboards.

Hermione had slept in the room ever since – and when she couldn’t sleep, she tried to be there when Ginny went to bed. She’d lie awake and listen to Ginny’s inhales and exhales, the warmth from the other’s woman’s body a gentle reminder that, despite everything, she was not alone.

That night, though, with the taste of licorice on her tongue and Ginny steady at her back, Hermione slept better than she had in months.

Chapter Text

Draco let out a sigh as he considered the stack of documents on his desk. Despite the overwhelming number of patients, St. Mungo’s mandated extensive paperwork for each patient. Notes about injuries and remedial spell-work were required by the Aurors and curse-breakers on the frontlines. Apparently, it helped them identify dueling patterns and predict shifts in strategy.

He rubbed his face. Typically, he finished his forms in the evening after his shift ended, but he’d spent most of the previous afternoon in the potions laboratory. 

He couldn’t articulate why he’d felt compelled to brew the modified Dreamless Sleep for Granger. Without a doubt, the Order was well-enough equipped without his contributions. He was a Healer, after all, not a potioneer. 

But he still had a duty of care, he’d decided. Granger presented every indication of intense physical and magical fatigue paired with heightened anxiety. That combination, along with her predictable and reckless Gryffindor tendencies, posed a grave threat to her health.

A duty of care. Nothing more. 

This is very thoughtful, she’d said in her response. Thank you. 

The muffins she’d brought him now sat on his desk. He’d allowed himself only one this morning, hoping to stretch the bag as long as he could. 

Draco swiveled in his chair and looked out at the gray November sky. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had baked something for him, or even brought him a gift, for that matter. For all of her talents, his mother had been a horrendous cook, and Draco had lost his affinity for sweets during sixth year. But Granger’s muffins were absolutely delicious.

He turned back to the desk and eyed the bag. Perhaps one more, he decided, just to get him through the paperw—

“Healer Malfoy.”

Draco turned back to the doorway and stiffened. 

Priscilla Clearwater stepped into his office, her robes sweeping elegantly behind her. Her gray hair was pulled into a tight bun at the top of her head, and shrewd brown eyes peered at him from behind wire-rimmed spectacles. She was the director of the hospital, and these days, she rarely left the ministry. 

“Director Clearwater.” Draco stood. “Good morning.”

A visit from the director was rarely a good thing. Clearwater did not look at him, instead inspecting the bare walls of his office and the stack of paperwork on his desk. As her brown eyes turned to the contents of his bookshelf, Draco pressed his lips together.

“May I help you, Director?”

She gave no indication that she had heard him. He watched as her fingers traced the spines of some of the larger toms. 

“You have many muggle volumes in your collection, Healer Malfoy,” she murmured. “Why is that?” 

He tensed. These past seven years, he’d tried to make clear his renouncement of his family’s blood supremacist history. But forgetting took much longer than forgiving, and mistrust was a pernicious shadow.

Draco reached for his mask of indifference and forced his voice to remain steady.

“I find muggle medicine applicable and efficient in the trauma ward,” he said. 

“Yes.” She pulled an old textbook on traumatic brain injuries and frowned at the title. “I understand you treat some muggle patients.”

Draco stiffened. “I do. But I’ve also found that non-magical treatments can save a magical life, particularly when the effects of a curse are better understood than its operating mechanism.”

Clearwater looked unimpressed and returned the book to its place. “I suppose muggle medicine is not specific to muggle biology.”

Draco’s frown deepened. “Director, I—”

Finally, she turned towards him and fixed him with an intense stare. “Yes?”

“I simply…” He exhaled. “Director, there is no identifiable difference between muggle and magical biology, and the insistence that such a distinction exists is problematic at best.”

“And at worst?”

“I’m sorry?”

Clearwater took a measured step towards him, her eyes sharp and disarming. “You said that it is ‘problematic at best.’” She leaned forward. “I asked what it is, at its worst.”

“At worst…” Malfoy took a steadying inhale and chose truth. “At worst, Director, it is bigoted, and it facilitates and founds blood supremacy.”

Clearwater stared at him. For a terrible moment, Draco was convinced he was about to lose his job. Then, her face lifted into a small but approving smile.

“I couldn’t agree more, Healer Malfoy.”

Draco released a breath he didn’t know he had been holding.

“Your reputation as a diligent caregiver precedes you, you know,” she continued, folding her hands in front of her. “I’ll admit I was skeptical at first, so I had to come see for myself.”

Draco fought the flush he felt creeping up his neck. Gratitude always made him viscerally uncomfortable. 

“I’m only doing my job,” he said quietly.

She inclined her head. “You most certainly are. And speaking of your position, I’m here to promote you to Lead Healer in the trauma ward.”

“I’m sorry?”

“A promotion,” she repeated, smiling slightly. “Winnie Bones has been reassigned to the frontlines. Minister Shakelbolt, Auror Dawlish and I agreed that you are the ideal candidate to replace her.”

Draco tried to calm the racing thoughts in his mind. “Lead Healer,” he repeated slowly. “But Brown—”

“—was offered the position first, given her longer tenure here. She declined to allow herself more time with her wife.” Clearwater moved towards the doorway. “She nominated you for your exemplary service and commitment, and I fully agree with her assessment.” Clearwater’s expression darkened and she looked at him pointedly. “I will be significantly less amiable, however, if last week’s paperwork isn’t on my desk by the end of the day.”

Draco glanced at the muffins on his desk and the stack of unfinished forms and nodded. “Of course.” 

Clearwater inclined her head, a smile dancing on her lips. “Good day, Healer Malfoy.”

“Good day, Director.”

“Come on, Draco. We don’t have all day.”

Bellatrix Lestrange’s voice spilled like oil onto the floor of the drawing room. Draco swallowed tightly and stared at the man splayed on the tile, staring up at him in terror.

“Draco!” Bellatrix snapped from behind him. “Now.”

Draco blinked and readjusted his grip on his wand, trying to ignore the pleading expression on the man’s face. 

His aunt’s blackened fingernails dug into his neck.

"Nephew,” she hissed in his ear. “Do it.” Her breath was hot and rancid on his face as she grabbed him by the chin. “How will you manage to off Dumbledore, eh? If you can’t even kill muggle filth?” 

She released Draco and danced towards the muggle, boots clicking on the floor. She pouted at Draco over her shoulder.

“I’m only trying to help you,” she said. 

She curled her fingers towards the muggle. He rose in the air, struggling against invisible bonds. Bellatrix trailed a finger down the man’s cheek and pouted.

“We would have had such fun together, you and I,” she cooed at the terrified man. “The things we could have tried.”

The man stared at her, eyes dilated from fear. Draco tasted bile in his mouth.

“Perhaps we can give Draco an incentive, hmmm?” Bellatrix said to the muggle. “Make it a bit easier for him?” She tilted her head maniacally. “What should we start with?”

There was an unhinged moment of silence. Then, Bellatrix licked her lips and grinned.

“Crucio.”

She must have lifted the silencing charm, because the man’s screams barreled through the room, crashing through Draco’s Occlumency wards and turning his blood to ash. 

Bellatrix turned towards Draco and bared her rotting teeth. “Kill him, and this stops!” she sang over the man’s agony. “Kill him, kill him, kill him, kill him!”

Draco began to hyperventilate. “Ava—“ He shook himself. “Avada—“

It was just a spell, it would help the man, why couldn’t he help the man, why wouldn’t he help the man

This wasn’t what he wanted. He didn’t want this. He didn’t—

“Avada Kedavra.”

And then, he woke up.  

“Hey Malfoy—Malfoy? Is everything okay?”

Draco blinked and turned to see Neville Longbottom walking towards him on the roof. Draco had mostly managed to compartmentalize the nightmare, but his hands still trembled slightly.   

“Oh, hi, Longbottom. Yes, I’m fine.” Draco brought his cigarette up to his lips. “Big day for you, isn’t it?”

Longbottom nodded and grinned. “Luna was just discharged.” 

As if on cue, Lovegood stepped through the doorway. Her long, pale hair was braided over her shoulder, reaching almost to her hip. She looked almost like she had during their days at Hogwarts – slightly distant, wholly content, and disarmingly curious.  

“Hello, Draco,” she said, her face lifting in a gentle smile. “I thought you would be on the roof.”

“Lovegood.” He inclined his head. “How are you feeling?”

“Like plum pudding,” she replied cheerfully, as if it were all he needed to know.

He supposed it was. “Glad to hear it.” He felt his lips twitch. “Do you need anything before you leave? Boomslang, murtlap…”

Longbottom shook his head and wrapped an arm around Lovegood’s shoulders. “Lavender’s got us all squared away in that department. We have enough salves to last us until next Christmas.”

Lovegood looked up at Longbottom and smiled. It was…charming.

And a bit much, really.

“Excellent.” Draco considered the cigarette in his hand. He didn’t like smoking in front of patients – or anyone, for that matter – but it didn’t look like they were planning on staying long. “What can I do for you? I’ll have your reports sent to Grimmauld, of course.”

Luna tilted her head. “We came to say goodbye,” she said. 

Oh. Oh. 

“Yeah, you’ve been incredible,” Longbottom said, looking down at Lovegood fondly. “Don’t know what we would’ve done without you.”

Lovegood nodded, her lips tilted in a faint smile.

Draco blinked. He didn’t do this part well at all. Broken bones? Handled. Open wounds? Under control. But this? 

He swallowed roughly. “Don’t mention it. I’m happy to have helped.”

“Helped?” Longbottom repeated. “Mate, you saved her life.”

“Granger was—” Draco began.

“Hermione says the same thing.” Malfoy stiffened at her name, but Longbottom didn’t seem to notice. “I know some people still give you trouble, Malfoy,” he was saying, “but I want you to know that…” He sighed. “I was wrong about you. I see that now. And I’m sorry.”

It was as if someone had stolen the air from Draco’s lungs. The nightmare, the genuine affection in Lovegood’s eyes, and now the apology…it was all too much.

“—from our school years,” Longbottom was saying, “but so much time has passed—”

“It’s alright.” Draco wrestled his face into a neutral expression and nodded. “I appreciate it, Longbottom.”

The other man relaxed slightly. “Good.” He kicked his shoe against the cement. “And if anyone pushes you around, you send them to me, and I’ll set them straight.”

Bloody Gryffindors. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“And if you’d ever like to stop by Grimmauld, you know, for tea or—“

“Neville.” Lovegood intertwined her fingers with Longbottom’s. “We’re making Draco uncomfortable. He’s just too polite to say anything.”

“Ah.” Longbottom flushed and rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. “Sorry.”

Draco shook his head and leaned back against the railing. “Tea sometime sounds great, Longbottom.”  

“Ooo.” Lovegood looked pleased. “I’ll make pumperdillow muffins.” 

Draco glanced from Lovegood to Longbottom, who looked appropriately frightened. “Sounds lovely,” Draco said.

Longbottom grimaced. “See you then, I guess.” He gently guided Lovegood to the door. “Thanks again, Malfoy.”

“Wait,” Draco heard himself call. The couple turned, and Draco finished his thought before he could stop himself. “Are you…is there…” He cleared his throat. “Granger mentioned a raid is planned for tomorrow.”

Longbottom frowned. “You spoke to Hermione?”

“Just in passing,” Draco said quickly. “And you’re…will you be going?”

At this, Longbottom’s expression sobered. Even Lovegood’s features visibly tightened. 

“Yeah.” Longbottom squinted at the ground. “Luna’s staying put tomorrow, but I’ll be there.”

“And Granger?” The question slipped from his lips before he could stop it.

“Hermione?” Longbottom frowned. “Of course.”

“Of course,” Draco echoed. He tapped his cigarette and squinted at the cold November sky. “Be careful,” he said finally. “I’ll…I’ll be here if you need me.”

Despite the seriousness of Longbottom’s expression, his lips quirked in a small, bemused smile. “Thanks, Malfoy. And…” His eyes searched Draco’s face. “I’ll pass along the message to Hermione.”

“Oh.” Draco stiffened. “No need. Just…” He trailed off and pressed his lips together.

But Longbottom nodded again, his eyes full of understanding. A moment later, Lovegood crossed the roof and put a gentle hand on Draco’s shoulder. It was a motion that should have been awkward, but something in Lovegood’s eyes made Draco relax.

“They’ll be alright, Draco.” Lovegood nodded sagely. “I can feel it.” She glanced at his cigarette and leaned back towards him conspiratorially. “Smoke attracts nefrangles, you know.”

“Pardon?”

“Nefrangles,” Lovegood repeated seriously, her eyes wide. “They give you terrible nightmares and make the world feel sad.”

“Oh.” Draco appraised the cigarette in his hand. “That explains a lot, actually.”

“You might be immune, though,” she continued, tilting her head thoughtfully. “People with good hearts usually are.”

Draco’s eyes widened at the sentiment, but Luna had already turned to meet Longbottom by the door. She intertwined her fingers with his, and then, Draco was alone on the roof again. 

He looked out over the skyline and took another drag. As the wind carried the smoke away, his stomach tightened at the thought of the couple separating tomorrow morning, of Lovegood waiting for Longbottom to return from the raid, her blue eyes cold with worry. Of Granger, wherever she was, spending another night awake and alone, her lips pulled tight and her eyes flashing with attention and alarm. 

The image hung over Draco for the rest of the day. 

Was this – the anxiety, the restlessness, the burning fear – was it normal? Was everyone else haunted and bone-weary, sickened by dread and powerlessness?

As he returned to the ward for his evening rounds, Lovegood’s answer echoed through his mind.

People with good hearts usually are.

Chapter Text

Retaliatory attacks were dangerous. 

In a defensive scenario, the major priority was fortification – or, at worse, evacuation. When it came to the offensive, there was a plan. An endpoint. An objective.

But in moments of retaliation?

The only purpose was revenge. 

And revenge, it turned out, was neither neat nor narrow. It spilled beyond an eye for an eye, morphed into something ugly and consuming and unconscionable. After all, you could lose the battle and still get revenge. You could lose a friend and still get revenge. 

You could lose your life and still get revenge.

So, retaliation was dangerous.

And for Hermione, it was untenable.

That was why, as other Order members glared at the ground and invoked their personal ties to this fight, Hermione remained apart, her eyes fixed on the horizon. With each steady exhale, she retreated behind her Occlumency shields. She allowed her body to become efficient, empty of vendetta or vindication. She wouldn’t – couldn’t - assign names or deeds to the Death Eaters she would face. 

Her ledger was as raw as it was exhaustive. If she were to begin collecting debts…

The last thing this century needed was another villain. 

Hermione was many things, but she was not a fool. She was keenly aware of the darkness that thrummed beneath her magic. Relentless, cruel, it demanded an audience, singing of fulfillment and pride and power. 

And because Hermione was not a fool, she believed it.

So, instead of feeding into narratives of anger or retribution, Hermione distanced herself carefully, intricately, honing her magic, turning her rage to razor blades.

She was a protector, not an avenger.

She triple-checked her shoelaces and nodded at Angelina.

She was ready. 

The Order had received intelligence that Voldemort had repurposed a warehouse outside London for supply storage. 

This warehouse was their target.

The wards were thorough but repetitive, and Hermione sifted through them carefully. To avoid triggering any alarms, she didn’t remove them. Instead, she pulled them back as if opening a curtain, allowing the group to slip through undetected.

Ginny and Lee were first, followed by Bill and Fleur, then Neville and Seamus, George and Katie, Zachariah and Michael, and several new recruits Hermione didn’t recognize. Hermione and Angelina brought up the rear, as always. 

As he passed her, Neville’s eyes met hers. The grimace they exchanged spoke volumes.

Their mission, notionally, was to take the Death Eaters by surprise and destroy their supplies as a warning after the unprovoked attack at Portsmouth. The objectives were as vague as they were crucial. Had Hermione not already pulled away from herself, she would have felt viscerally anxious. 

As it was, she simply felt aware.

The early morning air was thick and cold and gray, and Hermione’s exhales curled away from her in puffs of white mist. The team lined up along the wall of the warehouse, an ugly, concrete building with blackened windows and rusted doors. Hermione stared at a collection of pebbles by her shoe. 

“Stay sharp and stay smart,” someone whispered. 

Lee raised his wand and blew the door off its hinges.

Dark.

The room was dark and cold.

Dark, cold, with concrete floors and walls and columns. Bad for head injuries, she knew, so cushioning charms were—

Boxes. Rows and rows of them. Supplies or—

Flash of yellow. Flash of orange. Dark but defensive. Ginny’s hair disappeared around a corner.

Supplies. Open, then destroy.

Neville and another woman pulled a box down, floo powder spilling out onto the ground like gray-green sand 

“Shortage,” someone called. “There’s a shortage.”

But Neville’s face was twisted and angry and suddenly green flames were racing along the corridor.

Smokeless. Smokeless, but destructive. Fleur hated fire. She was up ahead, hair glowing like a fish’s underbelly.

Confine it – yes, Hermione had to confine the fire. Aerobindo, kept the air in place so fire could not spread, a verbal spell, the wand motion less important than the word itself.

Flash of blue, flash of purple, a shout from her left

Angelina with narrowed eyes and green shadows on her cheeks, shelves crashing together. A sudden memory of prophecies flying like snowballs in the Department of Mysteries – triggered, occluded away.

Shield, shattered glass and smoke.

Flash of dark red, smell of sulfur – dark, dark, dark.

High-pitched scream several rows down, glass glittering on the ground like ashes

“Watch your step,” someone bellowed. It might have been her.

Turn the corner.

Flash of purple, smell of vinegar vibrating centimeters from her forehead. Pull back. Breathe.

Breathe.

Now turn.

Four figures, three now, one on the ground

Two silver masks turning towards her.

Shield, shield, deflect

Confrindo, incarcerous, incarcerous

Faster, faster

Silent

Two silver masks on the ground

Disarm and stun and bind to the ground with – 

A body.

Beside them, a body. 

She recognized him now – they had had charms class together – and he wasn’t moving and his eyes were open and glassy and

A new recruit. A blonde woman from Ravenclaw was screaming.

Flash of purple and the woman’s shoulder blew backward

Spin around, deflect, deflect

Vivid red – an unforgivable, she knew from the way the air hissed

Taste of bile on her tongue

Sectumsempra, sectumsempra, coagula

The silver mask was incapacitated but still alive

It was a cruel, cruel strategy, but the blonde woman from Ravenclaw was hunched over the boy from charms class and blood from her shoulder was getting in his eyes and

Smoke

Coagula

Smoke

But it was a smokeless fire 

Who set fire in the build—

The snarl of her name from behind a silver mask.

Her name was never meant to sound like that. Like a curse, like damnation.

Shield, shield, def—

CUT

Hot slicing pain up her wand arm

Fingers moving but wet and warm 

Healable? Yes, but deep

Hurt, hurt, hurt

Silver mask coming closer

Pull smoke in, twist the currents, gray and dark like the morning pebbles

Time to heal, time to heal

Her skin pulled together just in time. The mask appeared and the shield was too thin, she knew

Flash of green light, the air hissing and cursing and

The silver mask was dead and it was Angelina who killed it

And then a terrier Patronus cut through and Lee’s voice vibrated through the air.

The building is secure.

But the boy from charms had blood in his open, empty eyes and Fleur was still afraid of fire and Hermione’s fingers were the same color as the rusted door 

The building is secure.

Chapter Text

“What do you mean, you want to make a trade?”

Ginny, Lee, and Hermione stared down at the cowering figure of Tellamacus Lestrange – at least, that’s what the quivering, preying-mantis of a man had said his name was. Now that they’d removed his mask, though, Hermione couldn’t pick out any resemblance between him and Rodolphus. Perhaps Tellamacus thought a prestigious last name would grant him political sway with the Order.

The idea was laughable.

“Hey, Lestrange.” Lee poked him in a shoulder with his wand. “I asked you a question.”

The man flinched away, his eyes wide. “Y-y-you c-can’t k-k-kill me,” he gasped. “I have rights!”

Lee stared down at Lestrange incredulously. “First of all, you melodramatic piece of shit, you are an enemy of the state in wartime, not a fucking lawyer at the UN.” He ran an exasperated hand over his face. “Second of all. I’m not going to kill you.” He jabbed his elbow in Hermione’s direction. “That’s her job.”

The blood left Lestrange’s face as he looked at Hermione. “W-w-what? N-n-no, p-p-please—”

Hermione scowled at Lee, who gave her a self-satisfied smile in return. “All yours, Granger,” he said.

“N-n-no!” Lestrange cried. “P-p-please, I’m b-b-begging yo—"

Hermione glowered down at the man. “For the love of God,” she snapped. “Pull yourself together.” 

The blood had long been cleaned from Hermione’s fingers, but her body was stiff and cold, and she wanted to go home.

Estrange fell quiet with a pitiful sob.

“No one is going to kill anyone,” Hermione continued, her voice cold. The man visibly wilted with relief. “Just answer the question.”

Lestrange stared up at Hermione blankly.

“Hello?” She waved a hand in front of his face. He jumped. “Are you making a trade? Or not?”

“Oh! Oh, yes!” Lestrange stammered. “I—uh—I can tell you where the supplies are kept outside of London!”

Hermione stared at him for a long moment before turning to Ginny in disbelief. “I can’t do this,” she muttered.

Ginny snorted. “Britain’s best and brightest.” She leaned down. “Telly, sweetie – do you mind if I call you Telly? – we already know where the supplies are kept outside of London. That is, quite literally, where we are right now.”

Lestrange blinked and looked around. “Oh,” he said, as if he just remembered they were still in the warehouse. “I know other things though! I can…uh…tell you how to get to Malfoy Manor! Big, scary place, lots of illegal artifacts—”

“Good God.” Hermione turned away. “This is a waste of time. Let’s take him back to the Minist—”

“No, wait!” Lestrange struggled against the bonds around his wrists. “There’s a small house by Leeds that’s—”

“—tell Dawlish we’ll need five cells in Azka—”

“—and where they’re keeping the Weasley boy!”

The air left Hermione’s lungs. She turned slowly.

“What?” she whispered. “What did you just say?”

Lestrange’s beady eyes tracked her attention. “I…uh…” He licked his lips and glanced at Lee. “The Weasley boy. The one with the red hair and—hey!” He pointed at Ginny. “He could be your broth—”

In a second, Ginny had her wand under Lestrange’s chin, her eyes blazing. Any earlier mirth was replaced with terrifying single-mindedness. “Listen to me very carefully, you sniveling botruckle,” she said, her voice low and dangerous. “You’re going to tell me where my brother is now, or—”

“Only in exchange for—”

“Now,” she growled, pressing her wand into his gullet. “Or there won’t be any of you left for your snaky friends to bury.”

Lestrange looked wildly from Hermione to Lee, as if waiting for one of them to intervene. Lee crossed his arms, his eyes hard.

At Lestrange’s continued silence, Ginny exhaled roughly. “Have it your way, then,” she said, her lips curling into a curse.

“Wait! Wait!” Lestrange gasped. “Fine! There’s an abandoned castle by Leeds that You-Know-Who is using as a halfway house!”

Ginny glowered at him. “And why would Ron be there?” 

“An ambush,” Lestrange said anxiously, his eyes trained on Ginny’s wand. “They’re planning to use him as bait to draw out the mud—the Granger girl.”

Hermione pressed her lips together and glanced at Lee. He was frowning at the Death Eater. 

“Why now?” he asked. “Five months after capturing him?”

“I—I don’t know! I don’t ask questions! They barely tell me anything.”

“So they barely tell you anything,” Lee said coldly, “but you just happen to know where they’re holding Ron Weasley?”

Lestrange seemed to sense he was losing credibility, and his voice rose to a frantic pitch. “No, no, I’m not supposed to know! But I overheard Yaxley and Ribbons talking the other day, and then they asked me to bring up floo powder from the basement.” He glanced anxiously between them. “That’s when I saw the boy.” 

Ginny hadn’t removed her wand from Lestrange’s neck. She looked focused and more than a little frightened. “How long will he be there?” she demanded.

“Not long,” Lestrange answered quickly. “Last I heard, they planned on moving him tonight.”

Ginny glared at him. “And what kind of ambush would this be, exactly?”

As Lestrange stumbled through his answer, Hermione looked at Ginny. While Ginny’s expression remained drawn and formidable, Hermione could see hope and trepidation glittering behind her eyes. 

Hope was a dangerous, unfair thing in wartime.

Lee seemed to come to the same conclusion as Hermione. He moved closer to her. 

“I don’t believe him,” he said in a low voice. “There’s no way he simply happened across Ron. Even if Ron’s still alive, we—” At Hermione’s wince, Lee sighed. “Sorry. All I mean is that it doesn’t check out.”

“Agreed,” she muttered. She looked down at Lestrange. His skin was pasty and covered with a sheen of sweat, his pupils blown and wild. “He’s scared,” she whispered. 

“No kidding.”

“But I don’t think he’s scared of us.”

There was a pause. “You think it’s a trap?”

She nodded. “I do.”

“Gin believes him.”

“She wants to believe him.”

Lee kicked a rock at his feet. “Yeah.”

Hermione appraised the Death Eater in front of her. On the off-chance he was telling the truth and Ron was indeed nearby – the thought swooped violently through her stomach – they needed to act immediately. 

“Do you have veritaserum on hand?” she asked quietly.

Lee shook his head. “Supplies have been running low. They’re saving it for official interrogations.”

Hermione pressed her lips together and glared at the horizon. “There’s another option,” she said quietly.

Lee’s gaze snapped to hers. “You mean…”

Hermione nodded once. Slowly. 

“Yeah.” 

The knowledge that Hermione was a Legilimens was a carefully guarded secret. Legilimency was considered both a liability and an asset, and its use in interrogation was strictly regulated – and for good reason. Unlike wizards who recklessly used their magic for their own ends (e.g. Albus Dumbledore, Tom Riddle, Rufus Scrimingeor), Hermione handled her ability with enormous caution. 

In keeping with her logical and moral standards, she’d developed a three-part test to determine whether or not Legilimency was justified:

1. An alternative form of verification, such as veritaserum, was unavailable.

2. The veracity of information was required immediately and had life-or-death implications.  

3. The person upon which Legilimency was to be performed was not under any current or anticipated medical distress.

This final requirement was the one most frequently ignored by wizards like Dumbledore, to disastrous effects. Legilimency was an invasive experience that could trigger a variety of physical reactions, potentially escalating extant injuries or diseases. It wasn’t by accident that Legilimency was one of Voldemort’s preferred forms of torture.

In their current scenario:

There was no veritaserum.

If Ron were actually in Leeds, they needed to act immediately.

That left number three. 

Lee was watching her closely.

“Hermione,” he murmured. “Are you sure?”

She met his eyes. “Is he at all hurt?”

They’d work together long enough that Lee didn’t need to ask for clarification. Instead, he wordlessly cast a diagnostics spell over Lestrange.

At the faint glow over his head, Lestrange ceased his babbling and stared at the spell. “What…what’s going on?”

No one replied. Instead, Lee and Hermione watched the diagnostic fade into a pleasant gold color: Lestrange was healthy and unharmed. 

Ginny looked between them with a frown. As she took in their drawn expressions, realization dawned on her face. She looked at Hermione. “You’re sure?” she asked quietly.

Hermione nodded and stepped towards Lestrange.

The Death Eater’s eyes widened. “W-w-what are you g-g-going to d-d-do?”

They all ignored him as Hermione knelt down and took a breath. 

“Legilimens.”

Chapter Text

The first time Draco practiced Occlumency, he had just turned eight. For his birthday, Draco had received a Nimbus 2000 – not because he’d asked for it, but because his father had been disgusted by the fact that a young Marcus Flint had a better broomstick than the Malfoy heir. Despite Lucius’ cold motives, Draco was thrilled by the gift. He whooped as he sped over the meadow, accelerating towards the trees and shouting in delight as the wind rushed through his hair. He had just begun to eye the smooth surface of the lake when pink sparks erupted from the middle of the gardens.

Draco pressed his eyes shut and groaned. Maybe he could pretend he hadn’t seen—

The same sparks appeared again. And then again.

“Fine, fine,” Draco muttered. “I’m coming.”

When he touched down, his mother was facing away from him, her fingers tracing the soft petals of a pink rosebush.

“Mum,” he whined, scuffing his shoes against the dirt. “I was flying.”

“Hello, darling,” Narcissa said, as if Draco had not spoken. “How are you enjoying your new broom?”

“It’s fine.”

She turned and arched an eyebrow. “Only fine? Then we shall have to return it—”

“No, no,” Draco said sheepishly, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. “It’s…great. Really great.”

“Splendid.” She smiled and folded her hands in front of her. “Walk with me.”

“But—”

“What a lovely day.” She was already several steps down the path. “Don’t you think, Draco?”

He harrumphed and left his broom hovering by the rose bush. “Yes,” he grumbled. “Very nice.”

Despite Draco’s stubbornness, the gardens were indeed beautiful this time of year. The early summer saw the arrival of purple and mauve irises, bright orange poppies, and peonies with petals as soft as velvet. The small white flowers of Witch’s Broom lined the trail, their leaves spilling onto the pale gravel of the path.

“Winky has outdone herself,” Narcissa murmured, smiling up at a bushel of lilacs. “We must thank her. Winky?”

With a crack, a harried-looking house elf appeared. “Mas—oh, hello Mistress. Master Draco.” The elf’s expression relaxed. “What can Winky do for you?”

“Draco and I just wanted to thank you for your beautiful work on the gardens this year,” Narcissa said warmly. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

Winky flushed the same color as the nearby begonias. “Oh, it’s Winky’s pleasure, Mistress, truly.”

“All the same.” Narcissa inclined her head. “Tell me, Winky, is my husband planning on joining us in the garden?”

At the mention of Lucius, Winky’s ears fell flat against her head. “Master is looking for something in the library. Master is…” She bit her lip. “Master is angry.”

A shadow passed over Narcissa’s face. “I see.” She looked out over the lawn, her aristocratic features smooth and inscrutable. “Winky, please tell the staff to avoid the East Wing. In fact, tell them to take the rest of the afternoon and evening off. Draco and I will dine in Diagon Alley tonight.”

“Yes ma’am,” Winky said, relief shining on her face.

“Should my husband leave the house, please notify me immediately.” Narcissa’s tone brisk and professional. “I will wish to accompany him.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Winky repeated. “Anything else Winky can do for Mistress?”

“One other thing, I’m afraid.” Narcissa looked down at Draco and smiled. “Could you have some of Dobby’s chocolate cookies brought out to the Narcissus grove, please?”

Up until this point, Draco’s attention had wandered back to Quidditch and his new broom. At the mention of his favorite dessert, however, his focus snapped back to his mother.

“Really?” he gasped, gazing up at her.

She tapped a finger on his nose and grinned. “Really.”

The Narcissus grove was an enchanted corner of the garden, tucked behind several ancient elm trees. The branches of the trees cast dappled light over knee-high grasses waving lazily in the summer breeze. True to its name, the grove was home to a bed of Narcissus flowers, bewitched to bloom their yellow blossoms all year long. This part of the garden had been a wedding gift from Lucius to Narcissa. It wasn’t until Draco was much older that he understood the significance of the fact that Narcissa’s part of the garden was as far away from the Manor as possible. 

“Look, darling,” Narcissa said as they entered the clearing. “The elves have set up a picnic.”

Sure enough, a basket of cookies and a bottle of pumpkin juice sat on a blanket in the center of the lawn.

Draco ran ahead through the grass, shouting as it tickled his arms. 

“Mum, mum, mum,” he called. “How many cookies can I have?”

“May I have,” she corrected gently.

“May I have,” he repeated.

“Hmm.” Narcissa waved her wand and set a silencing charm over the glade. “Twenty-seven divided by nine.”

“Muuuuuum,” he groaned, rolling his eyes at her. “I haven’t even started division yet!”

She quirked her eyebrows as she settled on the blanket. “Then we may never know.”

As the sun moved through the sky, Narcissa listened with unwavering attention as Draco described his adventures with his tutors. She laughed at all the right moments, her gray eyes sparkling silver in the afternoon sunshine. 

“Tell me, my love,” she murmured. “What is your favorite subject?”

Draco looked down at his sticky fingers. “I know it’s supposed to be military studies, because Father says it’s important.”

Narcissa threw her head back and laughed. “Military studies? Oh, darling, you must choose your own favorite, not your Father’s.”

“In that case,” Draco said shyly, “I think it might be arithmancy.”

“Arithmancy?” His mother hummed thoughtfully. “Why?”

“I just feel like…” Draco frowned and played with the grass beside the blanket. “I know when I’m right. I don’t need to ask for help.”

“There’s nothing wrong with asking for help, Draco.”

Draco looked away. “I know.”

There was a pause. Then, his mother’s hand was gentle on his shoulder. “I’m glad you like arithmancy so much.”

After they had exhausted school-related discussion topics, his mother turned towards him on the blanket.

“Alright,” she said, “I have an idea for a game.”

Immediately, Draco was invested. “A game?” he repeated.

“Indeed.” She gave him a conspiratorial smile. “I’m going to ask you a question, and you’re going to think of the answer and not tell me. For example, if asked you your favorite type of ice cream at Florin’s, you’d—”

“Pecan cluster!”

“You can’t tell me, love.” 

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

“So I would ask the question and you would think, but not say, pecan cluster, and it’s my job to figure out what you’re thinking. Alright?”

“Alright!” he said, sitting up straight. He always loved a good competition.

His mother paused, her eyes searching his face. “There’s a catch, though,” she said finally.

“What’s a catch?”

“Oh.” She smiled out at the grass. “A ‘catch’ is like an extra rule.”

“Okay. What’s the catch?”

She quirked a mysterious eyebrow. “I’m going to use magic to find out what you’re thinking.”

His jaw dropped. “You can do that?”

“I can.”

He stared up at her. “Wow.”

“Your job,” she said, leaning towards him, “is to protect your answer from me.”

Suddenly, the game seemed a bit more serious. “But how?” he asked.

“What a wonderful question.” She tilted her head. “I want you to think of your favorite animal. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“Beautiful. Now, imagine taking your answer and hiding it behind a secret door that you’ve locked. Can you do that for me?”

Draco scrunched his eyes together. “I’m trying.”

“Well done, darling.” He felt his mother shift beside him. “Alright, I’m going to try to find your answer.” She dropped her voice comically low. “Are you ready?”

Draco giggled. “Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

“Alright.” Narcissa took a breath. “Legilimens.”

Chapter Text

“He’s lying.” Hermione withdrew from the Death Eater’s mind and wiped her sweaty palms against her denims. The images she’d seen in his head were sickening – torture and sadism and blood supremacy at its worst. She swallowed roughly. “His name is Dennis Ribbons. He traveled from Wales to join up with Riddle.” She glared down at him, her lip curling in disgust. “The castle in Leeds is a trap. He doesn’t know where Ron is.”

“You’re kidding.” Ginny’s expression darkened. She hissed in frustration. “What a cunt.”

Ribbons paled, and he stared up at Hermione. “You’re…you’re a Legilimens?”

After years of fighting, Hermione had learned to handle many things. But now, she needed to get home - to process what she had seen and sort it behind her Occlumency shields. 

Unbidden, an image from his memories - werewolves eating a terrified muggle alive - flashed before her. Her stomach rolled violently.

“Right,” she muttered. She worked to keep her tone steady as she turned to Lee. “Do you need help transporting him to Azkaban?”

Lee shook his head, resentment heavy in his eyes. 

“A Legilimens.” Ribbons’ voice was cold and dark. “A mudblood Legilimens.”

“Hey.” Lee cuffed him over the ear. “Shut up.”

But Ribbons ignored him. Now that he’d been found out, his sniveling façade disappeared. His face twisted into a cold sneer as his beady eyes fixed on Hermione. “What a disgusting waste of power. You are an abomination.”

“And you are going to jail,” Hermione said smoothly. She turned to Ginny, who was glaring at Ribbons with a combination of disappointment and revulsion. “I need to obliviate him—"

“It’s just a matter of time before they find you, you know.” Ribbons’ voice was low, and an inhuman smile stretched across his face. “You saw them. You saw what they will do to you.”

Hermione reached for her Occlumency shields and tried to keep her breathing steady. Images from Ribbons’ memories reappeared before her, dark and cruel and violating. She clenched her jaw.

Ribbons tracked her tension, his eyes glinting wickedly. “They’ve been fighting over the privilege of first taste.” He looked her up and down and leered. “Can’t blame them, can I? Pretty thing like you, even if you do have muddy bl—”

There was a flash of red light, and Ribbons was unconscious on the ground. 

“Sorry.” Angelina’s low voice came from behind her. Hermione turned to find her staring daggers at Ribbons’ prone form. “Were we listening to that?”

“What a fucking git,” Lee muttered. He grimaced in her direction. “You alright, Hermione?”

Hermione exhaled. “Yeah. Fine.”

“Are you sure?” Ginny’s eyes searched her face carefully. “You don’t look well.”

Hermione turned away, rubbing her hands up and down her arms.

“Nothing I haven’t heard before.” She just wasn’t used to seeing it, too. “We need to obliviate him. He can’t know I’m a Legilimens, and—”

“Lee and I will take care of it,” Ginny said, her eyes heavy on Hermione’s face. “You should go home.”

Hermione shook her head. “It’s bad practice to obliviate within an hour of a stunning spell, so we’ll have to—”

“Hermione.” Ginny’s tone brooked no argument. “Lee will take care of it.”

Hermione looked from Ginny to Lee to Angelina. “Fine,” she said, turning to leave. “See you tonight.” 

In war, everyone had a coping mechanism. Ginny trained with Lee every day until her shirt was dark with sweat. Angelina kept a journal with newspaper clippings and the names of the people she killed. Neville attended a muggle church around the corner. Seamus drank firewhisky when he thought no one was looking. There were even rumors that Draco Malfoy smoked.

And Hermione? She baked - and everyone knew it. Unconventional, but also less destructive than the substance-based alternatives she’d considered in the early days. 

Only Ginny, Neville, and Luna knew about the second thing Hermione relied on. It was unremarkable, really, and a bit strange, but it helped more than she could have imagined.

She showered.

Every night, if she could.

And not just fifteen minutes to wash her hair. She showered for thirty, sometimes forty minutes, allowing the hot water to run down her back and collect at her feet, steam to fill the room and ease against her. It was the embrace she could not ask for, the space she could not find - to process, to grieve, to meet herself again. 

In the rush of water, Hermione’s racing thoughts slowed. She ran her fingers along her Occlumency shields and shored up cracks in her armor that allowed her to function without her family. She witnessed and combed through the memories she could bear and found places to store those she could not. Rose-scented shampoo and smooth, white soap washed away the battle and heartache that lived beneath her fingernails and under her ribs. When she finally stepped out onto the soft green mat beyond the shower, feet and cheeks rosy from the heat, she almost felt like herself again.

Today, though, after the events with Ribbons and the strain of Legilimency, the shower provided little relief. Even in the scalding temperature, Hermione’s body was wracked with shivers as she attempted to sort through what she’d seen in Ribbons’ mind.

Violation. Assault. Torture.

And the hungry glint in Greyback’s eyes as he said her name. 

She shuddered and reminded herself that Greyback was in Azkaban, behind wards Kingsley had designed himself. There was no escape for him. She was safe.

But as fear continued to spark in her veins and Hermione reached for the shampoo with an unsteady hand, she was reminded of another benefit of showering: surrounded by the thrumming water and thick steam, she could almost - almost - pretend she wasn’t crying.

“Jesus.” Ginny pulled out a chair in Grimmauld’s kitchen. “I needed that shower like Neville needs a good fuck.”

“Hey!” Neville looked up from his place at the table, a spoon of cereal halfway to his mouth. It was several hours later, and Neville had joined Hermione in the kitchen for a midnight snack. 

Ginny shrugged as she put her feet on the island. “’S true, Nev. I know Luna’s been in the hospital and all, but—”

“What do you want? A formal report each time we shag?” 

“Don’t need it,” Ginny said, waving a dismissive hand. “You glow like a Christmas tree after the fact.”

Neville gasped. “I do not.”

“Do too.”

“I do not. Hermione!” He turned to her, his expression torn between curiosity and indignation. “I don’t glow. Tell Ginny I don’t glow.”

“Well…” Hermione looked between the two of them. She gave Neville an apologetic glance. “You kinda glow. In a beautiful, romantic way.”

“Really?” Neville frowned at his reflection in the spoon. “Like right now, I’m glowing?”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. 

Ginny cackled. “Luna’s only been home a day, and you two are already—”

“Oh, come off it.” Neville blushed crimson. 

“Proud of you.”

Neville shook his head and muttered something about privacy and respect. Hermione grinned. This - the banter and the ribbing - was one of the things Hermione admired most about Ginny. She stared down the war’s darkness with a wicked smile and eloquent - and often alarming - irreverence. 

“Hermione, that reminds me.” Ginny leaned forward and reached for the bowl of brownie batter on the counter. “How’s your wartime romance coming?”

Hermione leveled her with a deadpan expression and pulled the batter to safety. “We’ve discussed this.”

“No,” Ginny corrected, pulling the bowl back. “I’ve discussed it. You’ve deflected.”

“I haven’t deflected. Neville, tell her I haven’t—”

“Oh, no you don’t.” Neville waved a dismissive hand in her direction. “You’re not getting any help from me. Not after the ‘glowing’ performance.”

Hermione glared at him before returning her attention to Ginny. “Fine. You’ve discussed it, and I’ve listened.”

“Deflected.” She swept a finger through the batter.

“Listened and deflected,” Hermione countered, frowning at the batter thief.

Ginny licked her finger and smacked her lips in satisfaction. “The point is,” she said, “you are devastatingly single—”

“Hey, that’s not—”

“—and there are several eligible bachelors around who would like nothing more than to spend some golden moments with the golden girl.”

Hermione gave her a hard look. “This is why I deflect.”

Ginny wagged a fudge-covered finger disapprovingly. “Don’t be a prude, Granger. Everyone needs good sex.”

Hermione rolled her eyes as she pointed her wand at the oven. “Incorrect. Everyone needs good orgasms. Last I checked, eligible bachelors aren’t required for those.”

“Good God.” Neville pressed his eyes together. “All I wanted was to eat some cereal before bed.”

“And now,” Ginny said smoothly, “you get the pleasure of our feminine insight.”

Neville laid his head down on the table. “Such fun,” he mumbled.

Ginny ignored him. “Seriously, Hermione. You have options.”

“I do not.”

“You do.” Ginny held up a finger. “Cormac McClaggan, for one—”

“You’ve got to be kidding—”

“—and Zachariah Smith’s definitely interested—”

“Off to an irresistible start,” Neville muttered into the table.

“—I have it on good authority that Justin Finch-Fletchley’s had a thing for you since fourth year—”

Hermione turned around. “Really?”

“—and Oliver Wood, too, if my sources are to be believed.”

She snorted. “Who are your sources? Your intuition?”

Ginny pursed her lips. “That intuition was responsible for Lavender and Parvarti, thank you very much—”

“The only thing responsible for that was chemistry, proximity, and—”

“Anyway.” Ginny tossed her hair behind her ear. “Are you into Healers? Michael Corner isn’t bad looking.”

“Gin.” Hermione waved her wand at a cabinet. A baking tray floated over to meet her. “You dated Michael.”

“That’s true.” Ginny frowned thoughtfully. “I do have excellent taste, though.”

“Last time you saw him, you promised to hex him so badly it would make Umbridge seem tame.”

“I did, didn’t I.” Ginny gave a pleased smile. “Still quite proud of that, actually. But threats of violence do rule him out.” She tapped a finger on her chin. “If not Michael, what about Malfoy?”

Hermione choked on air as Neville snapped up from table. 

“What?” they gasped simultaneously.

“Draco Malfoy?” Ginny repeated slowly, drawing out the name. “You know, pale-faced boy from Hogwarts, a right git at the beginning, tolerable now though—”

“Ginny.” Hermione gave her a hard look. “That’s not funny."

“Hey, you don’t need to marry him. You just need to—”

“He’s not interested.”

“Hermione, have you seen yourself? You’re hot.” Ginny looked her up and down approvingly. “Hell, if I weren’t engaged to Harry, I’d be all over you.” 

“Charming.”

“And as for him, didn’t you hear the stories from Hogwarts?”

Hermione ignored her flaming cheeks and the thoughts of one very tall, very disapproving Slytherin. “What? What stories?”

“The stories about Draco Malfoy and his…” Ginny waggled her eyebrows. “Prowess.” She took a sip of tea and dipped her chin conspiratorially. “Alicia Spinnet wouldn’t stop talking about it.”

“Christ.” Neville, by now a concerning shade of crimson, pushed back from the table. “If I’m going to hear about Malfoy’s quote-unquote prowess, I’m going to need a drink.”

“Bring me one too, please?” Hermione called, looking after him longingly. 

Ginny was undeterred. “Don’t act so shocked, Granger. Haven’t you seen the man? Malfoy is Fine with a capital F.”

“Ginny!” Hermione looked around the room in horror. “Keep your voice down.”

“It isn’t exactly a secret, Hermione. He’s proper tall, and he’s got those blue eyes that—”

“Gray.”

She said it before she could help herself – only because she was observant and detail-oriented, thank you, not because of any extraordinary interest in or attention to Draco Malfoy. At the immediate delight that broke over Ginny’s face, though, Hermione regretted the comment immediately. 

Ginny’s toothy grin was worthy of a Lewis Carroll tale. “Gray, you say?”

Hermione held up a hand and backed away towards the sink. “Uh uh uh,” she said, shaking her head. “I know what you’re doing—”

“You’ve noticed the color of Draco Malfoy’s eyes.”

“Stop it—”

“Admit it, Granger.”

“You’re a menace.”

“Are they gray like a storm cloud? Or gray like the early morning sky—”

They both froze at the sound of the floo from the adjacent living room. Hermione frowned at the doorway. It was late for normal comings-and-goings, and everyone else was in bed.

“Hello?” Ginny called. “We’re in here.”

There was the noise of boots hitting the mantle and then footsteps coming towards the kitchen.

A lifetime of imagination couldn’t have prepared Hermione for the sight of Draco Malfoy himself stepping through the doorway. 

Hermione stared and turned to Ginny in horror. Had they accidentally summoned him? Was that even possible?

Malfoy ducked his head slightly to avoid the mantle before straightening to his full height. He was wearing dark robes, his hair a bit longer since she’d last seen him, and his dragonhide boots clicked against the kitchen floor.

His gaze snapped to hers, and she watched several expressions flash across his face. When he settled on anger, Hermione tensed.

“Well,” Ginny said, clapping her hands together. Oblivious to Malfoy’s apparent ire, she glanced at Hermione with a scandalous grin. “Speak of the devil and he shall—”

“Who the hell performed Legilimency on my patient?” Malfoy’s voice was soft, but his words – and fury – were unmistakable. 

Ginny frowned and glanced at Hermione. At Malfoy’s question, the dark events from the day came rushing back – the man they’d lost, Ribbons’ lies, and the sickening memories she’d witnesses…Hermione bit down on her cheek and fortified her Occlumency shields.

“Malfoy,” she greeted, only once she’d afforded herself enough time to settle. The kitchen island provided little protection from the formidable energy swirling around him, so she leaned against the counter behind her and folded her arms. “Did something happen?”

He stared at her flatly. “Obviously.”

“Who?”

“Who?” Malfoy’s lips twisted around the word as if it were poison. “Did you invade more than one person’s mind today, Granger? Having trouble keeping track?”

Ginny stiffened in her chair, all traces of earlier levity gone. Her brown eyes pinned Malfoy to the door. 

“Check your tone, Malfoy,” she growled, “or I’ll check it for you.” 

“My tone, Weasley,” he drawled, his eyes still fixed on Hermione, “is entirely warranted.” 

“This is about Ribbons,” Hermione said quickly, heading off whatever curse Ginny was about to fling at Malfoy.

“Yes,” he said, his tone clipped.

“What happened?”

“He’s dead.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “What?”

“He entered cardiac arrest upon arrival at Azkaban. I sent a Student Healer to administer a dose of adrenaline. Upon consumption, the patient began to convulse.”

Hermione suddenly felt very faint.

“Very reasonably,” Malfoy continued, “the student—”

“Administered a draught of Living Peace,” she finished, her voice hoarse. 

“Correct,” Malfoy said, his tone cold. “Do you know what happens when a victim of Legilimency is exposed to elderroot, Granger?”

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment. “Yes.”

“Sorry, but I don’t,” Ginny said from her stool. “Is it fatal?”

Malfoy was watching Hermione closely. At her continued silence, he arched an eyebrow. “Well?” he said. “Don’t tell me Gryffindor’s finest can’t answer that question.”

Hermione bit her lip. “It’s…uh…” She swallowed and looked away. “Elderroot reacts with potassium gradients in the brain, gradients which are depleted following exposure to Leglimency.” She exhaled shakily. “And when the elderroot can’t find potassium, it…well, it…”

 “It finds another source,” Malfoy finished. His glare could cut through glass. “50 points to Gryffindor.”

“Another source?” Ginny was pale behind her freckles. “Such as?”

“Brain tissue,” Hermione said weakly. “It digests brain tissue.”

Ginny cringed. 

“Not only that,” Malfoy said sharply. “It digests the brain while the patient is awake. They are aware of their brain matter disintegrating, and there is nothing they – or a Healer – can do.” 

Hermione sank back against the counter, her fingers tight on the cool marble. But Malfoy wasn’t finished.

“After what can only be described as an inhumane death for the patient and a traumatizing experience for my team, I was asked to account for the unexpected circumstances of Ribbons’ decline.” His eyes were cold on her face. “I could not provide one. After all, the only known cause of such a distressing reaction would be Legilimency, which requires a warrant and medical consent from a Healer.” He tilted his head. “Any use of Legilimency on Ribbons would be a brazen violation of Ministry law.”

Understanding dawned on Ginny’s face, and she glanced at Hermione. “That’s all very upsetting, Malfoy,” she said, “but it doesn’t explain why you’re here. There were a number of Order members at the raid, and—”

“I’m aware. I pulled the record.” At this, Hermione’s grip on the counter tightened. Malfoy’s eyes dipped to her hands before returning to her face. “Imagine my surprise when none of the names on the list belonged to registered Legilimens.”

“You must be wrong about the cause of death, then,” Ginny said quickly. “It—”

“I’m not wrong,” he said softly.

Ginny bristled. “You just said that none of the Order members are Legilimens, so—”

“Are you going to let her lie for you, Granger?”

Her gaze snapped to his. He was watching at her with unsettling intensity, his eyes dark and unyielding. The air grew heavy with tension and unspoken judgment. 

Finally, Hermione looked at her friend. “It’s alright, Gin,” she said in a small voice.

“So you did perform Legilimency on Ribbons.” Malfoy’s condemnation was palpable. “Why?”

Hermione clenched her jaw. “Does it matter?”

Malfoy’s eyes searched her face. “I imagine it matters to you.”

Hot shame and overwhelm began to creep up Hermione’s neck. She’d tried so hard and been so careful, but she’d made the wrong decision, a decision that had hurt someone, a decision that had killed someone. 

She inhaled tightly and pushed her emotions behind her shields. As the eerie stillness of Occlumency settled over her, she reached for an explanation. “Ribbons—"

“Sorry, but I don’t give a fuck about Ribbons.” Ginny interrupted, scowling at Malfoy. “You have no right to show up in our home, uninvited, mind you, and make Hermione explain herself.”

Malfoy looked unimpressed. “As a Healer, I—“ 

“How do you know Hermione’s a Legilimens?” Ginny demanded. “Have you told anyone?”

Malfoy returned her glare with a dismissive look. “I’m not here to discuss Granger’s abilities, only—”

“You might not have noticed, Malfoy, but I give literally zero shits about what you’re here to do.” Ginny narrowed her eyes in a glower perfected during a childhood full of ornery brothers. “If it falls into the wrong hands, the knowledge that Hermione can perform Legilimency would pose a grave danger to her. So I’d appreciate it if you’d remove the stick from your arse and answer my goddamn questions.”

Malfoy took in Ginny’s frustration with a detached bemusement. “My, Weasley,” he drawled, “I see wartime hasn’t lessened your charm.” His eyes flicked to Hermione. “If you must know, no one told me about Granger’s abilities, and I have not told anyone.”

“Then how—”

“She occludes.” 

Hermione’s attention snapped back to him. How did he know?

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ginny said dismissively. “Hermione doesn’t use Occlumency—”

“She does,” he murmured. “In fact, she’s doing so as we speak.” Gray eyes made their slow return to her, and he tilted his head. “Isn’t that right, Granger?”

“I—” Malfoy arched a brow in challenge, and Hermione’s denial died on her tongue. She swallowed tightly and addressed her answer to Ginny. “Yes. I occlude.”

Ginny looked back to her, hurt and alarm warring on her face. “Really, Hermione? Why…why wouldn’t you tell me?”

“I wasn’t keeping it from you, I promise.” Hermione hesitated. “I just…it didn’t seem that important.”

“Hmm.” Ginny pursed her lips in a manner that made it very clear that she disagreed with Hermione’s judgment.  

“I’ll answer your questions,” Hermione promised. “Just not right now.” 

“Fine.” There was concern lingering in Ginny’s expression, and Hermione felt a surge of appreciation for her friend. It was quickly covered in guilt – for her lies-by-omission and half-truths. It wasn’t that Ginny couldn’t handle the fact that Hermione relied on Occlumency shields to process and function. It was that Hermione didn’t know how to explain why she needed them. To her mind, presenting a serious problem to a friend without having the words to discuss it was akin to diagnosing a patient without having a treatment plan prepared. It was unfair and irresponsible. 

“So Hermione occludes.” Ginny’s defensive tone brought Hermione back to the room. “Fine. That doesn’t explain how you know she’s a Legilimens.”

Malfoy gave Ginny an impatient look. “Legilimency and Occlumency are intimately connected. Proficiency in one typically means familiarity with the other.”

“So how did you know Hermione occludes?” Ginny tone was accusatory. “Are you also a Legilimens?”

“To answer your first question, Weasley, I am a Healer. It’s my job to be familiar with indications of occlusion.” His gaze returned to Hermione. “As for the second, I am a Legilimens.”

That got Hermione’s attention. She frowned. 

Malfoy tracked her focus. “Does this surprise you, Granger?” 

Hermione thought of their childhood, all the shared trauma, and the trials he must have faced while his father played host to Voldemort. 

“No,” she said finally, her voice soft. “It does not.”

For a moment, Malfoy’s expression shifted. But the crack in his armor was shored up in an instant, and his face returned to its jarring impassivity.

He cleared his throat. “I would like to know why you performed Legilimency on Ribbons.”

“I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“I would disagree.”

She pressed her lips together in frustration. Perhaps if she offered him a placating piece of information, he would be satisfied. 

“He claimed to know Ron’s location.”

“And you didn’t believe him?”

She raised her eyes to his slowly. “Obviously,” she drawled, echoing his snideness from earlier.

Malfoy looked unimpressed. “Why not?”

She huffed. “Not that it’s your business, Malfoy, but his story didn’t add up.” She threw her shoulders back and busied herself with the baking tray. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m quite finished with your interrogation—”

“You broke the law, Granger.” The impatience in his tone was unmistakable. “I had to clean up your mess. I think I deserve to know why.”

“I told you why.” She was having a harder time masking her frustration. “We needed to confirm his information quickly, and—”

“And that information concerned Weasley’s whereabouts.” 

“Yes.” 

For a moment, they just stared at one another. Then, his lip curled. 

“How convenient it must be,” he said slowly, “to break the law when it benefits you.”

She gaped at him. “When it—” Indignation flashed through her body, pushing her off the counter. “How dare you,” she said through clenched teeth. “How fucking dare you—”

He scowled at her. “Your selfishness and single-mindedness cost me and my team precious resources—”

“Deal with it, Malfoy!” She stalked around the island. “Sometimes, choices are messy and—”

“This is more than messy, Granger.” He appeared impassive, but there was a vein pulsing in his neck that belied his anger. “You knowingly broke the law—”

“I did what I had to do!”

“I have drinks and—what’s going on?” Neville appeared in the doorway, two bottles of butterbeer in hand. He took in the scene with increasing alarm. “Malfoy? What are you do—”

“Your selfishness,” Malfoy continued, his eyes flashing as he stepped towards Hermione, “cost a man his life.”

“Hey!” Ginny pushed up from her chair. “Back off—"

Malfoy ignored her. “Had you not performed Legilimency, he would still be alive—”

“That’s how war works, Malfoy!” Hermione shouted. They were almost nose-to-nose at this point. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Your intentions don’t matter, Granger, and I certainly don’t need a lecture from you on war—"

“Apparently you do!” She jabbed a finger at his chest. “Not all of us have the luxury of sitting back and healing, soothing our ego with —”

“What the hell?” Neville’s voiced sounded strained. “Could we just—”

“Healing? A luxury?” Malfoy gave a hollow laugh. “Classic self-righteousness from the Golden Girl—”

“Don’t fucking call me that!“

“Do you believe you’re better than the law, Granger?”

“Do you believe you can fix a couple of bones and everyone will forget what you’ve done?” She glared at him. “You’re delusional.”

“Hermione.” Neville turned to her, aghast. “That’s not—”

Malfoy’s jaw tightened. “I’m well-aware of my past, Granger, but at least I don’t cling to moral superiority for absolution.”

“The only thing I cling to is wanting to protect my friends.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Oh, sorry, friends are people who choose to spend time with you—”

Malfoy sneered. “Ah yes, the noble Gryffindor condescension—“

“And what are you? The classic Slytherin sob story?”

“Perhaps.” His cold eyes flicked to the bowl of batter on the table. “But while I’m at the hospital, trying to stop a man’s brain from pouring out his ears, you’re comfortable at home.” His lip curled. “Baking brownies.” 

“Oi!” Neville turned to Malfoy. “That’s out of line, Malfoy—”

“Save it, Neville,” Hermione ground out, fury hot in her throat. “He doesn’t care.”

Malfoy’s eyes flashed. “You’re conflating apathy with accountability—”

“I’m sick of you critiquing me from a privileged fucking armchair—"

“I just watched someone die, Granger—”

“So did I!” She was shouting now. “So did I, Malfoy, and then I watched Ribbons’ memories of werewolves fighting over who gets to assault me first, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t act as if my life is a goddamn holiday.”

Hermione’s admission echoed through the room, and Ginny turned to her with a sharp inhale.

“What?” she asked, her eyes wide. “Hermione?”

Neville was frozen beside her. “That’s what you saw in Ribbons’ memories? That’s what upset you so much?”

Hermione stiffened and took a step away from Malfoy. “It doesn’t matter.” 

“Of course it does,” Neville said softly. “Hermione, that’s—”

“It doesn’t matter,” she repeated, louder this time. She took another step back and glowered up at Malfoy, who was watching her with a guarded expression.

“Happy?” she spat at him.

His eyes were cold and inaccessible. “Hardly,” he said.

She snorted, and with a wave of her wand, she vanished the batter on the table. She pushed by him into the corridor. “I’m done with this. I’m going to bed.”

Ginny’s protests, Neville’s worry, and Malfoy’s eyes followed her up the stairs.

And for the record? Malfoy's eyes were gray like a storm cloud.

Hermione rolled her eyes. How fitting.

Chapter Text

Draco glared at the paperwork before him as if it – not a particularly stubborn curly-haired witch – was the source of his pounding headache. It was outrageously early to be at the hospital, but after his argument with Granger, Draco hadn’t been able to get any sleep. After two hours of tossing and turning and replaying their exchange, he’d decided to at least make use of his time by cutting into the pile of forms on his desk. 

But now, it seemed, he couldn’t even accomplish that. Accepting the paperwork as a lost cause, he tossed his quill onto his desk and closed his eyes. As he rubbed his fingers against his temples, images from the previous evening appeared before him.

Delusional, she’d called him, her bright eyes flashing.

Do you believe you can fix a couple of bones and everyone will forget what you’ve done? 

He laughed bitterly. If only she knew how wrong she was. 

It’s not as if he’d planned to burst into Grimmauld Place, demanding an explanation for Ribbons’ death. Even now, though, the image of the man convulsing on the ground, gray matter collecting at his ears and nose, was enough to make Draco nauseous. Worse still was the fact that he’d assigned the case to a Student Healer – cardiac arrest at Azkaban wasn’t uncommon, and he’d instructed Ishani Rana to administer the dose of adrenaline. He could still hear the panic in Rana’s voice as she called for help, cracking under the trauma and guilt of losing a patient for the first time. 

Initially, Draco had felt responsible. Then, he’d felt angry.

And when he concluded that Legilimancy was indeed responsible for Ribbons’ unexpected decline, he could only think of one Order member with the Occlumency skills necessary to perform it. 

Draco took an agitated sip of tea and frowned at the skyline beyond his window as memories of the previous evening clanged around his office.  

After Granger had left, Weasley had called Draco a series of words he’d never heard combined so imaginatively or crassly. Longbottom had sighed. 

“You were unfair to her,” he’d said as he walked Draco to the floo.

Draco hadn’t replied. 

“Hermione is many, many things.” Longbottom ran a weary hand over his face. “But she is not selfish, and she takes her responsibilities very seriously.” He gave Draco a hard look. “You have that in common.”

The last thing Draco had felt before he stepped into the flames was the cold finger of regret along his spine.

Not only because he’d said things he hadn’t meant - but also because of the look on Granger’s face as she pushed past him. She hadn’t looked angry or vindictive - no. She’d looked tired. Tired and haunted. And considering the images she’d witnessed in Ribbons’ head…who could blame her?

In the last war, Greyback’s obsession with Granger had been common knowledge amongst the Death Eaters. Even all these years later, Draco still remembered the sight of the werewolf leering at photos of her, reaching down to adjust his pants, beady eyes narrowed greedily. 

I think, his deranged aunt had said that horrible night in the Manor, we can dispose of the mudblood. Greyback, take her if you want her.

Take her if you want her.

Draco…Draco had done nothing.

Greyback, take her if you want her.

Draco had watched.

Take her if you want—

He pushed to his feet, stomach rolling violently. He reached for a cigarette and scowled at the sight of his shaking hands.

He spent an hour on the roof trying to occlude away the sounds of Granger’s screams.

After a decidedly unhealthy combination of tea, cigarettes, and manically completing his rounds, Draco felt closer to normal - in that he felt close to nothing at all. Just as he sat down to complete the paperwork he’d abandoned earlier, Lee Jordan’s Patronus materialized his office. 

“There’s been an attack on a safe house in Kensington,” Jordan’s voice boomed. In the background, there was the sound of an explosion. “Prepare for casualties.”

Then, a woman’s voice Draco couldn’t help but recognize: “Flank to the left and hold the perimeter. Angelina and I will—”

The patronus evaporated.

Apprehension tightened Draco’s stomach, and a familiar anxiety settled in his fingers. He ignored both and pulled on his coat.

An hour later, that same coat was streaked with blood and dirt. The ward, normally quiet and steady, was brimming with terrible noise – shouting Healers, crying patients, and cursing Order members who were unable to return to the fight.

Draco fought to make his voice heard. “Corner!” he shouted, gesturing to the patient before him. “I need you to put this under stasis, now. Brown – where’s Brown?”

“Here!” She was several cots away, her forearms drenched in blood as she worked a piece of metal out of a patient’s chest. 

“What do you need?” he called, taking in the gory scene. “Bandages?”

She didn’t look at him, her face drawn with concentration. “Yes, and murtlap and Blood Replenishing—ah!” She narrowed her eyes with a grim smile. “I think I found the nail.”

Draco didn’t wait to see the result, already sending a Patronus to the supply desk and moving swiftly to Elora Dunn. 

“Mr. Lansing, this is our Lead Healer, Draco Malfoy,” she was saying to her patient, a wide-eyed, elderly muggle man. “He’s going to help me set your shoulder, alright?”

Lansing blinked at her, then Draco, and nodded. 

Dunn glanced at Draco. “Dislocated right humerus. He’s too broad for me to get a good grip.”

Draco nodded and positioned himself. “We’ll do this on my count, alright, Mr. Lansing? Three, two, one.”

There was a grunt of pain and a popping sound. 

“Thanks,” Dunn muttered, her wand already spinning in the air. 

And then Draco was moving again, this time towards the supply cart, which had appeared in the doorway. With a flick of his wrist, the vials of blood replenishing potion shot into the air towards Brown.

In the next moment, a spell screamed around the room, shattering the potions and cracking the walls. Draco spun on his heal and his stomach dropped. 

Goyle Sr. stood in the corridor, his teeth barred in a snarl. 

A Death Eater. A Death Eater in the hospital.

Goyle stepped over the crumpled body of Terry Boot and caught sight of Draco.

“MALFOY!” he bellowed.

“Code Silver,” Draco shouted over his shoulder as he threw up wards along the hallway. “Code Silver!”

But he was too late. A jet of purple was hurtling towards him, he didn’t have time to cast— 

There was a crack, and then a golden shield was rippling across the hall. It held strong against the curse, and the force of the collision knocked Goyle off-balance. 

Draco turned, and there she was. 

Granger, a look of pure fury etched onto her face, was stalking down the hallway, her wand slashing through the air. Spell after spell left her wand, slamming into Goyle’s shield. He scrambled backwards down the hallway, eyes wide with panic, but her pace was relentless. She threw curses and hexes Draco didn’t recognize down the corridor, and soon, Goyle’s shield flickered and died. 

Granger didn’t even pause to breathe. She deflected a Confringo into the wall and answered with her own series of spells, each brighter than the last. Her eyes flashed as she continued down the hall, wand twisting sharply. The rubble at Goyle’s feet twisted into stone manacles that locked around his wrists and ankles, dragging him towards the floor. 

The Death Eater’s face contorted in rage. “You filthy—”

But, with a flash from Granger’s wand, he was silenced and disarmed. Another flash, and he was stunned, his body unmoving on the tile floor. 

And then it was over.

Less than a minute. 

It had taken Granger less than a minute to neutralize a high-ranking Death Eater. 

Draco stared at her.

She pocketed Goyle’s wand. “He grabbed onto Terry before he apparated,” she muttered, as if that explained everything. 

It didn’t.

Granger’s gaze swept up and down Draco’s body with alarming intensity. “Are you alright?”

Draco attempted to gather himself. “Yes,” he managed. “I’m fine.”

“Good.”

Together, they moved towards Boot’s collapsed figure. Draco waved his wand, and a diagnostic spell leapt along the body.

“He’s stable,” he said, willing his heartbeat to slow. “Looks like he was knocked out.”

Sure enough, Boot was stirring. His eyes blinked open and then widened as he registered the state of the hallway and Goyle’s body on the ground. “What…” He winced as he pushed himself into a seated position. “What happened?”

“You were knocked unconscious,” Draco said, reaching down to help him to his feet. “How do you feel?”

Boot inhaled and rolled his shoulders back, shifting from foot to foot tentatively. “Okay, I think. A bit sore—" 

“He’s fine, you said?” Granger’s voice was quiet from besides him.

Draco cast another spell and nodded as it came back clean. “Yes. Why—”

In instant, Granger had Boot shoved against the wall. 

“Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?” she roared. The blood left Boot’s face. “You apparated a Death Eater into St. Mungo’s! You brought him here!”

Boot stammered something that only seemed to incense Granger more. 

“I don’t care if he grabbed onto you! Hell, I don’t care if he fused his fucking skeleton to yours! You never, ever apparate into the hospital when you’ve been compromised!”

Boot looked like he wished he were unconscious again. “I’m sorry—” he began.

“Sorry? Sorry does nothing,” Granger hissed. “Malfoy could have been killed. The patients could have been taken hostage. Terry, you could have died.” She released him roughly. “Go to go to the Ministry and find Dawlish. He’ll send someone to pick up Goyle.” 

Boot gave a feeble nod. “I’ll go to the Ministry,” he mumbled, staring at the floor. “I’ll go right away.”

He began to make his way down the hallway, his shoulders hunched.

“Terry?” Granger called after him. He stilled but didn’t turn. “Take the floo so you don’t splinch yourself.”

Draco wordlessly lifted the Code Silver and glanced at Granger, who was staring Goyle’s body, her eyes distant and her face grim. 

“That was too fucking close,” she muttered.

“Agreed.”

In the ensuing silence, Draco took at the woman beside him. The magical aura around her was formidable - electric, almost. He’d heard rumors of her presence on the battlefield, of course, but he’d struggled to map those stories onto the girl he’d known at Hogwarts. 

He no longer had that problem. 

As if sensing his scrutiny, brown eyes snapped to his, and memories of their previous argument rose to the surface. From the way Granger’s expression darkened, she was remembering it, too.

“Will Boot be alright?” Draco’s question seemed like a reasonable way to break the tense silence.

She exhaled roughly and ran a distracted hand through her hair. “He’ll be fine. Which is more than he deserves, really—"

“He didn’t mean to bring Goyle with him.”

Granger stiffened and turned the full intensity of her gaze onto him. “Of course he didn’t. That doesn’t change the fact that he did.”

“Surely intentions—”

“Intentions don’t matter when the stakes are life and death, Malfoy,” she said shortly. “That’s why we have protocol.”

Draco bristled at the dismissal in her tone. “So Boot has to follow protocol, but you don’t?” He raised an eyebrow. "The word 'hypocritical' comes to mind."

As he was speaking, Granger put her wand between her teeth and began pulling her hair back.

The sight was…well, it didn’t matter, because Granger was glaring at him again.

“This conversation is worthless, and I don’t have time for it. Or you,” she snapped, once her hair had been secured. “I need to get back to—shit.” She stumbled slightly, and her eyes snapped to her ankle.

Automatically, Draco reached out an arm to steady her. She glanced from him to his arm and narrowed her eyes disdainfully. 

“I’m fine.” She bent again, her fingers running up her pant leg. After a moment, she swore colorfully. “There’s a piece of glass, I think…”

In a moment, Draco had conjured a chair. “Sit,” he said, jerking his head. To his relief, she acquiesced wordlessly, her fingers tracing the edges of the wound. Draco knelt and gently tilted her leg towards him. A shard from one of the Blood Replenishing potions stuck out grotesquely from the side of her calf, its amber surface flecked with dust and blood.

“It must have hit you when the Confringo exploded,” he said softly, casting a diagnostic. “It’s shallow, we’ll just need to clean—”

A crack sounded in the hallway, and he and Granger started. Lee Jordan spun around, wand raised, expression drawn and focused. At the sight of Granger and Draco, he lowered his wand and moved towards them.

“I got the alarm and came as soon as I could,” he said. His eyes flicked to Goyle’s body. “What happened?”

“Long story.” Granger’s voice was tight and low. “I’ll tell you later.”

“Alright. We need you back out there. Some Death Eaters barricaded themselves in a muggle shop and we can’t—” He paused as he took in her leg. “Shit, are you alright?”

“Fine,” she said immediately, moving to stand.

“No, you’re not fine,” Draco said, frowning. “We need to clean—”

She glared at him. “You just told me it’s shallow—”

“—could get infected—”

“—just set it with an Episky—”

“—have to argue every single—”

“HEY!” Jordan looked between them in disbelief. “Could you two do whatever the fuck this is later? We need to go.”

Granger turned to Draco with an impatient expression.

He exhaled roughly. “I’ll set it with an Episky, but I don’t like this. You should stay—”

“For the love of God, Malfoy, just—”

With two waves of his wand, the glass turned to mist and the bleeding stopped. “There,” he said, casting a final protection spell. Granger was already on her feet and moving towards Jordan. “You’ll have to come back so I can clean it properl—”

She grabbed onto Jordan, and they disapparated before Draco could get another word in. 

He stared at the spot where they had been a moment before and exhaled angrily.

The rest of the day passed in a blur as the trauma team triaged the remaining patients, closed wounds, and mended bones. Draco was in the process of vanishing blood from his robes when a group of Order members walked through the doorway. 

“They’re gone!” Jordan announced to the room. “We did it! Fuckers went home with their snakey tails between their legs. Now, could someone help me with my wrist, I think it’s sprained—”

Draco let out relieved exhale. If the battle was over, that meant they could initiate non-Emergency procedures. He could send people home, tell them to get some rest…

A flash of familiar hair caught his eye – but it was in the hallway, moving towards the exit.

Draco didn’t think twice.

He whipped around the corner, cloak snapping at his ankles.

“And where do you think you’re going?” 

The tension rippling across her shoulders was the only indication she’d heard him.

“Granger,” he growled, stalking towards her.

Her injury made her slow, and he caught her long before she reached the end of the corridor.

“Granger.” He stepped in front of her and stopped dead, causing her to pull up short. “I asked you a question.”

They were almost nose to nose. He could hear the jaggedness of her exhales, see the sheen of sweat on her brow and the flecks of hazel in her eyes.

Eyes which were now narrowed at him in disdain.

“Get of my way, Malfoy.”

She made to step around him, but he moved with her. 

“Malfoy.” She scowled. “Move.”

He scowled back. “No.”

“No?” she repeated, her tone a dangerous rumble.

“You’re injured,” he said, as if it were simple.

“I’m aware.”

“You promised you’d come back to finish healing.”

 “Don’t tell me I hurt your feelings.”

“Do you think this is funny? A joke?” He glared pointedly at her pant leg, which was stained red. “You’re bleeding.”

“Really?” She rolled her eyes. “I had no idea.”

“Granger. It looks serious.”

“Mmm. I’m perfectly capable of handling it myself, thanks.”

“You’re risking infection if you don’t heal it the right—”

“By all means, please explain more rudimentary biology—”

“—my bloody job, thanks, not an act of charity!”

Their voices echoed harshly down the hallway. At some point, they’d moved closer to each other, and now Draco could make out the smattering of freckles on Granger’s nose and a shallow cut on her forehead. Her chest was heaving, and there was sweat on her brow.

“Stay,” he murmured, looking down at her. “Your wound won’t heal naturally.”

For a moment, her expression softened. The lines around her mouth lifted and her eyebrows sagged. An instant later, though, the vulnerability was gone, replaced with the stony glare of Occlumency. 

“Neither will you if you don’t get out of my way.” Her lip curled, and her next words were a low hiss. “After all, I have brownies to bake, remember?”

The reminder of his brash words the previous evening washed over him like a curse.

This time, when she pushed around him, he let her. 

Draco watched her limp down the hallway, her left foot dragging against the tile. She was clearly in pain, one hand clamped tightly around her wand and the other curled in a fist at her side. From the way she was favoring her leg, the wound had likely completely reopened.

“You’ll have to undo the Episky before adding the murtlap,” he called before he could stop himself.

If she heard, she gave no indication, and Draco was soon alone, his regret and concern left to bounce against the fluorescent lights. 

Chapter Text

When Harry, and then Ginny, moved into Grimmauld Place, they dedicated a full summer to remodeling the home. All of the unfriendly, rock-hard furniture was thrown out, and the purple-black wallpaper was replaced with a soft, lilting pattern of grays, yellows, and blues.

One hot July evening, in a sangria-fueled burst of creativity, Ginny and Hermione decided to paint the kitchen a red-orange color – “like my hair!”, Ginny had reasoned with drunken conviction. When Harry had wandered downstairs to see what all the giggling was about, he was met by two witches who were wearing more paint than the walls.

“Oi!” he said, wide eyes taking in the room. “I thought we were going to paint it blue!”

A mischievous look between Ginny and Hermione had Harry backing into the hallway. They chased him around the kitchen, paintbrushes dripping on the floor, shrieking at the ticklish smear of color on their cheeks and in their hair. That night, they’d collapsed in a coral-colored pile, cheeks flushed from the wine and hearts sighing into the delirious haze of summertime.

Years later, the memory lived on in the flecks of orange that peppered Grimmauld's kitchen floor. Hermione couldn’t walk past the tiny flashes of color without thinking of Harry’s shouting laughter and Ginny’s carefree smile, of joy swooping through her stomach with childlike abandon.

The memories curled like bluebells in the winter of this newest war.

Hermione grunted as she moved through the kitchen she’d once loved, her injured leg dragging behind her. The wound in her thigh had reopened. Blood was hot and viscous in the fabric of her trousers, and her stomach twisted at the heady sensation.

The final steps to her destination – the small, dark bathroom on the main floor – were stilted, punctuated with jagged exhales, but Hermione didn’t stop until she was in the cool, tiled quiet. 

She heaved herself into the tub, teeth bared at the strain on her leg. After carefully arranging her body in the bath, she allowed herself to sag against the wall, tilting her head back as if in prayer.

It hurt.

Christ, it hurt.

Once, just after Hermione had turned four, she’d fallen off the monkey bars on the playground and gotten a woodchip stuck above her right eye. A terrified teacher had frantically ordered Hermione to keep her eyes shut until the paramedics arrived. Her father had rushed into the main office soon thereafter, finding his daughter red-faced and distraught, obediently following instructions even as she cried. Despite the panic in the room, her father’s voice had been calm and steady as tears leaked down her cheeks.

“Let’s see it,” he’d said, his hands gentle on her face as he tilted her chin up. “You’re right where you need be, darling. I’ve got you.”

From what Hermione could remember, the cut from the offending woodchip was not nearly as severe as the one she could feel pulsing in her leg. The visceral pain, though, and the anxiety bubbling in her stomach felt the same.

Her father wasn’t there to dry her eyes, but she opened them anyway.

She used her wand to cut her trouser leg along the seam. The bloody fabric stuck to her leg. Peeling it away from her skin required two fortifying inhales and a series of curses that would have made even Ginny blush.

The thought of her friend conjured the memory of an argument they’d had during a very similar scenario. Hermione’s arm had been grazed by a Confrindo, the impact enough to tear through skin and muscle. Despite substantial blood loss and pain, Hermione had refused transport to St. Mungo’s. 

“Why won’t you go to the hospital?” Ginny had cried, her eyes wide at the sight of Hermione’s mangled arm. “Why won’t you let them help you?”

That was early on, before Ginny learned why Hermione would rather suffer alone than be confined to another hospital bed, why the very idea of a hospital stay was enough to turn her blood icy. Hermione knew Ginny still worried, but she’d stopped actively protesting Hermione’s avoidance of hospital care.

Ginny would be pissed at her now, though.     

“Let’s see it,” Hermione muttered to herself, using her wand to illuminate the wound. It was more gash than cut, jagged and deep after the strain of the earlier fight. The edges, though, were stained green, a clear sign of failed magical treatment. 

You’ll have to undo the Episky before—

“Shut up,” Hermione snapped at the cool voice in her head. 

She cast a diagnostic spell and narrowed her eyes at the flashing signals. With a flick of her fingers, she banished it and cast another. When the results appeared the same, she clenched her jaw.

“Fine,” she muttered.

With clenched teeth, she waved her wand to undo the Episky. Immediate relief spread up her leg, which only flared her resentment towards a certain blonde Healer – who just happened to be right.

Hermione watched as the green skin faded to its normal color, drawing attention to the inflammation around the wound. It was still deep, but nothing serious. She reached for her beaded bag. The best course of action would be a simple healing spell, but first—

You’ll have to undo the Episky before adding the murtlap.

She shook her head as if the action could banish his voice from her mind. After their previous argument, after he’d thrown everything from her Legilimency to her baking in her face, Hermione could think of nothing worse than taking — and benefiting from — Draco Malfoy’s advice.

She stubbornly bypassed the jar of murtlap in her bag, grabbing for the disinfectant spray instead. With its fast and brutal operating mechanism, this particular odorless antiseptic was typically reserved for emergencies in the field. 

I’ll be fine, she reasoned. How bad can it be?

The first application of the spray burned so viciously that Hermione’s head cracked back against the tile. 

She swore colorfully, blinking against the stars in her vision, and vanished the spray with an agitated wave of her hand. She glared at her leg as her breathing returned to normal. 

Unbidden, her eyes travelled back to the bag and the murtlap awaiting her inside it. She clenched her jaw and looked away.

Think of something else. There had to be another option.

As the throbbing in her leg returned, so too did her gaze to the bag. A particularly jagged burst of pain chased away her denial, and she reached for the jar with gritted teeth.  

Ten minutes and a string of curses later, the wound was closed, if a little tender. Her subsequent diagnostic spells came back clean. She would need a blood replenishing potion, but those were easy to brew. 

One look at the pink, puckered skin told her it would scar. 

She didn’t care. Not anymore.

Her immediate task complete, Hermione fell back into the cool tile, allowing her shoulders to slump along the curve of the bath. Her chest rose and fell, the sound of her breathing sculpting the shadows of the dark room. As the rhythm of her exhales washed over her, the memory of her father returned. 

You’re right where you need to be, darling. I’ve got you.

Hermione took in the tattered remains of her trousers and the rust-colored streaks on the tub. She thought of the violating images in Ribbons’ head, all of the friends she hadn’t been able to save, and the lonely agony that lived inside Ginny’s eyes. 

For an aching, tremulous moment, Hermione wondered if she would ever believe her father’s words again. 

“How’s your leg?”

Hermione stilled, mug of tea halfway to her lips. “How’d you know about my leg?”

It was several days later, and Ginny and Hermione had met for an evening catchup. They were both so tired, though, that most of their catching up consisted of sitting in exhausted silence punctuated with feeble attempts at conversation.

Ginny shrugged and rubbed her sleeve against a stain on the table. “You’re limping.”

Hermione stiffened and placed her tea on the table. 

“I’m not limping.”

“You were earlier.”

“No,” she said firmly. “I wasn’t.”

After months of fighting, Hermione was self-aware enough to know when any signs of physical vulnerability were manifesting themselves. Today was not one of those days.

She folded her arms and gave Ginny a sharp look. “What’s going on?” 

Ginny turned to a pale heat ring left by years of Harry’s morning coffee. “Nothing,” she said quickly.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

Ginny looked up defensively. “I am not—"

“Gin.” Hermione stared pointedly at the stain. “You’re polishing the table.”

“What? No, that’s—” Ginny’s face fell as she took in motion of her hands on the table. She sighed. “Fine.” The look she gave Hermione was heavy with familiarity and understanding. “I just didn’t want to…agitate you.”

“Agitate me?” Hermione repeated. “By asking about my leg?”

Ginny nodded cautiously.

“Oh.” Hermione frowned. “I mean, I’m fine. Did Lee tell you? It’s okay if he—”

“No.” Ginny shifted. “It wasn’t Lee.”

Hermione’s frown deepened. “Then who—” 

Ginny’s grimace told her everything she needed to know. Hermione inhaled sharply. 

“What the hell?” Hermione stared. “Malfoy? When did you…why would he…it doesn’t—”

“Alright, alright.” Ginny’s eyes widened, and she held up a placating hand. “Before you overthink and end up spiraling, I was—don’t look at me like that, you know you do—I was at the hospital earlier visiting Susan.”

“Bones?”

“Yeah.”

“How is she?”

Ginny exhaled roughly. “Not good. Apparently, some complications have returned since the fall.”

They exchanged a heavy look. A month ago, Susan and Penelope Clearwater had been scouting the Forest of Dean when they’d triggered a series of Death Eater wards. The force of the explosion had thrown Susan down and over a hill.

The two witches tensed at the memory. Hermione glared at the ceiling and swallowed tightly.

“Anyway,” she prodded, only when she was certain her voice was steady again. She reached for the small distraction of her tea. “Malfoy.”

“Was overseeing the ward.” Ginny’s words were thin, but she seemed grateful for the subject change. “When he saw me, he asked how you were.”

“What?”

Ginny held up her hands at the look on Hermione’s face. “He didn’t seem happy to do it, alright? In fact, he was pretty frustrated during the whole conversation.” She frowned thoughtfully. “Although that might have had something to do with the fact that I called him a thoughtless, home-invading bastard with no sense of common decency or decorum.”

Hermione lips twitched. “Ah.”

“I stand by it.” Ginny shrugged. “But then he asked how you were, which immediately caught my attention.”

Hermione allowed this with a tilt of her head. If a Healer asked her if Ginny were alright, it would alarm her as well.

“I demanded he tell me what was going on,” Ginny continued, “but he initially refused. Something about Healer-patient confidentiality.”

“Which only scared you more.”

“Exactly. For a moment, I thought you were a patient in the hospital, which we both know you’d never consciously allow.” Ginny tossed her hair behind her back. “So then I threatened to make a scene—”

“You what?”

“—which he didn’t want for obvious reasons—”

“You threatened a Healer?”

“Of course. Keep up, please.” Ginny leaned back in her chair. “And then he told me your leg was injured.” She waved a hand and smiled smugly. “And there you have it.”

Hermione stared at her friend for a long moment. When the ability to speak finally returned to her, all she could manage was a soft “huh.”

Ginny snorted. “Eloquent.”

Hermione stared at the mug in front of her as if it might reveal some sort of explanation. “I just don’t understand why—”

“—he asked how you were? Me neither.” Ginny gave Hermione a knowing look. “Unless there’s more to your relationship than—”

“If you finish that sentence, I swear to Merlin I’ll never bake for you again.”

“Woah. No need to escalate.” Ginny considered her curiously. “I just couldn’t help but observe the other night—”

“When he was a prat?” Hermione said dismissively.

“Well, yes.” Ginny gave her a look. “But you weren’t exactly angelic.”

Hermione recoiled indignantly. “I only said he—”

“—was delusional for thinking he could ever redeem himself?”

“Did I really?”

“You did.”

“Shit.”

Ginny grimaced sympathetically. “All I’m trying to say is that, beneath the jibes that I’m sure will lead to crushing regret and insecurity—”

“Do you think I should apologize?”

“Um.” Ginny looked at her strangely. “Maybe. Probably, yeah. But—”

“I should definitely apologize. I just don’t know—”

“Hermione.”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

Ginny gave her a fond look. “Beneath the stubbornness and indignation – which you both clearly possess in spades – there was something else in the room.”

Hermione gave her a deadpan look. “Like accusations and judgement?”

Ginny pursed her lips. “Like tension.”

“Well, of course there was tension. We were fighting—”

“Hermione.” Ginny pinched the bridge of her nose. “Not that kind of tension.”

“What?” Hermione stared at her. 

There was a moment in which Ginny heaved a long-suffering sigh while Hermione looked on helplessly. In the next instant, understanding crashed into her. 

“Oh. Oh,” Hermione said, her eyes wide. “Oh.”

“Don’t freak out—”

“Oh.”

“As you’ve said.”

“Oh.”

Ginny waved an alarmed hand in front of Hermione’s eyes. “Are you alright? Do you need—”

“Do you think he knows?” The question rushed past Hermione’s lips before she could stop it.

Ginny raised an eyebrow. “Do I think he knows what? That you fancy him? Or that you have sexual tension when you argue?”

Hermione pressed her lips together and looked away. 

Ginny laughed, but her smile faded at the sight of Hermione’s consternation.

“Don’t worry,” she said softly. “I’m only teasing.” 

Hermione grimaced and took a sip of tea.

Ginny frowned thoughtfully. “Your leg is alright, though?”

“It’s fine.”

“You healed it yourself?”

“Yeah.” 

“Is that why there’s blood on the bathroom floor?”

“There is?” Hermione made to stand. “Sorry, I thought I got all of it—“

At Ginny’s quelling look, Hermione fell back into her seat. 

“The blood on the floor is decidedly not the point, Hermione.”

“Right.”

“You should have asked for help.”

“I know.”

Ginny eyed her warily. “Have you considered talking to someone about this?”

“About what?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

Hermione exhaled roughly and made a brave attempt at humor. “I’m talking to you.”

Ginny didn’t look amused. “I mean a professional.”

“Like a mind-healer?”

“Exactly like a mind-healer.”

Hermione shook her head. “Absolutely not.”

“That’s what I thought you’d say.” Ginny pushed back from the table and yelled down the hallway. "OI, NEVILLE! She says no.”

Neville appeared quickly - far too quickly. He leaned against the doorway and exchanged a meaningful glance with Ginny.

Hermione looked between the two of them with growing alarm.

“What the hell’s going on?” she asked.

“An intervention,” Ginny said.

“A discussion,” Neville corrected.

“An intervening discussion,” Ginny amended cheerfully.

Hermione blinked. “I’m fine.”

“None of us are fine, darling,” Ginny said, crossing one leg over the other. “There’s a war going on, or haven’t you noticed?”

Hermione gave her a hard look.

“Hermione.” Neville’s voice was cautious but firm. “We understand why you don’t want to be treated at St. Mungo’s.”

Ginny nodded. “And we understand why you don’t like to talk about what happened two years ago.”

“And why you occlude,” Neville added.

Hermione eyed them warily. 

Ginny barreled on. “But honestly, you need to—“

“We’d like you to consider,” Neville interrupted, glaring at the redhead, “discussing your history with a Healer.”

Hermione bit her tongue against her mounting frustration. She understood her friends’ concern - really, she did - but she didn’t have any energy to unpack her trauma. 

She needed to survive. Then, she would learn how to live again.

Hermione took in the cautious care in Neville’s eyes and sighed.

“Fine,” she said, mostly because she wanted this conversation to be over - and her friends to stop worrying.

Neville’s eyebrows jumped in surprise and suspicion. “Fine?”

“Fine,” Hermione confirmed, reaching for her cup. 

Neville’s eyes narrowed. “So you’ll talk to Malfoy?”

Hermione choked on her tea. “After his performance several nights ago? Absolutely not.”

“Lavender, then?” Ginny suggested. “Or Elora? Or Michael?”

“Yeah,” Hermione said, picking at a crumb on the table. “One of them.” She couldn’t meet Ginny’s eyes. “For sure.”

Neville made a noise in the back of his throat. “Ginny, I’m not sure I believe her.”

“Neville, I definitely don’t believe her.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Have a little faith.” She shook her head and rested her chin on her hand. “Let’s talk about something else, hmm?”

Neville seemed to consider arguing before he exhaled roughly. “Fine,” he said, running a hand over his face. “Fine. What do you want to talk about?”

What else was there?

Seamus answered that question for them by bounding into the room with a bottle of firewhisky. Katie and Angelina were close behind.

“Swiped this from some smugglers!” Seamus announced. “Who wants some?”

Hermione allowed the clink of glasses and the murmur of hollow yet resilient laughter to carry her into the night. Beneath the blur of the alcohol and the presence of her friends, though, lurked dreaded, cruel questions: 

Would it always be this way? Pushing away concern, tightening the screws around her bruises, collecting scars like playing cards? 

How long could she sustain this? Biting her tongue to keep from screaming in battle, healing herself in the bathroom, blood staining Ginny’s tile, only to do it all again the next day?

How long could she pretend she wasn’t so, so tired?

What if the next spell hit Ginny? Or Neville? Or Angelina?

What if they lost?

What if—

Hermione knocked back the rest of her firewhisky and willed the alcohol to burn the doubts away. She filled another tumbler, and then another. 

But the questions remained - charred skeletons pointing at her with blackened, bony fingers.

There is no escape, they whispered. There is no escape for you.

The more she drank, the louder the bones became.

Chapter Text

In the early hours of the morning, the church was still and dark. Plush red carpet swallowed the sound of Draco’s footsteps as he made his steady way to his habitual place in the seventh row. The creak of the pew beneath his weight was the only acknowledgment that, despite everything, he was still more man than ghost. 

As memories of his mother floated through the quiet, however, the distinction felt unimportant. St. Cecelia’s, after all, was the only place that had truly belonged to him and Narcissa. Here, he could touch with reverent fingers the veil between this world and the next, feel it fade with each recollection of his mother’s eyes and smile. He could leave behind the curses and the guilt and the nightmares, lose himself in the faint smell of incense and the gentle flicker of candles. 

Here, he slipped between past- and present-tense so easily it felt like breathing. 

Here, he was simply a man who missed his mother.

He crossed his right leg over his left and ran a hand along his jaw. It had been another long day at the hospital, full of paperwork and stubborn patients, worrying about Susan Bones and Granger’s leg and the next wave of injuries. When Draco returned to the ward after a short smoke break, Brown took one look at the shadows under his eyes before quite literally shoving him towards the door. 

“It’s 1:00 in the morning,” she’d said firmly. “Go home.”

He’d acquiesced, but his compliance had little to do with weariness or fatigue. No, Draco left the hospital because of the date that glared up at him from his calendar: November 14, the five-month anniversary of his mother’s death.

He hung his head. 

Five months. 

Five months without the sound of her voice lilting along his name, without the gentle brush of her fingers on the nape of his neck when she embraced him. Five months without her letters or her smiles. His life barreled on recklessly, insouciantly, as if he hadn’t lost the very thing that made it bearable.

He glared at the cross. Draco was not a religious man. He had little patience for indignation or self-centered bitterness, preferring detached persistence to manufactured outrage. But in these moments, when he could almost hear the sound of his mother’s laughter, he cursed a god he’d never prayed to. 

“I know that look.” 

Draco lifted his head to find Father Samuel watching him patiently from the aisle. The older man turned and directed a rueful smile at the crucifix.

“Don’t worry,” Samuel said. “He’s been frustrating me, too.”

“Father Samuel.” Draco straightened. “I hope I didn’t disturb you.”

“Oh, you did.” The priest gave him an affectionate look. “But I thought you might stop by.” His warm eyes searched Draco’s face. “Five months today, isn’t it?”

Emotion welled in Draco’s throat so thickly he struggled to swallow. “Yes, sir.”

“Couldn’t sleep?”

Draco shook his head.  

“Of course not,” Samuel murmured with a nod, more to himself than to Draco. “May I sit with you for a moment?”

Draco wordlessly slid down the pew, and Samuel settled beside him with an ease that belied his age. Samuel sighed gently and removed his glasses, polishing the lenses with the sleeve of his Notre Dame sweatshirt.

They sat like that for a long while – Samuel squinting at the smudges on his spectacles, Draco settling into careful remembering. 

There were three of them in the pew that night: the priest, the man, and the silence.

“Do you know what I loved most about your mother?” Samuel asked several minutes later. His voice was so soft the words seemed to come from the altar itself. 

Draco shifted in acknowledgement of the question. It was, of course, impossible to answer. Draco's heart held a kaleidoscope of superlatives: his mother's wry sense of humor, her impeccable fashion sense, the unexpected sentimentality that lived behind her polished exterior, her uncanny ability to say the right thing at the right time—

“I most loved the way she looked at you.” 

Draco tensed.

The priest held his glasses up to the light and glanced at Draco affectionately. 

“She looked at you the way every child should be looked at. Like you were the most beautiful, perfect thing she’d ever seen.”

Draco shifted uncomfortably. He cleared his throat. “I’m far from—”

“I know, I know.” Samuel waved away his protest with a dismissive flick of his wrist. “Your mother was as discerning as they come, and she knew as well.” His glasses returned to his nose. “She just didn’t let it overwhelm the parts of you she so thoroughly adored.”

Draco sat back against the pew and exhaled once. 

“She was my mother,” he said finally. “That’s what—that was what she did.”

“She is, and it was.” Samuel sighed. “And I suppose that is where our next steps lie.”

Draco couldn’t keep himself from glancing at the man beside him. Samuel’s eyes were distant, as if the soul behind them was somewhere far away.

“I don’t know what happened to your mother, child, but I know you blame yourself.” Samuel held up a hand as Draco began to protest. “I’m not asking you to tell me what happened.”

Draco pressed his lips together and stared straight ahead. He rarely occluded in church, but he occluded now. 

Samuel’s next words were heavy with compassion. “In times like these, we must return to the version of ourselves that lived our nightmare. We must accompany this earlier soul, bear witness to its choices – its successes and its failures. We must convince ourselves that we would not, could not, have acted any differently. And then we must forgive.” 

He glanced at Draco almost as if he’d forgotten he was there. 

“Does that make sense?” he asked suddenly.

“It does.”

Samuel watched him for a long moment before chuckling. “I’m becoming a sentimental old man. But I hope you allow my words to keep you company a while longer.”

The corner of Draco’s lips lifted, even as his heart remained so very heavy. 

“I will,” he said.

Samuel hummed contentedly, seemingly quite pleased with the wisdom he’d imparted. 

“This is, perhaps, the challenge your mother has left for you.” The priest stared wistfully at the pale glimmers of dawn creeping through the stained glass. “To view yourself as she did: achingly beautiful and fundamentally perfect.” 

He pushed to his feet, and when his gaze returned to Draco, his eyes were steady and bright. 

“After all, love is more than a condition or a convenience.” He gave Draco a knowing look. “In times of darkness, child, it is a choice.”

Chapter Text

Death doesn’t discriminate

Between the sinners and the saints.

It takes

and it takes

and it takes.

- Lin-Manuel Miranda, Wait for It

Susan Bones died on Wednesday, November 16. 

Complications from her brain injury, someone said.

Hannah Abbott gave the eulogy, told stories about Susan at Hogwarts: trips to the kitchens, swims in the Black Lake, afternoons in Hogsmeade.

Susan’s favorite subject had been Care of Magical Creatures. I love fieldwork, she’d told Hannah in a letter, but eventually I want to be a teacher. 

She was twenty-five.

Hermione sat next to Ginny and tried not to look at Susan’s father. He was in the front row, his body curled in on itself like a tree in a hurricane. 

Lee spoke after Hannah. His voice shook when he called Susan a hero. 

As had become custom, someone conjured a purple banner emblazoned with a Phoenix. It rose into the air and dissolved into gold sparks, which took the shape of Susan’s smiling portrait before scattering into the wind. 

The skeletons in Hermione’s mind watched in quiet dereliction.

Susan had asked to be buried next to her mother, so there wasn’t a coffin to carry. When the time came for Susan’s family to process, her father couldn’t move.

Her younger brother stood instead.

The loss of Susan settled like a storm cloud over the Order. It wasn’t the first death - far from it - but something about Susan’s generous spirit and inexhaustible kindness made the grief unbearable.

People turned to their usual comforts. There were dark circles under Neville’s eyes. Seamus smelled like firewhisky all the time now, and Dean had taken to watering down his bottles at night.

When the Order wasn’t planning or fighting, they were training. The Ministry had turned the Auror Office into a kind of arena, with concrete floors and dim lighting and targets for practicing spells. Hermione arrived early and stayed late, curses rippling from her wand and exploding against the walls. She held her wand so tightly the vines cut into her hand.

It was fitting, she thought later as she stared at the leaf-shaped bruises. She felt more like a weapon now than ever.

“Excuse me?”

Hermione looked up from her calculations. It was lunch time, and most Order members were in the kitchen. She’d taken advantage of the quiet basement to continue her research on shield charms. Inspired by muggle bulletproof vests, she was attempting to infuse fabric with the Protego charm. 

Attempting was the optimum word.

She pursed her lips and prepared to stare down whoever had made the poor decision to interrupt her. Her eyes widened as she took in the new arrival.

“Lucas?” 

It was Lucas Bones, Susan’s younger brother.

The boy was still a student at Hogwarts - his cheeks were round and boyish, his eyes wide and earnest. Under Hermione’s attention, an agitated hand passed through his flyaway hair.

She hadn’t seen him since Susan’s service several days ago.

“Um…hi,” he said. His arm jerked as if he’d considered shaking her hand but then decided against it. 

“Hello,” Hermione replied. She inclined her head and willed her expression to soften. “I’m Hermione.”

“Yeah,” Lucas said. He flushed. “I mean, I know. I mean, I recognize you, that’s all, I didn’t—I’m Lucas.”

“Hi, Lucas. Would you like to sit down?”

“Oh.” Lucas stared from her to the proffered seat at the table. “Sure. Thanks.” As he settled, he caught sight of the parchment in front of Hermione.

“What are you working on?” he asked.

“Arithmancy.”

“Oh.” He stared at the symbols for a long moment as he worked at his bottom lip.

The parchment was upside down. 

“Lucas,” Hermione said gently. “Is there something I can help you with?” 

The boy blinked up at her and shook himself. 

“Yes,” he said. “I…uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck and took a fortifying inhale. “I want to join the Order.” 

Hermione pressed her lips together and considered him. She wasn’t exactly surprised by Lucas’ request - he certainly wasn’t the first grieving family member to volunteer to fight. Normally, though, interested individuals spoke with Lee, who was in charge of recruitment.

Hermione told Lucas this.

“I know,” he replied. “I talked to Lee.”

“What did he say?”

“He said no.”

“Why?”

Lucas scowled at the desk. “He said I’m too young.”

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“He’s right.”

Lucas glared up at her. “That’s bullshit.”

Hermione arched an eyebrow at his tone.

“Sorry,” he said, his cheeks reddening. He clenched his jaw. “But it is.”

She studied him for a moment and considered sending him away, telling him to wait another year or two before diving head-first into war, but the hard conviction in his eyes gave her pause. 

Christ, he looked like his sister.

Hermione closed the arithmancy book in front of her and leaned back in her chair. She crossed one leg over the other.

“Why?” she asked, her voice soft.

Lucas, who’d also seemed to expect a dismissal, was surprised at her question. “Why is it bull—messed up that I can’t join?”

She nodded.

For a moment, Lucas just stared at her. Then, he barreled into a breathless case for his recruitment.

“First,” he said, “you and Susan and Harry Potter started fighting when you were my age. And I know how to fight - I’ve been practicing with friends at school, and I’m good. I’m really good.” His eyes flicked up to hers with a cautious kind of pride. “Plus it’s just pointless to stay at Hogwarts and learn about plants and charms and things when people are dying. Everyone at school is so afraid anyway, so at least we could be afraid while actually doing something useful.” He looked at her pleadingly, his young face lined with grief. “I just want to do something. So let me help. Let me…” His voice broke. “Let me try.”

Hermione never cried - at least, not in front of people, not if she could help it, but her eyes burned as she looked at Lucas. Placating words of comfort raced to the tip of her tongue, but something in the set of his jaw told her they would be unwelcome. 

 She studied him for a long moment before sighing. 

“I can’t allow you to fight,” she said. 

“But—“

“Hear me out, please.”

He slumped back in his chair and glared at the floor.

“Even if I were in charge of the Order,” Hermione continued, “I wouldn’t be able to overrule the requirement that all fighters be of-age. That requirement is there for a reason, and it will not change.”

“But you were only fifteen when—“

“I started fighting when I was far too young,” Hermione said firmly. “The adults around me should have tried harder to stop me.”

At this, Lucas’ gaze jumped to her. 

“You mean you regret fighting?” he asked. The question was almost a whisper.

“I regret not making an informed choice.” She smiled slightly. “I would have fought anyway. Harry…” She paused at the weight of his name on her tongue. “Harry wa—is my best friend. But I didn’t understand what I was getting myself into.”

“This is different,” Lucas said quickly. “I do understand. I understand what war feels like.”

“You do,” Hermione allowed with a sad smile. “In many important ways, you do.” Her lips thinned. “But there are still some parts of war that you haven’t seen. That you shouldn’t see.”

“But you see them—“

“So let me see them,” she said calmly. “That’s my job.”

“It could be my job, too!” He stood from the table in frustration and began to pace around the room. “I can do this, I know I can—“

“You certainly could,” she said, watching him make his way around the table. “It’s not a question of ability—“

“Then why? Why won’t you let me? I thought you of all people would understand—“

“Lucas.” She said his name quietly, lowly, and it stilled him. Grief settled between them like ash - inexorable and suffocating.

“I don’t need to tell you that fighting won’t bring her back,” she said.

He was silent, but his eyes fell the ground. He bit his lip angrily.

“I also don’t need to tell you that she would want you safe.”

“I know that,” he muttered, scuffing his shoe against the floor.

“But..." She sighed and tapped her quill against the table. "That doesn’t mean you can’t help.”

He looked up immediately, his eyes wide. “What?”

She smiled slightly at his rapid shift in energy. “You're welcome to help.”

“I am?”

“Yes.”

He rushed back to the table and wiped away a wayward tear. “Really?”

“Yes.” She gave him a look. “But no fighting.”

He gave her a look of his own. “No fighting yet.”

“Yet,” she allowed, inclining her head.

He exhaled heavily, his eyes shining. “Great,” he said. “This is—this is great.” He looked at her intently. “Thank you.”

She smiled and gestured to the seat across from her. He took it quickly.

“What can I help with?” he asked, slightly breathless.

“We have lots of projects that you can do from school.”

“But—“

“From school, Lucas, or not at all.”

He made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “Fine.”

Hermione’s lips twitched as she continued. “You have options. Supply rationing, brewing, mapping—“

“Arithmancy?”

“Sure.”

“Great.” He gestured to the parchment in front of her. “Because there’s a mistake in your third equation.”

Hermione looked back and forth between Lucas and the offending symbols. He stared up at her uncertainly, as if worried he’d crossed a line.

She pushed the parchment toward him and pulled her chair to his side of the table. They both leaned in.

“Show me,” she said.

Chapter Text

The Erithizium curse - christened after the Erithizon genus of porcupine - was invented in 1402. Its effects were infamously gruesome: at the point of contact, Erithizium shattered bone such that thin, pointed shards punctured through the skin.

Hence the name.

The curse was extraordinarily dark, and Draco had read about it in Sixth Year. To see it, however, was something else entirely.

The patient was a young woman - in her early thirties, if he had to guess, from a small town in Kent. Death Eaters had targeted a muggle supermarket, trapping and terrorizing the patrons, setting fire to the car park, and satiating their bloodlust with a sickening combination of curses and muggle violence. According to a grim-faced field medic, the attack had already spilled into the surrounding village.

Many casualties were expected.

Draco was in the process of summoning more Healers when the Erithizium patient arrived by Portkey, her body slumped into a field medic. Needles of bone split through her right shin, reflecting grotesquely in the hospital corridor.

The field medic - James, if Draco remembered correctly - helped ease the woman onto a conjured cot. She was unconscious, her muscles rigid from pain and shock, an expression of horror frozen on her face. Draco cast a spell to elevate her mangled leg, his jaw tightening at the bloody mess there.

“James - you’re James, right?” he said to the man beside him. 

“Yeah,” the medic said weakly. His eyes were fixed on the injury.

“I need you to cast a cushioning charm around the pieces of bone,” Draco said swiftly. “Then, we’ll—“

“That—“ James raised his wand, but his hand was shaking. “That’s bone?”

“Yes. The cushioning charm, please.”

James attempted to clear his throat, his lips opening and closing around a silent spell. He swayed on his feet.

“I’m not…” he managed, his face pale. “I don’t feel —“

Draco grabbed James under the shoulders, and not a moment too soon: in an instant, the man was slumped over in a dead faint. Draco staggered under his weight.

“Fuck,” he muttered. 

Below him, the woman began to stir.

Not unconscious, then.

“Fuck.”

“You called?”

As if summoned, Ishani Rana, the Student Healer in the ward, had appeared at his side, looking at him expectantly. Rana had completed Hogwarts only last year, but she was already one of the ward’s most reliable interns. On top of being a quick learner, she was no-nonsense and kind, a rare and invaluable combination in Healing.

“How can I help?” she asked, taking in the scene. She faltered at the sight of the patient’s leg but remained on her feet.

Score: James, 0. Rana, 1.

“The medic fainted. Typical syncope,” Draco explained, transferring the weight to Rana’s shoulder. “Get him hooked up to some fluids. Then, I’ll need you back here.”

With a tight nod and one last glance at the woman’s leg, Rana was gone.

Draco returned to the gruesome scene in front of him. He needed the cushioning charm before he could move the patient - without it, any agitation would escalate her fractures.

“Please,” came a weak voice.

Draco looked up to find the woman staring at him, her pupils blown and eyes impossibly wide. 

“Please,” she whispered again through chapped lips. She took a jagged inhale. “Please.”

Normally, he’d put her under immediately, but he couldn’t perform the incantation without first releasing the levitation spell on her leg. 

He settled for a localized anesthetic, so she couldn’t feel her injury, and then a Notice-Me-Not charm, so she couldn’t see it. Keeping his wand trained on her shin, he moved so he could meet her eyes.

“Ma’am, I’m a doctor with the NHS,” he said, keeping his voice level. He scanned for another available medic, but everyone in the ward was racing between multiple beds as it was. His gaze returned to her. “I’m here to help you.” 

The patient stared up at him, panicked tears collecting in the corner of her eyes. “I have a baby,” she said. “I have a baby.”

“Alright.” Draco nodded tightly. Pregnancy was another complication, but—

“At home,” she gasped, moving to sit up. “She’s at home with her nanny, please, I have to go to her—“

Draco pressed a steadying hand against her shoulder even as his stomach tightened in understanding. “Ma’am, you have to stay still—“

“Please, please, I have a baby—“

“I know, but you’re injured—“

“Must get home—“

“You must stop moving—“

“I HAVE A CHILD!” she screamed, clutching at Draco’s robes. “LET ME GO TO MY CHILD!”

“Okay, okay,” Draco gasped, holding her wrist with one hand. “I hear you, alright? I hear you.” He leaned down to her and tried to lower his voice. “We’re going to get someone who can help, alright? I’m going to get someone—“ He looked up and scanned the room. “Longbottom!” he shouted at the sight of the man’s familiar posture. “Longbottom, come over—“

Longbottom disappeared around the corner.

“PLEASE!” The woman was pulling at Draco now, her eyes wide. “PLEASE—“

“It’s alright, I’m going to find—Jordan!”

But he was across the ward, moving towards the apparation point - too far to hear—

“Please,” the woman cried, her shoulders twisting. “I have a baby—“

A flash of brown curls, he knew that hair—

“Granger! GRANGER”

She was on the other side of the room, but somehow, her eyes snapped to his immediately. She pushed towards him, ducking under floating potions and around frantic Healers. 

“What is it?” she snapped as she approached. Her eyes were flashing, and energy coiled around her body like smoke. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been limping through the corridor, blood darkening her trouser leg. 

Now, though, with her shoulders thrown back and her jaw tight, she looked every bit the famed hero London had come to expect.

 When Granger’s sharp eyes fell from Draco to the patient, a shadow passed over her face, and she traded her scowl for a sharp inhale. Her shoulders folded in slightly, and her brow tightened. 

“Erithizium,” she said quietly. 

It wasn’t a question.

Draco nodded. “The patient—“ he began.

“I have a baby,” the woman cried, her bloodshot eyes rolling to Granger. “Please, listen to me. I have a baby, and she’s at home, and—“

Granger looked to Draco in alarm. “What—“

“MY CHILD! I HAVE TO GO TO MY CHILD!”

“Alright, alright!” In an instant, Granger was beside Draco. 

“MY BABY—“

“I hear you,” Granger told the woman. Her jaw was tight and her expression tense. “I hear you.” 

“Can you help?” Draco asked quietly.

Brown eyes flicked to his. “I can try.”

Draco moved down towards the injury, and the woman’s gaze followed him. He refreshed the Notice-Me-Not charm.

“Eyes on me,” Granger commanded softly. “Eyes on—there you go. Hi.” Granger smiled - at least, that’s what it sounded like. Draco was focused on the injury in front of him. 

“What’s your name?” Granger asked, her voice gentler than he’d ever heard it. 

“I have a baby.”

“Okay.” There was the sound of rustling fabric. “What’s your baby’s name?”

“Julia. She’s at home and—“

“Where do you live?”

“Home.”

“That’s right.” Granger’s voice softened. “Can you tell me where your home is? So I can go to Julia?”

“Seventh and—“ The woman gasped. Even if she couldn’t feel the pain, her body was still suffering intense trauma. “Seventh and Elm.”

“Seventh and Elm,” Granger repeated. “Is there a number on your house?”

“Julia’s there. Julia’s there with Annabelle.”

“Alright. And who’s Annabelle?”

“She’s my nanny. She’s one of my uni students, please, please—“ The woman’s voice began to rise again. “She’s like a daughter to me, she’s with Julia—“

“Granger,” Draco warned as the woman’s leg shifted in agitation.

“Hey, hey, hey, I need you to stay still, okay?” The leg moved again. “Hey—look at me.” Granger’s voice grew firmer. “Stay still.”

The movement stopped.

“Are you listening to me?” Granger asked.

Draco glanced up to find the woman nodding at Granger with wide eyes. Granger was holding her hand, and her face was clear and determined.

“My name is Hermione,” Granger said slowly. “And I—“

“Hermione,” the woman repeated faintly.

“Yes. And I’m going to go get your baby. I’m going to get Julia. And Annabelle.”

“At home.”

“Yes, I’m going to go home, to Seventh and Elm, and I’m going to get both of them. Do you hear me? But you need to stay still.”

Draco pressed his lips together. Promises like the one Granger was making were often impossible to keep.

“Hermione,” the woman was whispering, the syllables hovering in the air like a prayer. 

Rana appeared next to Draco.

“Thank Merlin,” he muttered. “Take over the levitation charm, please.”

With a brief, awestruck glance in Granger’s direction, Rana did as he’d asked.

Now that his wand was free and the cushioning charm complete, Draco summoned a Dreamless Sleep potion. 

He moved to Granger’s side, where the woman was staring up at her with a tremulous hope. He indicated the vial to Granger.

“Hermione,” the woman sighed weakly. 

Granger glanced at the potion in Draco’s hand and nodded tightly. He unstoppered it while Granger leaned back.

“I’m going to—“

“No, no,” the woman cried, clutching for Granger’s hands, “I’ll go with you—“

“Don’t you worry,” Granger murmured, pressing the woman’s hair back from her forehead, “I’ll be right back with Julia and Annabelle—“

“But I—“

Draco took advantage of the woman’s open mouth and placed several drops of potion on her tongue.

The woman’s eyes widened. “What was—“ 

Her chin dropped, and then she was asleep.

There was a moment of surreal silence as the three of them - Draco, Rana, and Granger - all stared at the woman’s sleeping form. Her face was covered in a sheen of sweat, her hair damp and matted. Her chest rose and fell in an unsteady rhythm. 

Granger moved first, untangling her fingers from the woman’s hand and stepping back.

“Okay,” she said. Her eyes were fixed on the patient as she adjusted her coat. A ghost of something - fear? grief? - passed over her face, but then she blinked once and seemed to come back to herself. She turned to Draco and Rana with a tight nod. 

“Okay,” she repeated. “I’ll be back.”

She was already Occluding - there were shadows passing over her eyes, turning them cold and sharp. Her jaw tightened and her posture straightened. 

It was as if she were putting on armor.

Be safe, he wanted to say as she turned away. Be careful.

She disappeared with a crack.

Be safe. Be careful.

Draco had reattached missing extremities and returned organs to their cavities. He’d synthesized blood in a cauldron and rerouted a heart using ancient runes.

The treatment of the Erithizium curse was by far the most intense operation he’d ever undertaken.

In principle, at least, the surgery was fairly simple: the patient’s bones were broken. To treat the fractures, Draco needed to mend where he could and reconstruct where he couldn’t.

What made this particular procedure so difficult was the fact that the patient’s bones were quite literally shattered. They protruded from the skin like the fine spines of a sea urchin. Reconstructing the bones therefore meant removing each shard from the body and piecing the limb back together in vitro. That process, in turn, required meticulous focus, several anatomy textbooks, an alarming number of blood-replenishing potions for the patient, and an unreasonable familiarity with the tibia and fibia. 

It had never been done before.

Luckily, Draco was very good at his job.

“Why can’t we just use Skelegro?” Rana asked as they prepped the patient’s leg with disinfectant. Draco had inferred that the woman’s name was Adele - it was written in large letters across her shirt. He thought it was a bit odd to wear one’s name emblazoned on one’s clothing, but he had larger problems than Adele’s sense of fashion.

“Excellent question,” he said to Rana. He turned to her, and she winced. 

“Please tell me that you’re not going to turn this into a teachable moment,” she said.

“I am.”

“But the patient—“

“—is stable,” Draco finished. He glanced at one of the diagnostic spells hovering in the air above the stretcher and frowned. “At least for the next several minutes.”

Rana exhaled roughly and stared at the injury before her. 

“Right,” she said briskly. “Well, with any potion, we’re supposed to start with its intended use.”

“Good. And what’s Skelegro’s intended use?”

“To regrow bones that have been lost.”

“Lost how?” he prodded.

She grimaced. “Vanished?” 

“Vanished or...?”

“Or…?”

“Or removed by muggle means.”

“Okay,” Rana said, chewing at her lip. “I see why muggle removal wouldn’t work, but why can’t we vanish the bones and then administer the potion?”

“What spell would you use to vanish the bone pieces?”

She thought for a moment. “Evanesco?” At Draco’s expression, she shook her head. “No, no, forget I said that. Evanesco doesn’t work on calcium-based material.”

“Good.”

“But what if you modified the Evanesco? To specifically target bones?”

He arched an eyebrow. “And how would you do that?”

“I read something in an alchemy textbook about it once.” She frowned. “A wizard modified Incendio so it only burned iron-based liquids.”

Draco raised his other eyebrow. “Blood?”

“He was a tormented individual,” Rana replied.

“Apparently.” Draco glanced at the diagnostic spells. “The modification idea is an interesting one, but it hasn’t been done before. We can do some research together on it later this week.”

“Really?” Rana asked.

“Yes. But right now, Skelegro won’t work, as we can’t vanish the bone fragments. So we’ll have to reconstruct the bone piece-by-piece.”

“Shit,” Rana said. She frowned at Adele’s body and worried at her lip. “You can do that?”

“We can.”

Rana nodded her head slowly and readjusted her grip on her wand. 

“Alright,” she said. “Where do we start?”

Draco waved a hand at the closest textbook. It flew into the air and flipped to a diagram of the tibia. 

“Page 394.” 

The next hour passed in tense silence. Rana’s role was to monitor the patient’s vital signs and administer Dreamless Sleep, anesthetic, or Blood Replenishing potion as needed. At the other end of the bed, beads of sweat rolled down Draco’s neck as he carefully removed shards of bone from Adele’s leg. Based on several reference diagrams, Draco conjured rotating projections of the tibia and fibia which, in turn, guided the removal process. The intense level of trauma, though, made the process excruciatingly difficult. It was like an extreme three-dimensional puzzle, only the pieces were all the same grayish color and a woman’s life was on the line.

Another hour passed. And then another.

Gradually, the bones began to take shape, the reconstruction process a game of incrementalism and patience. Draco’s hand shook slightly as he worked, and he bit into his cheek. Finally, after 3.5 hours, a fully-formed tibia and fibia were floating in the air over the stretcher.

“Wow,” Rana breathed, staring up at the bones. “That’s—wow.”

“Not done yet,” Draco muttered, his mouth dry. “Here. Help me finish this up, please.”

He guided Rana through the process of making a controlled incision stretching from Adele’s ankle to knee, managing blood loss throughout. Then, he carefully levitated each bone into the cavity.

Rana made a noise of relief, but Draco shook his head.

“There’s still connective tissue,” he said. “And musculature.”

He turned the textbook to page 500.

Forty minutes and several complex incantations later, Draco and Rana were staring down at a skeletally-correct, muscularly-connected shin. Rana’s breathing was unsteady, and Draco’s body was cold from the strain of prolonged magic.

He shook out his wand hand and glanced at the student. “What’s our next step?” he asked.

She stared up at him in disbelief as she shook out her legs. “You’re asking me another question?”

“Yes.”

She made a frustrated noise in the back of her throat and went to wipe her brow but faltered at the sight of her gloved hand.

“Okay,” she sighed, her tone more weary than impatient. “We’ve done the treatment, and we’ve accounted for pain management. Next steps include patient monitoring and dexterity analysis.”

Draco’s lips lifted in spite of his exhaustion. “Excellent,” he said. “But we won’t do the dexterity analysis tonight. We’ll pass that off to M.R.”

M.R. stood for Muggle Rehabilitation. It was a portion of the hospital dedicated to easing muggle patients back into their lives following magical injuries. The Healers there specialized in translating magical treatments into language that didn’t violate the Statue of Secrecy. They also, by necessity, excelled in memory charms.

He sent a Patronus to request a transfer for Adele. Rana summoned two chairs, and they sat silently. With a wave of his wand, Draco banished their gloves and cast a cleansing spell over their hands.

“This is just a simple disinfecting spell,” he said quietly. “It doesn’t—“

“I know, I know,” Rana interrupted with a fond twist of her lips. “It doesn’t replace soap and water.”

If Draco hadn’t been so tired, he would have smiled.

After several minutes of weary quiet, a medic from M.R. appeared in the doorway. The ward was dark to accommodate sleeping patients, so it took a moment for her to spot Draco.

“Healer Malfoy,” she said, once their eyes met. It was Ross, one of the older Healers in the hospital. She crossed to him. “I understand you have a patient here for me.”

“That’s right.” Draco pushed to his feet and indicated Rana. “Healer Ross, this is Ishani Rana, one of our Student Healers.”

Together, Draco and Rana updated Ross on Adele’s condition. As they outlined the precipitous injury and the subsequent operation, Ross’ silver eyebrows disappeared into her hairline.

“Impressive work,” she said, staring at Adele’s leg. “Rehab will likely be brutal, but she’s lucky she was able to keep the limb.”

They all stared at the patient for a long, tired moment before Ross cleared her throat.

 “Alright.” She offered Draco and Rana a small smile. “Best be off, I suppose.”

She waved her wand, and Adele’s stretcher lifted off the floor. They were two steps towards the door before Ross stopped and turned.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “I meant to tell you. Hermione Granger showed up in our ward hours ago with an infant. She said to inform you, and that you’d know what to do.” As Ross spoke, her expression grew more and more perplexed - as if she was only now realizing how bizarre that sentence sounded. 

At the mention of Adele’s baby, though, Rana’s shoulders slumped in relief. Warmth spread through Draco’s fingers. 

Julia.

Draco hadn’t allowed himself to think about the baby, the battle, or Granger during the operation. But now, in the empty silence of the hospital, a melancholy sort of reprieve settled in his chest: a rare happy ending in a plot of overwhelming tragedy. 

“That infant is this woman’s child,” Draco explained, gesturing to Adele. “The baby’s name is Julia. She was left behind during the attack.”

“Sweet Salazar,” Ross breathed, staring down at Adele with renewed concern. “A young mother!” She turned to Draco and Rana. “We’ll be sure to keep the two together.”

Draco thanked Ross and wished her goodnight. 

Rana and Draco watched Adele disappear into in the hallway in silence. 

Rana stretched and yawned. “I still can’t believe that operation,” she said, following Draco out into the corridor. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Draco hummed his agreement as they approached the front desk of the ward. He’d taken Brown’s night-shift so that she could get some rest, and he had a stack of paperwork waiting for him after the chaos of today. He needed a cup of tea.

Or maybe twenty.

“So,” Rana was saying, “what’s next?”

“For you?” He paused and glanced down at her. “Home.”

Her eyebrows jumped up. “What about the paperwork?”

“I’ll handle it.” He nodded towards the door. “Go get some rest. You did an excellent job today.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Rana grinned. “Thanks, Healer Malfoy.”

“Mind you wash your hands properly before you leave.”

“I will,” she said as she turned to go. “Goodnight.” 

Draco had barely settled into the solitude of the front desk, tea cooling to his right, when a crack sounded in the hallway. Reports from the Order indicated that the perimeter had been secured after the attack, and an earlier message from Jordan had said not to expect any additional casualties. 

Draco frowned and pushed up from his chair. At the sound of unsteady breathing in the corridor, he quickened his pace. 

Just as he rounded the corner, the newcomer turned to face him.

It was Granger.

Except it wasn’t the same steady, controlled woman who’d comforted Adele just hours before. No, this Granger was hunched over slightly, her breath hissing in the quiet corridor. The dim lights of the ward cast her face into shadow, but Draco could just make out a blackened eye and blood by her mouth. 

Their eyes met.

“Malfoy,” she said, her voice hoarse.

“Granger?” 

They stared at one another. 

“I…uh…” She shifted and immediately winced. Broken ribs, Draco thought, or bruised abdomen. “I found the baby. Julia, I mean.”

“I know,” he said, taking a cautious step towards her.

Granger’s eyes were dim in the darkness. It was clear she was in a great deal of pain.

“I had a run-in with Rowle during our perimeter check,” she ground out.

“Okay.”

He was almost beside her now. He couldn’t help but think of the last conversation they’d had in the hallway. It had ended in sharp words, and Granger had refused care.

He wouldn’t - couldn’t - let that happen tonight.

“We fought,” she said.

Her lip was split and swollen.

“I lost my wand. Briefly.”

“Okay.”

The way she was holding her body suggested a dislocated shoulder.

“He was much bigger than I am.”

He could make out finger-print-shaped bruises around her neck and chin. The sight burned into him.

“He’s dead now,” she said.

The words hung in the air.

“Okay,” he said again, softly. He took in the pattern of bruises and the extent of her injuries and wondered how she was still standing.

She hesitated. “I normally heal myself. I…I hate hospitals. But I…I think I’m running low on potassium, and I don’t know…” She winced. “I don’t think I can manage the pain for much longer.”

Occlumency. 

That’s how she was still functioning. 

He took a final step forward, until he could feel her exhales brushing his chin.

“Will you let me help you, Granger?” He said the words quietly, as if an increase in volume would scare her away.

Her eyes flicked from him to the ward, and her features tightened. 

“Maybe just a potassium infusion? So I can remake my shields?” she said. There was a sheen of sweat on her forehead. “I could take care of the rest, and—”

“Break room or office?” he interrupted.

She frowned. “What?”

“Break room or office?” he repeated.

At her continued confusion, he shifted patiently. “I know you don’t like hospitals, and something tells me you really don’t like being treated in a ward.” He tilted his head. “So would you prefer the break room or the office?”

Her eyes widened. 

“Oh,” she said. “I…um…like I said, I can go home—“

“Home isn’t one of the options, Granger.”

Her eyes flicked up to his, and traces of her fire reappeared in the set of her jaw. 

“I’m too tired to argue,” she said.

“As am I.”

She pressed her lips together and studied him before exhaling roughly. 

“Fine,” she said. “Break room.” Her stony facade cracked for a moment. “Please.”

Their footsteps echoed eerily in the empty corridor: Granger’s uneven, Draco’s unnaturally slow to keep pace with her. He’d offered to summon a stretcher, but the immediate clench of her jaw had told him the suggestion was unwelcome. 

“I’m injured, not dead,” she’d snapped. “I can walk.”

He’d considered pointing out that there were many non-fatal injuries that could inhibit one’s capacity to walk, but he’d held his tongue in what he considered to be an impressive display of self-control.

Granger seemed to sense his stifled commentary. She glanced up at him as they rounded the final corner.

“I hope I’m not…not taking you away from anything,” she said, her voice rough from pain.

“Not at all,” he replied. He refrained from mentioning that this was, in fact, the definition of his job. 

As the sound of Granger’s labored breathing filled the corridor, Draco frowned. “Are you sure you don’t need a stretcher or—“

“Yes.”

Either her ribs weren’t broken, or her Occlusion was better than Snape’s.

They entered the nauseatingly green break room in silence. Draco turned on the overhead lamps with a wave of his hand and made his way to the sink. Granger lingered by the door.

“Where should I…where do you want me?” she asked. 

He glanced over his shoulder while he waited for the water to warm. “Over there is—“ He faltered at the sight of her injuries in the new, harsh lighting. 

Her right eye was almost swollen shut, and the bruise beneath it trailed down to her nose, which was most definitely broken. There was blood along her hairline and drying on her upper lip. The marks on her neck and chin were an ugly greenish-purple, and there were shallow scratches along the flesh of her cheek.

She gave a humorless laugh as she limped towards one of the tables he indicated.

“I’m guessing it looks as bad as it feels?”

That was an understatement. 

He dried his hands and crossed the room. Granger tracked his approach warily; everything from the uncertainty in her eyes to the tension in her fists told him she didn’t want to be there. 

I hate hospitals, she’d said. She hadn’t said it the way people say they hate broccoli or potions. She’d said it the way Draco said he hated vanishing cabinets and snakes. 

“May I levitate you onto the table?” he asked softly. 

She made to push herself up, but he stopped her with a firm hand on her elbow.

“Absolutely not,” he said. His voice came out low and rough. “You might normally heal yourself, Granger, but I’m in charge here. Do you understand me?”

She stared at him, mouth slightly parted. Even Draco was surprised by his assertive tone, but he willed himself to maintain eye contact. He watched as Granger’s stubbornness and exhaustion collided, twisting her facial expression into something uncertain and unfamiliar. Eventually, her weariness won, and her shoulders slumped slightly.

“Fine,” she said, her voice empty. Her eyes fell to the floor. “I’ll…Just tell me what to do.”

“I’m going to levitate you onto the table.”

"Sure.”

He did, making sure to set her down gently. He summoned gloves but paused at the shadow that passed over her face.

He banished the gloves as quickly as they’d appeared.

“What other triggers do you have?” he asked, casting a localized repulsion spell on his hands instead. 

She frowned at him. 

“You don’t like gloves,” he pointed out.

She didn’t argue.

“How about Healer’s robes?” he asked, gesturing to the white coat on his person.

She considered him for a moment, her lips thin. “Fine,” she said finally.

“Diagnostic spells?”

“Also fine.”

“Bandages?”

“Tolerable.”

“Antiseptic?”

“Hate the smell,” she said. 

He nodded and cast a refreshing charm around them in case the scent lingered there. Her shoulders relaxed slightly.

“Anything else?”

“I…” She cleared her throat and eyed him warily. “You already guessed it, but I don’t like hospital beds. Or wards. And…” She took a steadying breath. “I especially don’t like people touching my left wrist.”

She stared at him as she said this last part, as if she expected his eyes to drop to the aforementioned body part. He knew — of course he knew what was beneath her sleeve there. Such things were not so easily forgotten. 

He kept his gaze steady on hers. 

“Alright,” he said.

“Alright?” 

“Thank you for telling me.”

This - more than anything else - seemed to surprise her. She frowned and nodded, looking away uncomfortably. 

With her boundaries more clearly identified, Draco got to work. A series of diagnostic spells warned of three bruised ribs, a dislocated shoulder, a sprained ankle, broken nose, and several contusions on her neck and face. One of her back molars was cracked. 

He decided to work his way up.

With a wave of his wand, Granger’s boot untied itself, revealing a nauseatingly swollen ankle. After confirming the nature of the injury with a progression of spells, Draco set the joint with an Episky. It made a soft pop, but Granger gave no indication she felt a thing.

He frowned as he gently rolled her foot to test its range of motion.

“How much are you Occluding right now?” he asked.

She clenched her jaw and pressed her lips together. 

It was clear answers would not come easily tonight.

“How about this,” he said, swiveling her toes down. She didn’t even wince. “A question for a question.”

She looked at him skeptically. “What do you mean?”

“For each question you answer, I’ll answer one of yours.”

She raised a suspicious eyebrow. “Is this a common Healing technique?”

No. “Yes.”

The twist of her lips told him she didn’t believe him, but she sighed in acquiescence. 

“Fine,” she said. “I’m Occluding so much I can’t feel my legs.”

“That’s extraordinarily dangerous.” 

There was a beat of silence. “I know.”

They stared at one another, silence rippling between them. Granger seemed to be waiting for some sort of reprimand, but the appropriate words were heavy and bitter on his tongue. 

The choices she had made had kept her alive. Who was he to judge them?

Draco looked away and moved up to her shoulder. As he’d initially suspected, it was dislocated and would therefore required more than a typical sprain or break. He gently placed his hands on either side of her shoulder and ran diagnostic signals between his fingers. It was a mapping technique he’d learned in his early days of healing that helped make the setting process less painful.

“Granger,” he murmured as he tracked the tension in her jaw. 

“Hmm?” Her eyes were fixed on the distant wall, and her breathing was shallow.

“I owe you an answer.”

“Oh.” She blinked. “Alright. How much are you Occluding right now?”

Turnabout was fair-play, he supposed, but the question was still unsettling.

“Right now? Not much,” he said honestly. “Earlier, though, when the patient was calling for her child, I occluded more than I had in a while.”

“Who taught you?”

“My mother,” he said quietly. He would need to treat the inflammation in her shoulder before setting it. “Who taught you?”

“I taught myself,” she said. “During the first war.”

Solitary Occlumency development was almost impossible. Someone had to have practiced with her. He glanced at Granger and found her lost in thought. 

The diagnostic spell caught his attention by flashing yellow, indicating that he could proceed with healing her shoulder.

“You’re going to set it?” Granger asked. Her eyes had also moved to the yellow signal.

“I am,” he said. “On three?”

“Sure.”

He counted down slowly. When he pushed at the shoulder, Granger hissed in pain.

He frowned at her. “I thought you were Occluding.”

“Getting tired,” came her answer. Her voice was brittle, like storm glass. “Can I have a potassium supplement now?”

The potion would allow her to reconstruct her Occlumency shields. But pain existed for a reason, and dissociating from it so extremely would only lead to dissonance between the mind and the body.

“No,” Draco said.

“Why not?”

“Because I said so.” 

She made an angry noise in the back of her throat. 

“Where’s your pain worst?” he asked as he ran confirmation tests on her shoulder.

Granger pressed her lips together stubbornly.

“I could always use Legilimency, if you’d prefer.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she jerked her gaze away from his. 

“You wouldn’t,” she growled, glaring at the tile.

She was right, but he shrugged. 

“Duty of care, Granger,” he replied. “I’ll do what I have to do.” 

 There was a heavy moment of silence, and Draco began to worry she was going to call his bluff. Then, she shifted on the table.

“My ribs,” she said, still staring at the ground. “My ribs, and then my eye.”

Draco nodded wordlessly. The ribs were an easy fix, but he moved his wand over them cautiously. Granger hadn’t mentioned wands as a trigger, but he wanted to be careful.

“Where did you learn to heal?” Granger asked several minutes later.

“France,” he said. “Where did you learn to fight?”

“America.”

That surprised him. 

“Were you training to become an Auror?” he asked as he healed the final rib.

“No.” 

“No?”

“That’s what I said.”

She still wouldn’t look at him. With a start, he realized she was intentionally avoiding eye contact.

“Granger,” he said softly. She tilted her head to show she was listening. “Granger, I…I would never use Legilimency on you.”

“Oh.” The tension in her jaw eased slightly, and her eyes flicked to his. “Okay.”

As he healed her, she was coming back to herself. There was color in her cheeks again, and her body wasn’t folded up like a statue. He could feel the energy swirling around her, burning in her eyes and chest. 

At the same time, the cloudiness in her gaze was fading, a sure sign that any Occlumency shields were beginning to crumble. It would be a relief to see her eyes so clear, if not for the fact that they were glassy with pain.

He stood to his full height and inspected her neck, chin, and face. A wave of his wand vanished the blood. Another Episky reset her nose.

Granger exhaled sharply, her shoulders sagging in relief.

Draco considered the blackened eye next. The mapping technique would help determine the extent of the injury, but the intimacy of touching her face gave him pause. 

“May I touch the skin around your eye?” he asked. His voice was softer than he’d intended.

Her answer was immediate. “Yes.”

Draco positioned his fingers cautiously, barely brushing her forehead and cheekbone. The skin there was warm, and he could feel the gentle rhythm of her breath.

“Your turn,” he murmured.

“Mmm.” She was staring straight ahead now, her eyes distant. “Why did you decide to become a Healer?”

“I didn’t,” he said. “I was an Auror in France.”

He could tell she was listening from the way her shoulders turned towards him. 

Technically, he’d answered the question, but her silence compelled him to continue.

“In France, healing was a requirement of Auror training, and I specialized in field work. I made the switch to Healing after four years as an Auror. Open your mouth, please.” There was a moment’s hesitation, but then she acquiesced and he was able to inspect her cracked tooth. “The French Auror Department vouched for me, as did Shaklebolt.”

Draco braced himself for the question that always followed his admission that he’d trained as an Auror. Shaklebolt, Clearwater, Brown…hell, even his father had asked it:

Why aren’t you fighting for the Order?

The question never came.

Granger simply pulled back from him slightly, running her tongue over the mended bone. 

He studied her, searching her face for judgement or expectation. What he found instead was wistful sorrow. It was hard to recognize, and even harder to look away.

When she caught him staring, she frowned and flushed. 

“Your turn,” she said finally, her voice thick.

He came back to himself and focused on the final injury - the bruises and cuts along her jaw and throat.

He passed his thumb over one of them gently.

“What happened here?” he asked quietly.

Her lips pulled down. 

“Rowle,” she answered. She shook her head and laughed bitterly. “For all of his purist bullshit, he had a certain fondness for muggle fighting.”

The name conjured memories of a beady-eyed man with hard knuckles and maniacal laugh. 

Draco tucked them behind an Occlumency shield and turned to the bruises on Granger’s chin. 

“You mentioned you lost your wand,” he said. 

“Yeah.” She pressed her lips together. “I can do wandless magic, of course, but it’s harder when…”

“When you can’t breathe,” Draco finished, frowning at the fingerprints on her throat. The idea of Rowle with his hands on her, tossing her around…

He was much bigger than I am, she’d said.

Anger, sudden and visceral, sparked through his fingers.

Draco took a breath and continued his work, moving to the cuts on her cheek. They were shallow but angry - from fingernails, he realized. 

Over the course of his career, Draco had treated all manner of dark injuries, and he knew that Granger’s condition spoke of intimate, intentional violence.

Draco tightened his jaw.

Rowle could have killed her.

The cuts needed to be cleaned before they were healed. Remembering Granger’s comment on antiseptic, Draco summoned a salve and applicator instead. He distributed the medicine gently, the thick, amber-colored gel stretching over her skin. Lavender and mint floated through the air, and Granger’s chest rose and fell. 

It was almost peaceful, the quiet. 

He’d reached the final cut when a droplet of water pressed against his fingers. He paused and watched as another drop fell to Granger’s chin. 

What was—oh.

Oh.

She was crying.

He slowed his movements and glanced at the diagnostic spells: all steady, no flashes or alarming messages. Nothing that would explain her distress.

“Granger?”

She said nothing as she stared at the distant wall, her eyes glassy and unseeing.

“Granger, are you in pain?”

At his voice, she shuddered, sending several tears onto her face and shirt. Her gaze, the same deep brown, was now alarmingly, achingly open.

Her shields were failing. 

“I just can’t get her out of my head,” she whispered. 

Draco frowned. “Who?”

Granger pressed her eyes together and inhaled raggedly. Perhaps it had been a mistake to refuse the potassium supplement.

“Julia, you mean?” Draco offered gently. “Julia is here, with her mother—“

“No, no, no,” Granger said, shaking her head insistently. “Annabelle.”

For a moment, Draco stared at her in confusion. Then, the name registered.

“The nanny?” 

Granger nodded - a helpless, broken motion. “She hid Julia in the bathtub and then she…” Granger’s lips were pale and trembling. “She distracted Rowle.” She looked at Malfoy then, her eyes full of unshed tears. “I knew it was him, you know? Right away, I knew. I recognized his…his style.” She spat the word, her lips twisting violently. “It was awful. So, so, so much blood. Jesus.” She closed her eyes and rocked back and forth. “Malfoy, I can’t stop seeing it.”

Draco cast a nonverbal warming spell over Granger and reached for something - anything - to say. A steady bedside manner was a requirement in wartime, and he normally managed it well enough. But in face of Granger’s distress, the normal avenues of placation and assurance seemed flimsy and sophomoric. 

You did everything you could. A classic, to be sure, but knowing Granger, she’d have a veritable essay of counterpoints. 

Annabelle didn’t suffer. A boldfaced lie.

I’m sorry. True, but useless. 

I know exactly what you mean, Granger. As a sixteen-year-old, I had to watch Rowle practice. It made me vomit.

“I told Lee I ran into Rowle on my perimeter check, but that wasn’t true,” Granger continued. Her eyes were still closed, her voice catching on each word like skipping rocks. “I…I went looking for him. I tracked him down, and I…I wanted him to know why. I told him I was there because of the girl he killed. And do you know what happened?” Her face collapsed. “He smiled, this terrible, awful, fucking smile, and he said, ‘which one.’” She let out a broken sob and clutched at the fabric of her trousers. “Which one. He couldn’t fucking remem—”

“Granger.” Draco’s hands were on her shoulders. “Granger, stop.”

“I can’t stop, I can’t stop seeing that fucking smile, all that blood and—”

He moved his hands to her jawline. “Granger, look at me.”

Her eyes cracked open, anguish spilling down her cheeks. She was shaking.

He tilted his head to meet her gaze. “He’s gone now,” he said, holding her face gently. 

Her lips pulled down violently.

“It helps to say it,” Draco murmured. He brushed a tear away from her cheekbone. “Will you say it?”

For an aching moment, her lips remained pressed together. But then, she spoke in a trembling voice.

“He’s gone now,” she whispered, her eyes heavy with memories.

“He won’t hurt anyone again.”

“He won’t hurt anyone again.”

He offered her a small smile and willed himself to take a step back, ignoring the way the movement pulled at his chest. “Good.”

Granger inhaled raggedly. Her eyes dropped to the floor. 

“Sorry,” she said, sniffling.

“Never apologize.”

He realized he meant every bit of it.

Granger shook her head, her lips twisted uncertainly. Watching her attempt to piece herself together was excruciating. 

“If I…” She cleared her throat and pressed her hands together. “If I can’t have potassium, Malfoy, could I have a calming draught? Please?”

She wasn’t asking out of stubbornness, he knew. Her words weren't rough from frustration or destructive pride. Instead, they were smooth and gentle - a heartbreakingly quiet call for help. 

Draco conjured a vial, and after a moment’s reflection, he summoned a second. He held both out to Granger.

“Your choice,” he said. 

She looked from him to the bottles. He kept his hands steady.

“Potassium,” she murmured, frowning at the second vial. Her brow drew together as she wiped away a tear. “But—“

“Your choice,” he repeated, infusing each word with everything he wished he could tell her.

Her gaze returned to him, heavy and questioning. Eventually, she nodded - more to herself than anything.

She reached for the potassium.

“I know it’s dangerous,” she said, once she’d swallowed the orange mixture. “I know it’s unsustainable.”

“War is dangerous and unsustainable,” he replied.

She gave a hollow laugh and rubbed the back of her hand against her nose. “Yeah.” Her eyes, already dimmed by Occlumency, flicked to his. “Thanks for…thanks for your help.”

He inclined his head. “It’s my—“

“Job, I know.” She pressed her lips together in a tired smile. “Duty of care and all that. And...well, thanks for not asking why I hate hospitals.”

He shrugged. “Thank you for not asking me why I’m not fighting for the Order.”

She frowned and wiped her mouth with her sleeve. “No one should fight, not if they don’t want to. Everyone should have a choice.”

Maybe it was the magic now shuttering Granger’s eyes, or maybe it was Draco’s own exhaustion after a long day of Healing that summoned his next question.

“Do you have a choice, Granger?”

The words hung in the air, raw and charged and more dangerous than any potion.

They stared at one another for a moment. Then, Granger looked away, a sad sort of resignation pulling at her lips. He watched as she pushed off the table and adjusted her jacket. 

“I do what I have to do,” she said quietly. 

Draco couldn’t shake the feeling that those words - and the determination in her eyes - were more epitaph than promise.

Chapter Text

And when I was shipwrecked, I thought of you.

In the cracks of light, I dreamed of you.

And it was real enough to get me through. 

I swear.

You were there.

-Taylor Swift, Evermore

“We need to talk about this, Hermione.”

From across the training room, Lee was eying her as he panted, shirt discarded on a nearby bench. Hermione herself was damp from sweat, hair sticking to her forehead and the nape of her neck. 

She brushed a stubborn curl from her brow and raised her wand.

“Talk about what?”

“You know what.”

“The new Council directive?” she clarified, sending a stunning spell hissing towards him. At a Council meeting earlier that day, Kingsley had outlined impending wartime restrictions and policy shifts. “Why?”

Lee staggered backwards before countering with his own curse. “Besides the fact that the Ministry is going bankrupt?”

“The Ministry—“ Hermione inhaled tightly as she fortified her shield. “The Ministry is always going bankrupt.”

“Fair enough,” Lee allowed. He adjusted his stance as Hermione began her own offensive. “But from what Kingsley was saying, things are looking particularly grim.”

It was true. The most recent report from Tiberius McClaggan, the verbose and tediously self-important Minister of Finance, spelled a grave warning for Kingsley’s government. Fighting a war with an invisible enemy, it seemed, was an expensive endeavor. 

Hermione frowned as she tied off her final spell - a spell she’d developed in the U.S. It whizzed through the air and collided with Lee’s shield, triggering a wind tunnel charm that raced along the ground and collided with his legs. A lesser duelist would have fallen immediately. 

Lee, of course, righted himself immediately and retaliated with a nasty extraction curse.

Hermione ground her teeth as she worked to deflect it. 

“I agree that the data aren’t promising,” she managed, muscles burning from exertion. “And any cuts in social services would be terribly unpopular.”

“That’s the problem, actually.” Lee signaled for a break and summoned a towel to wipe his face. “Kingsley wants to avoid reducing the budgets for St. Mungo’s and Hogwarts.”

“Makes sense.” Hermione reached for her bottle of water. “St. Mungo’s cuts never go over well.”

“Exactly,” Lee said. He tossed the towel aside. “Which is where we come in.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes as she took a heavy sip of water. “We?”

“The Order,” Lee clarified. At Hermione’s expectant silence, he waved an agitated hand. “We need to streamline operations, Hermione.”

“Streamline how?” She set the bottle down and adjusted her stance. “It isn’t like you to beat around the bush.” She sent a curse flashing towards him. 

Lee deflected the spell with an alarming bang. “You-Know-Who’s been digging around in Hungary,” he said, his voice tight.

“I know.”

A series of black and yellow curses rippled from Lee’s wand. “Kingsley wants us to go on the offensive. Get boots on the ground in Hungary and figure out what he’s been up to.”

Hermione’s eyebrows jumped. “An international mission?”

“Exactly.”

She cast a trip jinx at Lee’s feet. “Doesn’t seem like streamlining to me.”

“It would be,” Lee said quickly, sidestepping the curse. “If we changed our domestic strategy.”

Hermione wiped a hand across her forehead and narrowed her eyes at him. “And how would we do that?”

But Hermione could tell - she could tell by the way Lee hesitated, his wand stuttering in the air, his eyes softening almost imperceptibly.

Suddenly, the training room felt very cold.

“No,” she said immediately. She took a step backwards. “No.”

“Hermione.” Lee’s voice was kind but firm. “Hear me out. We have to start switching between rescue and recovery for Harry and Ron—“

“No.”

“—a poor use of resources and time, not to mention dangerous—“

“Lee, I—”

“—over five months and no word from either of them, and—“

“You think I don’t know how long it’s been?” The words ripped out of her, angry consonants shooting through the air like missiles. “Do you think I haven’t counted every day, every minute since I’ve seen them?” She inhaled harshly and dropped her wand to her side. “What the hell, Lee?”

She stalked over the bench and grabbed for her water. Lee was watching her carefully, his wand held loosely between two fingers. 

“What the hell?” Hermione repeated. She glared at him. “You’d have me abandon them? For what? Reconnaissance in Hungary?”

“It wouldn’t be abandoning them, and the Hungary work is important—“

“Not important enough—“

“It could win us the war! No one understands You-Know-Who like you do, Hermione, and—“

“Harry does!”

“Harry might not be—“ Lee caught himself and rolled his shoulders back. When he spoke again, his words were measured and careful. “We don’t know what state Harry and Ron are in. We can’t plan on their help, and we need to think long-term.”

A heavy silence filled the room as Hermione tugged at the laces on her boots. 

How had it come to this? her thoughts demanded bitterly. The Order of the Phoenix, unwilling to rescue Harry Potter?

Deep down, of course, she knew it was far more complicated than that. 

When the war first began, Hermione spent hours combing through maps of Great Britain, apparating to old Death Eater hideouts, aggressively using Legilimency and clinging to scraps of information with desperate fingers. As the weeks turned into months, though, and the fighting intensified, she gave more and more of herself to the Order. She, Ginny, and Neville tracked down every lead they could, but intelligence was hazy and unreliable, often leading to traps, which led to more violence. 

As head of Order operations, Lee’s change in strategy was, really, a foregone conclusion.

Just not for Hermione.

As failed attempts and empty leads slipped through her fingers, yearning and grief burrowed deeper in her bones. She tucked the pain beneath her heart, but it still caught on every lonely breath - a fundamental, aching part of this stranger she had become.

“I can’t do it,” she said to Lee, shaking her head. “I can’t. I need more time.”

“What time? We don’t have time, Hermione.” Lee glared out the window, his profile heavy in the morning light. “It’s not…we can’t…” He turned back to her. “We’re losing.”

“I know.”

“You know,” Lee repeated, his voice stony. “Yet you insist on staying here, following leads that don’t exist, throwing yourself into danger as if your loyalty makes you invincible.” Anger was creeping into his words now, turning them sharp and decisive. “It’s not right, Hermione. I’m trying to understand what you’re going through, but it’s not fair to anyone if you keep going after something that’s not real—“

“Harry and Ron are still alive.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I—”

“YOU DON’T.” The words echoed harshly through the room. At the sound of his own voice, Lee winced. “Look,” he said, softer this time. “I’m sorry - more than sorry, truly, but it’s my job to think about strategy and sustainability. You are one of the best - hell, the best we have, and I need you to take this seriously.”

Hermione inhaled sharply and stared at him as his words hung between them.

“Seriously,” Hermione finally repeated, the word falling dully to the ground. Her face had twisted into something cold, and she couldn’t keep derision from creeping into her voice. “Duly noted, Lee.”

To his credit, Lee looked appropriately uncomfortable. 

“That’s not what I meant,” he muttered. He ran a hand over his face and began to pace. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.” Hermione sighed and leaned her head against the wall, allowing her eyes to fall shut against this new pressure. 

Even the silence in the room felt sad.

“The end of the month,” Hermione said eventually, long after Lee’s footsteps had stilled.. 

Hermione’s words were soft, but they pulled Lee’s attention immediately.

“What?”

“The end of the month,” she repeated, rolling her shoulders. “Give me until the end of the month to find them. If we haven’t, then I’ll…” She swallowed and tried to ignore how the idea alone felt like drowning. “I’ll do what you ask.”

Lee stared at her, his expression a combination of skepticism and relief.

“So, December?” He said finally. “You’ll take the rest of November, and then we’ll…we’ll adjust.”

Adjust. What a horrible word for something that would destroy her.

“Sure.” Her voice was hollow.

There was a heavy pause. 

Then, Lee exhaled. “Okay,” he said. “Fine. I’ll send Angelina and Neville to Hungary in the meantime.”

Hermione stared at the ground and nodded curtly, even as she thought about Neville and Luna saying goodbye again. “That’s a good pair,” she murmured.

Lee made a noncommittal noise. “I’d rather it be you.”

“Yes,” Hermione said, her gaze snapping to him. “You’ve made that quite clear.”

“Right.” Lee hesitated, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. “I do understand where you’re coming from. If it were George or Oliver or Angelina, I don’t…” He shook his head. “I just get it, okay? But I’m also trying to do my job and do right by everyone—“

“I get it, Lee,” Hermione said. She forced herself to nod. “I really do. You’re…I…I just get it.”

Lee ignored the compliment and searched her face carefully. The lines in his face deepened. “You’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?” he asked.

Hermione waved a dismissive hand. “Doesn’t sound like me.”

Lee snorted. “Grab your wand, then,” he said, gesturing towards the dueling mat in front of him. “We’re not finished yet.”

She gaped at him from her place on the bench. “You’re kidding.“

“Nope.” 

“Lee.” She shook her head. “I’m already sore—“

“So am I. You don’t make it easy on me, what with all of your American spellcasting tricks.”

“So then—“

“Come on,” he said. “It’ll be fun.”

He managed a grin that was so boyish, so contrary to the earlier grimness of their conversation, that Hermione couldn’t help but smile back. The expression pulled at her muscles: an unfamiliar mask, an echo of older days with younger eyes and gentler hands.

The smile fell, but she pushed to her feet and raised her wand.

What else was there to do?

1. Practice deep-breathing immediately prior to sleep.

2. List three constants, two joys, and one hope.

3. Relax outermost Occlumency shields.

4. Drink at least three glasses of water and—

Hermione rolled her eyes and pushed the book away. The alarming illustrations of The Gentlewizard’s Guide to Troubled Sleeping blinked up at her, a garish blare of color in the late evening. She’d requested the book after her conversation with Neville and Ginny the previous week. While a Mind Healer still felt out of the question, Hermione had forced herself to research wartime Occlumency and its treatments, a search which had led to the volume now sitting on her bed. The book had been written during Grindewald’s rise to power and was widely credited with bolstering morale among Ministry Aurors.

It was also a load of shit.

Hermione glared at the wall across from her as she massaged her temples. How could deep breathing help with her trauma? Was she supposed to simply exhale her grief and medical anxieties and existential fear and—

Maybe it was worth a shot.

She inhaled to the point of absurdity, her collar bone straining against her jumper, and then exhaled roughly.

Again. Again. And Again.

Unsurprisingly, it remained a load of shit.

Only the memory of Neville’s concern and Ginny’s gentle warnings stopped Hermione from banishing the book entirely. After all, she’d promised her friends that she would ask for help. The book wasn’t exactly a Mind Healer, but it was something.

Hermione raked a hand through her hair and leaned back against her pillows. She knew, of course, that her friends worried about her. She knew they thought she was reckless, blinded by grief and loyalty and loss.

Their judgment scratched at her skin, an unfinished seam in the tapestry that was this terrible war. Hermione was single-minded, yes, and intensely focused, but she wasn’t reckless. In contrast, she was coolly logical and explicitly pragmatic. She analyzed the risks, and she played the part that was required of her.

Men, she thought bitterly, men were allowed to call their recklessness heroism. Their appalling lack of risk assessment was lauded as bravery. Their nobility was based in their irrationality. 

And for women?

Heroism became histrionics. Anger was discomfiting, violence unfitting, all while the burdens remained the same. 

Save us, the world seemed to say, and smile while you do it.

Hermione pressed her lips together and sighed.

“This isn’t helping anyone,” she murmured to herself. The candle on her bedside flickered in its twilight agreement.

Hermione steeled herself and moved to Step 2. 

List three constants, two joys, and one hope.

Three constants. 

Andromeda was constant, she supposed. More than constant, actually. Day and night, the woman was there for Hermione, her eyes gentle and free of judgment, her advice clear and warm and safe. The Tonks’ sitting room, with its lavender tea and crocheted blankets, was the closest thing to home Hermione knew. And even as the war contorted through panic and uncertainty, Andromeda’s embrace always felt the same.

And so, the first constant became Andromeda.

The second proved more of a challenge. Hermione’s thoughts immediately wandered to Neville’s smile, Ginny’s freckles, Luna’s gentle voice…but it was impossible to think of such things without also thinking of the shadows that now darkened her friends’ eyes. Behind every moment of reprieve lurked a terrible, viscous fear - the reminder of their liminality, a devastating understanding that each goodbye threatened permanence.

Smiles turned brittle and laughter soured in the face of such things.

Hermione took a sip of tea and forced herself to continue.

Another constant, she supposed, was her magic. Even when she was dueling, even when she was frightened, her magic was a coruscating rush, glimmering along her fingers, whooshing from her lips in murmured exhales. It was inescapable and familiar and hers. And it was astonishingly beautiful.  

There. Two out of three.

It was enough for tonight, she decided. She eased the book shut and placed it on her bedside. Ginny and Seamus were on watch tonight, which meant Hermione had a rare night of reprieve ahead of her. She readied for bed quickly, rolling her shoulders gently under her black pajamas, before summoning the now well-loved bottle of Dreamless Sleep. As she curled her fingers around the vial, she couldn’t help but think of the early November night when it had arrived at her window, tied to Malfoy’s owl. She thought of Malfoy’s sloping handwriting, of his gentle hands as he healed her after that horrible night in Kent. 

Unbidden, the shadows of her bedroom spun into his profile. The broad shoulders and proud posture, the angled jaw that clenched when they argued, when he frowned at her, and when she questioned him.

Difficult man.

There were many difficult things about him, she realized as the taste of licorice spread across her tongue.

It was difficult, for instance, to look away from him. It was difficult, too, not to notice the imposing strength of his frame or the quiet, watchful certainty with which he carried himself. His eyes were lighter than she’d initially thought, a pale, smooth gray that took her in with an unwavering focus. 

They had hardened to stone when he traced the bruises on her chin. 

Hermione adjusted her blankets and tried to blink away Malfoy’s specter, but it remained, studying her intently. He always watched her that way - like she were a puzzle or a problem or a question.

In the haze of the sleeping potion, Hermione realized she didn’t mind the way he looked at her. Not at all, actually. 

And suddenly, she found her third and final constant: the careful discernment in Draco Malfoy’s eyes.

In any other moment, the idea would have jolted her. But with the sleeping potion blurring across her mind, Hermione couldn’t find it in herself to deny what felt so fundamentally true. In fact, the thought of her unlikely Healer relaxed her shoulders and eased the tension in her ribs, loosening the stress coiled across her abdomen. 

She took a deep breath, and then another, and tucked herself closer to her pillow.

Maybe, she thought as she fell asleep beneath gray-eyed shadows, The Gentlewizard’s Guide to Troubled Sleeping was onto something, after all. 

Chapter Text

“How exciting.” 

His mother stood by the window, her eyes turned towards the fireworks lighting up the sky. It was Bastille Day in Paris, only two weeks after the Dark Lord’s return. Draco had made the trip across the channel to fortify his parents’ wards, and his mother had insisted he stay for a drink. 

“You need the distraction,” she’d said, cupping his face in her palm. She’d paused, her eyes heavy with an achingly familiar fear. “We all do.”

Draco had agreed to stay, if only because his mother’s presence lit through the numbness that was this new war.

“If by exciting, you mean utterly dull, then I wholeheartedly agree.” Lucius’ clipped, ugly tone spilled onto the carpet, but Narcissa acted as if he had not spoken.

“This muggle engineering is really quite remarkable,” she said as the clouds changed color. “I shall have to learn more about it.”

Lucius snorted. “And how exactly do you intend to do that?”

“Books, darling.”

“A bloody waste of time, if you ask me.”

From his seat across the room, Draco saw his mother tense. While some carried their anxiety in torn cuticles or restless motion, his mother held hers in her posture. And after all that had happened, Draco knew by heart the way a straightened spine and lifted chin spelled a warning. 

He hated seeing her like that.

“She didn’t,” Draco said softly, his lips barely moving. He set his glass on the table beside him, a soft click of glass in the cold silence. “She didn’t ask you.”

Lucius’ dark eyes snapped to his son’s.“You dare—” 

“Draco.” His mother turned back from the window, and her expression was full of intention. “Tell us about your work. How are things at the hospital?”

Draco looked from her, to his father, and then back to her.

As had always been his way.

“About as well as can be expected,” he said finally, ignoring Lucius’ glare. “We’ve managed to keep a handle on things.”

Narcissa took a seat across from him and leaned forward. “Will you be increasing your staff?” 

“Ideally. The Death Eaters are getting impatient, and casualties provide a morale boost.”

Narcissa’s lips thinned. “And London is still safe?”

“It is.” Despite his weariness, Draco pulled a smile onto his face. “It’s good to see you,” he said. 

“I’ve missed you, darling.” Narcissa reached over and gently adjusted one of Draco’s lapels. “Are you sleeping well?”

“Yes.”

“Still smoking?”

“No.” 

She gave him a look that had him shifting in his seat. “It’s rude to lie to your mother.”

He sighed and ducked his head, his lips twitching. “Apologies.”

She shook her head, but her eyes were warm. “And the flat is agreeable? I haven’t been there in ages.”

“It’s lovely, Mother.” At the uncertainty in her expression, he reached for her hand. “Truly.”

She nodded, and her eyes looked wistful. He would have invited her to visit, of course, but the Ministry took its exile seriously. It would be another decade before she or his father could step foot in wizarding Britain.

And that was without the Dark Lord’s return and the immense danger she was in now. Draco’s only comfort was knowing that this Parisian flat - with its ancestral wards and distance from England - was the safest place she could be. 

Draco swallowed his fear and made a weak attempt at conversation. “Are you still enjoying Paris?”

Narcissa smiled at him knowingly. “I do adore this city,” she said, folding her hands elegantly in her lap. “It’s been years since I’ve been able to wander—” She trailed off at a faint rumbling sound. Her aristocratic face pulled into a frown. “That’s odd.”

Lucius waved a careless hand and poured himself more whiskey. “It’s that bloody muggle engineering you love so much.”

The sound rippled through the room again, rattling the glasses on the coffee table. Narcissa swiftly rose to her feet, her gray eyes sharp. Draco was right behind her, pulse jumping in his neck.

“But the fireworks are on the other side of the city," he murmured.

And then, a shrill alarm blared through the room.

The blood drained from Draco’s face as he stared in disbelief at the door - what was—it didn't—who—

“It’s him.”

His mother’s voice was barely a whisper, but it turned Draco’s blood to ash. And then his fingers were frozen and distant because it simply wasn’t possible. It was not possible. He had checked the wards himself, not thirty minutes earlier. His mother was safe here, his mother was—

But the walls began to shake and the floor was unsteady and the smell of sulfur was creeping through the floor boards. The air was heavy with anti-apparition spells and an oily panic coated Draco’s tongue and why couldn’t he move, why couldn’t he—

“Lucius.” Narcissa was at the door, her wand tracing protective patterns on the wood. “We must hurry—”

But his father simply downed his tumbler, staring at the fire. The sight of him - this derelict, cruel man whose name and demons Draco now called his own - cut coolly through the raging panic.

Because the protective enchantments on the apartment were blood wards: only a Malfoy could pass through them.

Only a Malfoy could modify them to allow another access.

“WHAT DID YOU DO.” The words cracked from Draco’s mouth, anguished and frightened and angry, so angry, and his wand was burning in his palm—

“Draco. Leave him.” Narcissa’s voice was firm, and Draco tore his eyes from his father to find her holding a handful of floo powder. 

“We’ve discussed this,” she said, gesturing towards the flames. “Straight through to the house in Provence—”

Draco looked from her to the powder, his stomach contorting. “We’ll go together,” he managed, his voice unrecognizable. Suddenly, he was sixteen years old again, terrified of losing her, terrified of it being his fault—

“We’ll close the floo from the other side,” he heard himself say. 

“Exactly.” She was nodding with him, ushering him towards the fire. “I’ll be right behind you.”

But then he noticed - he noticed that her eyes were cloudy and dark - he hadn’t seen her Occlude in years, but a son never forgets the way his mother looks when she is frightened - and then he knew, he knew, he knew that if he stepped through that fire, Narcissa would not follow—

Another bang sounded, this time somewhere in the house. His mother’s eyes flicked to the door. 

“Draco,” she said firmly.

Desperation jumped in his throat. “You go first, then. I’ll follow."

He moved to add additional wards to the door, but she stepped in front of him. “My darling boy.” She placed her hand against his cheek. “It’s time.”

“No.” Draco was shaking his head in earnest now. “No, I won’t leave you—” An explosion sounded in the stairwell, and his blood ran cold. There were tears on his cheeks and in his mouth, but her eyes—the eyes that had called him home, the only eyes that had ever truly seen him – were soft and steady. 

“You could never leave me,” she said.

And then she was pressing something into his palm and there was a tug behind his navel, and Narcissa was turning away, her face set with grim determination as the door blew off its hinges, and Draco was screaming, fighting the contortions of the portkey—

He shot up in bed, fingers ripping at the sheets, muscles spasming beneath fevered skin. The nightmare snaked around him and he could still feel the heat from his mother’s hand, smell the traces of her perfume—

A tremor seized his body, and he barely had time to throw himself over the side of his bed before he vomited. He heaved and shivered as the scenes from Paris flashed against his eyelids like gruesome tattoos, indelible reminders of his father’s betrayal and his mother’s sacrifice and Draco’s own failure to keep the only person who had ever truly loved him safe—

“NO!” he roared, and his magic barreled out of him, convulsing brutally through the room, shattering glass and wood and plaster and Draco knew that he would never be able to forgive himself for leaving her to die alone.

He thought of the softness of her smile and the gentle nicknames she’d saved for their moments alone, of the games they’d played on Christmas morning and the way she’d snuck him an extra cookie after every party.

He thought of the heaviness in her eyes when she’d said goodbye, and then he thought of all the things he wished he had told her.

And then, Draco began to cry.

Chapter Text

THE DAILY PROPHET

Sunday, November 21, 2004

Eat Your Brain Out - Parasite Plaguing St. Mungo’s?

Hannah Abbott

As the war stretches into its fifth month, Londoners may have a new enemy to worry about. Sources from St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries confirm reports that a patient died from a rare brain-eating amoeba just last week. Further investigation indicates that this frightening creature is none other than the Naegleria Fowleri, an organism commonly found in Norway. 

Stamford Jorkins, renowned adventurer and medical expert, warns that an infestation at St. Mungo’s may be imminent.

“Where there’s one, there’s many,” Jorkins assured me earlier today. “The staff at St. Mungo’s can’t afford to let this contagion go unchallenged.”

It’s unclear what, if any, preventative measures the hospital is taking to counteract the spread. Priscilla Clearwater, the Director of St. Mungo’s, was unavailable for comment. Clearwater is a known friend and ally of beleaguered Prime Minister Kingsley Shaklebolt. As Shaklebolt’s challengers gain traction in the press, could it be that Clearwater is sacrificing her hospital’s sanitation for political expediency? 

Stick with us to find out.

See Also: Despite a Campaign Plagued by Scandal, Alarik Runcorn Promises to Stay in the Race for Minister

Plus: Price of Floo Powder Drops for the First Time in Three Months, A Promising Sign for Shaklebolt’s Economy 

And: McGonnogal requests donations to Hogwarts potion stores, reigniting concerns about the quality of education during wartime

Chapter Text

“I didn’t tell anyone, Healer Malfoy. I promise.”

It was a particularly cold November morning, and the sky beyond St. Mungo’s roof was an unpleasant shade of pewter. Draco had arrived at the hospital only to be greeted by the Prophet’s fictitious - and alarming - main headline, a sight which had propelled him to the roof for a smoke. The trauma ward was already overrun and understaffed - the last thing they needed was a political shitstorm at the Ministry.

He’d exited his office and found Rana, his student healer, hovering anxiously by the door. The panic flashing in her eyes hadn't surprise him - just over a week ago, he’d assigned her to the case of Dennis Ribbons, the Death Eater whose brain had decomposed. Somehow, the Prophet must have caught wind of the gruesome story and twisted it to reflect the nation’s characteristic appetite for sensationalism. 

As far as Draco knew, he and Rana were the only hospital staffers explicitly aware of Ribbons’ cause of death. He wasn’t concerned she’d leaked it to the Prophet herself - she was far too principled for that - but there was a chance that someone close to her had exchanged information for a profit.

They just needed to know whom.

“You’re sure?” Draco asked after a moment. “It’s alright if you did,” he added quickly at the agonized expression on her face. “We need to know to shore up the security leak. Maybe a roommate? Or a partner?”

Draco rearranged his face into what he hoped was a reassuring expression. He liked Rana - he really did. She had already proven herself to be an excellent Healer, and Draco had been so impressed with her performance that he’d begun to allow her to conduct exams independently. 

“No,” Rana said emphatically, folding her arms across her chest. Her jaw was set. “Like I said, the only person I told was Director Clearwater.” 

“Alright. And you saw her after I left?”

“Yes.” Rana shifted and glanced at her shoes. “I know you said to go home, but I was…I was so upset, I didn’t want to apparate. Director Clearwater found me in the break room.” She looked up anxiously. “I didn’t see the harm in telling her what had happened—“

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said immediately.

“Really?” Rana cringed. “I saw the article this morning and I wanted to throw up—“

“It’s not your fault.” He caught her eye. “Chances are, Abbott invented the whole thing. Happens all the time.”

“Really?”

He turned back to the skyline and sighed. “No. With Skeeter, sure, but not with Abbott.

Rana huffed at that. “Rita Skeeter is a right piece of work. Did you see that article she wrote about Hermione Granger at the beginning of the war?”

At the sound of Granger’s name, Draco tensed, but Rana didn’t seem to notice.

“An article?” Draco repeated, frowning at the ground. “No. No, I must have missed it.”

Rana stared at him. “How? Were you living under a rock?”

“No.” He took a drag. “I was in France.”

From the expression that rippled across Rana’s face, that was basically the same thing.

“Well, Skeeter wrote awful things,” she said, once she’d recovered from Draco’s geographic misfortune. “Suggested Granger orchestrated Ron Weasley and Harry Potter’s kidnapping to steal all their glory for herself.”

Draco looked at Rana, lip curling in disgust. “The Prophet printed that?”

“Mmhmm. They used to go after Hermione all the time, in the beginning.” Rana squinted at him. “Don’t you read the paper?”

“I do now,” Draco said, shrugging. “I didn’t earlier.”

“Why?”

Grief. “Work.”

“You work now.”

He tapped his cigarette and gave Rana a sidelong look. “Your point, please.”

“Oh, yes. Well, they’ve stopped writing about Hermione recently.” She frowned thoughtfully. “Maybe they’ve come to an agreement.”

Draco snorted. “Or Granger’s just threatened to curse them if they keep lying.”

“Oh my god.” Rana’s whole body turned towards Draco. “You know her?”

“Granger?”

“No, Helga Hufflepuff.”

Draco rolled his eyes even as his lips twitched. “Of course I know Granger. We went to school together.”

“Oh my god,” she said again. “Do you think you could introduce—“

“No.”

“Please? 

“No.”

“I’ll clean the exam rooms for a week.”

“You do that anyway.”

“Two weeks.”

“No.”

“But…why?”

Draco pressed his lips together and glared at the clouds. He thought of Granger’s rigid defenses, of the bruises purpling her chin and the ghosts haunting his footsteps, and he sighed.

“Granger and I aren’t exactly friends,” he said.

“Oh.” Rana’s voice was suddenly small and thoughtful. “Is it…because she’s muggleborn?”

“What?” The hand holding his cigarette dropped from his lips, and Draco turned to look at Rana. “No, Rana. Why would you—“ He faltered, breath catching in his chest. “No.”

“I...“ She hesitated. “I might be young, but I still recognize your name,” she said, frowning at her shoes. “I thought maybe…well, I’m muggleborn too, you see, and…” She trailed off and glanced up nervously. “I thought it might be an issue.”

Draco considered her for a moment before pressing his lips together. He tossed his cigarette to the ground and put it out with his shoe. The motion left scorch marks on the cement. 

He’d dealt with Wizenagemot trials and media interviews and heated confrontations at work. He knew how to diffuse and distract, how to disengage and deescalate, but here with Rana looking at him cautiously, earnestly…none of those strategies seemed appropriate. 

Draco settled on honesty - in all of its raw complexity.

“You said you recognize my name?” he asked, eying her carefully.

She nodded.

“So then you know that my father was a Death Eater. Both of my parents were, technically. But it was a loveless, arranged marriage. My mother had little choice.” He sighed. “She tried to counteract my father’s blood supremacy, but he was…persistent.” And violent, but Draco kept that to himself. “By the time I got to Hogwarts, I shared some - not all - of my father’s beliefs. Enough to make me radical.” He glanced at her. “Enough to make me cruel.”

Draco turned so he could lean against the railing. The metal was cool through his robes.

“The return of the Dark Lord - the first time, when I was sixteen - simplified things for me. He lived in our home while my father was in Azkaban. In my father’s absence, I was forced to take the mark.”

At this, Rana’s gaze snapped up to him. He frowned at her apparent surprise. 

“Surely this isn’t news,” he said slowly. “Most everyone knows I was a Death Eater.”

“Right,” she replied. She worried at her lip. “I just didn’t know you were forced.”

“Oh.” Draco folded his arms and gave a hollow laugh. “Well, no one in their right mind would join of their own volition, much less as a teenager.”

“So why did you?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Nosey, aren’t you?”

“No.” She rocked back on her heels. “Just curious.” At his continued silence, she blanched. “We can change the subject, though—“

“The Dark Lord threatened my mother.” He said it quietly, but the stillness in Rana’s frame told him she’d heard every word. “Said he’d kill her. She was…I couldn’t…” 

Draco tensed as his most recent nightmare flickered to life, a firework montage of spilled whisky and shaking floors and that visceral, white-hot fear—

“It wasn’t a choice at all, really,” he heard himself say. “I took the mark. I did lots of terrible things, and I accept responsibility for them.” He exhaled. “I also saw lots of terrible things. Things that eviscerated my father’s narrative of nobility.” 

“So you got out.”

He shrugged. “Not exactly, no. The war ended. My mother was brave, brave enough to avoid Azkaban and secure parole for me.”

“And your father?”

“My father’s dead.”

He felt nothing as he said the words. Beside him, though, Rana shifted.

“Oh,” she said. “I’m…I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Draco pushed off the railing. “He got what he deserved.” 

“Okay.” Her voice was soft. “I’m still sorry.”

He looked down at her. She was watching him with a careful pity, her eyes clear and earnest, and it made his fingers go cold.

“We’ll be late to the staff meeting,” he said brusquely, moving towards the door.

Rana followed him wordlessly as he crossed the roof. 

“So why aren’t you friends?” she asked when they entered the stairwell.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Pardon?”

“You and Hermione Granger. You said you’re not friends.”

“Oh.” Draco carded an absent-minded hand through his hair. “Well.” He thought of the previous couple of weeks. “She’s stubborn and self-focused, for one. And she refuses to rest, even when she needs it. Trouble follows wherever - and I mean wherever she goes, and whenever a two-syllable word would work just fine, she has to find a five-syllable one to use, and—“

He trailed off at the sound of Rana’s suppressed laughter. He turned around.

“What is it?” he asked, frowning.

She grinned at him. “You may not be friends, but it sounds like you like her.”

“Me? I like Granger?” 

“Yep,” Rana said, popping the word and pushing by him down the stairs.

Draco stared at her for a moment before scoffing. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I don’t make a habit of it,” she called. “Now hurry up, or we’ll be late.”

Bi-weekly staff meetings for the trauma team had become common practice at the beginning of the war, when healing practices and response strategies were optimized and revised in frenzied iterations. Now, after months of wartime healing, the ward had fallen into a macabre sort of rhythm - what once had made heartbeats stutter or fingers clench was now faced with grim-faced composure and competence.

Such detachment was not without its costs. Humanity refused to be compartmentalized - it could only be postponed, erupting unexpectedly at the sight of a bloody bandage or memory of a lost patient. In their third month of fighting, after a group of muggle teenagers was attacked by a werewolf pack, Brown had glibly remarked that the trauma ward needed its own trauma team. 

She wasn’t wrong.

So as the war stretched and grew, staff meetings became an opportunity to come together, a space in which healers could swap medical strategies for coffee. Each hollow ring of laughter became a source of resilience, a reminder that they were not alone in the impossible task set before them.

Draco, of course, remained a peripheral observer to the camaraderie, checking himself - and his shadows - at the threshold. His distance and silence were all in the service protect the quavering smiles of those whom, in another time, he might have called his friends.

Still, Draco and Rana’s arrival was met with a chorus of hello’s, and they took their seats just as Lavender Brown arrived with a box of baked goods. The sight brought the ragged group of Healers back from the dead.

“Thank Merlin,” Corner gasped, pushing up from his chair. “I forgot breakfast.”

“Me too,” Rana said, hurrying to accept a cinnamon roll from Brown. She smiled at her gratefully. “You’re an angel.”

“I am,” Brown said, nodding seriously. “But these aren’t from me.”

“Oooarrayrom?” Rana asked around a mouthful of pastry.

“It’s rude to cast spells with your mouth full, Ishani,” Dunn said, grinning as she unwrapped her own roll.

Rana rolled her eyes and swallowed dramatically. “Who are they from?” she asked again.

“Oh, that’s what you said?” Brown smirked. “I thought you were summoning a demon.”

“Or practicing ancient runes,” Dunn added from the corner.

Draco’s mouth twitched. 

“Ha. Ha.” Rana glared around the table. “I see what you’re doing, picking on the youngest—“

“We’re just joking,” Dunn promised. “See, look. Even Malfoy’s smiling.”

Rana made a show of inspecting Malfoy. “I don’t know what that is,” she said finally, “but it sure isn’t a smile.”

Draco frowned at her, which only made Corner laugh harder.

“Seriously though.” Rana turned back to Brown. “Who’s the breakfast from?”

“Hermione,” Brown said as she selected a roll. “They arrived last night under a stasis spell.”

For the second time that day, the sound of Granger’s name had Draco’s breath catching in his chest. To cope, he adjusted his robes and frowned at the ground until his composure returned. 

When he looked up, he found Rana watching him with an I-told-you-so grin, which he promptly ignored.

“So,” he said briskly, clasping his hands together. “It’s Thursday, and we have a lot to cover—“

“Like the brain eating parasite secretly infecting our hospital?” Corner grinned. “I have to say, that’s a new one—“

“It’s already affected you, I see,” Dunn said, tossing her hair over a shoulder. 

“Oh very funny,” Corner said. “At least I have something for it to eat.”

“That’s disgusting—“

“Alright, alright.” Draco glanced at Rana and noticed the tension in her shoulders. Obviously, the memory of Ribbons’ death was still too new to sustain much joking. “We have to take this seriously. I’m sure the Ministry isn’t happy with the bad press—“

“Ah, Malfoy, that reminds me.” Brown leaned across the table and handed him a memo. “This came for you while you were on break.”

Draco accepted the paper with a frown. “Who’s it from?” he asked, glancing up at her.

She shrugged. “Not sure. Someone important, by the looks of it.”

Sure enough, the stationary sported the Ministry crest. Draco pressed his lips together as he pulled out the card and read the short, tidy note.

He glanced up and found his team watching him closely. “They…” He cleared his throat. “They’ve asked me to attend the next council meeting.”

Dunn stared. “The council, council? Like, Minister of Magic, council?”

“I think so—“

“Like, executive war decisions, council?”

“Yes, it appears—“

“Like, Head Aurors and Finance Ministers and Press and—“

“Dunn.”

“Sorry.” She leaned back in her chair and shrugged. “Just making sure.”

Corner was frowning at Draco. “It’s not common practice to have departmental leads at those meetings, is it?”

“No,” Draco said softly, rereading the memo. “It isn’t.”

“Do you think it’s about the article?” Rana’s voice was small and worried.

Draco exhaled and met her eyes. “It might be.” He offered her a reassuring expression that felt more like a grimace. “If it is, we’ll figure it out.”

Brown confirmed this with a nod. “What time’s the meeting?”

“It’s in…uh…” Draco turned the note over and blanched at the time. “Fifteen minutes.” He pushed to his feet. “Brown, could you—“

“I got it,” she said, waving him out. “Let us know what happens.”

He nodded and moved to the door, but not before reaching for a cinnamon roll.

“Uh uh,” Brown said, pulling the box away from him. “Pastries don’t travel well.”

He stared at her. “What?”

She nodded gravely. “Sad but true.”

“Yes,” Rana chimed in from across the table. “Tragic.” 

Draco looked around the table before shaking his head. “I’ll see you all later,” he muttered. “Thanks for nothing.”

“Bye!” Rana called cheerfully, cinnamon roll already halfway to her lips.

By the time Draco arrived at the Ministry, his wariness over the Council meeting had escalated to a ball of angst at the bottom of his stomach. He couldn’t remember the last time a lead healer had been summoned to the Ministry - typically, communication passed through Director Clearwater. 

With a heady lurch, Draco wondered if something had happened to her.

“Malfoy.”

The Chief Warlock’s aid was looking at him impatiently. What was the man’s name? Anthony Goldsmith? Goldstein? Yes, that was it. 

Draco cleared his throat and smoothed the frown from his forehead. “Yes?”

“They’re ready for you.”

He followed Goldstein down a softly lit corridor, shoes clicking on the rose-quartz floors. The pink tile had become a hallmark of the new Ministry - Draco dimly remembered something about the color representing peace and harmony in the new post-war era. 

That worked out well, he thought grimly. 

At least it was nice to look at.

They turned a corner and approached an unassuming sandalwood door. 

“Stay close to me,” Goldstein said. His voice echoed in the marble corridor. “Place your hand on my shoulder.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Draco following Goldstein’s instructions. 

Satisfied, the aid drew his wand and traced a complicated pattern over the door - a rune, Draco realized, but not one he recognized. A moment later, the wood turned to sand. Thousands of granules scattered to the ground, bouncing against Draco’s shoes, revealing a sinister-looking slab of metal embedded in the wall.

Iron, Draco realized as he inspected at the exposed barrier. It was a known magic suppressant, particularly when fortified with other materials.

From the protective markings around the edges to the magic thrumming from the iron, it was clear that the spellcaster responsible had spared no effort in its creation.

Draco watched carefully as Goldstein placed his palm directly on the center of the metal. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the surface surged up until it swallowed his hand completely.

Draco tensed at the sight of Goldstein’s wrist passing through solid metal, but the man seemed wholly unperturbed. With his free hand, he reached a meter up and closed his fingers around air. 

“You might want to hold on,” he said.

“What? What do you—“

And then, Goldstein yanked his hand down. Draco’s stomach somersaulted as the room around them spun violently. Suddenly, the rose-quartz tile was the ceiling, and the ceiling was the floor. Draco gasped as he tried to settle himself.

“What was—“

“Shh.” Goldstein’s hand was still inside the metal slab. He frowned in concentration, shifting slightly. A moment later, a series of clicks sounded down the hallway. Draco stared in disbelief as the walls began to ripple like curtains swaying in a breeze. The aid swiveled slightly and, with another click, the walls fell to the ground, revealing a corridor of ancient-looking stone bricks.

The aid withdrew his hand from the metal, which turned to smoke. Draco watched as the wispy remnants of the door dissipated in the air. Such complex protective enchantments were nothing short of extraordinary. 

“Where are we?” he asked as he attempted to regain his bearings. The air here was uncomfortably cold, and Draco cast a non-verbal warming charm over his robes. 

“The Council Bunker,” Goldstein said distractedly. “Follow me.”

Draco pressed his lips together and fell into step.

They took off down another corridor, dimly lit by torches, which immediately reminded Draco of the dungeons at Hogwarts. A thought occurred to him.

“Are we below the Ministry?” he asked, leaning forward slightly. “In the old tunnels?”

Goldstein’s eyes flicked to Draco’s. “That’s classified.” 

Draco blinked. 

They moved down another corridor, even colder than the first, before the aid stopped so abruptly Draco almost collided with his shoulder. 

“We’re here,” Goldstein said shortly.

 Draco looked between him and a seemingly innocuous part of the wall.

With an impatient huff, the aid tapped his wand on the stone, and the bricks pulled apart to form an archway. A flicker of nostalgia conjured images of a crowded Diagon Alley, his small hand tucked in his mother’s—

“The door’s just through there.”

Goldstein was looking at him impatiently, and Draco steadied himself.

“Of course,” he said.

But Goldstein was already halfway down the hallway, shoes clicking against the floor. Draco frowned after him for a moment before squaring his shoulders and stepping through the archway into a tunnel, which carried him to a darkened room.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, he took in several figures seated around a roughly hewn table. The space itself was unremarkable - a map of Britain hung against one wall, and a set of formidable file cabinets leaned against another. There were no windows - another indication he was in the old tunnels of the Ministry.  

Priscilla Clearwater was the first person Draco recognized. The sight of her momentarily eased the rhythm of his breath, and he offered her a tight-lipped smile as she swept to her feet, white robes rustling behind her.

“Healer Malfoy,” she said. “We’ve been expecting you.”

“Director Clearwater.” Draco searched her face for any indication as to the reason he’d been summoned, but her expression was inscrutable. He turned slightly. “Minister Shaklebolt.”

“Thank you for joining us.” Shaklebolt’s voice was low and steady. Even in the humble room, the man commanded attention: hands folded on the desk, shoulders straight and squared, spectacles flashing in the darkness of the room. His expression was drawn - he looked exhausted.

“May I introduce John Dawlish, the Director of the Auror Department,” Shaklebolt said, indicating an unpleasant-looking man to his right. Unbidden, Granger’s warning about Dawlish from several weeks ago flashed through his mind. 

You wouldn’t get along, she’d said. Call it intuition.

Taking in Dawlish’s scowl and unmistakable air of self-importance, Draco couldn’t help but agree.

“And I trust you know Lee Jordan, head of Order Operations? And Marietta Edgecombe from the Press Secretary’s Office. I believe the three of you attended Hogwarts together.”

“Malfoy,” Jordan managed, nodding tightly. The man’s clothing was muddy in several places, and his knee was bouncing impatiently.

Edgecombe’s lip curled as she looked down her nose at Draco - which was impressive, considering the fact that he was standing while she remained seated.

Draco nodded to each of them. “Jordan. Edgecombe.” 

“And this is Tiberius McClaggan, Finance Minister, and Katherine Leung, Chief Warlock of the Wizenagemot,” Shaklebolt continued. “You may remember Tiberius’ nephew Cormac and Katherine’s daughter Cho from your time at school.”

Draco greeted them warily. McClaggan seemed intent on staring him down, but Leung nodded back politely.

“Healer Malfoy,” she said, inclining her head. 

“And finally, we have Mary Cattermole, Minister of Foreign Relations.” 

Draco recognized Cattermole from the press. She acknowledged him coldly, her mouth set and her eyes hard.

If Shaklebolt were phased by the hostile introductions, he didn’t show it. Instead, he swept a hand towards an open chair.

“Please, take a seat. We were just about to get started.” He nodded towards Leung. “Katherine, whenever you’re ready.”

Draco took the proffered chair and eyed the group warily. He understood why the Minister would be unhappy with the article in the Prophet, but surely a rogue piece of press wasn’t enough to warrant a full meeting? 

“Thank you, Minister. Healer Malfoy, we appreciate you joining us on such short notice,” Leung said. “Priscilla assures us you are quite busy at the hospital, but this could not wait.”

Draco nodded slowly. “My team is more than capable of watching the ward in my absence.”

“Excellent.” Leung picked up a quill and pulled a piece of parchment towards her. “Let’s begin with the article, then.”

Draco’s jaw clenched. Rana had been correct: the summons was about the security leak. He looked towards Director Clearwater and found her…smirking?

“I didn’t lay it on too thickly, did I?” she asked Shaklebolt, her eyes glinting.

What?

“You did well,” Shaklebolt replied. He flashed her a weary grin. “I could have done without the word ‘beleaguered’, though—“

“I had to make it realistic.”

“Yes, because brain-eating parasites are so realistic, Priscilla,” Leung said, shaking her head. 

“In this case, they are. I’m sure Healer Malfoy can confirm.”

Eight pairs of eyes swung towards him, and he swallowed tightly. 

“I…” He frowned. “I’m sorry, but I’m not following.”

“The story in the Prophet about the infection at St. Mungo’s,” Leung supplied. “I presume you’ve read it.”

“Of course.”

“So,” she said, cutting her eyes at Clearwater, “are the parasites realistic, or not?”

“Are they…” Draco stared at her. “No. We haven’t had a case of Cerebella Neurosis in over one hundred years.” 

Leung turned back to Clearwater, a triumphant expression pulling at her features, but Clearwater held up a hand.

“The parasites are, of course, sensationalized,” she said smoothly. “However, the trauma team did recently encounter a neurological anomaly.”

“A ‘neurological anomaly,’” Leung repeated skeptically. 

“A decomposed brain,” Clearwater specified. There was a collective recoil. “Hence the article.”

“Ugh.” Leung’s expression was tinged with disgust.

“In my experience,” Clearwater continued quietly, returning her attention to Draco, “false trails are best when they contain some truth.”

Realization splashed over Draco, and he inhaled.

“You planted the story,” he said quietly.

“I did,” she replied.

“But—“ He took a steadying breath, fingers clenched tightly on his thigh as he thought of his team’s earlier anxiety. “May I ask why?”

Shaklebolt answered for her. “A distraction.” 

“Distraction?” Draco repeated, turning to him. “From?” 

There was a moment of heavy silence. Then, Leung leaned forward slightly.

“Before I answer that question, Healer Malfoy, let me make this very clear,” she said. “What you are about to hear is under the highest level of confidentiality.”

“Understood.” 

“Violation of that confidentiality is punishable by imprisonment, and in some cases, death.”

He nodded. As he took in the grim expressions around the table, cold trepidation skated along his fingers.

What had happened?

Leung folded her hands on the table. “Early this morning, there was a security breach.” 

A shadow passed over her face, and her next words stole the air from Draco’s chest. 

“Fenrir Greyback and Roldolphus Lestrange have escaped from Azkaban.”

Chapter Text

This is the start

Of how it all ends.

~Lorde, Yellow Flicker Beat

Greyback.

Blackened fingernails, breath like rotting meat, eyes beady and cruel and— 

Granger.

Granger.

Draco’s hands curled into fists. He still remembered the way her voice quavered the night in Grimmauld’s kitchen, when he’d confronted her about Legilimency.

I watched Ribbons’ memories of werewolves fighting over who gets to assault me first, she’d said.

Did she know Greyback had escaped? Surely. 

Where was she now? Draco wanted to know. Was she alone? 

Was she afraid?

“When did this happen?” he asked instead.

“Between two and three a.m.” It was Jordan who replied, his voice tight. “The wards were triggered at 3:15, but we believe the attack began earlier. The wards were used as a diversion.”

As Draco looked at the man more closely, he noticed shallow scratches on Jordan’s forearms and neck. Jordan tracked Draco’s attention and grimaced.

“I had a run-in with a grindelow,” he said, frowning at a particularly deep gash on his wrist.

“A grindelow?” Draco repeated. “What about the dementors? I thought—“

“Yes, what about the dementors?” McClaggan glared at Shaklebolt. “From the beginning, I’ve expressed concerns that our security was insufficient.”

“Tiberius, now is not the time for an ‘I told you so,’” Leung snapped. “We’ve established that dementors are unreliable at best—“

“They’re a hell of a lot better than mermaids and wyverns!”

Mermaids? Guarding Azkaban?

Leung exhaled impatiently. “After the last war, the dementors refused to cooperate with the Ministry. Mermaids and wyverns certainly present their own challenges, but they do not gravitate towards raw power the way dementors do.”

“And what a great comfort that is now that Greyback’s back on the streets!”

Leung’s eyes flashed. “If you want to go to the old Department of Mysteries, Tiberius, and attempt negotiations with a hungry swarm of dementors, be my guest. Until then, we have to work with what we have.”

Draco swallowed tightly. He’d heard rumors that dementors were trapped in the old wing of the Ministry, but he hadn’t believed them. 

The idea alone was terrifying. 

“I appreciate the need for alternative security, Katherine.” Cattermole’s face was grim as she looked towards Dawlish and Jordan. “Do we know how our defenses failed?”

“Best guess is that it was a numbers issue.” Jordan looked pointedly at McClaggan. “The merfolk have been restless since the budget cuts last month.” 

The Finance Minister glowered. “Their demands were impossible.“

“What do they want?” Cattermole asked. 

“Salmon, mostly.” At the incredulous silence, McClaggan waved a dismissive hand. “They offered a defensive force around Azkaban in exchange for fish.”

“And salmon is difficult to come by?”

“It’s bloody expensive is what is is,” McClaggan said. “We simply don’t have the funds.”

“So the mermaids just abandoned us?”

“They reduced their numbers,” Jordan corrected. “To send a message.”

“Fucking bastards,” Dawlish muttered. “I say we ban them from British waters until they respect our alliance. Send them a message they can’t ignore.”

“What a perfectly horrible idea.” Cattermole leaned back in her chair. “If we banished the mermaids, we’d call into question our relationship with the centaurs and giants, not to mention the entire vampire population.”

“So be it!” Dawlish pounded a fist on the table. “Let’s see where they stand!”

“You can’t be serious.” Leung stared at him in disbelief. “That would mean war.”

McClaggan scoffed. “And what do you call this?” 

Leung shook her head and muttered something that sounded like incompetence.

A tense silence settled over the room. Dawlish scowled at the table like it had personally offended him. Jordan’s eyes were fixed on a point above the table, his expression irritable and impatient. Leung pulled a piece of parchment towards her and frowned.

“Is there any flexibility in the transportation budget?” she asked, eyes narrowed at the document. 

McClaggan shook his head. “Not unless you can magically lower the cost of floo powder.”

“The Prophet says the price is going down.”

“The Prophet doesn’t have all the data.”

“Fine.” Leung returned to the paper. “What about grain?”

“Russia is being difficult. And China is dealing with its own Blood Supremacy problem.”

“Can we cut any Public Health spending?”

“No.” Clearwater’s voice was low and brooked no argument. Draco felt a rush of gratitude for her - staff and supplies were tight as it was. He couldn’t imagine cutting any more corners, especially with the influx of werewolf victims they were sure to encounter.  

“Fine.” Leung tossed her glasses on the table and glared at the group. “Any other ideas? We have to give the mermaids something.”

“Can they be persuaded to stay?” Shaklebolt asked, speaking for the first time. The energy in the room hushed as he leaned forward. “I understand they were once close to Dumbledore. Perhaps we can invoke their loyalty to him.”

“Wasn’t that Hermione’s starting strategy?” Cattermole frowned. “She said the connection was purely linguistic, nothing more.”

The sound of Granger’s name triggered memories of the night in the break room - Granger leaning on the table, her exhales brushing against his robes as he healed her.  He wouldn’t soon forget the pain in her eyes as her Occlumency shields fell, the sound of her voice breaking, the darkness in her expression when he asked if she’d ever had a choice—

“Speaking of Granger.” Dawlish leaned back in his chair. “Where is she?”

The question wrapped around Draco’s attention, and he sat up straighter.

“Still at Azkaban,” Jordan answered, his voice distracted. “Cleaning up.”

“Cleaning up?”

“To confuse the guards, Greyback and Lestrange opened hundreds of cells.” Jordan looked meaningfully at Shaklebolt. “They hunted down anyone who had cooperated with us.”

Shaklebolt’s expression darkened. “Prewett?”

“Dead.”

“Snyder?”

“The same.” A shadow passed over Jordan’s face. “And Claremont. It was messy. Hermione stayed to help with recapture and negotiations.”

“Well, she should be here,” Dawlish snapped. “If I had anything to say about it, she—“

“You don’t.” Jordan’s voice was low and dangerous. “Have anything to say about it.”

The two men glared at one another. Draco’s jaw clenched painfully. 

McClaggan broke the silence with a loud clear of his throat, his aristocratic features twisting. “Like it or not, Jordan,” he said slowly, “the alliance with the merfolk was largely Granger’s idea.”

Draco’s hand curled into a tight fist beneath the table as he thought of Granger’s exhaustion, of her relentless pace, the way she’d admitted she couldn’t sleep for lack of peace and friends and safety—

“Surely,” Cattermole said coldly, her eyes fixed on McClaggan, “you’re not implying Hermione is responsible for the events of this morning, Tiberius.”

“Of course not, but—“

“Good.” The word was sharp and clean. “Such an implication would be absurd.”

“It’s not—“

“Dangerous.”

“I’m only—“

“Disgraceful.”

“You’ve made your point.”

Cattermole simply tilted her head. “Have I?”

Draco decided he quite liked Mary Cattermole.

“It’s unproductive to argue over who’s at fault here,” Leung said carefully, looking between Cattermole and McClaagan in alarm. “There’s much to discuss—“  

But McClaggan wasn’t finished. “You know as well as I do that these decisions were not unanimous, and now we’re facing the consequences.”

His condescending tone cut through Leung’s patience, and she inhaled sharply. “If you could balance a budget, Tiberius, there wouldn’t be consequences that needed facing.”

“If you could handle Runcorn, Katherine, I wouldn’t need to balance a budget in the first place—”

Draco pressed his lips together as the table descended into chaos. The politics of the room were tense and brutal. Cattermole sided with Leung more often than not, who in turn seemed most intent on saving the country from financial ruin. It was clear that McClaggan and Dawlish had a brusque and slippery alliance, which only made Draco dislike them more. Clearwater remained above the fray for the most part, periodically exchanging exasperated glances with Cattermole after Dawlish spoke. Jordan, for his part, only commented when the Order or war effort were explicitly invoked, glancing at the clock every other minute. Edgecombe remained silent, taking in the whole scene with a bizarre combination of detached superiority and disgust. 

As Draco watched the infighting and barbed comments escalate to full-throated attacks, he marveled at the Council’s capacity to get anything done. And - on a more personal note - he wondered what the hell he was doing there.

As if he could read Draco’s mind, Shaklebolt cleared his throat. Immediately, the table fell silent.

“I appreciate all of your reflections,” he said after a moment. Dawlish made an incredulous noise, which Shaklebolt promptly ignored. “Our current scenario is a product of many decisions, most of which were controversial and all of which were difficult. We have done the best with the resources we have.” He looked pointedly over his glasses at McClaggan. “Now is the time for next steps, not blame or animosity.”

McClaggan flushed and stared at the table. Shaklebolt turned to Draco.

 “Healer Malfoy,” he said. “You’re undoubtedly wondering why we asked you here today.”

“Speaking of controversial decisions,” Dawlish muttered.

“Thank you, John,” Shaklebolt said sharply. He offered Draco a tight smile. “Our invitation is two-fold. First, Priscilla and I wanted your input on medicinal brewing. Our hope is to provide your trauma team with all it requires to respond to the new werewolf threat.”

Ah. Wolfsbane.

Finally, his purpose at the meeting was coming into focus.

“We certainly appreciate the support, Minister,” Draco said. His eyes flicked to Clearwater. “As I’m sure you’re aware, wolfsbane is extraordinarily expensive.”

“Indeed.” Shaklebolt removed his glasses with a weary hand. “Which brings us to the second reason for our invitation. We believe you may be able to assist us with our current financial situation.”

Draco couldn’t keep his skepticism from showing on his face. He was, of course, accustomed to people asking after his family’s money - the British economic system was designed to protect generational wealth and power - but the conditions of his parole meant he was unable to make political donations for the subsequent decade. No political fundraising, no philanthropy, no loans.

He also was banned from using unforgivable curses on British soil, but that seemed less pertinent here.

“How might I help?” Draco asked, frowning slightly. 

A quick glance between Shaklebolt and Clearwater had anticipation tightening Draco’s stomach.

“From your time in France, Healer Malfoy, you may remember that—“

Shaklebolt paused at the sound of people approaching from the hallway. 

“—aware that I’m late, Anthony, but thank you for the seventh reminder,” an unmistakable voice was saying. “I can take it from here. No need for you to—“ There was an inscrutable murmur. “Well, I’d hope so, Anthony. I only designed the bloody wards myself.” Another indistinct murmur. “Yes, really. But your incredulity is much appreciated. Now if you could—are you seriously asking me to dinner? Now? You’re unbelievable. No, that was not a compliment. Yes, I’m sure. Now, if you be so kind as to remove yourself from the center of the hallway. Today, Anthony. As I’m sure you’ll recall, I happen to be late.”

There was a tapping noise, and the brick wall leading to the corridor opened into a familiar arch. 

A moment later, Hermione Granger stepped through the doorway. 

Granger’s energy - visceral, consuming, vivid - filled the room.  Her shoulders were thrown back and she seemed taller, somehow. Her face and arms were splattered with muck and a scratch stretched across her right cheek. 

She looked formidable. 

Amber-colored eyes flashed as she took in the group seated at the table. When they landed on Draco, her gaze sharpened. 

“Has something happened at the hospital?” she asked. “Already?”

Already.

The final word was clipped, her voice tightening around the syllables, more breath than sound, and Draco knew.

Hermione Granger was afraid.

He shook his head quickly. “No. We’re fine.”

The tension in her shoulders didn’t dissipate, but she nodded before approaching the final empty chair, across the round table from Draco.  

“Hermione.” Shaklebolt’s voice was heavy with alarm as he eyed the cuts on Granger’s arms. “Do you require medical attention?”

Granger didn’t even meet the Minister’s gaze. Instead, she rolled up her shirt sleeves and began passing her wand over the open lacerations - non-verbal healing spells, Draco realized. “No,” she said shortly.

“Are you sure?” It was Cattermole this time.

“Quite.”

Draco scowled - both because of her stubborn self-reliance and because of her technique, which was infuriatingly impressive.

Granger was a bloody menace.

He went to look away, but something on her left forearm caught his eye. It was a subtle blur, like a fingerprint on an oil painting.

A glamour. 

She was wearing a glamour.

As if sensing his scrutiny, Granger’s eyes snapped up to his. Her jaw clenched, and she glared at him while roughly pulling her shirtsleeves down. She turned to Jordan.

“Update on Snyder?” she asked brusquely. 

“Dead. Along with Prewett and Claremont.”

Granger swore colorfully. “As if today could get any worse. What about the water sprites?”

As Jordan and Granger traded updated pieces of information, Draco swallowed around the knowledge that Granger wore a glamour. He was shocked to realize the revelation surprised him, mostly because he hadn’t connected the visceral memory of his aunt’s madness with Granger’s present torments. It was the classic product of distance and unawareness, and he was momentarily ashamed.

Of course she wore a glamour. 

He did, too.

“There were nymphs?” Jordan was asking, frowning at Granger.

She nodded. “Giving instructions to the Grindelows.”

“That must have been how they slipped past the wards.”

“Right. Although they had to have had some wizards with them to manipulate the magic. Otherwise, the perimeter around the island would have reacted to unexpected heat signatures.”

“Did anything helpful turn up in the search?”

“No.”

“And there isn’t a trace on Lestrange or Greyback?”

If Jordan’s mentioning of the werewolf by name unsettled Granger, she didn’t show it. Instead, she folded her arms on the table and shook her head. Her eyes, he realized, were cold with Occlumency.

Draco didn’t know when he had started to track her Occlumency patterns, but he noticed them now.

There were many things he noticed now.

“No,” Granger was saying. “Apparently traces deactivate outside of Azkaban’s wards.” She frowned. “Something to do with the blood magic used. I’ll look into it tonight.”

“That’s a waste of time.” Dawlish’s ugly voice spilled across the table. “Non-proximal traces are too complex to maintain for more than one or two subjects.”

“Good morning to you too, Dawlish.” Granger offered the man a thin smile. “I’m not interested in reproducing the trace as much as extending the blood magic beyond Azkaban’s borders.”

“To track down Lestrange and Greyback?” Cattermole clarified.

“That’s right.” Granger nodded. “Blood magic is dark enough where it should leave residues on the original subject. Extending the trace will be a matter of reactivating that magic.”

“Sounds promising,” Cattermole said.

It sounds brilliant, Draco thought. 

“It’s a waste of time,” Dawlish growled, beady eyes narrowed.

Jordan made an impatient noise. “Dawlish, if you can’t say anything productive, save us all the—“

“A trace would be unnecessary if you’d just accepted my directive to begin with,” Dawlish continued.

Granger glared at the table as if summoning her patience. 

“That directive, Dawlish,” she said in a low voice, “is illegal and wrong—”

“It is sound strategy. And your opinion is insufficient to—”

“It’s not my opinion, it’s the law.”

“Let’s take a step back,” Leung began, but Dawlish wasn’t finished.

“Your moral superiority costs us lives, Granger,” he said, his tone ugly. “Now it’s cost us our prisoners.“

Granger’s expression darkened. “You are—“

“—doing what's best for the country!"

“Even Death Eaters deserve a trial,” Granger said lowly.

“They deserve nothing more than a box two meters underground! You—“

“Enough.” Granger hadn’t raised her voice, but something in her tone stole the air from the room. She fixed Dawlish with such an intense stare Draco half-expected to find flames in her eyes. “I am no one’s executioner.”

Beside him, Leung went rigid in her chair. The room was tense and frozen as Granger and Dawlish glared at one another.  

“Hermione is right,” Shaklebolt said quietly after a moment. “It is against our laws to deny a prisoner trial, even - perhaps especially - in times of war.”

Dawlish bristled. “But—“

“Furthermore.” Shaklebolt’s tone brooked no argument. “The capacity to take a life is not something to be proud of.” Shaklebolt looked at Dawlish gravely. “I would have thought you’d know that by now.”

The Minister’s gaze swept around the table.

“I did not call a council meeting to critique the Order’s military strategy,” he said, nodding slight in Hermione’s direction. “We have a financial situation with the merfolk that has manifested in a security breach. We need to talk mitigation and prevention.”

“Agreed,” Leung replied, visibly grateful for the change in subject. “Where are we on the former?”

Jordan was still scowling at Dawlish. “We have people on the ground negotiating,” he said finally.

“Yes,” Granger said. She’d leaned back in her chair, but her voice was firm. “Luna is meeting with Chief Yancovic as we speak.”

At that, Marietta Edgecombe broke her silence with a sound somewhere between a scoff and a snort. Granger turned to her slowly, dragging her eyes from Edgecombe’s manicured fingers to perfectly coiffed hair.

“Marietta,” she said coolly. “Is something funny?”

Edgecombe flushed under Granger’s scrutiny, but her sneer remained. “Lovegood?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Lovegood is responsible for negotiations?”

“Luna is the only Order member who has bothered to learn mermish,” Granger replied, her tone icy. “She has taken time out of her medical recovery to meet with Chief Yancovic, and we are the better for it.”

“But…” Edgecombe looked around the table. “It’s Lovegood! Loony Lovegood!” Her gaze fell on Draco. “Malfoy. Back me up here.”

Nine pairs of eyes swiveled to Draco, and he stiffened. He thought of his conversations with Lovegood during her time in the hospital and their interactions on the roof, of her gentle smile and steady presence. 

“I wouldn’t trust anyone more,” he said coldly. 

Edgecombe stared at him, open-mouthed. Draco felt Granger’s eyes on him, but he ignored her. 

“Any update on the negotiations?” Leung asked from his left. 

“No update,” Granger said, finally tearing her eyes from Draco. “But according to the merfolk I did speak with, it’s crucial that the Ministry fulfill their original agreement.”

“The original agreement is too expensive,” McClaggan said immediately.

“I told them that. They don’t seem sympathetic.” 

McClaggan tossed his quill on the table and groaned. “I will not lose this war just because we can’t afford salmon, of all things!” He shook his head in disbelief. “It’s absurd.”

There was a moment of tense silence.

“In the long-term, we should reevaluate the security at Azkaban. But in the short term, we need to raise money for security and for wolfsbane.” It was Cattermole who spoke, her voice soft and steady. “Either through donations or fundraising.”

“Exactly,” Shaklebolt said, nodding at her. He turned to Edgecombe. “That is, in fact, why Miss Edgecombe is here with us today.”

At the Minister’s attention, Edgecombe’s spine straightened, and she looked around the room with tedious self-importance.

Shaklebolt appraised her uncertainly before continuing. “Miss Edgecombe and her team have developed a plan to collaborate with the Prophet to raise money.”

“That’s right,” she said briskly. “Specifically, I’m envisioning an interview series.”

Draco chanced a look at Granger, who in turn was eying Edgecombe with deep distrust. 

“It’s designed to encourage the public to donate,” Edgecombe continued. “Prominent politicians will discuss their personal ties to the conflict and explain the need for funding.” She smiled triumphantly. “It will humanize the conflict and add transparency to the spending process.”

Cattermole frowned. “What about parts of the spending process that are classified?”

Edgecombe answered with alacrity. “Lie.”

“Lie? Isn’t that…” Cattermole glanced at Clearwater. “Isn’t that illegal? And unethical?”

“Only if you’re caught,” Edgecombe offered.

Clearwater rolled her eyes towards the ceiling.

“Who would be interviewed?” Granger asked, frowning.

“The Minister, of course, and the Chief Warlock. We’d also need prominent Order members and fighters.” Her eyes sharpened on Granger. “Starting with you, of course.”

“Absolutely not,” Granger said immediately, recoiling. “I do not do press.”

“And why not?”

“I’m busy.”

“Oh?” Edgecombe arched an insolent brow.  “Too busy to take an extra fifteen minutes to speak to a reporter?”

“Yes,” Granger replied simply, inspecting a raised pink scar on her hand.

“I think this interview idea has potential,” Dawlish interrupted, folding his hands over his belly.

“Of course you do,” Granger muttered.

Edgecombe stared at Granger pointedly. “It would provide a funding opportunity while helping some of us repair our public image.”

Granger rolled her eyes. “My ‘public image’ is fine—“

“Bulstrode’s last article was—“

“Par for the course, as far as I’m concerned, and—“

“He said your charm was fading, called you standoffish, and compared you to tarnished silver!” Edgecombe said the last part as if she couldn’t imagine anything worse.

Granger scowled. “First of all.” She straightened in her chair and gave Edgecombe a hard look. “I am a woman, not a piece of metal. Second of all, a rushed, fifteen-minute interview won’t change the perception that I’m standoffish—“

“You’re a war hero! A household name. The people need to know that the Golden Girl is still—“

“Do not call me that.” Granger’s voice dropped dangerously, and Edgecombe flinched at the intensity of her expression. 

“Alright,” she said. “But an interview with Rita Skeeter would—“

“Christ.” Granger pinched the bridge of her nose. “I don’t do interviews, and I certainly don’t do them with Skeeter.”

“I know you two have a history, but—“

“Not to be dramatic, Marietta, but I would rather die.”

From across the room, Jordan snorted.

Edgecome glared at him and huffed in frustration. “Then give me another idea. Is there another reporter—“

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t do press.”

“And why not?”

“Because I’m busy.”

“Merlin’s pants, you're an absolute—“

“Alright, alright.” Shaklebolt held up a hand. “The interview series is possible without Hermione’s participation, yes? I already give my weekly addresses to the nation, and I would be happy to add the series to my press schedule.“ 

“As would I,” Leung said, nodding at Edgecombe.

Jordan shifted uncomfortably. “I also don’t like press.” He glanced at Granger and then to Edgecombe. “But if you need an Order member, I suppose I could help.”

Draco watched as Granger flashed an appreciative expression towards Jordan, who returned it with a small nod.

“Grand!” Edgecombe smiled toothily before shooting a nasty glare in Granger’s direction. “We’ll be in touch with your offices soon.”

Jordan stared at Edgecombe as if realizing he’d just promised to a followup meeting. “Grand,” he repeated, shaking his head at the table.

“There’s just one problem.” McClaggan looked around the room seriously. “Even if the series is a success, public donations won’t be enough to make a dent in our debt, satisfy the mermaids, and fund sufficient wolfsbane.” He shrugged. “It would be like treating disembowelment with a headache tonic.”

“Charming, Tiberius.”

“I’m just saying, this can’t be our only strategy.”

“I agree.” For the first time, Clearwater spoke. She nodded at Shaklebolt. “The Minister and I have developed an alternative plan for raising money.”

Draco couldn’t help it - he leaned forward slightly. 

Clearwater’s folded her hands on the table and looked directly at Granger.

“Pureblood philanthropy.” She paused and glanced at Draco. “French pureblood philanthropy.” 

Chapter Text

Isabelle d’Albret, nee Benjelloun, moved to Paris from her family home in Fez, Morocco at the age of sixteen. By seventeen, she was betrothed to Xavier d’Albret, the most powerful man in Wizarding France. By eighteen, she was hosting lavish parties for pureblood society. 

 Xavier, her husband, was as mean as he was ugly, quick to anger and liberal with his fists. The cruel halls of his home chased any innocence from Isabelle’s face, leaving behind stern eyebrows and a sharpness that warded off most intolerable men. For years, she played the part expected of her, mending her bruises and mourning her childhood in the private silence of her rooms. 

But when Isabelle became pregnant at twenty, she took one look at her growing stomach and knew that she would not allow her child to grow up in her husband’s world. 

Strange, how such a small being could awaken so much within her.  

And so. Xavier d’Albret died in his bed on a cold January morning - from heart failure, a distracted healer told the press. Of course, no one thought to check for evidence of foul play. The one who’d found Xavier, after all, was his young and pregnant wife, and women were simply not capable of such a brutal thing as murder.

A terrible tragedy, read the papers. And with a baby on the way! 

Not a single tear was shed at the funeral.

Almost three decades later, Isabelle controlled Parisian society with a sideways glance or pursed lip. She shaped courtships, evaluated betrothals, and oversaw political machinations. She hosted spectacular parties, where she evaluated and entertained her guests in equal measure. She was revered for her wealth and feared for her ruthlessness, and that was the way she liked it.

While the rhythm of court was perfect for Isabelle’s incisive mind, it was hardly the place for Isabelle’s daughter, Sabrina - a thoughtful, kind woman who cared more for her history books than for the barbed dinner parties orchestrated by her mother. And so, when Sabrina had asked to move to Britain to continue her education, Isabelle had encouraged the change, if only because she was pleased to see Sabrina escape the cold, panoptic web of Parisian society. 

One warm July evening, after two years of study (and the sparse letters that always accompany a child living independently), Sabrina had burst through the floo, cheeks flushed and eyes shining, superlatives spinning from breathless lips, and Isabelle knew her daughter had fallen in love. 

Isabelle was well-aware of the intensity that arose from such an emotion — her daughter’s affection was genuine and fundamental, and that made it consuming. To make matters more complex, Audrey, the woman with whom her daughter had fallen in love, was a muggleborn. Isabelle had never entertained the blood supremacy that justified her family’s outrageous wealth, but the same could not be said for the rest of the French court. In most cases, Isabelle rolled social norms in her hand like die, but even she couldn’t prevent people from talking.

People always talked.

And so, the knowledge that Sabrina d’Albret was in London living with a muggle lover became both pervasive and unspoken. At first, the whispers hadn’t bothered Isabelle: one look at the shared adoration between Sabrina and Audrey drowned out any gossip. 

Everything changed when Lord Voldemort returned. 

Isabelle followed news of the war with rapt attention, both because of Sabrina’s new home in the United Kingdom and because of the dark energy that lit the air even in Paris. Sinister things were afoot, and Isabelle was paying attention. 

According to recent reports, the Order of the Phoenix was losing. The Ministry of Magic continued to be outspent and outsmarted, and Kingsley Shaklebolt’s success in the upcoming election was far from guaranteed. If things continued in this direction, London’s security - and therefore Sabrina’s and Audrey’s - would be at risk. 

It was clear, then, that Sabrina and Audrey needed protection. And apparently? The British government needed money and support. 

Isabelle could deliver both.

We aren’t a for-profit army, Priscilla Clearwater had said when Isabelle had met with her over the floo. The Minister won’t like the idea of diverting resources just to guard Sabrina.

But even Shaklebolt couldn’t refuse Isabelle’s offer: extensive funding from the d’Albret family and an invitation to Isabelle’s birthday celebration on November 25. The event was a who’s-who of Parisian pureblood society and therefore a unique opportunity to find additional wealthy allies to support the Order. In exchange, Sabrina and Audrey would receive prioritized diplomatic extradition should London ever fall to Death Eaters. 

For the fundraising to work, though, the Ministry couldn’t simply send any politician - Isabelle needed someone the fools of Parisian society could not ignore, someone who conveyed the gravity and the stakes of the war and who would remain a step ahead of any political games the court attempted.

She needed someone shrewd, powerful, and smart.

In other words, she needed Hermione Granger. 

Chapter Text

granger

granger granger granger

1. Stone and chop 225 g medjool dates so that

granger granger granger 

he said you’d come

1. Stone and chop the

kept me alive

to relay a message, pretty girl

1. Chop the dates and put them in a bowl

pretty girl, pretty, pretty girl

he said you’d come and here you are

2. Pour 175 mL boiling wa

pretty girl, here you are

he says he misses you

2. Pour boiling water

misses the way you smell

3. Pour water over the dates and leave

the way you taste, he says

3. Pour water over the dates and mash with a fork

granger granger granger

he’ll find you and

he says he’ll let me watch 

3. Mash with a 

misses the way you smell, granger

pretty girl, here you are

he says I can watch

3. Mash

the way you smell

the way you taste

he’ll find you and he says he’ll

“Hermione? Did something break?”

he’ll find you

“Sorry. I must have dropped the bowl.”

pretty girl, he’ll let me watch

“That’s alright. Are you making toffee pudding?”

he said you’d come and here you are

“I’m trying.”

the way you taste

the way you smell

he’ll find you

and he says he’ll let me watch

he’ll find you

he’ll find you,

and he says he’ll let me watch.

Chapter Text

Hermione wasn’t one for spontaneous physical affection, but if she ever met Sir Humphrey Davy, she would kiss the man right on the mouth.

Regrettably - or perhaps mercifully - the potions master had died over a century ago, making the risk of any such activities quite low. Still, the sentiment remained that Davy - and his invention of potassium supplements - had saved Hermione’s life.

It was enough to warrant a kiss or two.

Hermione had first learned of potassium supplements while spell-casting in America. Spell-casters often relied on Occlumency to keep portions of complex spells from reacting prematurely, isolating webs of magic in disparate mental compartments until it was time to cast. A draining exercise, to be sure, but still - most spell-casters only required potassium supplements in cases of extreme exertion. Hermione herself never touched a supplement in America.

Now, she took at least two doses a day.

Sometimes, when the dullness of the potion hollowed out Hermione’s fingers and chest, the word addiction drifted idly through her consciousness. Was it possible to grow dependent on an electrolyte supplement? Was her increasing dosage concerning?

The answer arrived swiftly, a low murmur from a gray-eyed healer:

Of course.

But in so many ways, the effects of the potion were immaterial. The mixture steadied her hand, quieted her mind, and kept her demons at bay. It allowed her to interrogate prisoners and smile at her friends, and it would soon allow her to play politics in France.

It was a tool.

It was a tool, and nothing more.

In that way, she supposed, they deserved each other.

“I’m not sure I remember how to put on mascara.”

It was the evening of Isabelle d’Albert’s birthday, and Hermione was preparing in the room she shared with Ginny. On the dresser before her was a dusty makeup bag she hadn’t seen for months, full of a glittering assortment of products that openly mocked the shadows that bookmarked her face. 

If things were different, Hermione and Ginny would be playing music from the radio at Harry’s bedside, swapping eyeshadow palettes and leaving lipstick on coffee mugs full of red wine. Hermione would be selecting rose powder for her cheekbones and a soft bronze for her eyelids and Ginny would be telling her to try something different, Hermione, like a green or a blue and Hermione would roll her eyes and acquiesce, and then she’d be grinning at her reflection and Harry would appear in the doorway and remind them that they were running late, could they go now, please, and they would laugh on their way out the door and— 

“Don’t be silly,” Ginny said from behind her. “Just close your lashes against the wand.”

“Right.” Hermione did as instructed. As she winced at the gummy sensation, she caught sight of the invitation and her notes on the dresser. 

Mme Isabelle d’Albret requests the honor of your presence for an evening of celebration and commemoration and—

Hermione sighed and returned to her reflection. “This is a terrible idea.”

“Mascara looks great on you.”

“I mean the party.”

“Ah.” Ginny was stretched out on her bed, an outdated Witch Weekly in front of her. She glanced up and flashed a grin. “Just think of all the hot French men you’ll get to see tonight.”

“Ginny.”

“Hermione.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and began poking at her curls with her wand. “I can’t believe they had the gall to forward a dress code.”

“Mmm. The nerve.”

“It’s ridiculous.” Hermione stared indignantly at her reflection in the mirror. “And Kingsley! Sending me, alone, to beg for money.”

Ginny didn’t look up from the magazine on her bed. “I believe the term he used was ‘fundraise.’”

“Same thing. It’s demeaning. Absurd.”

“Absurd,” Ginny repeated.

“And objectifying. And! Inviting Malfoy to the meeting, just to grant legitimacy to the whole thing because of his history in France? Honestly, he didn’t seem too thrilled by—Ginny, are you listening to me?”

“Of course.” Ginny glanced up at her. “Objectifying, Malfoy, legitimacy.” She frowned thoughtfully. “Though to be fair, I find objectifying Malfoy pretty legitimate.”

Hermione glared at her friend in the mirror. “You could at least pretend to feel sorry for me,” she muttered, pulling at the stiff neckline on her formal robes. “I look like an undertaker.”

“No, you look sophisticated and intimidating.”

“I always look intimidating.”

“But not sophisticated.”

“Rude.”

“Honest.”

“Whatever.” Hermione started on her earrings. “It’s not my job to look sophisticated. It’s my job to fight in a bloody war.”

Ginny shrugged. “War’s expensive.” 

“You’re starting to sound like Katherine.”

“I like her.”

“So do I.” Hermione sighed. “I just wish she’d come up with a better idea.”

There was a knock at the door, and then Neville’s head popped around the corner. He and Angelina were preparing for their first trip to Hungary - a fact that made Hermione’s heart tight with responsibility. 

They would be fine, she told herself. It was reconnaissance, not battle—

“Hey,” he said. “Has anyone seen my—Hermione, what are you wearing?”

“Andromeda’s old dress robes.”

“Doesn’t she look sophisticated?” Ginny asked from the bed.

“She looks like a pureblood.”

“See, and that makes it subversive.” Ginny grinned appreciatively. “A win on every front.”

Neville didn’t smile. “Where are you going, dressed like that?” 

“To beg for money.”

“To fundraise,” Ginny corrected.

“To fundraise.” Hermione rolled her eyes. “By begging for money.”

Neville’s frown deepened. “Where?”

“Isabelle d’Albret’s birthday.”

Neville’s expression alone was indicative of both d’Albert’s formidable reputation and the gravity of Hermione’s invitation.

“No,” he said. 

“Yes.”

“That’s a terrible idea.”

“See, that’s what I said—“

“It’s reckless, Hermione.” His expression was stony. “The pureblood circle in Paris is notoriously fickle. What if someone isn’t on our side? What if they’ve made a deal with Riddle?”

“We talked about it at the Council meeting. Apparently, all the attendees have sworn a blood oath.” Hermione made a face and comically lowered her voice. “I’m to ‘remain unharmed.’”

Ginny snorted. “I’d like to see them try.”

Neville folded his arms from his place in the doorway. “This isn’t funny.” 

Hermione shrugged. “Malfoy says the blood oath is pretty airtight, so there’s that.”

“Malfoy? Why was he—doesn’t matter. Just tell me someone’s going with you.”

“Mmm, no.” Hermione turned away from the mirror and grabbed a pair of black boots by her bed. “Because this is a diplomatic mission, I don’t need backup. Apparently, Isabelle d’Albret requested me specifically.” She sat down and glowered at the uncomfortable heels. “I’m her guest of honor.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“Thanks, Nev, but you’d need an invitation. Blood oath and all.”

He made a frustrated noise. “There’s no way it isn’t a trap.”

“Kingsley and Priscilla say it’s legit, and I trust them. Gin, where are you going?”

“To get water,” Ginny called as she left the room. “Be right back!”

“We do need the money,” Hermione continued, wincing she slid her left foot into the tight shoe. “Funds are especially tight after everything that happened at Azkaban, and we’ll need money for wolfsbane.”

And, she thought to herself, if she secured enough money, Lee wouldn’t force her to leave the country come December.

She wouldn’t abandon her friends to this war. 

She could find Harry and Ron, bring them home—

“—exactly why you shouldn’t be going,” Neville was saying. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “Now that Greyback is out, Hermione, you should be more careful.“

“I’m always careful.”

Neville gave a her look.

She zipped up her boot and offered him a wan smile. “I’ll be fine, Nev. I prom—“

“Hermione!” Ginny called from down the hallway. “Someone’s here to see you!”

Neville and Hermione exchanged a look. She pushed to her feet and grabbed her other shoe.

“Who is it?” she called back, hobbling down the corridor with Neville close behind. “I have to leave in—“ Hermione drew up short as she took in an unmistakably tall presence by the fireplace. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Draco Malfoy turned away from the mantle. He was wearing long, black dress robes with a silver clasp at the neckline. He looked…nice. Really nice, actually. 

And decidedly uninvited. 

“Granger,” he drawled, eyes glinting. “Do you always greet your guests so warmly?”

“What are you doing here?” she repeated. “Is there a problem at St. Mungo’s or—“

“No.”

“Then what—“

“I’m accompanying you to the d’Albret’s festivities.” He said the words simply, easily, as if they weren’t the most ridiculous syllables he’d ever uttered.

Hermione choked on air. “I beg your pardon?”

“Isabelle d’Albert’s birthday party turned fundraiser.” His gaze swept up and down her robes, lingering on her pearl earrings and the lacing at her waist. She fought the urge to cross her arms. “I’ll be your escort.”

Hermione bristled under his scrutiny. “I most certainly do not need an—“

“That’s an excellent idea,” Neville interrupted from behind her. 

She whirled around. Neville leaned back in alarm. “What? It’ll make me feel better.”

“Plus you were just saying you hated the idea of going alone,” Ginny added. Hermione turned her scowl on her friend, who simply shrugged. “You were.”

Hermione made a frustrated noise and glared at Malfoy. “You can’t just decide to—“

“I have orders from the Minister and the Chief Warlock.” Malfoy withdrew two slips of paper from his robes. “You’re welcome to confirm.”

Hermione summoned the notes with an impatient wave of her hand while shooting a suspicious look in Malfoy’s direction. Malfoy arched a brow in reply.

When the memos yielded nothing more than explicit instructions to attend the event with Malfoy - as well as an infuriating post-script on Kingsley’s that reminded her to “be nice” - Hermione’s scowl deepened.

“While I appreciate the thought, Malfoy,” she said in a tone that made it clear she did not, in fact, appreciate anything about this, “your company would be a mistake and a waste of resources. I do not need an escort.”

“You do.”

Behind her, Neville made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a cough.

Hermione clenched her jaw so tightly her molars began to ache. “Excuse me?”

“There are a variety of customs and rituals with which you will be expected to be familiar,” Malfoy said smoothly, leaning against the mantle. 

“I’ve read about French society,” Hermione snapped. “I’m more than prepared.”

It was true. Despite its violent history, the library at Grimmauld Place proved especially informative when it came to pureblood activities. Based on her research, Hermione knew the evening would consist of a cocktail hour, followed by hors d’oeuvres and dancing, followed by a nauseatingly formal dinner. d’Albert’s invitation had made clear that Hermione was not expected (read: invited) to stay for dinner. Apparently, the fundraising mission would be confined to the earlier two stages, which was fine by Hermione’s standards - she wouldn’t stay a second longer than absolutely necessary.

Malfoy was watching her carefully. 

“I expected nothing less,” he said after a moment. “But there will be interactions you cannot anticipate. Fumbling them could result in failure—“

“I will not fumble anything tonight.”

“Agreed.” He inclined his head and smirked. “Because I will be with you.”

“You will not.”

His gray eyes hardened. “Perhaps now is a good time to remind you that the Minister himself has ordered my presence. You may be comfortable with insubordination, Granger, but I am not.”

“Insubordination? It’s—“

“Furthermore.” His tone was cold and clipped. “My team at St. Mungo’s will require additional doses of wolfsbane, which will only be possible if you raise sufficient funds tonight.”

“I’m well-aware of the stakes, Malfoy,” Hermione snapped.

Malfoy was unfazed. “Excellent,” he said. He stepped smoothly away from the mantle and looked at her expectantly. “Shall we go, then?” 

Hermione made a frustrated noise in the back of her throat and turned to Neville for support, only to find him considering Malfoy thoughtfully. 

The amicability on Neville’s face was decidedly disconcerting. 

Ginny tossed her a wink.

Friends. What fun.

“I don’t…” Hermione returned her glare to Malfoy, who seemed more than a little entertained by her continued discomfort. 

Prat.  

She ran a hand through her hair and shook herself. The argument was a waste of time — she had more important things than worrying about Draco Malfoy’s social activities. 

“Fine,” she said, “I hate this, but fine. Whatever. I’m leaving now.”

He raised his eyebrows as she approached the fireplace. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Granger?”

She stopped and glared. “What now?”

He said nothing but stared pointedly the boot dangling from her left hand.

She flushed and scowled, which made for an interesting combination of facial expressions. She shoved her foot into the shoe, glaring at Malfoy the whole time. His lips twitched as she stumbled into the couch.

“Need any help?”

“Fuck off.”

She yanked up the zipper and marched towards the fireplace. Malfoy appeared at her side like the product of a demonic summoning. 

“You two have fun,” Ginny called from the doorway, where she looked far too entertained. Beside her, Neville’s eyes flicked doubtfully between Hermione and Malfoy.

“Don’t kill each other,” he said finally, turning towards the kitchen.

Hermione rolled her eyes and violently threw a handful of powder into the fireplace. 

“After you,” Malfoy said smoothly.

She ignored him and stepped into the fire, Grimmauld Place disappearing behind her.

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger handled things. 

Stuffy politicians? Sorted. Homicidal werewolves? Dealt with. The stiff corset of Andromeda’s fancy dress robes? Horrendous, but manageable. 

Because Hermione Granger handled things.

It was what she did.

But as she awaited reception in the d’Albrets’ residence, Hermione began to think that Draco Malfoy - and the smug energy emanating from him - would be the end of her.

Or the end of him, she reminded herself.

The thought was mildly comforting.

The floo journey from Grimmauld to the d’Albrets’ had taken exactly two minutes. In other contexts, two minutes would seem relatively reasonable for an international journey. But when one was compressing one’s body in magically-induced fire, 120 seconds was more than a little uncomfortable.

It was a relief, then, to emerge from the flames into the d’Albrets’ sitting room. As Hermione shook ash from her robes and willed her stomach to settle, she chanced a glance at Malfoy. He was looking slightly green, which lifted her spirits immediately. 

To distract herself from her unlikely and irksome companion, Hermione inspected the reception room around them. The classic decor was nothing short of breathtaking. Beneath her heeled boots stretched a plush, vibrant rug covered with a pattern of red and gold vines. A subtle movement caught her eye, and she realized that the vines were spelled to grow flowers and leaves in soft, lilting iterations. She watched as a flower unfurled across the fabric beside her right foot, petals waving a gentle hello, before curling back into a tight bud.

Hermione smiled. 

It was a relief, sometimes, to remember that magic still enchanted her. 

The walls were no less splendid. Stretching several meters into the air, they were covered from floor to ceiling with remarkable paintings depicting everything from city streets to lush forests. On the wall adjacent to Hermione, a watercolor of an imposing, crescent-shaped mountain was set beside a shadowy oil painting of an ancient crypt. In any other circumstances, the pairing would have been wholly bizarre, but something about the d’Albrets’ collection made the art flow seamlessly from one piece to the next.

Hermione turned slightly as she took in the impressive drawings around the room — libraries, restaurants, countrysides, even a blue chaise, each in its own frame and setting. She would have to compliment d’Albret on her selection of artwork.

If she ever met d’Albret, of course.

It seemed a bit strange to be kept waiting in a small room such as this. Perhaps they were to meet d’Albret somewhere else - in a foyer of some kind?

As Hermione considered this idea, she registered a potentially significant problem: there was no door.

She scanned the room again. Rug, painting - even a small statue of a dog by the fireplace - but no door. 

Odd.

Hermione pressed her lips together and glanced to her right, only to find Malfoy watching her with a wry expression on his face.

The sight of him reignited her frustration the way he’d unceremoniously inserted himself into this outing. Going to the fundraiser was bad enough without dealing with him and the complexity of his presence. 

An escort, he’d said. The idea alone was insulting. Hermione wasn’t as charming as she’d been before the war — something about incessant exposure to death made smalltalk insufferable — but surely she could handle a simple birthday party. She didn’t need a babysitter, and she certainly didn’t need one who had a demonstrable record of irritating her. 

Hermione would have liked to pretend her bitterness was grounded in efficiency and pragmatism - it was, after all, a waste of time and resources for him to be here. Fundamentally, though, beneath her defensiveness and pride, she knew that Draco Malfoy’s company unsettled her. Not just because he provoked and challenged her (he did), but because of the way he paid attention. Even when she turned away from him, she knew his sharp eyes followed her, scanning and categorizing that which she tried to keep private. His scrutiny settled between her shoulder blades, heavy and silent and demanding, and she didn’t like it.

It didn’t help, of course, that he smelled like expensive cologne and filled the room like he owned it. Everything from his dragon hide shoes to the signet ring on his finger to the slope of his hair screamed elegance and authority. 

It unnerved her. 

“So, Granger.” His voice recalled her attention, and she found him smirking at her. He tilted his head. “Are you finished with your tantrum?”

She choked on air. “Tantr—fucking hell.” She inhaled sharply and glared at the ceiling. “You’re absolutely out of—”

“I’ll take that as a no, then.”

A growl escaped Hermione’s throat, and she jerked herself away from him. Everything about him — everything — existed to annoy her. The fragile understanding they’d reached that night in St. Mungo’s was gone, replaced with a simmering resentment and—

“If you continue to glare at the wall, Granger, I bet you could set it on fire. If you really set your mind to it.”

She spun back to him. “Shall I glare at you instead, then? Give it my best shot?”

“Yes,” he said immediately.

Yes.

His answer stumbled into the room, stealing the air between them. She froze, staring at him, and he stared back. In the soft lighting, his eyes were a light gray, a pale and striking contrast to the shadows beneath his cheekbones and jaw. 

Something imperceptible flashed across his face, tightening his features, and then the moment was gone.

“Ah,” he said. He made a show of inspecting his hands before tilting his head in mock sympathy. “Better luck next time.”

The smirk tugging at his lips belied the gravity in his eyes, and Hermione frowned at him. 

“How are you even here, Malfoy? Why are you here?”

He tilted his head. “I told you. I—“

“I remember. I’m asking how you have an invitation, considering the blood oath.”

“Ah.” Malfoy reached into the folds of his cloak and withdrew a golden envelope. “I received an invitation several weeks ago. Isabelle d’Albret is a distant cousin on my mother’s side.”

“Of course she is.”

“And for the why.” He leaned against the mantle. “Per the Minister’s request, I’m here to help you.”

Hermione scowled. “I don’t need help.”

His eyes were heavy on her face, and his next words were soft. “Don’t you?”

Hermione knew he was talking about more than just the fundraiser, but she ignored the apprehension in her gut. “What would help,” she snapped instead, “would be you applying your enormous fortune to wolfsbane brewing instead of sticking yourself where you don’t belong.”

“Where I don’t belong?” Malfoy arched a brow. “Granger, I grew up attending events in French pureblood society. The d’Albrets are distant family on my mother’s side. Some would argue this is the only place I do belong.”

Hermione growled something about elitism under her breath.

“Quite,” Malfoy replied, his lips twitching. “Enormous fortune and all.”

She glowered at him.

“You make a good point about the wolfsbane, though,” he continued casually, as if she weren’t skewering him with her eyes. “I did try.”

That surprised her. “What?”

“To donate my family’s money,” he clarified. He shrugged and leaned against the mantle. “The rules about political donations are extraordinarily strict for ex-Death Eaters.”

Hermione let out a small breath. “Your parole,” she said quietly.

“Yes.”

“No donations, no unforgivables.” 

“Hmm.”

“Of course.” Hermione ran a hand through her hair and absently adjusting the curls she’d tamed for the party. “And with the Wizenagemot a mess, I’m sure you have even less flexibility than before.” She nodded, more to herself than to him, and then swallowed. “I understand.”

He didn’t reply, and the silence quickly bubbled into awkwardness.  

“Not to change the subject,” she said suddenly, “but where’s the door?”

Malfoy’s eyes glinted. “I was waiting for you to ask.”

“How helpful of you.”

“As advertised.”

She frowned at him, which made his lips twitch. 

“Just wait,” he said after a moment. At her continued skepticism, he sighed. “Like I said, the d’Albrets are distant cousins on my mother’s side. I’ve been coming here since childhood.” He paused, his eyes sweeping around the room. “Cyrus will be here in a moment.”

“Cyrus?” she repeated, tilting her head. “Who is—ah!”

Hermione jumped as a short, strange-looking man materialized before her. His was wearing a dark purple waistcoat that cut off above a pair of alarmingly tight red breeches, which stretched down to glittering shoes straight out of the Wizard of Oz. He peered up at Hermione owlishly, and she fought the urge to take a step back.

“Miss Granger, I presume,” he said, drawing out the final vowel operatically. He swept into a bow. “Cyrus d’Albret, at your service.” 

“Monsier d’Albret,” she gasped, desperately trying to regain control of her heart rate. “Good to meet you.”

“A pleasure, dear girl!” he cried with a bright smile. “We’re thrilled to have you join us, thrilled indeed. And with the young Mr. Malfoy!” Cyrus beamed up at Hermione’s companion. “Each time I see you, child, I swear you grow taller.”

Malfoy’s expression softened. “Cyrus,” he said, voice unrecognizably warm. “It’s wonderful to see you again.” 

Cyrus hummed happily. “And you, Mr. Malfoy, and you! It has been far too long. When Isabelle told me you were joining Miss Granger, I was absolutely—comment dit-on, en anglais? Ah, oui—I was absolutement tickled!”

Hermione couldn’t help it - she giggled. The sound had both Malfoy and Cyrus turning to her.

“Erm.” She flushed and cleared her throat. “Cyrus, where…where are we?”

“Ah, that is the question, is it not?” The man sighed and nodded gravely. “Where are we, if not here? Where are they, if not there?” He stared wistfully at the ceiling. “But after all, there is not here, and if it is not here, then how can we ever hope to know where there is?”

“Um.” Hermione blinked. “I’m…I’m not sure. But—“

“Dear girl, I would love nothing more than to philosophize together!” He leaned forward and gave a conspiratory wink. “It was my specialty, ‘way back when’, as you anglais say! Unfortunately.” His expression sobered comically. “We must go.”

With that, he turned and walked straight through the nearest wall.

Hermione stared after him, mouth slightly open. “What—I don’t—how did—“

“He’s a ghost, Granger,” Malfoy drawled. He arched an eyebrow at her. “Surely you’re familiar with the concept.”

“But he looks—“

“Corporeal?” Malfoy hummed his assent. “Cyrus is tied to the painting of the chaise. The connection grants him a physical form.” 

“Really?” Hermione stepped towards the indicated painting and inspected it curiously. “That’s fascinating. How does it work? A protean charm, maybe, but tied to the artwork rather than his spirit? Though you’d have to overcome the physical requirement of the spell, of course.” She inhaled excitedly. “Ooo, but I do remember reading something about—what?”

She’d glanced over her shoulder to find Malfoy was watching her with a peculiar expression on his face. 

“What is it?” she asked again.

He just shook his head and smirked. “I’d forgotten how insufferable you were at school,” he said smoothly, adjusting his cufflinks.

She glared at him. “I beg your—“

“Excusez-moi, my darlings!” Cyrus’s disembodied head popped through the chandelier. Hermione jumped. “You must keep up, please.”

With that, he disappeared again. 

Hermione blinked. “But how do we—“

Malfoy pushed by her, his shoulder barely brushing hers, before stopping in front of a watercolor of rolling countryside. He turned and looked down at her, his lips twitching. “See you on the other side, Granger.” 

And with that, he walked directly into the painting.

After a moment’s hesitation and several preparatory deep breaths, Hermione followed Malfoy into the painting. Stepping into the artwork felt like passing into an autumnal breeze - gentle, but brisk enough to capture one’s breath. As she moved through the painting, her surroundings shifted in a dizzying blur of color until she was standing on the hills portrayed in the artwork, her heels sinking slightly into soft earth. Countryside stretched for miles all around, brownish-yellow greens sloping gently towards a rippling creek in the distance. Nestled against the horizon stood a proud manor house, windows glowing orange against the sunset. 

“It’s a portal?” she said, spinning around. “The painting’s a portal?”

“Oui.” Cyrus inclined his head, the feathers of his hat fluttering. “All of the paintings are.”

“Incredible,” she breathed. The sheer quantity of magic in the reception room made her head spin. “I’ve used a portkey, of course, but magicked artwork is so rare…”

“It is indeed.” Cyrus was eying her appreciatively. “Isabelle hoped you would enjoy your journey.” He looked out over the hills. “The view is quite beautiful, non?”

“Yes,” Hermione murmured as the clear wind gathered and released her hair. “Beautiful.”

“Mmm.” Cyrus smiled broadly. “And even more so from the air, I’m told.”

The air?

The air?

The blood drained from Hermione’s face.

“—a demonstration of traditional French hospitality and transport,” Cyrus was saying proudly. “Isabelle wanted only the best for you, of course. Such an honor to have you here…”

Hermione’s heart pounded as he beckoned her forward.

THE AIR?

“…timeless, ancient creatures. Wisteria Jones called it the smoothest flight she’d ever had, and she was a seeker for the Holyhead Harpies…”

No, no, no, no.

“Et viola,” Cyrus finished, gesturing before him. “Votre ‘ride’, as you say.”

Hermione stared at the space he’d indicated. There wasn’t a broomstick or animal in sight, which did nothing to reign in Hermione’s panic.

“Aren’t you lovely? Yes, you are,” Cyrus was cooing, patting the air with an affectionate hand.

Hermione’s eyes widened as she watched the man - ghost? - man-ghost interact animatedly with an invisible creature. She began to wonder if phantoms could go insane. 

Cyrus caught sight of her expression and seemed to mistake her alarm for timidity. 

“Come say hello, Miss Granger. Suzannah doesn’t bite, do you, Suzannah?”

“But—“

“Hurry now, we don’t have all day!”

Hermione took a step forward and gingerly reached out a hand. She was almost level with Cyrus when he gasped dramatically.

“Not the tail feathers!” he cried. “Anything but the tail feathers!”

Hermione withdrew her fingers in alarm, her heart racing.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “Sorry.”

She glanced back at Malfoy hopelessly and found him frowning.

“Cyrus,” he said slowly, his eyes lingering on her. “Am I correct that one homistrel is for Miss Granger, and one is for me?”

A homistrel? What in Merlin’s name was that?

Not for the first time, Hermione cursed Hagrid’s underwhelming Care of Magical Creatures curriculum.

“Correct, correct, Mr. Malfoy. Now, Miss Granger, go ahead and mount her, she won’t bite - not too hard, anyway!” Cyrus chortled at his own joke. “Up you get.”

Hermione stared at him in disbelief. How was she supposed to climb an animal she couldn’t see?

“I don’t—“ She cleared her throat. Her fingers were cold and tight with apprehension. “Could you…that is, I—“

“Pardon me.” Malfoy drawl floated over her shoulder, and Hermione turned to find him leaning over slightly. His fingers were splayed as if he were inspecting something, and his brow was furrowed. He looked up, squinting into the evening sun. “While my familiarity with homistrels is admittedly limited, this one appears to be ill.” His eyes flicked to Hermione and then back to Cyrus. “I believe she is unsafe to ride.”

“No!” Cyrus rushed forward and leaned down next to Malfoy. His eyes widened. “By God, you’re right! She’s practically asleep!” He looked up in dismay. “The stable master assured me she was healthy just this morning—“

“These things happen.” Malfoy straightened and smoothed his robes. “Perhaps she got into a lavender patch?”

Lavender?

“Ahh.” Cyrus made an agonized noise. “How positively mortifying—“

“Not to worry, Cyrus.” Malfoy glanced at Hermione. “Granger and I can easily share.”

Cyrus twisted his hands worriedly and turned to her. “Miss Granger, is that alright with you? Homistrel partnership is an honored tradition, after all.”

“Um,” she said.

“Excellent.” Malfoy clapped his hands. “It’s all sorted, then.” 

“If you’re sure,” Cyrus said, wiping a feather across his brow. “I should take this one back to the stables before she falls asleep entirely.”

“Of course.” Malfoy inclined his head. “Thank you, Cyrus.”

With one last regretful glance, Cyrus closed his fist around air and disappeared, still muttering his apologies.

Hermione watched him go with increasing bafflement. For a moment, there was only the gentle sound of grass blowing in the breeze. Then:

“You can’t see them.”

Malfoy’s voice was low and soft. He hadn’t phrased the words like a question, but she shook her head anyway.

“What are they?” she asked, frowning at the space in front of her.

“Homistrels. Cousins of thestrals.” Malfoy moved slightly towards the empty air and held up a hand as if soothing an animal. He glanced over his shoulder. “You can come closer, if you’d like.”

She moved forward cautiously until she was level with him.

“What do they look like?” she murmured.

“Imagine thestrals, but with feathers. The British variety have red plumage, while the French have blue.” He paused and glanced down at her. “They’re gentle creatures typically reserved for special occasions.”

“And why can’t I see them?”

Beside her, Malfoy tensed. He reached forward. “We should get going,” he said. 

“But—“

“Have you ever ridden a horse, Granger?” His tone was brusque, and it seemed like he was adjusting invisible straps. “The principle here will be similar.”

“I have, but why—“

“I’ll sit behind you and steer, and—“

“—see them but you can? It—”

“The killing curse.”

He said it so softly she was convinced she’d misheard him. But then, his hands fell and he said it again.

“The killing curse.” His voice was low, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “That’s how I…that’s how they’re visible.”

“You…” She suddenly felt very cold. “You can only see homistrels if you’ve cast one?”

He nodded once - just once. He worked his jaw as he stared out over the hills.

“But...“ She swallowed tightly. The setting sun cast shadows over Malfoy’s face, making him look older. “Cyrus assumed I could see them.”

Malfoy glanced at her. “That would have been Isabelle’s assumption. Traditionally, the provision of homistrels indicates respect and esteem from one’s host.” He frowned. “It’s intended to communicate the sentiment that she understands who you are and what you’re capable of.”

“What I’m…” Hermione swallowed, her mouth dry. “What I’m capable of.” 

The thought settled heavy in her stomach, a reminder of the legacy she carried with her and the soldier she had become. 

Isabelle d’Albret assumed Hermione had killed someone.

She wasn’t wrong.

“I thought…” Malfoy cleared his throat, his expression distant. “Rowle?”

“Oh.” Hermione folded her arms against the gory memories that accompanied the Death Eater’s name. “Yeah. But not with…not with the killing curse.”

Malfoy nodded silently, his eyes trained on the horizon. Hermione rubbed her hands along her upper arms against the dusk chill. 

“Is it by choice, then?” The words were spoken quietly, suddenly, almost as if he hadn’t wanted her to hear them.

“What?”

He looked at her, his gray eyes sharp and unreadable. “Your disuse of the killing curse. Is it a choice or a condition?”

A choice or a condition.

Trust Draco Malfoy to capture all of Hermione’s cowardice and culpability and grief in a simple, elegant question. 

How many times had Kingsley asked her the same thing? And Lee? And Dawlish, his purple fist closed around trigger-happy directives and scorn?

Do you think you’re better than us? Seamus had spat one evening, his eyes mean after too many glasses of whisky. Just because you won’t cast the spell?

For once, Dean and Neville had remained silent, waiting carefully for Hermione’s response.

Of course not, she’d said, fingers tight around her own glass.

But she couldn’t explain herself. 

She couldn’t explain how syllables of the killing curse beat against her tongue in battle, or how anger curled around her core and sang her name like a lullaby. She couldn’t explain how months wearing a piece of Lord Voldemort’s soul had changed something within hers, how she understood that murder by the killing curse violently altered one’s magic and mind.

And above all else, she couldn’t explain her secret, sacred hope: that beneath her bruises and curses and scars, a part of her remained too soft, too true, too good for all of this.

A choice or a condition? Malfoy had asked.

Hermione sighed and reached for the right words. 

“In my experience,” she said finally, the sounds foreign against her teeth, “one often begets the other.”

Malfoy searched her face for a long moment before turning away. In the ensuing quiet, Hermione couldn’t help but recognize the boy from Hogwarts in his profile - the one who cried in the Astronomy tower, whose shaking shaking hands had refused to return Voldemort’s embrace in the rubble of the courtyard.

He could see the homistrels, she realized. 

Was it a choice or a condition? she wanted to ask, thinking of the ghosts that haunted them both. 

“What happened to the other homistrel?” she asked instead.

Her question seemed to bring Malfoy back to himself. 

“Lavender,” he said stiffly. His fingers returned to their earlier movement, adjusting straps Hermione couldn’t see. “They like it, but it makes them drowsy.”

“But…” Hermione inspected the brown hill around them. “Lavender is out of season.”

He barely glanced at her. “Is it?”

“And it grows in the south.”

“Fascinating.”

“Malfoy.” His name came out sharp. “Did you drug the homistrel?”

His eyes flicked to hers. “Don’t be ridiculous, Granger.” 

“But—“

“The homistrel will be fine. Unlike us, if we’re late for Isabelle’s party.”

“I don’t—“

“Granger.” He straightened to his full height and met her gaze unwaveringly. “It’s fine. The homistrel is fine. You are going to be fine.” His mouth twisted impatiently. “Can we go now?”

She inhaled at the sudden force of his focus.

“Right,” she managed, blinking at him. “Yes. Let’s…let’s go.”

Malfoy stared at her for a moment longer before nodding curtly. He motioned her forward, and Hermione followed, carrying the distinct impression that nothing - nothing - about this evening was going to go according to plan.

Mounting the homistrel proved extraordinarily challenging, mostly because Malfoy seemed incapable of giving clear directions.

He was standing slightly to the side behind her, his voice clipped as he attempted to guide her from a distance.  

“Put your hand down, a little to your left—no, your other left, Granger. No, stop—“

“I’m trying,” she ground out. “It’s a little hard without being able to see—“

He made a frustrated noise. “You don’t need to see. You just need to listen.”

“If you were a little more helpful and a little less patronizing, you might be easier to listen to!”

“Christ.” He clenched his jaw and glared at the setting sun. “We don’t have time for this. Isabelle is never late.”

Hermione blew a piece of hair out of her face. “She sent an invisible fluffy chicken to pick me up. She can wait an extra minute or two.”

He stared down at her. “If it’s just an ‘invisible fluffy chicken’, why are you afraid to touch it?”

She straightened indignantly. “I’m not afraid, I’m simply cautious.”

“Cautious,” he repeated, staring at her. “You.”

“I’ll have you know, I’m an incredibly cautious person.”

“And what do you call our years at Hogwarts? Or the past several months?”

She fixed him with a deadpan expression. “Trying times.”

“Trying times,” he repeated, shaking his head. He paused for a moment and considered the horizon, his expression turning grim. When he turned back to her, there was a wary kind of discernment in his eyes. “If you’re comfortable, Granger, I’m happy to guide you into the saddle.”

“Guide me,” she echoed, frowning. 

“Into the stirrups and the reigns.”

“Oh,” she said. She blinked. “Um. Sure.”

His eyes searched her face before he nodded and took a step around her. Suddenly, his body was immediately behind hers, his warmth stretching around her shoulders and down her arms.

He smelled nice - like cologne and spices and pine.

“Okay,” he said, his voice soft in her ear. “Here’s the edge of the saddle. You can use it to pull yourself up.” His right hand gently encircled her wrist and pulled it forward until her hand brushed a soft piece of leather. Hermione allowed her fingers to run along the stitching and tried to ignore the tightness swooping through her belly.

“Next, we’ll put your right foot in the stirrup,” he said. His breath ruffled her hair. “You can lean forward slightly. Suzannah will hold steady.”

Hermione did as she was told, and sure enough, the animal supported her weight. 

“Good, Granger. Now lift up your right knee,” he said softly into her ear. Unbidden, a shiver raced through Hermione’s body, and she swallowed tightly. 

This couldn’t be happening, this couldn’t be happening, this—

 But then, his fingers were warm beneath her heel, gently guiding her until she heard the click of metal against her soles.

She exhaled unevenly.

“Perfect.” Malfoy straightened, his chest brushing against her shoulder blades. “On my count, pull into a standing position. I’ll help you position your other leg.”

“Okay,” she whispered, hating how breathless her voice sounded.

The renewed presence of his hand on her lower back didn’t help at all. 

“Three, two, stand.” She could feel his fingers burning through her dress robes, and oh God, this was mortifying and consuming and something else entirely —

“Just one more leg, Granger, over the saddle.”

Hermione almost jumped out of her skin when Malfoy placed a hand on her calve. She tensed and glared at the empty space below her, trying to catch her breath. Mistaking her hyperventilation for fear, Malfoy took on a reassuring tone.

“Granger,” he said in a soft tone. “You need to relax. Bend your knee slightly—yes, just like that. And we’ll swing it—there you go.”

And then, she was astride the homistrel, her fingers brushing against soft feathers she couldn’t see, body rising and falling with the animal’s exhales. A moment later, Malfoy swung into the saddle behind her. 

She tensed at the warmth of him at her back. She could feel him - feel the fabric of his robes and the steady rhythm of his breath, the strain in his muscles and the shifts in his posture. 

There was an electric pause.

“I’ll have to steer, Granger,” he murmured. His breath ruffled her hair.

“Ah.” She cleared her throat and reached for a neutral tone. “Of course.”

Because that was what she was: a neutral participant. And as a neutral participant, she was wholly unaffected by the feeling of his body against hers.

Wholly. Unaffected. 

“Of course,” she said again.

“I’ll have to reach around you.”

“Understood.”

And then his arms were encircling hers and his breath was curling against her ears and Hermione thought very seriously that she might explode.

“See,” he murmured into her ear. “What would you do without me?”

“Smile,” she shot back, turning to smirk at him. Immediately, she regretted the way the adjustment put her inches away from his face.

“You know, Granger,” he murmured, his eyes dipping to her lips. “that’s exactly the type of charm you should show the potential donors tonight.“

His breath smelled like peppermint, and she turned before he could see her blush.

When Malfoy spoke again, his voice was low, and his lips barely brushed her ear.

“Hold on tight.”

And with a whisper of encouragement, the homistrel began to fly.

Chapter Text

Honey, you're familiar like my mirror years ago

Idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on its sword

Innocence died screaming, honey

Ask me, I should know.

I slithered here from Eden

just to sit outside your door.

- Hozier, From Eden

“Mother, I don’t understand.”

“What don’t you understand, my love?”

“Why do we have to go to France? I want to stay and play quidditch with Theo—“

“I’ve told you, Draco. Our friend Isabelle is hosting a birthday party—“

“Father says adults don’t have birthday parties.” A pause. “He says they’re infantile.”

“That’s an impressive word.”

“It means childish.”

“So it does.”

“I don’t want to go to the party.”

“Mmm. I understand.”

“You do?”

“Yes.” A pause. “You’re still coming.”

“But—“

“I have no interest in arguing, Draco. Put on your shoes and meet me downstairs in two minutes.”

“Mother, I—“

“Two minutes.”

“Where are we?”

“Isabelle’s country home.”

“Oh. It’s so…”

“Splendid?”

“Big. And what are those shining things?”

“The blue ones?”

“Yeah.”

“Fairy lights, I believe. Do you like them?”

“I—yeah. Wow.” A pause. “They’re really pretty.”

“Draco. See the woman in the purple robes?”

“Yes.”

“That’s Isabelle. I’d like you go introduce yourself, please.”

“Alone?!”

“Alone.”

“But—“

“Hurry now, before she begins her toast.”

“That’s not—“

“I’ll be here the whole time.”

“Mother, why are we outside?”

“I wanted to show you something. Hold out your hand.”

“Like this?”

“Perfect.”

“Why? I don’t see any—ah! What was that?!”

“Come back, Draco. She won’t hurt you.”

“She?”

“I believe her name is Suzannah.”

“What…what is she?”

“She’s a homistrel.”

“A homistrel?”

“Yes.”

“Why can’t I see her?”

“She’s invisible to most people. Here. Take a small piece of lavender and—“

“Where did the lavender come from?”

“I’ll teach you the spell later. Now, hold it on your palm. Fingers flat, darling, so she doesn’t bi—I said, flat, please.”

“I don’t know if…oh. Wow. That feels funny.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“Can I give her more?”

“Not today. Too much lavender and she’ll get drowsy.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Mother. Mum. What’s she doing. MUM.”

“Oh! I think she wants you to pet her.”

“Pet her?”

“Gently, like this.”

“Am I doing it right?”

“You are.”

“She’s very soft.”

“Mmm.”

“I wish I could see her.”

“She sees you, and that’s all that matters.”

“What do you mean, she sees me and that’s all that matters?”

Granger’s voice was uncharacteristically shrill as they flew through the air, the homistrel’s blue feathers fluttering beneath them. The view was absolutely magnificent - a patchwork of countryside and shadow and autumn’s golden glow, all surveyed by Isabelle’s extraordinary country house. The telltale glimmer of fairy lights announced another famed d’Albret celebration, complimenting the thick orange of the sunset and guiding the homistrel towards its destination. 

It was the perfect time to fly, which, of course, was no coincidence - Draco was certain that Isabelle had selected both homistrel travel and the brilliance of golden hour for Granger’s arrival. Judging from Granger’s deathgrip on Draco’s fingers, however, the guest of honor was not at all focused on the view. 

“I mean, she’s aware of you, and she won’t let you fall,” Draco half-shouted over the wind. “She’s used to having people on her back.”

Granger made a weak sound between a hum and a groan, and it vibrated into Draco’s chest. Reflexively, he adjusted his arms so she could lean more fully into his shoulders. 

“I don’t like this,” she said — for the eighth time, by his count. At the beginning, her words had been a protest, but now, they felt more like a confession. 

“We’ll be fine,” he said, more quietly.

Her back was fully against his abdomen now, her shoulder blades lifting with each breath. Draco was very deliberately not focusing on the warmth of her body against his or on the way she fit so easily between his arms—

No.  

Absolutely not.

After all, Draco had learned several important things today — things which deserved his attention.

For example, he’d learned that Shaklebolt hadn’t warned Granger that Draco would be accompanying her to the party. The Minister had had several hours to convey that information, and his decision not to do so revealed an interesting dynamic between Shaklebolt and Granger.

Draco had also learned that Isabelle’s portal painting collection had grown, now boasting several new destinations around the continent and the UK. While the magicked artwork was beautiful in its own right, it was also pragmatic and defensive, which suggested Isabelle was preparing for something. 

And most significantly, he’d learned that Granger, famed soldier and duelist, had never cast the killing curse. 

So, yes. There were many things to consider — and certainly enough to occupy one’s mind during a ten-minute flight.

And yet, in spite of all of this, from takeoff to landing, all Draco could think about was how Hermione Granger’s hair smelled like roses. 

Draco and Granger dismounted from the homistrel to find Isabelle awaiting them on the front steps, her long black hair waving in the breeze. A slight arch of Isabelle’s eyebrow was the only indication she’d expected two homistrels instead of one, and she made no mention of the anomaly when she greeted Granger.

Granger, for her part, returned Isabelle’s welcome with a warmth and gratitude Draco was certain she did not feel. It was alarming, really, how quickly her countenance transformed. Gone was the unsteadiness triggered by her fear of flying, the stubborn set of her jaw at Draco’s presence. Her smile was brief and disarming, her eyes sharp and focused, her pleasantries intentional and charming. 

“Thank you for hosting me this evening,” she said as they entered Isabelle’s foyer. “I’m honored to be a part of your celebrations.”

Isabelle leaned towards her and smiled. “Believe me, Miss Granger, the honor is all mine.”

As Draco followed the two women down the corridor that led to the garden, he was shocked by how little the decor had changed. It had been some time since Draco had visited, but so much felt the same: the cream marble clicking under his shoes, the stern-looking portraits of Isabelle’s Benjelloun family members eying him as he passed, the grand staircases curling away into the east wing. 

Draco, of course, had changed.

It had been two years since he had left his life in France, two years since his mother had visited him at the Auror Department and interrupted the delirious, drug-induced violent spiral that had become his life.

It had been the middle of the night, he remembered, but Narcissa had been dressed impeccably. The sight of his mother standing in the middle of the training arena in her dress robes had convinced Draco that the whisky he kept in his desk had finally gone off. 

Or the weed, he had reasoned with a distant frown. It was probably the weed.

But then his mother had crossed to him, her familiar eyes so heavy with worry that they cut through Draco’s high. She’d lifted a hand to his cheek, her fingers brushing against the derelict stubble there. Draco hadn’t dared to breathe as she searched his face, lest she smell the alcohol and desperation on his breath.

My love, she’d murmured. Do you see yourself?

He hadn’t quit his post as an Auror immediately. There was something about being needed, being infamous that was more addictive than any of the substances he used. His existence was defined by rage-filled flashes of cruelty, atrocities committed in the name of a rusting Auror badge…a life incompatible with sobriety or, God forbid, self-awareness. But as the weeks passed, after every bloody-knuckled fight or depraved outing with his fellow Aurors, Draco found his mother’s words ringing in his ears.

My love, do you see yourself?

He gave his notice on a rain-soaked Tuesday and moved to Britain the next day. To stay in France, he had known, would have been to stay a breath away from the violent, cruel man he had become. There were too many memories in Paris, too many reckless colleagues and far too many opportunities to experiment with the darkness that had burrowed between his ribs. 

It was ironic, really, that he would search for a fresh start in the place where everything had first gone so terribly wrong. But St. Mungo’s had proven to be everything he needed — he fixed things instead of fracturing them. He helped people rather than hurting them. And he rarely returned to France — the last time he had visited the country had been six months ago, when he’d come to help his mother with her wards. 

That night, he’d arrived a son and left an orphan.

So. It was fair to say Draco had changed since his last visit to Isabelle’s. 

Distantly, he wondered if the portraits even recognized him.

He barely recognized himself.

It was a testament to Draco’s troubled past that Isabelle didn’t rebuke him for his extended absence. Instead, she greeted him as she’d always had, her hands light on his arms, her eyes heavy with a dimension of grief that Draco swiftly ignored. 

He didn’t want to talk about his mother. 

  My love, do you see yourself?

He didn’t want to talk about his past life as an Auror.

My love, do you see yourself?

He was here, he remembered as he entered the exquisitely decorated ballroom, to help Granger in her fundraising mission. He was here because he understood French society and could navigate it seamlessly. 

He was here for Granger.

It was strange, how much the idea centered him. 

Unsurprisingly, it was clear Granger had done her research before attending the party. She greeted members of high French society with a well-practiced combination of professionalism and ease. And although her smalltalk seemed effortless, it carried with it a relentless undercurrent of intention: money, support, alliance. 

She was hard to ignore and harder still to deny. And in the rare moments when the French aristocrats vacillated, Draco stepped in with his own influence. While he’d distance himself from his cold days as an Auror, he knew his name still demanded attention. News headlines of violent raids and captured criminals were not so easily forgotten, and the Malfoy family fortune was formidable. 

Draco didn’t mind wielding both his reputation and his money to help Granger accomplish her task.

And so he flattered, flirted, and frowned as required. He accepted condolences for his mother’s passing and evaded inquiries about his departure from the Auror department, redirecting them towards the subject of philanthropy. He pretended to refill Granger’s champagne, even though they both knew she wasn’t actually drinking, and followed her lead in their conversations.

In all, he dedicated himself to supporting her.

And by her, of course, Draco meant the Order’s fundraising mission.

Obviously.

“We make a good team,” Granger remarked in a rare moment of quiet. She’d just secured the support of Marie d’Ampharnet, a woman who held large shares in French floo powder manufacturing. The d’Ampharnets’ commitment to the Order’s cause could offset the national shortage and ease the strain on Shaklebolt’s budget.

In all, it could revolutionize the war effort.

The rare sparkle in Granger’s eyes told him she knew this. 

“Thank you for coming,” she continued. She was gazing out over the dance floor, her expression slightly unfocused. “I’m not sure I could have done this without you.”

The rare and raw honesty of her words unnerved him. He swallowed tightly.

“The d’Ampharnets, you could have convinced on your own,” he said with far more nonchalance than he felt. “But the Challants…” He smirked down at her. “You definitely needed me then.”

Granger inclined her head and took a sip of her sparkling water. “They certainly were a challenge.” She hummed thoughtfully. “Though I suppose it helps that they’re devastatingly intimidated by you.”

Draco went very still.

“Is it an Auror thing?” she asked, turning towards him. Her tone was light and nonjudgmental. “Or is it a Malfoy thing?”

An Auror thing or a Malfoy thing.

My love, do you see yourself?

“I…it’s not…” Draco raked his fingers through his hair as he tried to construct an answer. His bruised memories from his time in France rippled against his Occlumency shields — images of cold detachment and broken bones and a conscious numbed into silence—

“Oh.” Granger was looking at him intently now, her brown eyes keen and discerning. Something in her face softened, and she shook her head slowly. “You don’t have to tell me. I shouldn’t have asked.”

Draco stared at her and wondered how, amidst all of this darkness, she managed to be so brilliantly kind.

“Would you like to dance?” The question tumbled from Draco’s lips before he could stop it, and yet he found himself immediately devoted to her answer. The quartet was playing a minuet he recognized from his childhood — he knew the steps, and maybe he could guide Granger around the floor, spin her until her eyes sparkled again—

“No.” 

 Oh.

Oh.

Draco swayed on his feet.

“It really is a beautiful party,” she said contemplatively, as if she hadn’t thoroughly devastated Draco’s intentions. 

“Yes,” he heard himself say. “It is.”

His fingers were numb and hollow, and hot flashes of embarrassment were reaching up his neck, and he had a sudden, visceral wish to be somewhere — anywhere else.

“Excuse me,” he managed. “I’m going to get an actual drink.”

He didn’t wait for Granger’s reply before pushing hastily through the crowd, attempting to catch the eye of one of the pink-clad waiters weaving amongst the partygoers. 

No, she’d said. A simple, curt, clear rejection. A boundary. A line in the sand.

It shouldn’t have jarred him so. It shouldn’t have bothered him at all, actually. They weren’t there to dance, for fuck’s sake — they were there to work. And they’d been doing a good job of it, too, before Draco had managed to derail everything with an impulsive, irrational, thoroughly idiotic suggestion.

Would you like to dance?

God, he really needed that drink.

It was bad enough to be back in France, surrounded by glittering memories of his mother and casual, thoughtless allusions to his grief — we were so sorry to hear of your mother’s passing, what a tragedy, what an awful thing, what a shock! But he had expected it, he had prepared himself to hear Narcissa’s name, to shake hands with people who had known her, to press his lips into a thin smile and assure them he was managing as well as can be expected, thank you, and how is your family in Provence? He’d agreed to be here — fuck, he’d signed up for it, signed up to help Granger. 

Granger, who looked beautiful in her dress robes and who used rose-scented shampoo and who had most likely saved Britain from financial ruin.

Granger, who didn’t want to dance with him.

Draco grabbed two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and knocked the first one back. He closed his eyes against at the visceral, fruity sensation and the nauseating emotions swirling in his gut. 

“Old habits die hard, don’t they?”

Draco’s eyes snapped open to find Blaise Zabini approaching him from the corridor.

“Blaise,” Draco said, his voice tense. 

“Malfoy.”

The two men eyed each other warily. It had been two years since they’d last spoken, when Draco had practically fled from the dimly lit Auror Department, ignoring the questions and owls that followed him. Blaise had been Draco’s first partner — and only friend — in Paris; they’d completed each step of Auror training together, navigating a new culture of magic and violence and impunity. But while Blaise had maintained a sense of detachment from the nature of the work, Draco had allowed it to consume him. 

“I have to say, I didn’t believe the rumors that Dix-Sept had returned, and yet.” Blaise tilted his head. “Here you are.”

“I don’t use that name anymore.”

“No, I suppose you don’t.” 

There was a moment of strained silence, their history hanging in their air between them. Then, Blaise’s expression relaxed. When he shook Draco’s hand, his grip was firm enough to say he resented Draco’s absence and warm enough to say he understood it. 

“It’s good to see you,” Draco said, feeling the tension leave his shoulders.

This had Blaise’s lips curling in a smirk. “Is it?”

“Yeah.” Draco took a measured sip of his champagne. “Reminds me how much better looking I am.”

“Ah.” Blaise’s white teeth flashed. “The old delusions return.”

“They never left, I assure you.”

“Mmm.”

“How have you been?”

Blaise raised an eyebrow at the depressingly vaque question, but he answered nonetheless. “Fine.” He worked his jaw and looked out over the party. “Not much has changed at the office. Clement is still in charge, so you know what that means.”

Draco did: hasty warrants and decisive, harsh raids.

“According to Isabelle, you’re healing at St. Mungo’s now?” Blaise said after a heavy moment.

“I am.”

“Trauma ward?”

“Yeah.”

Blaise made a thoughtful noise before nodding. “I can see it,” he said.  

Draco swallowed a mouthful of champagne to avoid thinking about how much he’d missed his friend.

Blaise motioned to a passing waiter and secured a glass for himself. 

“And healing?” he asked. “Is it what you needed?”

“It is.”

Blaise lifted his flute. “Then cheers to that.”

After a moment of surprise, Draco returned the toast. In the light of the ballroom, Blaise looked much like he always had — his brown eyes sharp, cheekbones severe, diamond studs glittering in his earlobes. The sight of him triggered an uncomfortable combination of nostalgia and panic — for the child Draco had been and the man Blaise had watched him become.

“I’m sorry I didn’t write,” Draco said.

“No, you’re not.”

Draco exhaled on the ghost of a laugh. “You’re right.” He glanced at his friend. “But it’s still good to see you.”

“You too, Draco.”

They looked out over the dance floor. It really was a spectacular party — pink, orange, and purple fairy lights glittered from the ceiling, casting the room in a warm, soft glow. Isabelle, it seemed, had placed a warming charm over the veranda, and the floor-to-ceiling windows were thrown open, their gold curtains waving slightly in the breeze.

“Isabelle has outdone herself this year,” Blaise said. 

Draco hummed in agreement. 

“Her last party wasn’t nearly as large.”

“This is her fiftieth, right?” Draco took a sip of champagne. “Makes sense she’d invite more people.”

“Mmm. And I can’t imagine many would pass up the opportunity to meet the Golden Girl.”

Draco stiffened at the reference to Granger. He could almost see her brown eyes flashing at the nickname he knew she resented.

“—haven’t seen her since Hogwarts,” Blaise was saying. He looked at Draco curiously. “Though I imagine you see quite a bit of her these days.”

“She’s a soldier and I’m a Healer, and there’s a war going on.” The words came out clipped and cold, and Draco fought to regain control of his temper. “Our paths cross frequently.”

“Mmm.” Blaise’s eyes glinted wickedly. “Good old-fashioned path-crossing.”

Draco shot him a look. “Stop thinking what you’re thinking.”

“I’m not thinking anything.”

“For once, some impressive self-awareness.”

“So she has nothing to do with you downing champagne like it’s water in the corner?”

“I’m not in the corner.”

Blaise was undeterred. “Rumor has it, you’re here as her bodyguard.” 

That had Draco snorting into his drink. “Bodyguard?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Granger needs a bodyguard like you need another piercing.”

“Whatever you say.” Blaise rocked back on his heels, his expression open. “But it has drawn attention, you know.”

“What has?”

“You and Granger. The return of Dix-Sept after—“

“I’ve told you not to call me that.”

“Fine. The return of Draco Lucius Malfoy after your unceremonious exit two years ago.”

Draco grunted. “What of it.”

“People are wondering how Granger convinced you to return to France.”

“People?”

“Aurors,” Blaise continued. “Your old friends. Alain, Camille, Henri.” Blaise’s expression sobered slightly. “Me.”

The mention of names from Draco’s past had his stomach tightening painfully. Alain Lavigne, Camille Barre, and Henri Dior had been part of Draco’s Auror cohort all those years ago. And while Draco had regretted leaving Blaise behind, he never once doubted his decision to cut off the other members of their group. Alain, Camille, and Henri had delighted in the violence of their occupation, goading one another into increasingly dark dueling strategies and curses. Draco had reflected and reified all of it.

Dix-Sept. He hadn’t heard that name in years.

It made his blood run cold.

“I don’t care what they think,” Draco muttered into his champagne. “I’ve apologized to you. I don’t care about the rest of them.”

“No?” Blaise arched an eyebrow. 

“No.”

“So their activities and relationships no longer interest you.”

“That’s correct.”

“Then I’m sure you won’t care that Alain is currently dancing with Granger.”

Draco’s head shot up. It didn’t take long to find her — it rarely did, these days. And true to Blaise’s word, she was spinning around the floor in the arms of Alain Lavigne, a cold, mean man who had laughed when Draco had broken a man’s bone, who had lied in warrants and in court, who had killed criminals for sport—

And Granger, Granger was smiling at him and leaning closer to hear something Alain had said, and suddenly Draco couldn’t breathe.

Blaise was watching him closely. “Not a care in the world, huh.”

Draco tore his eyes from Granger. “No.”

“Yes, because you’re clearly so unaffect—“

“Since it seems to have slipped your heavily-perfumed mind, Blaise,” Draco growled, turning his back to the dance floor and glaring at his smug companion, “I’ll remind you that the fucking Dark Lord returned six fucking months ago and killed my mother and is now set to take over the country for a second fucking time.” Draco didn’t raise his voice, he didn’t yell, but the mirth disappeared from Blaise’s face. “So no, I don’t care about infantile French rumors, I don’t care what the other Aurors think of me, and I certainly don’t care who Hermione fucking Granger is dancing with.”

The blood rushing in Draco’s ears drowned out the music, and Blaise shifted uncomfortably. His mouth opened and closed in a rare moment of hesitation.

Draco glared at his remaining champagne in disgust before vanishing it with a wave of his hand. He needed to get himself under control.

“Draco,” Blaise began slowly, “I’m sorry—“

“Leave it alone, Blaise.

“I am, though.”

Draco worked his jaw and exhaled slowly. “Yeah,” he said finally.

“I thought about writing.” Blaise was watching him carefully. “I didn’t know if you’d want to hear from me.”

“Right.”

“That’s not an excuse, though.”

“Yeah. It’s okay.”

“No, it isn’t. And—shit.” Blaise glanced at Draco warily. “Here he comes.“

“Who?”

“Blaise! Draco! Les mecs!!”

Draco’s eyes rolled towards the ceiling at the grating sound of Alain Lavigne’s voice. Apparently, the man had finished his dance with Granger — which, as a reminder, Draco cared nothing about — and had decided to inflict the burden of his presence elsewhere.

Blaise lifted his glass in greeting. Draco didn’t bother to turn around.

“Alain,” Blaise said. “Can’t say I’m surprised to see you here.”

“Ah, you know me!” Alain stepped past Draco’s periphery and clasped Blaise’s shoulder. “I never miss a party!” Alain turned his cold blue eyes to Draco. “And the legendary Dix-Sept himself! God, I wondered if we’d ever see you again!”

Draco glared down at him silently. Privately, he wondered if he could transfigure the Auror into a rodent and get away with it.

 Alain tilted his head and leaned towards Blaise. “He hasn’t gone mute, has he?”

Perhaps an ostrich. 

Blaise swirled his champagne and shrugged. “Not to my knowledge, no.”

Yes, an ostrich would do quite well.

“Hmm.” Alain adjusted his stance and offered Draco an insincere smile. “This little display isn’t about me dancing with your lovely companion tonight, is it, Draco?” 

When it became clear Draco didn’t plan on responding, Blaise cleared his throat. “Draco and Granger are here professionally, Alain.”

“Oh, I’m aware. I just committed a small fortune of my money to their little professional endeavor.”

“Did you?” said Blaise.

“Yes. Eighty thousand, actually, to go directly to the food shortage.”

Eighty thousand? Draco swallowed tightly. Alain’s family was absurdly rich, but still—

“—made quite the compelling case,” Alain was saying. He leaned towards Blaise. “And she isn’t hard to look at, either.”

Draco clenched his jaw so tightly he swore a tooth cracked. An unfamiliar feeling was unfurling against his ribs, long thorny tentacles reaching up his throat and turning his tongue sour. The donation was a good thing — incredible, even. It only added to the objective success of the evening.

Granger would be thrilled.

So why did he feel like he wanted to kill Alain with his bare hands?

There was a knowing glint in Blaise’s eye, and it looked as if he was biting back a grin. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, “we should go outside for a smoke.”

Draco dragged his eyes away from Alain and nodded once.

Alain straightened his lapels. “Excellent idea,” he drawled. “I’ve been meaning to—“

“No.” The word escaped from Draco’s lips softly, but it froze in the air between them.

Alain paused and tilted his head. “I beg your pardon?”

“No,” Draco repeated, more loudly this time. He straightened to his full height and clapsed Alain tightly on the shoulder. “You, Alain, aren’t invited.” 

And as Draco watched the Auror’s face turn from pink to red to purple, he was reminded of something he’d come to appreciate during his time in France:

There were far worse things than a violent reputation. 

The thought entertained him all the way to the veranda.

Chapter Text

Hermione stepped out onto the veranda and took a deep, steadying breath. The evening was going well — extraordinarily well, actually, but the constant stream of smalltalk and obsequiousness was beginning to take its toll. 

She leaned against the banister and sighed. Harry had always been better at this type of thing. Effortlessly flattering, naturally humble, and blessed with an easy sense of humor, he’d charmed his way through the entire Wizenagemot before the age of eighteen. Ron, too, had enjoyed the attention at Ministry events, laughing boisterously at inappropriate jokes, arm slung around Harry’s shoulders, goblet hanging loosely from his fingers.

Hermione had been content to let them to take the lead, simply enjoying the pleasure of their company and the bottomless champagne. 

They’d always had fun together.

The thought clawed across her abdomen, cold and unforgiving. Hermione took a tight breath.

She was doing this for them.

The money and resources she’d fundraised tonight would be enough to fund wolfsbane brewing and offset the floo powder shortage. Surely, it would be enough to convince Lee to give her more time to continue looking for her friends. 

She would find them. 

And when she found them, she’d tell them how she’d quite literally flown on an invisible creature — with Draco Malfoy, of all people — to a French fundraiser where she’d had to dance with several insufferable men. 

Yes, she decided. Harry and Ron would both find that extremely entertaining. 

“The homi-whatever was invisible?! Completely invisible?” She could almost see Harry’s eyebrows disappearing beneath his hair. 

“And you were with Malfoy?” Ron’s jaw would be on the floor. “But…why?”

Why, indeed.

For all of Hermione’s earlier protests, Malfoy had proven to be an invaluable companion at the party. He was universally recognized and, Hermione had noted, extraordinarily influential. On more than one occasion, Malfoy’s mere presence over her shoulder had pushed a French businessman towards a larger donation.  

Hermione had spent enough time around war heroes and celebrities to recognize deference when she saw it. And it wasn’t necessarily surprising — the Malfoy fortune was still intimidatingly large, after all. But beneath all the politesse and politicking, there was an undercurrent of something else, something more sinister. 

The people here were frightened of him.

Hermione wanted to know why.

Alain Lavigne, one of the French Aurors she’d had the misfortune of meeting, had hinted at the reason earlier this evening.

I never thought I’d see Dix-Sept on this side of the channel, he’d said after insisting (quite literally) that Hermione accompany him for a dance. She’d acquiesced solely because the Lavigne family was notoriously wealthy, but the sour smell of salmon on his breath had made her regret her decision immediately.

Who? Hermione had asked, subtly trying to lean away from her unfortunate partner. 

Draco Malfoy, of course. 

Hermione’s french was nowhere near perfect, but she recognized enough to know the nickname meant seventeen. When she’d pressed Lavigne for more information, however, he’d shaken his head and offered her an oily smile.

Forgive me, Miss Granger, he’d said, his hand sliding lower on her back, but I prefer not to speak about other men when I’m dancing with a beautiful woman.

Hermione had visibly cringed.

Now in the silence of the veranda, Hermione’s questions about Malfoy’s past returned, clanging around the shadows and demanding her attention. 

At first, Hermione was surprised by the intensity of her curiosity. And then, she was ashamed. Didn’t she know what it was like to have people relentlessly dissect her past? To disrespect her boundaries and demand her explanations?

It was none of her business, she told herself firmly. Malfoy did not owe her his vulnerability or his reasons. She would not ask for them.

But that didn’t mean she hadn’t noticed how much allusions to his past disturbed him. The mere mention of his mother’s name that evening had caused him to tense, fingers tightening around his glass, eyes hardening with Occlumency. It was extraordinarily clear that he did not wish to discuss his grief. And so, no matter how much Hermione wanted to place a hand on his forearm, to softly tell him how very sorry she was, how much she appreciated him returning to a place that carried so many memories for him, she kept herself an arm’s length away. 

Distant. Professional.

Why, then, did the lack of him settle so coldly in her chest?

She exhaled slowly. No matter the complexity of her relationship with Malfoy, they’d gotten what they’d come for tonight. She would return to the Ministry with good news and—

There was a flash of black in her periphery. In an instant, Hermione’s wand was in her hand, posture flexed and defensive. The all-too familiar adrenaline of war jumped in her fingers as she spun to face a man standing unnaturally still several meters away.   

He was startlingly tall and thin, with dark hair and eyebrows pulled tightly over sunken cheekbones, and he was staring intently at her.

“Who are you?” she demanded. 

The man did not reply. Instead, jet-black eyes slid from Hermione’s face down to her wand and back up again. 

“I mean you no harm,” he said quietly, holding his palms out to his side.

Hermione's jaw tightened. “In my experience, unannounced, unidentified visitors are rarely harmless.”

“Ah. Then allow me to introduce myself.” The man lowered his head in a small bow. “My name is Loic de Sade.” 

Still, Hermione did not lower her wand. “And what do you want?”

The man straightened slowly. In the dim light from the ballroom, his skin appeared sallow and waxy, an observation which only grew more alarming when his lips stretched into a smile.

“What everyone else has wanted this evening,” he said. “I would like discuss an arrangement.”

“An arrangement,” she repeated. A sudden chill passed over her.

“Yes.”

“A donation?”

“Ah. Not quite.” There was that unnerving smile again. “The assistance I can offer is less…” He paused, his eyes sharp on her face. “Financial.”

And suddenly, his silent entrance, his pallid complexion, and his unnatural, discomfiting aura combined in a vivid, jarring conclusion:

De Sade was a vampire.

The realization had Hermione adjusting her grip on her wand. Her safety that evening was maintained by Isabelle’s blood oath, but blood magic worked differently on vampires. 

De Sade tracked Hermione’s new understanding, his eyes glittering in the shadows of the porch.

“As I’ve said,” he told her, taking a small step forward, “I do not intend to harm you.”

Hermione remained where she was and watched him closely. “Intentions mean very little to me, you can understand.”

De Sade inclined his head. “So I can,” he said. “Still. I come as a friend.”

A friend. Everything from de Sade’s cagey expression to the isolated nature of their conversation warned of the opposite.

And yet.

Vampires were extraordinarily powerful. With their resistance to blood magic, sensual influence, and lethal appetite, they made significant - albeit unreliable - allies. By conservative estimates, one vampire could take the place of seven experiences Aurors. 

And vampires normally worked in groups.

“Alright,” Hermione said. Silently, she traced a tetrahedral pattern immediately before her. The air between her and the vampire glowed blue with a barrier spell. 

“There,” she said. “Now I feel friendly.”

De Sade grinned then, canines flashing in the darkness. “Oh, but you are a pleasure,” he purred. 

Silently, Hermione added an additional level to her shield and flicked her eyes towards the ballroom. If needed, she could quickly mobilize support. “You mentioned an arrangement.”

De Sade’s eyes were heavy and predatory on her face as he nodded. “An exchange.”

“Of?”

“My support, as well as that of others of my kind in France.” 

Hermione’s eyebrows jumped. “That is quite the offer, Monsieur de Sade.”

“Please, call me Loic.”

“Alright. And what do you want in return, Loic?”  

“Access,” he said simply.

“To?”

De Sade took another step towards her. “Rumor has it, Miss Granger, there is a peculiar type of magic that lives inside of you.” He tilted his head. “A kind of blood curse.”

Hermione froze, and her heartbeat thundered in her ears. De Sade’s words collided with her deepest Occlumency shields like sharp-tongued missiles. 

“How do you know about that?” Her voice was barely a whisper. 

“I make it my business to know such things,” he said softly. “But your condition? The cursed knife? The scar?” He licked his lips. “There’s nothing quite like it.”

Hermione swayed on her feet as her Occlumency shields faltered. She could not - would not - allow herself to think of what had happened all those years ago: the smell of antiseptic, the hot, viscous pain burning through her veins, hospital sheets starched and rough against her skin… 

“I would like access to this magic, Miss Granger.” de Sade’s lips curled gracefully. “I wish to study it. To understand it.” 

There were fissures in her shields now, cracking through her mind.

“She is hallucinating,” the Healer said. “Restrain her.”

Restrain her.

Hermione’s left wrist reflexively tucked into her chest, the glamoured scar burning with phantom viciousness—

“Please,” a woman was screaming. “Make it stop, make it stop!” 

Restrain her, make it stop

We didn’t take anything, I swear! Please, please, make it stop—

De Sade’s eyes dashed hungrily to her arm, and his lips parted. “Let me—“

“Enough.” Hermione staggered backwards. Sour memories from two years ago coated her tongue, reaching down into her throat. “That is enough.”

De Sade tilted his head. “We could make a powerful pair, Miss Granger—“

“No.” Even as her fingers trembled, Hermione’s voice snapped firmly across the veranda. “Absolutely not.”

The vampire’s expression hardened. “I ask that you reconsider.”

“I will not.”

De Sade hissed through his teeth, a long, cold sound that sent gooseflesh down Hermione’s arms. He moved towards her, his features twisting violently. “Don't you wish to know how the curse works?" he asked angrily. "I could—“

“De Sade.”

The low, hard voice had both Hermione's and the vampire's attention snapping to the doorway. There, in the yellow light of the ballroom, stood Draco Malfoy, cigarette in hand and murder in his eyes.

Immediately, Hermione's breathing steadied. De Sade took a step back, his unsettling features twisting in surprise and something that looked like wariness. 

“Draco Malfoy,” the vampire said softly. “It has been a long time.”

But Malfoy wasn’t looking at de Sade. Instead, his gray eyes were intent on Hermione, silently scanning and evaluating in that disarming way of his. And as he tracked her defensive posture, the wand in her fist, and the wrist held close to her chest, the storm brewing in his eyes intensified. 

Slowly, he dragged his gaze to the vampire. “The party is back inside, de Sade,” he said, jerking his head over his shoulder. “You seem to have lost your way.”

Malfoy was about as far from his Healer persona as possible now - black robes brushing the marble floor, cold eyes narrowed. Beside him, Zabini leaned lazily against the doorframe, but the power coiled around his body was unmistakable. He too kept his eyes fixed on the vampire.

When de Sade remained silent, Zabini casually drew his wand his pocket and began to inspect it.

“Perhaps, Draco,” he said, casually rolling the wood in his palm, “our friend requires an escort.”

Malfoy’s gaze did not waver. “Perhaps,” he said.

De Sade’s mouth fell open, and he flicked his tongue against a sharp canine.

“You wizards and your magic,” he said finally, tone dripping with derision. His gaze snapped to Hermione. “Will it be enough?” He tilted his head. “Will it be enough to save your friends?”

She remained silent even as she tasted bile on her tongue. 

De Sade’s eyes glinted knowingly in the darkness. “There may a come a time, Hermione Granger, when you require someone with my expertise.” His eyes flicked to Malfoy. “Perhaps you will be more open to my proposal then.”

He sent a final, hungry glance at Hermione's wrist that had her breath catching in her throat.

And then, the vampire turned on his heel and, with a curl of smoke, disappeared into the night.

“I said, go home, Malfoy.”

At long last, Hermione stepped out of the floo and into the welcome quiet of Grimmauld Place, Isabelle d’Albret’s party finally behind her. Her Occlumency shields were bruised and tattered from both the vampire’s assault and the strain of holding herself together for the rest of the party, and a headache was beginning to form behind her left temple.

In spite of Hermione's physical and psychological discomfort after her run-in with de Sade, she had managed to return to the ballroom, secure another potential donation, and thank Isabelle for the invitation without incident. 

But now? Her exhausted mind was riddled with shock, haunted by the echoes of trauma she had spent years trying to forget. 

She needed a potassium supplement and a shower. 

But first, she needed to take off her god-forsaken shoes.  

“I’m not leaving, Granger. Not until you tell me what happened.” Malfoy sounded just as tired as she was, yet he remained by the fireplace as she sat to undo her boots. 

Hermione exhaled on her frustration, tugging at the laces with more force than strictly necessary. 

“I told you,” she said. “He wanted to make a trade of—”

“Of support for political amnesty,” Malfoy finished. “Yes, I remember.”

“Then I don’t see what the problem is.” Hermione stood, shoulders relaxing slightly at the relief in her feet, and moved towards the corridor. 

“The problem, Granger,” Malfoy said, close on her heels, “is that I don’t believe you.”

“Well, that’s hardly my concern.” She was in the kitchen now. “You’re welcome to believe whatever you like, Malfoy.”

“It’s clear that whatever de Sade said upset you.”

Hermione crossed to the sink and summoned a glass. “Yes,” she said. “Vampires tend to have that effect on people.”

Malfoy scoffed. “Because you’re so easily intimidated, Granger.”

She tensed at the sarcasm in his words. “Sometimes, I am,” she snapped, glaring at the darkened window over the sink. 

Her reflection frowned back at her, distorted and unfamiliar, and Hermione exhaled roughly. She could feel the memories de Sade had triggered hovering just over her shoulder, sharp and unforgiving and inescapable—

Hermione looked away sharply as the glass she was filling began to overflow. 

“I’m not sure what you want from me,” she said, screwing the faucet closed and turning to face Malfoy. He was across the room on the other side of the island, but the combination of his dark robes and unwavering attention made his presence overwhelming. She address her words to a spot over his shoulder. “Thank you again for coming with me tonight. You can go now.”

He gave a harsh laugh. “Are you trying to dismiss me, Granger?”

“I’m trying to be polite. I’d like to be alone and—” 

“Why were you protecting your left wrist when I came out onto the veranda?”

Why were you

Left wrist

Restrain her, please make it stop

Left wrist

PLEASE

There was an awful shattering noise, and Hermione stumbled backward. Shards of glass from her water cup glittered at her feet, and the cold liquid was seeping into her socks.

All Hermione could do was stare at the floor, her hands shaking violently as the memories screamed through her mind. There was sweat on the back of her neck and arms, turning the fabric of her robes foreign and uncomfortable.

She’s hallucinating

Restrain her, restrain—

A visceral, violent growl escaped from Hermione’s throat, and she slammed the remnants of her Occlumency shields down.

“Granger,” Malfoy was saying softly. “Are you—“

“GO AWAY!” She snapped her head up to glare at him. “I don’t want you here!”

His eyes widened at her tone. “No. You’re obviously unwell—“

“And I will handle it!” She vanished the broken glass with a jerky wave of her hand. “Leave it alone, for the love of—“

“Whatever it is, Granger, I can help—“

“I don’t need your help!”

“No?” He arched a cold eyebrow. “You can barely stand.“ He tilted his head. “How long do you think you’ll last before you need another potassium supplement?”

His words slammed into her.  “Don’t you dare.” Her voice came out low and rough. “Don’t you dare pretend to know me—“

“I know you avoid hospital treatment whenever you can.“

“Stop it.”

 “I know you wear a glamor on your left wrist—“

“Malfoy, I’m warning you—“

“—the same wrist de Sade was reaching for when Blaise and I found you—“

“What do you want?” The makeup she’d worn began to run into her eyes, and she was startled to find angry tears blurring her vision. “What do you want from me, Malfoy?”

“The truth would be a brilliant fucking start—”

“And would I get it back?”

He stared at her. “What?”

“If I answered all of your invasive questions, would you tell me about your past?” His mouth snapped shut into a cold, firm line. “Your life as an Auror? Why everyone at that party was so fucking afraid of you?” 

Distantly, a voice warned that she was breaking her promise not to push Malfoy, but she ignored it. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Granger,” he said tightly.

“Oh no? You don’t want to talk about France? Or your mother? Or why they call you Dix-Sept—“

“That’s enough.” His expression was stone-cold with anger. “That’s enough, Granger.“

“Sure! Then leave me alone!“

“No.”

“What’s the bloody difference? Why do you just get to invade my life and—“ 

“Because it’s my job, Granger!” His cheeks were red. “I am a Healer! This is my job!”

This is my job.

Hermione’s breath caught on his words, and the enormity of their conversation collapsed into that simple, bitter truth: that Malfoy’s questions and concerns were a duty, that his relentless presence was a requirement of the war. He had an professional obligation to ask after her past. 

Of course.

The thought twisted through her stomach, and her shoulders slumped forward.

“Right.” The word left her in a defeated burst of air. “It’s your job to make sure I’m sane and functioning.” Her lips twisted bitterly. “Get the Golden Girl all shiny and new again.”

Malfoy’s frown deepened. “No, I…” He swallowed. “I won’t apologize for trying to keep you safe.”

“Of course not!” She gave a cold, hollow laugh. “Can’t have anything happen to me, can we? It would be a liability.” She sneered at him. “It would damage my utility.”

His eyes flashed dangerously. “That is not what I said, Granger, and you know it.“

“It doesn’t matter.” She shook her head as cold resignation settled in her bones. “You want the truth, Malfoy?” Almost robotically, she waved her hand over her sleeve, magically undoing the row of buttons there. “You want to know what happened?" A shadow passed over Malfoy’s face as she pushed up the fabric. "Fine.” 

And then she undid her glamor. 

Most everyone in the Wizarding World knew about Hermione’s original scar, the symbol of Bellatrix Lestrange’s sadist insanity. A description of the injury had been featured in the Daily Prophet a year after the war had ended. Kingsley had been pushing pro-muggleborn legislation, and Hermione had agreed to share her story to support it. The legislation had passed, due in no small part to the horror incited by Hermione’s scar.

Now, though, five years later, Hermione bore a different mark. Where Bellatrix had once carved her supremacist slur, there was now a mangled, puckered mess of skin. Only the final O and D of the word remained, the other letters unintelligible beneath angry, raw layers of scar tissue. 

Hermione looked up from her arm to find Malfoy staring at her wrist, his jaw clenched and his eyes stone cold. 

“When did this happen?” he asked quietly.  

Hermione curled her right hand into a fist and took a steadying breath. “Two years ago,” Hermione said. “I'd learned about a muggle scar-removal strategy called microblading in America.” She pressed her lips together. “In theory, small incisions are made in the skin, which then allows the wound to heal more naturally.”

“Yes,” Malfoy said without looking up. “I’ve heard of the procedure.”

Hermione nodded. “Right. The…the data were promising, so I decided to…” She inhaled unsteadily. “I hated my scar. And a cosmetic Healer in St. Mungo’s agreed to try the procedure. But I…I didn’t realize that the knife Bel—that she’d used had left a curse in my blood. Some scholars call it the Prometheus curse.” 

A curt nod of Malfoy’s head told Hermione he recognized the name.

In Greek mythology, Zeus condemned Prometheus to a perpetual cycle of torture: during the day, an eagle pecked out the man’s liver, and at night, his liver regrew. A knife carrying the Prometheus curse functioned similarly: if one interfered with a scar left by the blade, they would reignite the stimuli of the precipitating event. 

“When the Healer began the incisions, he triggered memories of…of that night.” Hermione swallowed. “It was like I was back in the drawing room. The cruciatus and the knife and the torture. I tried to stop the procedure, but…” Hermione pressed her eyes together. “The Healer thought I was hallucinating. He had me restrained and tried to complete the procedure—“

“He what?” Malfoy looked up at her for the first time, and his eyes were on fire. “He restrained you?”

“Yes.” Hermione’s mouth was dry. “And then I—“

Cold fury flashed over Malfoy’s face, and the force of it knocked Hermione back a step.

“Who.” Malfoy’s voice was unrecognizable. 

“It doesn’t—“

“A name, please.” Malfoy’s face was pale and hard, as if carved from marble. When Hermione hesitated, he shook his head. “Who was the Healer, Granger?”

Hermione considered refusing him, but the set of his jaw told her he wouldn’t accept her silence.

“Albert Ruins,” she said quietly. “But he was forced into retirement. After what happened.”

A vein was pulsing in Malfoy’s neck, and his lips were pale. “Good,” he said shortly. 

She was staring at him, but his eyes had already fallen back to her wrist. “Does it cause you any pain?” he asked.

“Physically, not really, as long as I don’t touch it.” She shifted uneasily. “Psychologically, though, the memory…” She trailed off and bit her lip.

“It’s why hospitals are difficult for you,” Malfoy said quietly.

“Yes.”

"No gloves, no hospital beds, no antiseptic."

"Right."

There was a moment of silence. “That’s very understandable, Granger.”

His validation settled under her skin, warm and reassuring and unfamiliar. Hermione took a step back. 

“So,” she managed, shifting uncomfortably. “Now you know.”

He was watching her closely. “Thank you for telling me.”

She nodded and went to pull her sleeve down, but her fingers were shaking too violently for her to grasp the fabric. Suddenly, Malfoy was immediately before her, his fingers a breath away from her hands.

“May I?” he asked quietly.

She nodded. “Please try not to touch—“

“I know.” 

She watched as he carefully pulled her sleeve over her scar, his fingers working deftly over the fabric. Next, he moved to the row of buttons.

As he worked, Hermione focused on the rise and fall of her chest with each exhale, the heavy exhaustion settling in her fingers, and, she was surprised to realize, a cautious gratitude for the man across from her unfolding in her chest.  

These days, Hermione was so rarely honest — at least, not in the raw, aching way her heart yearned for. The intensity of the war held little room for her fragility or grief. And in the rare moments where Hermione found words hold her pain, she was unwilling to share them, to bring her thorns and unsteadiness to another’s doorstep. 

Articulating her trauma and answering Malfoy’s careful questions had started as a bitter act of resignation. 

But now…

There was a small glimmer of peace in the midnight kitchen.

Not that she necessarily appreciated Malfoy’s incessant probing, of course, but—

“I killed seventeen men on my first assignment.” 

Malfoy’s voice was low, but his words—and the significance behind them—were unmistakable. Hermione inhaled sharply and looked up at him. His eyes remained fixed on her sleeve. 

“It was a raid on a criminal drug organization,” he continued. “They were targeting young teenagers. Dreamless Sleep laced with poison. I was…well, I figured I was good at destroying things, and I decided they deserved it.” He looked up at her and gently released her arm. “That’s where the nickname comes from.”

She stared at him, her eyes tracing the shadows that passed over his face. “Malfoy,” she said softly.  He was no more than a breath away from her. “I—“ 

“It’s okay, Granger.” He seemed to realize how close he was, and he took a step back. “I just…you asked if you would get it back. The honesty.”

Hermione blinked. 

“You were right,” he continued. “It wasn’t fair of me to…to expect something I wasn’t willing to give.”

“Ah.” Hermione swallowed and tried not to mourn the distance between them. “Right. Thank you.”

“Yes. Of course.” He seemed to hesitate. “And…we can discuss how to make the hospital more comfortable for you. Later. If you’d like.”

There it was again, that strange, peaceful feeling. That sense of being seen.

“Maybe,” she said, and she was surprised to realize she meant it.

“Do you still have the Dreamless Sleep I made for you?” he asked. 

It was all Hermione could do to nod.

“Good.” 

He took another step away. The silence between them was charged and uncertain, hanging in the air like strands of silk.

“Well,” Hermione said.

“Well,” he repeated softly.

“It’s late.”

“Yes, it is.” 

Slowly, cautiously, Hermione felt her lips lift into a small smile. “Good night, Malfoy.”

His eyes widened briefly before he inclined his head. The tension of the evening had left his body, and he looked many years younger. “Good night, Granger.” 

And then he was turning away into the corridor, walking towards the floo, and the most peculiar sensation was unfurling in Hermione’s chest, and suddenly he paused and turned, so sharply she wondered if she’d reflexively called out to him.

He looked at her for a moment, his eyes heavy on her face. “You should know,” he said, the words quiet in the shadows of the corridor, “that I don’t…you…you’re more than a job, Granger.” He nodded once, almost more to himself than to her. “More than a job.”

Later that night, long after the floo had gone cold, the sentiment — that she was more than a tool, more than a soldier — stayed with her. 

And as she massaged rose shampoo into her hair, Hermione dared to wonder what it would be like to believe it.  

Chapter Text

And I used to think 

you could hear the ocean in a seashell.

What a childish thing.

-Phoebe Bridgers, Sidelines

“We have the napkins?”

“Yes.”

“And the butter beer?”

“Yes.”

“And the streamers? And the snacks from that place in Kilburn she won’t stop talking about—“

“Yes, Rana.” Draco looked up from the paperwork in front of him, marking his place with his quill. “Everything is sorted.”

The student flushed and gave a restless little hop. “Yes, okay, fantastic. But, are you sure? Because I went by the break room and I saw firewhisky but no butter beer, and—”

“Rana.” Draco couldn’t help a ghost of a smile from flashing across his face. “I’m sure.”

“Okay,” Rana said again, the word escaping in a rushed huff. “All that’s left is the cake, and Hermione Granger is bringing that!”

Draco nodded his head. “I know. You’ve told me.” Several times.

“The Hermione Granger!” She clasped her hands together. “I’m so excited to meet her! And eat her cake!” Rana frowned. “Wait, that sounded weird. You know what I mean. Eek! Okay. And you remember the plan?”

“Yes, I remem—“

“So Lavender will show up at eight o’clock because she thinks she’s on the night shift, and you’ll tell her there’s a patient you need to update her on, and then—“

“I’ll say I need a cup of tea, and I’ll ask to brief her in the break room.” Draco leaned back in his chair. “I remember.”

“Yes! Perfect!” Rana pressed her palms to her cheeks. “The plan is flawless. And she has no idea! Especially if you ask her. Because you don’t really seem like the surprise party type, you know?”

Draco stared at her.

She flicked her fingers at his expression. “See, I know you’re trying to intimidate me, but your entire face is literally proving my point.”

Draco arched a cool eyebrow.

“Okay, now you’re doing the scary-boss thing, so I’m gonna go.” Rana practically leapt towards the doorway. “But it’s so exciting!” She threw a brilliant smile over her shoulder. “Isn’t it exciting?”

“It is,” he said.

“I haven’t been to a birthday party in months! It’s a beach theme because she loves the ocean and…” Rana was still talking to herself about the festivities when she left Draco’s office and entered the corridor. A moment later, he heard her vigorously questioning someone on the status of balloons. 

The corners of Draco’s mouth lifted as he returned to his reports.

“You and your tea.” 

Brown shook her head affectionately as she and Draco made their way down the corridor. True to form, she’d shown up ten minutes early to her shift. Luckily, Draco had been prepared with several diverting conversation topics so that Brown wouldn’t head to the break room too early.

The key to a good surprise party, Rana had half-shouted earlier that day, brandishing a bottle opener like a weapon, is punctuality!

The glint in her eye had been mildly terrifying, so Draco made sure to keep Brown in the ward until 8 o’clock sharp.

And, apparently, his manufactured excuse of needing tea for the rest of their conversation was very much in-character.

“How many cups do you reckon you have a day?” Brown asked. Her hair was plaited tightly against her head, and her voice was sharp and no-nonsense. 

She really had no idea.

The thought had Draco biting back a grin.

“Not sure,” he said with an easy shrug. They were about thirty paces from the break room. “Four, maybe five?”

“Hmm.” Brown made a thoughtful noise. “That’s actually quite reasonable.”

“Thanks.”

“So. Any fun plans tonight?” She smirked at him. “A hot date?”

“Oh, absolutely. I’m taking someone to dinner in Diagon Alley.”

“Really?”

“No.”

She snorted. 

“How about you?” Draco couldn’t help himself. “Are you and Patil doing something for your birthday this weekend?”

“I think so,” Brown said dismissively. “Maybe a quiet night in? There’s this muggle film we’ve been meaning to watch.”

“That sounds nice.”

“Yeah. So tell me about this patient.”

They were almost to the break room now — Draco could see the shadowed entrance. He casually slowed his footsteps so that Brown would reach it first.

“Female patient, late sixties,” he said, keeping his tone level. “Hit by a consumption curse several days ago.”

“Muggle?”

“Yes.”

“And how are her pH levels?”

“Stable, but on the acidic side.”

Brown nodded as they reached the door to the break room. “Got it.” She pulled the handle and felt for the light. “I’ll be sure to—“

“SURPRISE!”

The lamps revealed a crowd of people beaming at Brown, their glasses held in the air. The break room was almost unrecognizable beneath the piles of decorations Rana had added: there were streamers floating along the walls, balloons bumping against the ceiling, and what looked like a full-size beach umbrella in the corner. 

Rana had insisted everyone attending adhere to the beach theme, which added up to a bizarre, unseasonal combination of floral shirts and flashy sunglasses and round-brim hats. Patil was in the center of the group wearing a yellow dress emblazoned with the words “Hello Sunshine,” and she grinned as her wife stopped short in the doorway.

“What?” Brown spun in a circle. “What in the name of—“

“Happy birthday!” someone shouted.

“We love you, Lavender!” 

Patil reached forward and folded Brown into her arms.

“Are you surprised?” Patil asked, tossing Draco a wink over Brown’s shoulder. “Did we get you?”

“I…how…” Brown’s eyes were impossibly wide. “When did…who…” 

Patil threw back her head and laughed. “I’ll take that as a yes.” She turned towards the room. “Can we get the birthday a girl a drink?”

A collective cheer went up, and soon butter beers were floating in the air to eager hands. Someone set a radio to the Weird Sisters, and Patil and Brown were swallowed by the beach-theme crowd. 

As the break room filled with laughter and easy conversation, Draco leaned against the doorframe and took a deep breath. The air felt light, unhurried, daringly joyful - a protest and a prayer all at once. Draco watched as Brown greeted her friends with increasing incredulity and warmth, at one point hugging Cho Chang so fiercely they both almost fell over. When Brown reached Rana, the student waved away the party and flushed. Brown took Rana by the shoulders and shook her head before pulling Rana into a tight embrace. When she stepped away, the normally stoic Healer was wiping at her eyes. 

Of course, no amount of floral shirts or birthday napkins could chase away the shadows of war. Even as he lounged against the counter beside George Weasley, Lee Jordan’s gaze moved restlessly around the room as if scanning for a threat. There were dark circles under Ginny Weasley’s eyes, and Elora Dunn’s smile shook as she handed out party blowers. 

But still. 

They were trying.

It was a brave thing, to try. 

For example. Longbottom was away on a mission, but Lovegood still smiled unreservedly at Katie Bell. Across the room, an older woman who looked astonishingly like Brown was laughing at someone the other Patil sister had said. Draco continued scanning the room, taking in the tentative glimmers of hope, and felt the tension in his chest loosen.

They were trying.  

“We have to stop meeting like this.”

Draco blinked and looked down to find Granger smiling up at him. She was wearing a blue shirt and had a purple flower tucked behind her ear. Somehow, the colors made her eyes brighter. 

Draco cleared his throat. “Meeting like what?”

“At birthday parties.” 

“Ah.” Draco rocked back on his heels. “Right.”

He reached for something else to say, but his tongue was suddenly dry.

What the hell was wrong with him?

Granger didn’t seem to mind his silence. Instead, she leaned against the wall beside him and took in the group. She adjusted the flower in her hair and sighed. 

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” she said after a moment. “To see everyone trying.”

Draco looked down at her, his lips parted in surprise. The sound of her voice articulating his private reflections lingered in the air like afternoon sunshine.

“I was thinking the same thing,” he said finally.

Granger hummed.

“Rana said you brought cake?” he asked.

“Rana?” Granger repeated, her eyebrows twisting together. “Oh! You mean Ishani.”

He nodded.

“She seems so lovely.” Granger grinned. “We’ve only communicated by owl. I’m excited to meet her.”

Draco’s lips twitched as he thought of Rana meeting Granger for the first time. “She’s a big fan.”

“Of me?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Granger shifted, and her smiled dimmed. She began to play with a string on the sleeve of her coat. “That’s…that’s nice.”

Draco’s chest tightened at her obvious discomfort, and he felt a sudden urge to chase the lines from her face. “What kind of cake did you make, Granger?” he asked quickly.

If Granger noticed the clumsy change of subject, she didn’t show it. “Blueberry lemon,” she said. She quirked an eyebrow. “It was almost impossible to find blueberries in November, but Pavarti said it’s Lavender’s favorite.”

“I’m sure she’ll love it.”

“I hope so.” There was a pause. “My mum used to make it for me when I was little.”

The air between them thickened, as it always did when Granger shared something personal. She was usually so guarded, so careful, that even a small glimpse into her personal life felt sacred. 

“Your mother likes to cook?” he asked slowly.

“Yeah. We used to cook together.”

Used to. The words were heavy and dark, ringing with that oppressive finality of grief. But even as Draco registered their shadowed undertone, he remained silent. He was finished prying into Granger’s past without reason. After the night in Grimmauld’s kitchen, when she had revealed so much of herself to him, he'd promised himself he would respect her silence and her secrets.

If she was keeping something from him, he owed it to her to trust her judgment. 

Currently, though, Granger's lips were thin, and her expression had lost its levity. He was doing a poor job of making her feel better.

“Can I get you a drink, Granger?” he tried.

His voice seemed to pull her from her mind, and she glanced at him. “Thanks, but I’m on-duty tonight.”

“Ah. With whom?”

“Ginny, technically, but I told her she could take the night off.”

He eyed her. “Isn’t that dangerous? To be alone?”

She arched an eyebrow in response. “Can I get you a drink, Malfoy?”

He shook his head. “I’m taking over Brown’s night-shift.”

“Alone?” She smirked and lowered her voice dramatically. “Sounds dangerous.”

Draco turned back to the party and rolled his eyes. 

“Speaking of danger.” Granger made a contemplative noise. “I couldn’t help but notice you haven’t adhered to the theme.”

He blinked. “I was the one who met Brown. I think a floral shirt would have drawn attention.”

“Oh? I don’t know about that.” There was a teasing lilt to her voice again, and Draco felt his shoulders relax. “Floral so matches your energy.” 

He narrowed his eyes at her, but he didn’t mean it. 

“Besides. Now that the party’s started, you have no excuse," she continued briskly.

A witty retort was poised on the tip of Draco’s tongue, but then Granger took a step towards him. The combination of her proximity — and the smell of roses that followed it — banished coherent thought from his mind.

“Uh,” he said instead, in a moment of eloquence that would haunt him for the rest of his days.

In an instant, Granger’s wand was in her hand, and she tapped the nameplate on Malfoy’s chest. He watched as it morphed into a smooth, pale seashell. 

“There,” Granger said, taking a step back. Her brown eyes flicked from the shell up to his face, and she offered him a soft smile. “It suits you.”

Draco looked down at the pin as a warm, unfamiliar feeling wrapped around his chest. The shell wasn’t very noticeable at all, actually, but it was a rather impressive piece of magic, and he suddenly felt like he belonged just a little bit more. 

He looked up to thank Granger, but she’d already taken a step away from him. She was playing with that string on her coat again.

“Anyways,” she said. Her cheeks were slightly pink, and she seemed to be avoiding his eyes. “I’d better go see if they need help with the cake.”

“Alright,” Draco said.

As Granger slipped away into the crowd of people, Draco’s fingers subconsciously traced the smooth edges of the seashell. 

He turned away before anyone could see him smile.

Nine o’clock passed, and then ten o’clock, and the party showed no sign of winding down. Every thirty minutes, Draco left to go on rounds, checking on the limited staff that had agreed to work through the night. Thankfully, the ward was quiet and peaceful, and there was no indication of trouble on the horizon. After his 10:30 round, Draco decided to return to the party for a piece of Granger’s blueberry cake. 

As he walked through the empty corridors, he found himself analyzing a patient’s treatment plan for the following week. The gentleman was older, with limited mobility, and Draco was torn on whether invasive surgery was a worthwhile pursuit. 

“I trust you, Mr. Malfoy,” the man had said earlier that evening, his voice hoarse from years of smoking. “Whatever you say, I’ll do.”

Draco pressed his lips together. He needed a consult with Higgins in surgery, and it wouldn’t hurt to review the literature on the operation he had in mind…

Draco was so deep in thought that he didn’t notice the sound of voices around the corner in front of him, nor did he see the three figures standing beyond it. At least, not until he ran directly into one of them.

“Pardon me,” he said, reaching out to steady the woman’s elbow. “I didn’t see you...”

The woman righted herself and turned to face him. For a moment, the world froze, because it was his mother’s face that looked up at him. 

But this woman’s eyes were slanted differently and her mouth was wide and her hair light...and there was no recognition in her expression, no quiet smile...no, she wasn’t his mother, she was...

“Andromeda,” the woman said. “Andromeda Tonks.”

In his periphery, Draco saw her hand raise as if she meant to shake his, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. Distantly, he realized he was staring, but he couldn’t look away from the shadows of his mother on her face.

“Malfoy.” A clear voice cut through his reverie, enough to turn his head. Granger was standing there, and Weasley too. Weasley looked like she had been crying. Granger tilted her head at him. 

“Hello,” she said.

Draco cleared his throat. “Hi.” He looked from Granger, to Weasley, and then finally to his aunt, who was considering him patiently. He glanced down at her proffered hand and then reached to take it.

“I’m Draco.”

“I know,” she said sadly.

He quickly released her and folded his shaking hands into his pockets. He suddenly felt very cold.

It was Andromeda who broke the silence. 

“Ginny, darling, why don’t you come over for dinner tomorrow night?”

Weasley looked at the floor and jerked a nod. 

The lines around Andromeda’s eyes softened.

“Hermione, you would be welcome too, of course,” she said. Then, after a pause, she added, “As would you, Draco.”

It took Draco a moment to realize all three women were watching him. Weasley looked dejected, Granger looked apprehensive, and Andromeda looked thoughtful. It made him uncomfortable.

“No,” he said quickly, far more quickly than he had intended. His aunt didn’t seem surprised by his refusal, but Granger was frowning. Draco tried again. “I mean, thank you for the invitation, but I have...” 

Fear? Grief? Resentment? 

“...plans,” he finished.

Andromeda’s eyes searched his face and then she nodded. “Of course,” she said. 

She turned to the two other women. “Ginny, let’s get back to the party. I have to drop off Teddy’s gift for Lavender, and you can say your goodbyes. Then, I’ll take you home.”

Weasley nodded, but Granger looked confused. “I’m quite happy to take her—”

“None of that,” the older woman responded, wrapping an arm around Weasley’s shoulders. “You are to stay and enjoy yourself a bit.”

“But—”

“No but’s.” Andromeda’s tone was firm. “Have an extra piece of that fantastic cake.”

Granger’s cheeks flushed. “Alright,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow night then.”

Andromeda smiled fondly in response and then nodded at Draco. He felt himself incline his head.

And then she and Weasley were gone, leaving him and Granger in the corridor.

“Is Weasley alright?” Draco heard himself asking. 

Granger seemed surprised by his question. Draco supposed he was as well. 

“Not really,” she said finally. “Lee wants to deemphasize rescue missions at the end of the month. It’s been an upsetting day.”

“‘Deemphasize’?” Draco repeated, frowning. There was a flinty edge to Granger’s voice that unsettled him. “What do you mean?”

She waved a frustrated hand. “New priorities. Shifting from rescue to recovery. Et cetera.”

From rescue to recovery. Surely she couldn't mean Potter and Weasley. Draco and Potter had never gotten along, but still - he couldn’t imagine a scenario in which the Order of the Phoenix would give up on the Chosen One.

He was about to ask Granger for clarification when she cleared her throat.

“She does mean it, you know,” she said.

“Mean what?”

“The dinner invitation.” Granger hesitated. “Andromeda lives close to Oxfordshire.”

Oh. Draco felt his mouth go dry. He barely handled a few minutes of conversation with his aunt. A full evening in the company of someone who so viscerally resembled his mother was out of the question.

“No.” 

Granger seemed disquieted and she stared at her shoelaces.

“Right,” she said. 

Draco wanted to say something, but the feelings swirling against his ribcage defied articulation. 

After a moment, Granger readjusted her coat and pressed her lips together.

“Well, I guess I should be getting back to the party,” she said. 

Draco wanted to explain himself to her, and from the way she was lingering, she wanted that too. 

But he couldn’t. 

So he didn’t.

And she left.

That night, Draco dreamt of his mother.

Chapter Text

The morning sky was a tepid gray, as if the earth itself were unsure of its own awakening. Beneath the thick cover of clouds, it was impossible to know where the sun fell in the sky — the only proof that it was, in fact, daytime was the cool face of Hermione’s watch. 

It was seven o’clock. 

She pressed her lips together and turned away from the window. Ginny was seated at the kitchen table, the Daily Prophet unfolded in front of her, plate of eggs to her right. 

She looked tired.

Hermione summoned Ginny’s mug from the counter and reached for a refill of coffee.

“Anything interesting?” Hermione asked, shoulders relaxing slightly as the smooth smell of coffee filled the air.

Ginny made a noncommittal noise. “Madame Malkin’s is closing.”

“Ah. Not surprising, is it?” 

“Guess not.”

Hermione added a bit of cream to Ginny’s mug and carried it back to the counter. The two of them, along with Luna and Dean, had spent the better part of the night pouring over maps of Great Britain, attempting to identify hideouts where Riddle would keep Harry and Ron. 

Only when Dean had quite literally fallen asleep atop an ancient tom did the group agree to take a break. Luna had left for a nap, and Hermione and Ginny had moved to the kitchen for breakfast.

Of course, there wasn’t much to talk about, with exhaustion and panic thickening the air between them.

So they spoke about the news.

“Do you think we need to worry about Hogwarts funding?” Ginny asked, frowning at the Prophet.

Hermione leaned back against the cupboards and blew on her coffee. “What do you mean?”

“It says here that the board is requesting donations for practicals.”

“Mmm.” Hermione took a sip and shrugged wearily. “Minerva will handle it.”

“Right.”

They fell silent. The truth was, Hermione didn’t know if Minerva would handle it. She didn’t know if the donations would be enough. But there was simply not enough room in her heart to carry another crisis.

Ginny shifted in her seat and picked up her fork. Hermione watched as she pushed the eggs around her plate, the metal utensil scraping in the silence of the kitchen. 

“Want toast instead?” Hermione tried.

“No, thanks.”

“Some yoghurt?”

“I’m not hungry.”

Hermione let it drop. Ginny had every reason to be upset and distant — two days earlier, Lee had formally announced his intention to deemphasize rescue missions. Hermione had thought their successes in France would delay the switch, but Lee had made it excruciatingly clear that the December deadline was unmovable. 

The news hadn’t exactly come as a surprise, but it had settled like sour smoke over the order. Ginny was hid the hardest, her freckles sharp against her pasty skin, fingers perpetually curled against her thighs. 

They had four days left to find Harry and Ron. Four days with access to resources and backup and clearance. 

Four days.

Of course, Hermione would keep looking for her friends, even after Lee shifted priorities. But she knew that, without Order support, it would be almost impossible to carry out a rescue mission.

So. Four days.

But after months of investigating ancient manors, scouring lists of pureblood properties and cross-referencing volumes on protective warding, they were no closer to finding Harry or Ron. 

They were missing something, Hermione knew — some key piece of information, some insight into Riddle’s habits that would explain why he had kept Harry and Ron hidden for so long.

So Hermione did was she did best: research. Quill between her teeth, pieces of parchment floating around her like an erudite solar system, she pulled apart strategies, reports, and articles. She studied archived newspapers and interrogation transcripts, living in the line-by-line of confessions and betrayals and oily hesitations. 

And when the candles waned and her eyes grew heavy, Hermione thought of her first Hogwarts Express ride with her friends, of the candies on the bench between them and the dirt on Ron’s small freckled nose. 

And then, she straightened in her chair and carried on.

“Hermione?” 

Ginny was staring out the pale window, bottom lip caught between her teeth.

“Yeah?”

“Tell me we’re going to find them.”

Ginny’s insistence hung in the air between them, dark and heavy, so heavy it chased the weak morning light from the room. 

“We’ll find them,” Hermione heard herself say. “We will.”

The words turned to ash in her mouth, but still, Ginny nodded.

They stayed in the kitchen long after the eggs went cold.

Maps. One of Suffolk, one of Essex, spread across the table.

An interview transcript: “We were based out of port of Felixstowe ,” said Death Eater Greg Snyder on October 12.

Felixstowe : a coastal town in the south of Suffolk. Cross-referenced with known Death Eater supply chains…potential overlap.

A scouting report for Suffolk by Order Member Finley McClaggan, October 17 : “no detectable Death Eater presence in the region, but most locals unwilling to cooperate. Some hostility.”

A trade of silence for survival?

A local paper headline from October 20 , written by George Duffin: “Floo Powder Missing from Coastal Shipment — Suppliers concerned about recent theft, suspects unidentified—“

Floo powder shortage, hostile locals, Snyder’s interrogation…

October. Felixstowe. 

Almost December now. Are they still there?

“ Harwich ,” said Death Eater Bradford Prewett on November 12 . “We moved to Harwich.”

Harwich . A neighboring port, close to Felixstowe.

Potentially a subtle relocation?

A note in the Ministry interrogation logs: Snyder was interrogated under veritaserum. Prewett provided information willingly.

Willingly, but incompletely?

A likely misdirect, then. Harwich's proximity to Felixstowe would make it a safe option for a lying man, and Prewett’s other information was only mildly useful, so—

“George Duffin?” Dean was looking at the local paper from Felixstowe.

Hermione blinked as transcripts and reports spun through her mind. “Who?”

“He wrote that article.”

Felixstowe. An interview under veritaserum, quiet locals, missing floo powder—

“—dead three days later, and—Hermione, are you listening to me?”

—missing floo powder, and a redirect from another Death Eater. Could be a trap? Knowing Prewett’s tendency for self-preservation, unlikely, but—

“HERMIONE.”

She jumped at Dean’s sudden volume, her knee knocking the table in front of her. “AH! What the hell, Dean?” 

He was staring at her impatiently. “Do I have your attention now?”

Hermione squinted as she rubbed her sore leg. “I suppose.”

“Good.” He leaned across her and pointed at the local report on the floo shortage. “You were reading this.”

“I was.”

“It’s by George Duffin.”

She blinked. “Okay.”

“He’s dead.”

“What?”

Dean held up another paper. “It says here he died in a hiking accident.”

“Really?” Luna emerged from a stack of books, her eyes wide. “That’s terrible.”

“Yes, it would be, except for the fact that he wrote another article. Three weeks after that.”

Hermione stared at Dean. “What the hell are you on about?”

“Hear me out.” Dean pulled out the chair beside Hermione and gestured for Luna to come closer. The excited glint in Dean’s eyes was enough to snap through her weariness — they had been working together for months, and Hermione had never seen him look like that. 

“So,” he said. “Duffin wrote your article, the one on floo powder theft, on October 20. Three days later, the paper published his obituary.”

He held out a creased newspaper bearing the image of a bespectacled Black man smiling at the camera beneath the headline Writer, Adventurer, and Beloved Friend Passes On.

Luna tilted her head, eyes scanning the article. “This is a beautiful tribute.”

“Yes, it’s all very sad, except for the fact Duffin published again. Three weeks later.” Dean revealed another paper, slapping it atop the first. Sure enough, George Duffin’s name flashed up at Hermione from the authorial line.

Hermione chewed on her lip as Luna glanced up at Dean. 

“George is a fairly common name,” she said.

“Right, right. That’s what I thought.” Dean flipped the paper to its back impatiently. “But look at this.”

The final page of the issue bore the headline The Grafton Gazette is pleased to welcome new additions to the Editorial Staff.

And beneath the headline? 

The same picture from George Duffin’s obituary.

“It’s him,” Hermione said, leaning closer to the image. Her heart rate was starting to increase. “It’s really him.”

“So he faked his own death?” Luna’s voice was higher than usual. “Why?”

“Best guess? He was in trouble. He was reporting on floo—”

“—powder shortages,” Hermione finished, her heart racing as she scanned the newspapers in front of her. “In Felixstowe.”

“Right,” Dean said, nodding. “And we know that’s an indication of Death Eater presence. I doubt they liked what he was printing.”

“Yes, yes.” Hermione looked rapidly between the papers on the table. “So George publishes on October 20 and realizes he’s at risk. He fakes his own death and moves to—“

“He passes on,” Luna said quickly.

“What?”

“The obituary says he ‘passed on’.” Luna looked up, her eyes bright. “It’s a clue.”

“You’re right,” Dean said, picking up the obituary and scanning it. “In fact, nowhere in this article does it actually say he died. It just says he was ‘last seen doing what he loves.’”

“Okay.” Hermione exhaled against the excitement unfurling in her chest. It was too early to be sure that the lead would hold, but her fingers were buzzing with adrenaline. “So George leaves Felixstowe and moves to the Grafton Gazette, which is…” She frowned. “Where’s Grafton?”

“It’s a street,” Dean said. His eyes glittered. “In Harwich.”

Harwich, Prewett’s interrogation, ‘We’ve moved to Harwich—‘

“Oh my god,” Hermione breathed. “Oh my god. That’s what Prewett said in—“

“In his interview,” Dean finished quickly. He summoned yet another newspaper from the table. “And look at George’s most recent article. From two days ago.”

“Phenomenal Weather, Strange Times,” Luna read. “Lightning Strikes Close to Home.”

Lightning.

Lightning.

Hermione inhaled sharply, her gaze snapping up to Dean’s. “Surely he doesn’t mean…”

Dean nodded, his eyes flashing. “I think he does.”

“Harry,” Hermione murmured, pressing her shaking fingers to her lips. “Harry.”

“He’s in Harwich?” Luna asked, moving close to Hermione. “Right now?”

Dean nodded vigorously. “Why else would George be reporting there? He’s been publishing intel this whole time.” 

Dean and Luna turned to Hermione, their eyes shining with anticipation. She looked between them as apprehension and hope and urgency twisted through her racing mind. She thought of Ginny, the way she’d seemed so small, so frightened in the kitchen, of the months and months of research without a single lead, of the way Molly Weasley had forgotten how to smile.

Lightning.

“Okay,” she said on a rushed exhale, pushing to her feet. “Let’s go to Harwich.” She reached for her wand. “Let’s go find him.”

Lee green-lighted the mission immediately. Between Prewett’s interview, Duffin’s journalistic return, and the cagey silence from locals in that part of Essex, the evidence that something was afoot in Harwich was strong. 

“But its reconnaissance only,” he warned Hermione and Ginny. “Unless you see a clear opportunity, I don’t want you taking unnecessary risks.”

They both had nodded, even as their shared desperation marked them as liars.

If there was a chance to find Harry, Hermione knew, no Order hierarchy or caution could stop them from pursuing it.  

The group was small: Hermione, Ginny, Luna, Dean, and Finley McClaggan. Finley had scouted both Suffolk and Essex and was most familiar with the territory. According to Lee, she was on another mission near Harwich and would meet them at the Order’s apparition point, located in a nature reserve just outside of the main town.

Hermione packed her beaded bag with medical supplies, instant darkness powder, and muggle noisemaking machines that were particularly handy for distracting Death Eaters. The rest of the group readied themselves quietly, the buzz of the mission hurrying their fingers as they checked the laces of their shoes and coats. 

Hermione checked her watch. “23:57,” she said in a voice that didn’t sound like her own. “Finley is set to arrive at 58.”

Ginny nodded, her eyes bright in the dim light of the kitchen. “Let’s go.”

The Order’s apparition point was a small clearing just beyond the tree line. In the shadows of midnight, the woods stood tall and solemn, and the earth was wet and cold. It had rained recently.

The snap of Hermione’s apparition rippled across the grass. A moment later, Ginny, Lee, and Luna appeared beside her.

They didn’t waste any time.

“Finley’s coordinates are to the west,” Ginny murmured, her exhales gray in the cool air. “Remember to keep an eye out for wards.”

Hermione scanned the clearing. An eerie quiet hung over the trees, buzzing against her skin and running down her spine. Immediately, she cast a series of diagnostic spells, pale strands designed to detect traces of dark magic. Hermione watched them expectantly, but they remained a neutral yellow color. 

Hermione’s brow twisted. There was something unnatural about this place. So why were her signals unresponsive?

The feeling that something was wrong only grew stronger as Ginny led them towards Finley’s position. Hermione’s fingers tightened around her wand.

“Ginny,” she whispered as they made it into the woods. “I don’t like—” 

“Shh.” Ginny’s jaw was set and her eyes focused. “We’re almost there.”

But the woods in front of them were dark and looming, no sign of life except for the hum of spells in the air. Hermione pressed her lips together, shoulders tensing at the suspicion crawling up her back. Beside her, Dean’s expression was grim. They exchanged a dark look.

What kind of forest was silent?

The group moved further into the woods until thick branches blotted out light from the moon. Here, as the tree cover grew denser, the earth smelled dank and wrong, like rotting leaves and something Hermione couldn’t quite place. 

“Getting close,” Ginny whispered. 

The ground began to slope downwards, and Hermione’s boot slipped slightly. 

“Close,” Ginny whispered again, reaching out a steadying hand. “Just up ahead…”

But up ahead, there were only trees and dilapidated stumps, gray and rough like tombstones. 

And then – one of them moved. Hermione inhaled sharply.

“Gin,” she breathed. Her heart was beating a tattoo against her ribcage.

Ginny froze. “I see it, too,” she said.

Wordlessly, Hermione sent a subtle Lumos towards the moving stump. She held her breath as the light expanded to reveal—

“Finley.” Ginny’s shoulders relaxed. “It’s Finley.”

Sure enough, the log was not a log at all, but a woman. At the sight of them, Finley waved them foreward with a stern expression on her face. 

“We have to hurry,” she whispered as they approached. “They’re up ahead.”

Dean grabbed Ginny's wrist, alarm creasing his features.  “They?”

“What do you mean, Finley?” Luna asked, pausing beside Hermione.

Finley didn’t pause in her descent, dead leaves rustling with every step. “They’re up ahead,” she repeated over her shoulder. “They’re waiting.”

“But who?” Ginny asked, picking her way down the hill more cautiously. “Who have you seen?”

Hermione’s mouth was suddenly very dry. Beside her, Luna’s breaths were uneven, her chest rising and falling in the darkness.

Something was wrong.

“Finley,” Hermione said, her voice a low, scraping sound in the darkness. “The mission is reconnaissance, not engagement. Stop.”

As if compelled, Finley snapped to a halt, frozen in place at the base of the hill. She stood unnaturally straight, knees locked, staring straight ahead. Hermione took a step forwards, fear creeping up her wand and along her fingers like a spider. 

There was a terrible moment of silence.

Then, Finley turned slowly, her head tilting to the side. “Hermione Granger,” she rasped, voice harsh and unfamiliar, her eyes hollow and black. “They’re waiting for you.”

The next sequence events happened so quickly that Hermione’s mind was unable to disentangle one from another.

Finley’s body crumpled like a marionet whose strings had been cut. Hermione twisted just as the tree beside her burst into flame. Ginny screamed.

And then, the Dark Mark unfurled in the sky above them.

The force of an explosion threw Hermione to the ground. She wheezed at the impact, eyes blurring against the sudden glare. 

“APPARATE!” she bellowed, pushing herself to her feet. A stabbing pain in her lungs protested the movement. “Apparate out!”

Two cracks from her left told her that Dean and Luna had done just that. But Ginny…Ginny was up ahead, beside Finley, her fingers on her neck.  

“She’s alive and breathing,” Ginny called, “I just—”

Hermione gasped as a wave of viscous magic passed over her, turning the air suffocating and heavy from the smoke of the fire. 

Anti-apparation wards.

“On my count!” Ginny yelled, ward countermeasures already unfurling from her wand. “We have to—“

Her next words were stolen as a jet of purple light barreled into her side, tossing her through the air and into the trunk of a tree. She collapsed to the ground where she remained, head lolling to the side at a sickening angle.

There was a moment of horrified, brittle silence. Then came a scream.

Hermione was on her feet now and she was the one screaming, throwing up protective barriers as she moved towards Ginny and Finley, and the fire was spreading with unnatural – no, with magical precision, twisting into blazing bars, slithering into something crooked…something solid…

A cage.

Hermione threw her weight behind her final warding spell just as a flash of red raced through the air. It exploded against her barrier with a force that shook the ground. 

Then came another. And another.

The barrage of hexes throbbed in the darkness, turning each movement into its own bruised shadow box. Hermione slipped on dead leaves and clawed branches. Sharp rocks slid into her shoe.

She got to Ginny first, her stomach turning at the unnatural blankness on her friend’s face. The hand she placed against the crown of Ginny’s head came back wet and red. 

No, no, NO—

With a voice that belonged to a stranger, Hermione cast spells to stabilize Ginny’s spine and stop the bleeding. A clumsy diagnostic showed abdominal trauma from the curse.

This was her friend this was her friend GOD this was her friend—

There was a flash of green, and with a boom that shook needles from the trees, Hermione’s wards collapsed. She looked over her shoulder and made out one, two, three figures approaching through the trees. The fire turned their silver masks red and orange, a demonic mosaic marching towards her through the rippling heat. 

The fire.

With a last stabilizing spell on Ginny’s neck, Hermione pushed to her feet and reached a hand towards a burning tree. At the motion, flames leapt into the air and raced towards her open palm. A flick of her wrist sent them shooting towards the nearest Death Eater. 

He disappeared behind a cloud of smoke.

Smoke.

She could use it to create a barrier. Yes, that could work—

From behind her, Finley coughed. It was a spluttering, wheezing noise, and it spun Hermione around.

After casting a hasty shield at her back, she cleared Finley’s airway with a wave of her wand.

A bubble head charm. A bubble head charm to protect her from the smoke, and one for Ginny too—

Hermione cried out as a stinging jinx collided with her shoulder. The force pushed her backwards and she stumbled into a tree, the rough bark scraping her cheeks and palms. With a growl, Hermione retaliated with repeated variations of Confrindo, each racing through the darkness like sinister missiles, colliding with wood and rock and stone in angry flashes of color.

Her strategy fell into place immediately. A single Stupefy consumed the attention of the closest Death Eater. As he attempted to erect a shield, she aimed her wand at his legs.

“Tarantallegra!” she shouted.

The curse sliced through the air and cracked into his thigh. He shouted as his feet began to jig uncontrollably. 

An Incarcerous and an Immobolis removed him from the fight. Now to the final—

Hermione roared as another stinging jinx landed squarely on the wound she’d only recently healed. She bit her cheek so fiercely blood welled in her mouth. 

“BOMBARDA!” she shouted. The spell reduced the earth in front of the Death Eater to ash. He staggered. 

“BOMBARDA MAXIMUS!”

She didn’t wait to see the spell collide with its target. She was already turning back to Ginny.

Another diagnostic charm, this time more complex, showed two broken ribs. Broken ribs meant punctured lungs, which meant internal bleeding, which meant—

Panic. That was what this was. Panic. She needed to occlude, to compartmentalize, to fix this, fix her—

“Granger!” A male voice ripped down the hill, and Hermione chanced an urgent look over her shoulder. A man was limping towards her, the side of his mask burned away, revealing yellow teeth and bloodied skin.

Greyback.

Greyback, greyback, greyback was here, he had found her, he was going to—

Pretty girl, he says he’ll let me watch—

Hermione grunted with the effort of slamming her Occlumency shields together. She needed a solution, she needed a strategy—

She directed her wand at a nearby tree and jerked her wrist towards the ground. The pine listed dramatically, its roots snapping and cracking in a violent cacophony. With a deafening thud, the tree fell to the ground with explosion of sparks, separating Hermione, Ginny, and Finley from the advancing werewolf.

Hermione didn’t waste a minute. With a twist of her fingers, she extended her Immobilus to Ginny’s abdomen to keep any broken bones from tearing into lung tissue. 

Next was checking the lungs for blood. What was the spell? It was similar to the one used for drowning, but more specific to blood and why couldn’t she remember it? Why—

There was an earsplitting snap, and Hermione looked over shoulder to find pieces of the fallen tree shifting into the air.

He was coming.

Heart in her throat, she abandoned her lung project and instead scanned Ginny’s brain. A purple signal warned of a severe concussion, and she placed her wand directly against Ginny’s temple. 

“Pensilendo,” she whispered. “Obscuro. Muffliato Serenus.” She took a ragged breath and threw a hasty glance over her shoulder. The tree was falling apart – they were running out of time. “Disilluseo. Repello Inimicum.” 

She turned to Finley and cast the same concealing enchantments. Both Ginny and Finley disappeared from view. With any luck, the Death Eaters would be too preoccupied with Hermione to search for them.

Hermione pointed her wand to the sky. “Periculum,” she gasped. Sparks shot above the snarling fire, turning the eye socket of the Dark Mark a horrible crimson.

Finally, she pressed her eyes together. She conjured an image of her parents welcoming her home from Hogwarts, their faces unlined and effervescent and still so achingly familiar—

“Expecto Patronum.” Another creak in the tree behind her had her voice shaking as her otter twisted around her. It was for Lee, with coordinates and warnings of Ginny’s condition and the Death Eater presence here.

Hermione watched with tight eyes as her otter raced through the air. It would find Lee, and he would come, and Ginny…Ginny would—

Hermione’s heart stopped as the Patronus disintegrated in the air over the smoldering trunk. She didn’t know what kind of dark magic could absorb a Patronus, but that didn’t matter. Not now.

The tree crumpled beneath an invisible force, and three shadowy figures appeared in the smoke. 

Hermione took several steps from where Ginny and Finley were hidden. She would lead Greyback away, she knew, her cold fingers tightening around her wand. She would lead him away, and—

“Hermione!” 

Her name – and the familiar voice that carried it – stopped her short. 

Hermione’s breath burned in her chest as she stared at the column of smoke. 

And then, Neville Longbottom rushed into the clearing. Lee, Dean, Angelina, and Luna were close behind him, their eyes flashing in the burnt chaos.

Hermione looked between her friends, disbelief buzzing in her fingers. 

When her eyes met Neville’s, relief and desperation flooded her body. Her voice was hoarse as she murmured the age-old invocation:

“Hurry.”

Chapter Text

In the early days of the war, when St. Mungo’s was both terribly overwhelmed and chronically unprepared, Priscilla Clearwater instituted a complete overhaul of the hospital’s communication system. She reintegrated departments, hired several runners, and articulated strict patronus protocols for correspondences between the Order and trauma ward. 

“I will not have the air clouded with patronuses simply because you are panicked,” she’d said sternly. “The Order will provide you with the information you require. You will trust them, and they will trust you.”

The designated pieces of information were divided into three categories: the type of attack, the number of casualties, and the severity of injuries expected. Notifications from the field allowed Healers to anticipate operations, allocate staff based on specialty, and summon supplies.

In other words, notifications from the field were essential to the ward’s success.

Notifications from the field saved lives.

It was not surprising, then, that appearance of Lee Jordan’s patronus on a cold Monday night was enough to silence a crowded room of Healers. It was just after midnight, and Draco, Brown, and Rana had completed their final set of rounds. Corner and Dunn were preparing to take over the ward, reviewing reports and asking clarifying questions as needed. 

Dunn was confirming the nuances of a patient’s potion schedule when Jordan’s patronus raced into the room. In the dim lighting of the office, the blue terrier was an icy, foreboding presence, sending shadows rippling across the tile floors and darkened windows. Dunn fell silent immediately, her eyes narrowed at the signal. Beside her, Corner was on his feet, his face grim with anticipation. 

Draco readjusted his grip on his wand and waited. 

“Ambush in Harwich,” the patronus announced in Jordan’s low voice. The consonants echoed harshly through the room. “Suspected use of magical explosives and the Imperius curse.”

Brown and Draco exchanged a look. 

“There goes your early night,” she muttered.

Draco’s familiarity with dark magic - yet another sinister gift from his time in France - meant unforgivable curses were typically assigned to him. If the Imperius was indeed involved, he’d need potions to calm the central nervous system, muscle relaxants for the shock, and—

“—addition to werewolf involvement,” Jordan’s voice continued. Draco’s jaw clenched, and Brown tensed beside him. “Number of casualties: unknown. L. Lovegood: unharmed. D. Thomas: unharmed. F. McClaggan: status unknown. G. Weasley: status unknown. H. Granger: status unknown. Travel expected by…”

The rest of the message faded beneath the rush of blood in Draco’s ears. 

H. Granger: status unknown.

A cold, unfamiliar feeling wrapped around his chest, pulling the air from his lungs. 

status unknown, status un—

“Healer Malfoy?” Rana was in front of him, her eyes sharp. “Are you alright?”

Draco shook himself. “I’m fine,” he said. His voice was a low, harsh sound, and it felt miles away. “I…I’ll need a stimulus potion for the Imperius. Several, actually, and—“

“And relaxants. And potassium supplements. Right.” Rana tilted her head. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

The icy feeling had settled beneath Draco’s ribs now, curling around the edges of his breath. 

“Yes,” he heard himself say. Almost subconsciously, his eyes flicked to the apparation point in the silent corridor. “I’m fine.” 

werewolf involvement

explosives

status unknown

“Hey, Malfoy.” Corner’s voice pulled Draco out of his spiral. Draco blinked at the other Healer, who was pulling on his coat. 

“I should be able to handle the Imperius,” Corner said. “You’re welcome to head home—“

“No,” Draco snapped. 

“You sure? Doesn’t make a difference to me.” Corner shrugged. Suddenly, his tone was far too casual, far too lazy for Draco’s liking. “You’ve been here all day, and—“

“Apologies, Corner, but am I still director of this ward?” Draco’s voice ripped through the room, his question more snarl than articulation. “Or do we now exist in some perversion of reality in which you have the authority to send me home?” 

The office fell deadly quiet. Dunn stilled in the doorway, and Brown looked up from the chart in front of her. But Draco’s attention remained on Corner, whose eyebrows had disappeared beneath his bangs.

“Woah,“ Corner said, holding up his hands. “I didn’t mean—“

“And I don’t care what you meant,” Draco said shortly. Again, his eyes moved to the apparation point. 

Everything was so quiet. Where was Jordan? Where was Thomas?

Corner muttered something dismissive and pushed by Draco into the ward, but Draco couldn’t bring himself to engage. 

Where was Grang—

“Rana,” he said finally, tearing his gaze away from the corridor. “Do you remember that odorless antiseptic I asked you to work on?”

Rana, to her credit, only looked slightly discomfited by the tension in the room. 

“I do,” she said. “I finished it on Saturday.”

“Good.” Draco worked his jaw. “We might need it.”

“Sure. Is it for the Imperius?”

“No, it’s—”

The words died on his tongue as a series of cracks sounded from the corridor behind him. Draco spun, wand raised, feet moving towards the pack of figures at the apparation point, and he should have been scanning and triaging and delegating but all he could do was look for curly hair and brown eyes and she wasn’t there, she wasn’t—

“Malfoy!” Thomas was waving him over, his arm wrapped around the McClaggan girl. “It’s Finley!”

Panic reached its spindly fingers down Draco’s neck as he moved towards the pair. Jordan was there, and so was Lovegood, and they were saying something to Brown but Draco couldn’t think, he couldn’t rationalize—

Rana got to Thomas before Draco did and then she was looking over her shoulder at Draco and he was wrestling with his racing breaths, trying to get his heart rate under control, and Rana was asking him a question, and he needed to focus, he needed to—

He needed to occlude. 

Draco called for his shields, and they thudded to the floor of his mind, detached and dissonant and smooth as bone, and there were no more thoughts of a fire-eyed woman and her sharp questions and shell-shaped pins, no more howling questions or unknowable fears.

There was simply silence.  

“What happened?” he asked Thomas in a voice he thought he had left behind. 

It was a testament to his mother’s occlumency training that, when Thomas told him the mission had been a trap set for Granger by Greyback, Draco didn’t even flinch. 

Chapter Text

I know there's people everywhere with injustice on their lips

And there's this open wound bleeding between my hips

And I'd be lying if I told you I wasn't scared

I'm scared, I'm scared, I'm scared, I'm scared, I'm scared.

And I've got all this anger trapped so deep inside

It started burning the summer my heroes died

And I just wish that I could hear a new Bowie again

Again, again, again, again

Again, again, again, again

Again, again, again, again, and again

I don't really care if it nearly kills me,

I'd give you the world if you asked me to.

I could break a glass just to watch it shatter.

I'd do anything just to feel with you.

-Maggie Rogers, Shatter

The floor at St. Mungo’s was unnaturally clean. It was set with a spotless spell, Hermione knew, designed to sense muck and banish it immediately. 

Hermione’s boots were a dilapidated comparison, all muddy soles and blackened laces. She shifted and watched dirt streak along the tile. A moment later, the dirt vanished.

She moved her foot again. 

Again.

Again.

It had been hours since the mission, since the trip to Harwich had gone so horribly wrong. A series of potassium supplements had dimmed Hermione’s terror enough to keep her from vomiting, but still, images from the forest remained: Finley crumpling to the ground, Greyback’s yellow leer, and Ginny—Ginny—

Hermione swallowed back a wave of nausea. 

Ginny was with Lavender, she told herself. And Finley was with Malfoy. At least, that was what Elora Dunn had told Hermione when she’d arrived at the hospital in a blur of panic and desperation. 

“We have them, Hermione,” Elora had said, her hands gentle on Hermione’s shoulders. “We have them.”

But neither Elora’s reassurance nor Hermione’s faith in Lavender could touch the aching, visceral understanding of what had happened that evening, of the thin line between life and death that war called home. 

Some things, Hermione knew, were unmendable. Even by the best Healers. 

Unbidden, Hermione’s eyes moved to the left, towards the door she knew would bear answers. Her heart constricted violently. 

She turned to her right, towards reception. The surface of the tile turned each light fixture into its own moon, lily pads of fluorescence leading down the corridor. Their pattern was interrupted by four shadows scattered down the hallway, a family of fragile, distorted silhouettes condemned to the worst of all hospital rhythms: waiting.

Each Weasley carried the burden differently. Molly sat with her head on her husband’s shoulder, her face lined and grave even in sleep. Arthur stroked Molly’s hair as he stared blankly at the space in front of him. Further down, George was leaning against the wall, his arms folded tightly across his chest while his shoe tapped a sharp beat against the floor. From his place across the corridor, Percy alternated between glaring at his brother’s tapping foot, glaring at the door into the ward, and glaring at Hermione.

The weight of his scrutiny was a heavy reminder of the distance that stretched between Hermione and the people she’d once considered family. The first source of tension, unsurprisingly, had been Ron and Hermione’s separation. Long-distance during her time in America had exposed too many fissures in their relationship; while the split had been amicable, Hermione had taken a brief break from Weasley dinners to give herself and Ron the space they’d both needed. She’d returned from the U.S. to shifting eyes and stilted small talk, an unfamiliar discomfort settling over her time at the Burrow. 

Harry and Ginny – and even Ron, after enough time had passed – tried their best to diffuse it. Eventually, things  had returned to a tentative normal. Hermione no longer tensed before exiting the floo in the living room. Mrs. Weasley went out of her way to make Hermione’s favorite tea when she came to visit and offered to host Hermione’s birthday party. Arthur greeted Hermione with lists of questions about new muggle artifacts at work, and even Percy acknowledged Hermione with a terse nod.

But then, just over five months ago, Harry and Ron had gone missing. The leveling of blame was swift and unforgiving: Hermione had not been there. If she had been there, things would have been different. If she had been there, Harry and Ron might still be alright.

Hermione couldn’t argue when her nightmares hissed the same thing.

The silent vigil in the hallway was the first time Hermione had seen Mr. and Mrs. Weasley in over five weeks. Despite everything that had passed between them, Hermione still felt a surge of comfort at the smell of Molly’s perfume. When she and Arthur had rushed into the hallway, their lips pale with fear, it took all of Hermione’s self-control to not reach out to them. Instead, she remained to the side, arms wrapped around her abdomen, waiting for news on her friend.

It was impossible to know how much time passed in that hollow liminality. Finally, the door at the end of corridor opened gently, and Lavender appeared. At the sight of her, the stale air of the hallway grew taut with anticipation. 

Arthur shook Molly awake.

“The Healer’s back, love,” he murmured.

George pushed off the wall and moved to stand beside his father. Hermione gingerly pushed to her feet and waited for Lavender to speak.

Lavender didn’t waste any time. Her eyes were warm and steady as she looked around at the group.

“Ginny is fine,” she said, smiling slightly. “She’s sleeping now and is expected to make a full recovery.”

The air left Hermione’s lungs in a stuttered exhale of relief and exhaustion. She closed her eyes for a moment and sagged against the wall. Up ahead, she could hear Molly sobbing.

Ginny is fine. She’s fine. She’s fine.

“You can see her now, if you’d like.” Lavender glanced at Hermione. “Hermione, if you wouldn’t mind joining. We have some questions on Ginny’s injuries, and you’re the best person to answer them.”

Hermione nodded and tried to ignore how Molly Weasley wouldn’t look at her. “Of course.”

Lavender led them through the doors into a private wing of the trauma ward. Hermione registered Percy’s scowl at her presence and lingered at the back of the group. She would see Ginny, answer Lavender’s questions, and then go home.

Ginny’s fine. She’s fine. She’s fine.

When Ginny came into view, Mrs. Weasley let out a cry and gripped her husband’s arm. Ginny’s head was heavily bandaged, and the skin that was visible was purple with bruises. Several potions levitated over the bed, attached to Ginny via magical IVs. Every rattling breath was punctuated with several beeping noises from the diagnostic spells hovering above her abdomen - to detect signs of cardiac distress, Hermione knew. 

Hermione tore her eyes away from her friend, her strong, beautiful friend who was now seemed so vulnerable, so fragile—

Fine. Fine. Fine.

The group gathered at the foot of the bed, Hermione a bit apart, while one of the nurses finished noting Ginny’s vitals. 

There was a moment of stunned silence. 

Arthur was the first to break it.

“What…” He cleared his throat. “What happened?” He patted his wife’s hand reassuringly. “We know there was a fight.”

Lavender nodded, her eyes flicking to Hermione. “I know less about the context of Ginny’s injuries. Hermione, could you…”

Five pairs of eyes swung to Hermione. She tensed and looked at her feet. 

“We were…” She cleared her throat. “We were following up on a suspected Death Eater stronghold. Our scout, Finley McClaggan, met us at the location. She was under the control of the Imperius curse. We were ambushed.”

“Did you not confirm McClaggan’s identity when you arrived?” Percy’s question sliced through the air. “I was under the impression such confirmation is required by Order protocol.”

“When meeting in person.” Hermione fought to keep her tone informative and calm. “It is not possible to confirm someone’s identity via Patronus. By the time we encountered Finley in the forest, it was too late.”

Hermione looked to George for support, but his eyes were fixed on his sister. She took a steadying breath and continued.

“Ginny was hit by a curse and she…” Hermione swallowed and stared at the wall, furiously occluding away the sound of screams and snapping branches. “She was thrown into a tree.”

Percy wasn’t finished. “What do you mean, ‘she was thrown into a tree’?” 

“The momentum of the curse—”

“Ginny sustained injuries to her head, abdomen, and fingers,” Lavender interrupted quickly, staring at Percy warily. “We’ve treated her for a severe concussion, three fractured ribs, popcorn lung, and four broken fingers.”

“Popcorn lung?” Arthur repeated, frowning. “Like the muggle snack?”

George huffed. “Dad, now is not the time for—”

“George,” Molly snapped. “Don’t be so hard on your fath—"

“Popcorn lung is indeed named after the muggle snack, Mr. Weasley.” Lavender inclined her head. “It’s a common reaction to the extended use of a bubble charm.”

“And why was a bubble charm used?” Percy asked, his mouth pinched together.

Lavender’s eyes flicked to Hermione. “My understanding is there was a fire.”

“Of course there was.” Percy shot Hermione a nasty look. She pressed her lips together and focused on keeping her breathing steady.

“And how is that treated?” Molly asked.

“An extensive potion regimen, for starters, as well as—"

“How extensive?” Percy snapped.

Molly turned to her oldest son with a frown. “Percy, don’t interrupt.”

“I wasn’t interr—”

“You were and it’s not polite—”

“Healer Brown.” Arthur’s voice sounded weary, but he managed a weak smile in Lavender’s direction. “You were saying?”

Lavender blinked. “Popcorn lung is treated with several potions and weekly oxygen administration. Ginny’s concussion is mostly contained, but she will have increased light sensitivity for the next seven to ten days. Because her lungs were briefly filled with blood, we—”

A strangled sound escaped Arthur. “Filled? With—“ He visibly attempted to gather himself. “That’s quite serious, isn’t it?” 

Lavender nodded patiently. “It would be, yes. But the stabilizing spell on Ginny’s abdomen stopped her condition from escalating.” 

“What about Pulmonis Desango?” It was Percy again. Hermione's fingers curled against her palm as she reinforced her occlumency shields. 

Fine. Fine. Fine.

Lavender tilted her head, eyes sharp. “What about it?”

“Would that spell not have prevented my sister’s lungs from filling with blood?”

Lavender pressed her lips together. “It would have, of course, but it can only be cast within a certain period of time after the initial injury—”

“Why wasn’t it cast along with the stabilizing spell?”

Molly turned to Lavender. “Yes, why wasn’t it cast?”

Lavender’s eyes flicked to Hermione before her jaw tightened. 

“The circumstances of the battle aren’t clear,” Lavender said firmly. “Furthermore, it’s impossible to react perfectly in the middle of a fight—“

“But this was preventable,” Percy said. “Every Sixth Year knows that spell. Why wasn’t it used immediately?”

His tone was heavy with accusation, and Hermione looked up to find every Weasley staring at her. She shifted miserably.

Lavender attempted to regain control. “As I was saying, there are—”

“Hermione.” Percy folded his arms. “You were there. What happened?”

Hermione looked up helplessly. “I—” She faltered at the pain in Molly’s eyes. “It’s—”

“Listen.” Lavender’s tone brooked no argument. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but Hermione saved Ginny’s life, and it’s—”

“Hermione is here to provide clarifying information on my sister’s injuries, no?” Percy arched an eyebrow. “I’m just trying to—”

“What you’re trying to do, Percy, is both inappropriate and uncalled for.” Lavender folded her arms across her chest. “I won’t allow it. Not in this hospital, and certainly not in my ward.”

There was a moment of strained silence. Hermione stared at the ground and fought the tears pressing at her eyes. She was so, so tired. She hadn’t wanted to confront this loss, the echoing emptiness in her heart where family used to be. She’d only wanted to see Ginny, to make sure her friend was okay—

“You’re right, Healer Brown,” Arthur murmured, glancing at Hermione. “Our apologies.”

“Of course,” Molly echoed, reaching for her husband’s hand. She shot Percy a hard look. “We’re sorry for raising our voices.”

The apologies weren’t directed at Hermione, of course, but she had long since stopped hoping for such things.

“That’s alright,” Lavender said quickly. “I’ll—”

“Hermione, dear.” 

Hermione stiffened at the sound of her name. She tentatively lifted her eyes to meet Molly’s. Suddenly, she was eleven years old again, wanting desperately to feel like she belonged. 

Molly offered Hermione a thin smile. “I’m sure you’re eager to get home,” she said.

Hermione’s heart thudded to the bottom of her stomach. 

Lavender frowned. “Actually, Hermione, I was hoping you might be—”

“Later.” Molly’s voice was firm. She dismissed Lavender with a detached nod of her head. “Now is the time for family, not investigation.”

Lavender turned between Hermione and the Weasley family, her mouth slightly ajar. “But—”

“A time for family. You can understand, I'm sure.”

Molly wasn’t even looking at Hermione anymore. She was at the head of Ginny’s bed, her eyes fixed on her daughter, gently pushing the hair back from her forehead. 

Molly’s dismissal, Percy’s glare, the familial care Hermione no longer recognized…it was all too much.

“Of course,” Hermione managed, her voice thick. She offered Lavender a weak smile. “I’ll come back.”

And then she was turning away, her shoulders hunched against the tears burning at her eyes. She rushed through the ward and into the corridor, head low as she hurried past the place where she’d waited in silence and solitude to make sure Ginny was okay—

I’m sure you’re eager to get home.

Home. The word reverberated in Hermione’s bones like someone had struck her with a hammer, thrumming up her iron frame and into her eyes and nose. Somehow, despite Molly’s cool detachedness and casual estrangement, she’d managed to capture the aching wish that lived inside Hermione’s heart. It was wrapped in layers of Occlumency shields, bruised by months of fighting and years of doubt, scarred by absences she would never solve, but it still remained – sore and unmendable and fundamental to her:

She just wanted to go home.

But, of course, she couldn’t. Her parents were gone. Harry and Ron were missing. The Weasley’s wouldn’t speak to her, Ginny was in the hospital…

Andromeda. She could go to Andromeda.

But – no. She shook her head with a ferocity that stung her teary eyes. Hermione was upset – too upset to see Teddy. Teddy, the sweet, gentle little boy who missed his parents and was now learning to miss Harry too, who didn’t need to see another adult cracking under the strain of a war he couldn’t yet understand—

“Hermione?”

The sound of her name drew Hermione up short in the hallway. Bill Weasley was approaching her, his devastatingly familiar eyes heavy with concern.

A sob lodged in her throat like the pit of a rotten cherry.

“Bill,” she managed. And then she added, “Ginny’s fine,” because she recognized the look on his face. 

“Fuck,” he said, his footsteps stuttering. “Thank God.”

He slowed as if to speak with her, but she was already rushing past him.

“Where are you—"

“Sorry,” she gasped. “I have to go. Ginny’s just through there, though—“

And then she was barreling through the nearest door, into a cement stairwell she didn’t recognize. The door swung shut behind her with a metallic clatter, and she jolted. Her face was hot and swollen, and she could feel tears building in the corner of her eyes. 

God, she hated crying in public.

The idea of Bill following her had panic jumping in her throat and she tore down the stairs. 

She’d find a private floo, and then she’d go to Grimmauld and…and maybe she’d shower? Or bake. But baking sounded awful, it all sounded awful—

From a floor below her came the sound of a door opening and closing. Voices spilled into the stairway and moved closer. Hermione recoiled as if struck by a spell and spun on her heal.

Up.

She took the stairs two at a time, her braid unravelling and sticking to her sweaty forehead. Each breath came heavy and stilted, catching and gliding on the edge of exhaustion. 

She only knew one thing with certainty: she needed to be alone.

And so, when she burst out on the roof and found it mercifully empty, Hermione didn’t think twice about the storm clouds building in the distance or the faint smell of cigarettes in the air.

She sank to the ground beneath the brick divider and wept.

Once Hermione buried her face in her arms, the tears came relentlessly, soaking the sleeves of her shirt and trailing down her neck. She inhaled in ragged, stilted gasps, her back scraping against the rough surface of the brick behind her, legs shaking from the stress that had kept her awake all night. 

Harry and Ron. Luna and Ginny. Her parents.

I’m sure you’re eager to get home, Molly had said.

But home had never been a place, not really, not for Hermione. No, home had been been her mother’s purple shawl and the smudges on Harry’s glasses and Ron’s lopsided grin, the taste of peppermint at Christmas and the tickles of grass at her ankles in the summer.

This? This rain-soaked war and weary darkness? 

Who could find a home here?

She pressed her eyes closed, lashes cold and damp against her cheek. The distress was leaking out of her, leaving behind a hollow, bone-deep exhaustion. She should go to Grimmauld, she knew, but her feet felt leaden, and she couldn’t bring herself to rearrange her facial expression to hide her grief.

Perhaps she could stay here, just for a little while. The roof was quiet, a dark blanket of stillness above a smoky city. No one would look for here, and she could close her eyes…she really was so tired…

“Fucking hell. Granger. Granger. Can you hear me?”

Hermione frowned as a deep, grating voice invaded her rest. At this point, sleep felt more like a compulsion than a choice, and whoever was speaking to her needed to respect that.

“Granger, you—”

“Shhh,” she mumbled, turning her face away from the voice. Her neck was horribly stiff. “Shhh.”

“What are you doing here?”

“M’resting.”

There was a hand on her cheek and another adjusting the lapel of her jacket. “Jesus Christ, woman, you’re soaked.” 

Come to think of it, she did feel rather damp. And cold. 

At the realization, her body shivered violently. 

Inconvenient.

“M’fine,” she insisted. Sleep was already reaching across her mind with heavy, persistent fingers. “Goodbye.”

“Goodb—Granger, you need to go home.”

The sentiment pulled a rough laugh from her throat, which turned into a guttural cough. “Home,” she rasped. “That’s funny. I don’t have one of those.”

Her visitor paused at that. “You’re going to get sick if you don’t go inside and get warm.”

Warm. What a lovely word.

There was a blissful moment of silence, and Hermione gave a contented sigh before coughing again. She curled her legs tighter towards her chest.

 A moment later, though, a familiar scent washed over her, followed by one arm under her legs and another under her shoulders. 

“I’m taking you to Grimmauld,” the visitor said.

“What?” And then she was being lifted into the air, secure in the arms of this intrusive, persistent, alarmingly strong visitor. She willed her eyes to open, but her lashes felt extraordinarily heavy. Dimly, she registered the sound of thunder. “Put me down,” she protested weakly, even as she burrowed closer to the wool of her companion’s coat. 

He ignored her.

“Now,” she tried again.

“No.”

There was water in Hermione’s hair and on her cheeks, and the air smelled heavy. 

“It’s raining?” she asked.

The man’s chest rumbled with laughter. “For someone with such a brilliant mind, Granger, you can be rather daft sometimes.”

“Hey,” Hermione mumbled, shifting slightly to get more comfortable. “That’s rude.”

“Is it?”

“‘M not daft.”

“No. No, you’re just exhausted and injured.”

Hermione couldn’t think of a protest to that.

 “Where…” She yawned and felt the air leave her in a great rush. “Where are we going?” She made to move. “I can walk—“

“Hush.” The arms around her tightened their grip. “Go back to sleep. I’ve got you.”

And with a warming spell drying her clothes, the murmur of rain in the distance, and those gentle words brushing against her forehead, Hermione Granger yawned once more, and then allowed her world to fade to darkness.

Chapter Text

Hermione awakened to the pale brush of sunlight beneath her lashes. It was another cloudy morning, and it would have been unremarkable if not for the fact that Hermione was not in her bed. 

Or any bed, for that matter.

Hermione shifted as Grimmauld’s living room came into focus. She was on the sofa, with a purple blanket tucked beneath her chin and a transfigured cushion beneath her head. Her boots, wand, and bag were arranged neatly on the floor beside her, and her coat was draped over the back of an armchair across the room. 

Hermione exhaled into the quiet space, her fingers absently running along the seams of the sofa. Memories of the previous evening fell into place like some kind of sinister train: the mission, the fight, the Weasleys, the tears. Ginny. Ginny. The sheer exhaustion of it all. 

And, of course, the very minor detail of Draco bloody Malfoy finding her asleep on the roof in the middle of a rainstorm.

Christ.

He’d carried her home, she remembered now. And judging from her lack of soreness or pain, he’d healed most of her injuries, too. 

And his coat had smelled like evergreen and smoke and something warm and—

No. No. No.

But it had been a very nice coat.

Incidentally. 

Observationally.

Hermione stretched her arms above her head, wincing slightly as they met the cool air outside the blanket. Normally, the idea of someone finding her in such a vulnerable position would turn Hermione’s fingers cold with anxiety. She readied herself for the telltale swoop of stress through her stomach, but it never came. Instead, the memory of Malfoy’s arms lifting her from the ground, settling around her and sheltering her from the cold, was a gentle one. An unhurried one.

A golden one.

It briefly washed away her loneliness.

Part of Hermione, of course, wanted to analyze why things felt different with Malfoy, why his gray eyes and sharp discernment felt safe rather than intrusive, why the thought of him steadied her racing mind. 

Hermione was out of practice with such things, but she imagined the answer had a great deal to do with trust.

She didn’t have time, though, to dwell on Draco Malfoy and his peculiar effect on her. It was already going to be a long, difficult day, full of tense conversations and cold decisions. First and foremost, the Order would need to know what had gone wrong with their plan. Were the clues about George Duffin a false trail? Or had the Death Eaters somehow gotten ahold of the same intelligence and used it to set a trap? 

Hermione grimaced at the thought of how angry Lee would be. Her window for organizing Order missions to find Harry and Ron had almost surely evaporated.

Would Lee send her to Hungary?

The thought - and threat - was enough to push Hermione up from the couch. She absently tied her hair away from her face as she made her way into the kitchen. 

She would go over the research again, she decided as she set the kettle on. If she could identify what they’d missed and provide Lee with an alternative strategy, maybe he’d allow her to stay in the country. As long as she remained in Britain, she could continue the search for Harry and Ron, even without formal support.

By the time Hermione moved to the island with her tea, her ideas had solidified into a plan. She’d review the evidence, visit the hospital for an update on Ginny’s condition, and then meet Lee for training. As she sipped her drink, she reached for the morning’s paper, intending to skim the main headlines before heading to the library.

But then, she read the news about Finley McClaggan.

The mug fell to the counter and shattered. 

THE DAILY PROPHET

Tuesday, November 30, 2004

Finance Minister’s Daughter Dead at Twenty-Two - McClaggan Demands Answers

Morag McDougal

Early this morning, the Prophet was alerted to the tragic death of Finley McClaggan, daughter of Finance Minister Tiberius McClaggan. 

According to a representative from St. Mungo’s, Finley succumbed to injuries she sustained while on mission for the Order of the Phoenix. While the representative declined to provide additional details due to confidentiality concerns, a visibly angry Minister McClaggan enumerated his daughter’s injuries when confronted by press outside of the hospital.

“She was assaulted by a werewolf and placed under an Imperius for an extended period of time,” he told reporters. “Two days, at minimum.”

Extended exposure to the unforgivable curse is known to be fatal, particularly when the patient maintains resistance throughout exposure. The physical strain of resistance can lead to violent seizures when the curse is lifted.

“Our girl fought hard,” McClaggan’s wife, Shonda, said while holding back tears. “She’s a hero. There’s not any doubt in my mind about that.”

In his statement to the press, McClaggan made clear his intentions to investigate the circumstances around his daughter’s death. As a member of Minister of Magic Kingsley Shaklebolt’s inner circle, McClaggan has remained supportive of Shaklebolt’s agenda throughout the war. This morning, however, signaled a significant shift in McClaggan’s rhetoric.  

“Ultimately, responsibility for this lies at the feet of the Minister of Magic,” he said. “I will be discussing my concerns with Minister Shaklebolt as soon as possible, including my concerns about the treatment Finley received at St. Mungo’s.”

McClaggan joins a long line of politicians who are vacillating on their support for Shaklebolt. Late last week, Minority Leader Albert Runcorn reiterated allegations of fraud in Shaklebolt’s government and extended his accusations to St. Mungo’s director Priscilla Clearwater. Clearwater has declined to comment on both Runcorn’s claims and the death of Finley McClaggan under her care.

And now, it seems the opposition has found an unlikely ally in the Finance Minister. When asked if he is still confident in Shaklebolt’s military and domestic strategy, McClaggan’s answer was as simple as it was damning:

“No.”

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Chapter Text

Five hours before everything fell apart, Priscilla Clearwater summoned all senior Healers to the break room. 

“Thank you all for gathering on such short notice,” she said.

From her place across from Draco, Clearwater looked weary and preoccupied. When Draco offered her tea, she accepted it with an almost imperceptible slump of her shoulders. 

Draco wondered if she had slept. 

It had been just over one day since the article in the Prophet had condemned the hospital to a blistering series of reports and opinion pieces. After Tiberius McClaggan had expressed doubt regarding his daughter’s treatment at St. Mungo’s, other grieving family members had come forward demanding explanations for the deaths of their loved ones. And while this kind of anger and blame was an anticipated reaction to significant loss, the hospital was buckling under the combined weight of social and political scrutiny. 

“I appreciate the lateness of the hour,” Clearwater said. Her voice had lost her usual briskness, and it scraped through the room. “I’ll make this quick. I take it you all have seen the recent press reports about the hospital.”

There was a collection of nods.

“Right. Well.” She took a measured sip of tea. “What the Prophet chooses to print is entirely out of our control. What is in our control, however, is the care we provide.” She paused and looked around the room. “I want you all to know I have absolute confidence in the treatment our patients receive here. Absolute confidence.”

The room remained silent. From her place beside the door, Dunn exchanged a glance with Corner. Draco understood the skepticism in her expression: none of the Healers had ever doubted Clearwater’s support. Her reiteration - while not unwelcome - was unnecessary.

She was here for a different reason.

“The negative attention directed at the hospital will likely get worse before it gets better,” Clearwater continued. “It’s distracting from our mission. It is also threatening our funding from the Wizenagemot.”

At this, the room went cold. Each Healer and staff member knew that St. Mungo’s was already underfunded. They needed every galleon from the Wizenagemot’s budget, especially as they worked to contain the new werewolf threat. 

Clearwater considered the room grimly. “As we all know, these conditions do not simply attack the premise of the hospital. They also endanger our patients’ lives. I find this unacceptable.”

There was a pained moment of silence.

“Considering these factors, as well as the controversy of my own political role,” Clearwater said, placing her mug on the table, “I have decided to resign, effective tomorrow morning.”

Four hours before everything fell apart, Clearwater was still answering questions. None of the Healers raised their voice — the group gathered that night was too battleworn, too stoic to make a verbal outcry. But there was a world of protest in their tight-lipped regard, crossed arms, and hard eyes.

From her grim expression, Clearwater sensed it all too well.

“I hope it goes without saying, but…” She paused in a rare moment of equivocation, her eyes falling to the table. When she looked up again, anger and grief warred on her face. “This is not what I would have chosen for myself. Or for this hospital.”

Her admission hung heavy in the air, a simmering reminder of politicians gone bad in the shadows of self-interest. Draco thought of Tiberius McClaggan, of the Finance Minister’s reckless, unfair comments, and felt his fingers curl into a fist. Finley McClaggan, Draco knew, had received impeccable care at St. Mungo’s. The trauma team had done everything in their power to prevent the Imperius from escalating. They’d tried established treatments and, when those had failed, experimental cures. They had attempted magical counter measures and muggle-based interventions. 

But the curse was called unforgivable for a reason. After such extended exposure, chances of survival were almost nonexistent. 

The loss of Finley McClaggan was devastating. It was also not the fault of any Healer. 

As if she could read Draco’s mind, Clearwater cleared her throat. The indignation in the room — both on behalf of Clearwater and on behalf of the hospital — was palpable. 

“I understand why you all are upset,” she said. “But I do ask you: please do not direct your anger towards the grieving family members who are speaking to the press.” Her sharp eyes flashed around the room. “They are going through hell, and it is neither our place nor position to judge them.”

Three hours before everything fell apart, Draco and Brown set out to complete their midnight rounds. They didn’t speak much, but the set of Brown’s jaw told Draco how angry she was. 

“Did you see this coming?” she asked him after adjusting a patient’s chart.

He didn’t need to ask for clarification. “I’m not surprised,” he said quietly.

“Yeah. Still, though.”

“Yeah.”

They continued down the corridor and out of the ward. As they made their way through the reception area, they passed a stack of newspapers on one of the chairs. McClaggan glowered up at them from the front page. 

Brown banished the papers with a wave of her wand.

“Ridiculous,” she muttered. “Absolutely fucking ridiculous.”

Two hours before everything fell apart, one of the Weasley brothers — a C name, Chris maybe? — stormed out of the room where Ginny Weasley was receiving treatment and asked, rather loudly, if “anyone had a goddamn cigarette.” 

Draco handed him one silently. 

“Be grateful you don’t have a brother,” was all the red-haired man said before thundering into the stairwell. 

Brown barely looked up from the paperwork.

“They may be going through hell,” she said, “but it’s turning them into demons.”

One hour before everything fell apart, Draco made himself his seventh cup of tea. It sustained him through another stack of forms, several of which had to do with the new allegations of fraud facing the hospital. His growing frustration at the increasing political nature of his work - as well as the circumstances around Clearwater’s resignation - explained why he didn’t hear the first knock at his door. 

Or the second.

He did, however, hear the “oh, for Christ’s sake, are you a bloody wizard or not?”, as well as the unmistakable sound of an unlocking spell.

And then, Pansy Parkinson swept into his office.

The first thing Draco registered was how out-of-place his old schoolmate seemed in St. Mungo’s. She was wearing a long silk dress and heels, and her manicured nails glinted as she adjusted her leather jacket. Her eyes were sharp as they swept around Draco’s office.

The second thing Draco registered was Michael Corner hovering in the doorway behind her, looking slightly breathless.

And the final thing Draco registered was the emotion masked by Pansy’s perfected facade, an emotion he recognized from the darkness of their shared childhood:

Fear.

Corner was attempting to explain their intrusion. “Sorry, Malfoy, but she just showed up in the ward. Said the Ministry sent her to speak with you. I tried to get more information, but—”

“That’s alright.” 

Draco eyes remained on Pansy. She was watching him closely.

“—came with an escort from the Minister, so I know it’s legit, but still, I—”

“Corner.” Draco’s voice was low, and it cut off the other Healer immediately. “Thank you. I’ll take it from here.”

“Are you sure? I—”

“Yes. Thank you.”

The grimness in Draco’s expression must have discouraged Corner from pursuing the issue further, because a moment later, the door clicked shut.

And then they were alone.

It had been years since Draco had seen Pansy, years since her family had cut off all ties with his. According to his limited access to Order intelligence, the Parkinsons were as much a part of the Dark Lord’s inner circle as they’d always been.

Which begged the question:

“What are you doing here?” 

At the suspicion in Draco’s tone, Pansy’s dark lips curved into a smirk.

“Now,” she said, draping her jacket over a chair. Her tone was unhurried, but her hands were shaking. “Is that a way to greet an old friend?”

“No,” Draco said. “It isn’t.”

She looked at him then, and suddenly they were sixteen again, burdened by unfathomable choices and relentless ghosts.

“There were rumors you ended up a Healer,” she said, eyes drifting across the room to his bookshelf. “I didn’t know whether to believe them.”

“You could have written.”

She tilted her head. “We both know that’s not true.” 

A minute passed in that charged silence, Pansy on one side of the desk, Draco on the other. Finally, he tried again. 

“Pansy,” he said, softer this time. “What are you doing here?”

For a moment, it seemed she would not answer. 

But then, she lifted her chin and set her jaw. Her voice did not waver as she said, “I know where Harry Potter is.”

“Tell me,” he’d demanded, waving his wand so that two chairs untucked themselves from behind his desk. And she had.

As Draco expected, Pansy’s family had ascended quickly within the Death Eater ranks. While she detailed the Dark Lord’s physical and emotional manipulation, her fingers dug into the armrests of the chair. Draco conjured a cup of water and an apple. 

She refused both.

Apparently, while Draco and Blaise had escaped the most recent round of Death Eater recruitment, Pansy and Theo Nott had found themselves enmeshed in the new order of things. They were at similar levels of training, and they spent most of their time together. 

“I swear, Draco, in the beginning, he was the only thing that kept me sane,” she said.

Draco believed her.

Together, Pansy and Theo managed to survive the early days of the war. But as the months stretched, Pansy’s family fell into disfavor after her father led a poorly executed mission in Bristol. The Dark Lord had always been quick to anger, and quicker still to punish, and the Parkinsons were soon confronted by the full force of his rage. 

And then Greyback escaped. 

“It was a perfect opportunity to make a statement,” Pansy explained, her voice ice-cold. “The Dark Lord would get his revenge, and Greyback would get a pureblood wife. A reward after all those years in prison.”

The implications of her words had Draco jaw clenching.

“You were married?” he managed to ask.

“No. Engaged.” 

“But how—” At Pansy’s grim expression, Draco found himself answering his own question. “Theo.”

“We knew the only way for me to truly escape would be to turn myself into the Ministry. And for that, I needed some sort of intelligence to trade for protection. But the Dark Lord…” Pansy swallowed tightly, her eyes dropping to her hands. “He’s different this time, Draco. Careful. So, so careful. We know next to nothing about his broader plan. Even if you hear rumors, it’s almost impossible to verify them.”

Pansy explained that she’d begun to consider taking her chances on the run when, three days ago, she’d received a coded letter and parcel from Theo. It took her one day to identify the runes Theo had used in his note, and another two to translate it. The revealed message contained two key pieces of information: the Dark Lord’s whereabouts and the location of Harry Potter. 

“Nott Manor?” Draco repeated. “That’s where Potter is?”

Pansy nodded.

“And the Dark Lord is out of the country? For another two days?”

She nodded again. 

Draco let out an exhale as the enormity of Pansy’s news washed over him. If the Dark Lord was traveling and Order able to rescue Potter, such a victory could alter the course of the war and galvanize a weary country. It could change everything.

“Are we certain he’s still alive?”  

“As of Theo’s letter, yes.”

“And Shaklebolt believes you?”

Pansy shifted. “He wouldn’t have,” she allowed with a grimace. “But Theo’s parcel contained a memory vial. The Order was able to confirm his intelligence via penseive.” 

The set of memories was a brilliant move on Theo’s end — while resistance to veritaserum was common enough amongst the Death Eaters, it was almost impossible to tamper with memories. Sending Pansy his essentially guaranteed her reception at the Ministry.

Anticipation raced down Draco's fingers as he considered the timeline. From what he remembered about the Second Wizarding War – which was still far too much, in his opinion – the Dark Lord was driven by two ends: the achievement of absolute, unchallenged power, and revenge against Harry Potter. In fact, Potter’s murder was often more of a focal point than any of the blood purist ideals most Death Eaters had signed up for. 

Based on this obsession, a captured Potter would be a trophy for the Dark Lord, a symbol of his power and the vitality of his new campaign. And a narcissist like Voldemort wasn’t one to let his prizes collect dust.

“The Dark Lord won’t leave him for long.” Draco ran a hand through his hair. “The Order should act immediately.”

Pansy snorted. “Merlin, you sound just like Granger.”

 “Granger?” He fought to keep his voice neutral even as her name shot through him. 

“Yeah. They brought her in after they confirmed Theo’s memories. It was a strange group, pretty obvious she and that brutish Auror—”

“Dawlish?”

“—yeah, that’s the one. Pretty obvious they don’t get along. She nearly lost it when Daw-whatever-his-name-is told her the Aurors wouldn’t be making a move until tomorrow.”

“They’re is waiting until tomorrow? Tomorrow?” Draco couldn’t keep the outrage out of his voice. “They're going to sit on this kind of intel? This could—”

“Change everything?” Pansy offered. “Yeah, that’s what Granger said too. She looked ready to snap her own wand in two when Shaklebolt threatened to ground her if she disobeyed his orders.”

At those words, Draco blood turned cold.

 “Where is she now?” He hadn’t recalled telling his feet to pace, or even to stand, for that matter, but he was currently on track to erode the tile floor. 

“Where’s who?”

“Granger.” He almost growled the name.

“Hell if I know. She left not long after Shaklebolt made his threat. What are you—”

“Fuck. Fuck. I have to go,” Draco said, roughly pulling his coat on. “Stay here until I get back.”

“Draco, what's—”

But he was already three strides down the hallway. As he approached the apparation point, he thought of Granger’s expression when he'd told her she wasn’t invincible, that she was more than a job to him. She had looked so tormented, so resigned. In her eyes, Draco had recognized the same desperation and determination his mother’s face had often held. 

I do what I have to do, Granger had said.

They're the only family I have.

As Draco turned and thought of his destination, he knew one thing with absolute certainty.

Hermione Granger had gone to Nott Manor.

And she had gone alone.

Chapter Text

The self is not so weightless, nor whole and unbroken.

Remember the pact of our youth?

Where you go, I’m going, so jump, and I’m jumping

Since there is no me without you.

- Gang of Youths, Achilles Come Down

Simplicity was a rarity in wartime. More often than not, morals faded into the haze of relativism and decisions were cradled by the skeletal embrace of complexity. How could it not be complicated, when the stakes were impossibly high and the consequences fatal? 

In moments of reluctant self-reflection, Hermione acknowledged that the messiness of war had begun to take its toll on her. It was one thing to discuss and develop strategy, and quite another to account for the lives lost and families torn apart. Indeed, while pragmatism helped ground her decision-making, it did very little to soothe her regret and responsibility.

So yes, war was complicated. Devastatingly, inexhaustibly complicated.

But the decision to rescue Harry? It was the simplest choice Hermione had made in months.

It was almost laughable, really, how the circumstances had aligned so clearly. The intelligence on Harry’s location was confirmed. Voldemort was out of the picture. And the Death Eaters did not expect an attack. Swift, decisive action was the only logical conclusion, but both Kingsley and Dawlish had hesitated.

Hermione would not.

Without formal support, though, she was left with two options: attempt the mission alone or quietly recruit a small group to go with her. 

But images of Luna’s burns from all those weeks ago, of Ginny’s bruises and bandages, of Finley crumpling to the ground twisted through Hermione’s gut, nightmarish reminders of how very quickly things could go wrong. After all her fear and grief and loss, Hermione couldn’t bring herself to lead another friend into the crosshairs of this war.

And so. She left alone.

It was the early morning, so early the sky was still blackened by midnight. The woods surrounding Nott Manor were dark and cold, and the earth beneath Hermione’s boots was damp from yet another winter storm. As she mapped the perimeter of the manor’s wards, Hermione moved swiftly but carefully, refreshing her disillusionment charm as she went. There was no telling how far the Death Eaters patrolled, and she didn’t care for any visitors – at least, not yet.

The manor wasn’t far from London, but it had required two apparation stops: one in Cambridge and one in Norwich. The journey had been straining but manageable on her own. If all went according to plan, however, she would not be returning the same way.

If all went according to plan.

For a moment, the brilliant green of Harry’s eyes flashed before Hermione, and she felt a rush of something visceral and consuming.

She could bring him back.

Back to Ginny’s contagious smile and abominable cooking, to Andromeda’s family tea, to walks with Neville and adventures with Teddy and—

She could bring him back.

She could bring him home.

But as Hermione moved through the cold forest, she was keenly aware of the enormous risk she was taking. She had seen enough good men die to know that loyalty did not mean invincibility. The heady thrill she felt at the idea of seeing Harry was not enough to keep her safe.

The supplies in the bag at her hip, however, would help. Crucially, she carried with her Harry’s old invisibility cloak. It was the key component of Plan A, which fundamentally consisted of sneaking in and sneaking out. Between Hermione’s familiarity with wards and the cover provided by the cloak, it was highly likely she could enter the manor without detection. 

What she encountered once inside, of course, was another matter.

That was where Plan B came in. 

In addition to the invisibility cloak, Hermione’s bag held two vests infused with the Protego charm. They were the most recent prototypes of Lucas Bones’ calculations, and while they’d yet to be tested in the field, she and Lucas had confirmed their basic function three days prior. The vests couldn’t stop an unforgivable, of course, but they provided enough protection to allow the wearer more reaction time. And if Hermione ended up engaging Death Eaters during the mission — the thought alone sent chills down her spine — she would need all the time she could get.

That was why, in addition to Lucas’ protective vests, Hermione’s bag held supplies she could use to create a diversion. Specifically, she carried with her four explosive charges, made from a combination of muggle fireworks and fertilizer. While Hermione was a skilled duelist, there was no way she could take on all the Death Eaters at once. The more dispersed their forces were, the better her chances would be. So, as she made her way around the perimeter of the manor, Hermione hid the charges in the woods, setting the scene for diversions she could trigger remotely.

On top of supplies for Plans A and B, Hermione also was prepared with a third option: polyjuice potion. The brew was in its earliest form, which would allow Hermione flexibility in choosing her target. However, while polyjuice was extraordinarily useful for infiltration and reconnaissance, it was considered a dangerous choice for a duel. A body under the influence of polyjuice moved more sluggishly than a sober one, and even slight changes in a fighter’s efficiency could mean the difference between deflecting a curse and being struck by it. And given that most of the Death Eaters were men, polyjuiced changes to Hermione’s physique would pose a great risk to her dueling style. Considering the liability, polyjuice was not Hermione’s preferred option.

Still, she would use it if she had to.

She ducked beneath a low-hanging branch as she reviewed her plans once more. 

Plan A: in, out, quietly.

Plan B: divert and distract.

Plan C: polyjuice.

There was also Plan D, but she preferred not to think about that one.

No matter which she chose, Hermione’s goal once she got to Harry was the same: in her pocket, she carried a portkey spelled to transport her and Harry to Thetford Forest. In the (quite likely) event something went wrong, the portkey’s destination was also a manageable apparation distance from the manor while also remote enough to be safe.

All of this was outlined in a note Hermione had left in the capable hands of Kreacher, back at Grimmauld Place. The portkey was set for 4am, and she’d given Kreacher strict instructions to wait until 3:55 to give the note to Neville. To her mind, it was a compromise between leaving alone and making sure Harry would receive the support he needed. Ideally, Hermione would sneak into the manor, find Harry, and then use the Portkey to transport both of them to Thetford, where Neville and other Order members would be waiting.

It was a hectic strategy, really. It relied on an excruciating number of unknowable variables, and if something went wrong, Hermione didn’t have any backup to carry her through.

But she had her plans, her wits, and her magic, as well as the implacable knowledge that her friend was close by. 

It would be enough.

It had to be. 

Hermione ducked behind the branches of a particularly thick fir. After trading her disillusionment charm for one of Lucas’ vests and the invisibility cloak, Hermione rolled her shoulders.

It was time.

She was on the north side of the property, tucked into a swell of trees. According to the limited intelligence she’d found on Nott Manor, this side of the estate contained the family gardens, making it an ideal entry point for Plan A.  

She took a slow step forward, and then another. The air in front of her was still, the world beyond a lush, dark forest. 

Hermione knew better. 

She lifted a cautious hand and traced the wall of wards before her. There were several layers of magic, it seemed. It would take time to pass through them undetected.

Hermione put her wand between her teeth and got to work.

Using her fingers, she gently teased apart the web of spells. There were the traditional enchantments: salvia hexia, protego totalum, repello muggletum. As she moved deeper, the magic grew older and darker - a nasty caterwauling charm she definitely needed to avoid, a blood boiling curse, a series of spells that would literally turn the earth to molten rock, and a progression of confrindos designed to decapitate intruders. She sifted through the strands of magic, careful to keep them intertwined. Hopefully, she could make a gap large enough to allow her to step through the wards rather than remove them entirely. Complete removal would take too long and, judging from the complexity of the magic, Hermione wasn’t sure she could manage it without triggering an alarm. 

The technique of pulling wards back rather than breaking them was something she’d learned as a spellcaster in America. It required a keen eye for magical signatures and an ungodly amount of patience. She possessed the former in spades, but the latter had always given her trouble.

She breathed through her nose and tried to keep her hands steady.

The final strand she inspected was an especially dark thing, but it hung limply in blackened tatters. It was the remnants of the blood ward, she realized - an ancient curse that required guests to be accompanied by a member of the Nott family upon arrival at the property. Voldemort’s selection of the manor as a base for his forces would have made such a ward untenable. Whoever had removed it had done so carefully, intricately, allowing the other ancient wards to remain intact. There were only a handful of Death Eaters with the magical prowess to perform such a complex task, and only one who could have done it so elegantly.

Hermione pretended she didn’t recognize Tom Riddle’s signature. 

She gently pulled aside the final ward, revealing the distant silhouette of an imposing, shadowed structure. 

The manor. 

She exhaled in satisfaction and continued applying gentle pressure to the strands of magic until the gap’s diameter was the length of her wingspan. Carefully, she lifted one leg through the opening, and then another, holding her fingers steady. 

Once she stepped through the barrier, she wasted no time closing the wards behind her. One by one, the strands reunited with one another until, finally, there was only a single spell remaining in her left hand. 

There was nothing particularly striking about the magic, she noted as she ran it through her fingers. The green sheen of the spell told her it was an anti-apparation curse, and its vibrancy told her it had been recently cast.

Hermione called her wand back to her palm and got to work, tracing runes into the air adjacent to the ward. The first rune called for destruction, while the second called for delay. With a wave of her hand, the runes overlapped and twisted into a new, imposing symbol, which she directed onto the green strand. The rune wrapped around the spell until the two pieces of magic were indistinguishable.

Delayed destruction of an anti-apparation ward. Without it, her portkey would be inoperable.

So, Hermione had thirty minutes before the ward fell and the manor was alerted to an intruder. A quick tempus charm told her she had thirty-two minutes until her portkey activated. 

Thirty-two minutes to get in, find Harry, and portkey out. 

Hermione released the spell from her fingers, watching it fold back into the web of magic. The wards rippled for a moment and then settled into a still, solid surface once again. Assured that her cover had not yet been compromised, Hermione turned and set off towards the manor.

Plan A, so far, had been a success.

Two minutes later, Plan A completely fell apart.

The gardens behind the manor were dark and unoccupied, as Hermione had expected. The red-brick towers of the manor were visible above the winding paths of the gardens, and she’d begun swiftly making her way towards them. As she moved, she cast a Homenum Revelio to alert her to any patrols nearby. 

Her spell had come back clean, loosening the tension in her chest and allowing her to move more efficiently towards the manor. The adrenaline thrumming in her veins, along with the pounding of her heartbeat, explained why she didn’t immediately register the noise behind her.

It started as a subtle rustling, the sound of a dried leaves moving across the winter ground, but it quickly grew louder. Hermione turned slowly, scanning the foliage for a bird or squirrel.

Then, she saw the dog.

It was a massive, black thing, eyes glowing in the darkness of the garden, teeth bared in a snarl as it made its way in her direction. Hermione’s breath caught in her throat as she tightened her grip on her wand. 

The animal couldn’t see her, she knew. But judging from its intense focus, it sensed her. It was advancing now, head held low to the ground, nostrils flaring. 

Hermione swallowed and took a small step back, and then another. 

The sound of a low growl behind her had her stopping short.

She turned, heart in her throat, to find another dog not a meter away. It cocked its head in her direction and lifted its nose into the air.

Hermione watched in silent terror as the animal’s lips curled up in a growl, revealing sharp white teeth. For a moment, neither of them moved.

And then, the dog began to howl. 

It was an awful, violent noise, and it ripped through the stillness of the garden. The dog behind Hermione lunged forward, its jaws snapping. 

A reflexively wave of her wand sent a stunning spell towards the animal closest to her. It recoiled with a harsh whine, giving her enough time to send a silencing spell and stunner towards the other. 

But it was too late: she could hear shouting up the hill. Hermione barely had time to press herself behind a bush before a cloaked man rushed into the clearing, followed closely by three others. Hermione’s eyes widened. Four Death Eaters on patrol was highly unusual. 

“Who’s there?” yelled one of them, thundering around the clearing. “Show yourself!”

“Calm down, Wyatt. It’s probably just a squirrel,” another grumbled. Hermione watched as he sent a kick towards one of the dazed animals. “These bloody dogs are always on about something.”

“It’s true,” groused another. “The other day, they lost their minds over nothing.”

Hermione shifted beneath the cloak as another figure stepped into the clearing.

“This is different,” said the final Death Eater in a low, controlled tone. He knelt beside one of the dogs and tilted his head. “They’ve been stunned.”  

Hermione froze as she recognized the voice. Dolohov.

What was Dolohov doing on patrol? She’d anticipated a group of guards, of course – but she hadn’t counted on a Death Eater of Dolohov’s rank and formidability appearing this early in the attack. 

“Spread out.” Dolohov’s voice rippled across the ground. “Watch for abnormalities.” And then, a quiet, almost imperceptible: “Homenum Revelio.”

Hermione grit her teeth as the spell wash over her. 

“Someone is in the garden,” Dolohov announced. 

“There are footsteps over here,” called another Death Eater.

“And here,” said another.

And with that, Plan A was abandoned.

The Death Eaters were moving out in a semi-circle, their wands drawn, cloaked faces scanning the garden. As they advanced, Hermione’s hiding place was quickly becoming untenable. She may have been invisible, but that wouldn’t stop one of the guards from running directly into her.

She needed to level the playing field.

In other words, she needed Plan B.

Hermione held her breath and reached into her pocket for a remote designed to trigger the first of her charges. It was a muggle device, modified by Hermione to pass through magical wards, and it would work within seconds. 

She bit into the inside of her cheek and pressed the button.

There was a moment of stillness. And then, an explosion roared across the earth, shaking needles from trees and casting rocks into the air. She couldn’t see it - the manor’s protective enchantments made sure of that - but the violent vibrations in her bones were unmistakable. She held her breath as the Death Eaters shouted, turning towards the sound. 

“What was that?” one shouted.

“It came from the front of the manor!” said another. He made as if to run. “We should—”

 “Stay where you are!” hissed Dolohov. The controlled level of his voice was gone, replaced with simmering fury. “We are under attack. Someone is here, in the garden.”

“But what about the—”

“Rookwood and his scouts will take care of it!” Dolohov snapped. “Now pay attention!”

Hermione cursed silently. While it sounded as if the explosion had drawn some Death Eaters from the manor, it had done little to help her with her current situation.

Hermione was an excellent duelist, but four versus one? With Dolohov involved?

Her breath caught as a strategy ignited in her mind. The spell it required was a tricky piece of magic – something she and Neville had developed together to breach dark wards. It functioned as a sort of delayed-reaction Expelliarmus in that the spell did not immediately appear at the tip of the caster’s wand. Instead, the first traces of magic occurred 10 meters away. Because many duelists reacted to the initial appearance of a spell, it helped disorient Death Eaters enough for them to be neutralized. 

It could work.

Hermione took a steadying breath and tightened her grip on her wand. The Death Eater closest to her was near enough for her to hear his breathing.

It had to work.

Hermione whispered the incantation, barely audible over the pounding of her own heartbeat. An instant later, the red flash of her spell appeared some distance away beside a particularly gnarled fruit tree. It snapped through the air, gaining speed, before crashing into the hedged border of the path.

Immediately, the clearing was illuminated by a series of dark curses, each directed at place Hermione’s magic had appeared. As the spells hit their target, thick smoke rolled across the earth, temporarily blocking her vision.

It cleared to reveal the four Death Eaters descending on the tree. Hermione lips twisted in a rueful grin.

Her strategy was working.

She nonverbally recast the delayed response spell, feeling her magic ripple under its weight. The spell was directed towards the Death Eater closest to her, and he gave a strangled cry as a jet of red light appeared immediately in front of his chest. His momentary shock was the only distraction she needed. As he erected a hasty shield, Hermione sent a nonverbal stunner his way. He crumpled. 

Dolohov’s masked face snapped in her direction and his wand twisted through the air. A jet of black collided with a tree beside her, and it exploded into splinters. 

Without a moment’s hesitation, Hermione cast a levitation spell on the remnants of the tree, sending the jagged pieces hurtling towards the Death Eaters. Dolohov was able to erect a shield, but the other guards were not as lucky. As they raised their arms against the onslaught, Hermione fired off two additional stunners. Ensuing thumps told her they had met their marks. 

While the splinters settled to the ground, Dolohov stood very still, his head turning as he scanned the clearing like a predator. Hermione’s mind raced as she considered her remaining arsenal. She couldn’t risk the delayed spell again – he was too experienced to fall for it a third time, and it would simply drain her energy...unless...

Her eyes widened as an idea came to her. It was a risk, to be sure...and if it didn’t work, she was almost certainly in serious trouble...but then again...wasn’t she in trouble already?

Dolohov took a step forward, and she made her decision.

She cast an Expelliarmus directly from her position. In any other context, it would have immediately given away her location. As it was, however, Dolohov batted away the spell and turned slightly away from her. 

“Your little trick won’t work again,” he snarled. “Out of ideas al—?”

His taunting was cut short by Hermione’s Petrificus Totalis. His body hit the ground in an instant.

Hermione ducked around the bush in front of her and rushed towards the Death Eater. Dolohov’s expression was fixed in a sneer, and Hermione allowed herself a small surge of satisfaction that her plan had worked. The man's eyes widened almost imperceptibly, and Hermione knew that he was trying to make out his attacker. Thanks to the cloak, though, all he saw was the rippling night sky.

Hermione hadn’t intended to use her Legilimency during this mission, but this opportunity, with Dolohov right in front of her, was impossible to pass up.

She leaned over him and pointed her wand at his forehead. 

“Legillimens,” she whispered.

Hermione sank into his mind and was immediately confronted by the mental equivalent of a brick wall. She clenched her jaw as the force of Dolohov’s occlumency slammed into her, shoving her from his mind. 

She inhaled slowly, blinking down at Dolohov’s stony expression. 

During the last war, it was unheard of to find a Death Eater proficient in occlumency. Voldemort hadn’t tolerated secrets, and even his closest supporters had been barred from learning the practice. Dolohov’s new capabilities spoke to a strange, undefined Dark Lord. 

But that was a consideration for later. For now, Hermione needed to break through Dolohov’s shields.

 “Confundus,” she said quickly. 

As she’d expected, the resulting confusion in Dolohov’s mind allowed her to slip past his first defenses. But the only images there were ones she had already seen: the sound of dogs barking, the darkness of the garden, the patrol…

Hermione ground her teeth and sank deeper into his mind, probing his defenses for weakness—

“Wyatt? Dolohov?” The shout came from behind her, deeper in the garden. “Where are you lot?”

“Shit.” Hermione withdrew from Dolohov’s mind and threw a harried look over her shoulder. There were lights flashing through the hedges, warning of more patrols and Death Eaters.

She had run out of time. 

Her heart jumped as she turned back to Dolohov. While legilimency had been ineffective, it seemed a waste to simply leave him there…

Polyjuice.

Yes, that was it. Polyjuice as Dolohov would be an excellent alternative.

Hermione summoned the flask from her bag and leaned down to collect Dolohov’s hair. She was adding it to the potion when a crack sounded to her left. 

Hermione started and spun, wand raised, only to find—

A house elf?

Yes, a house elf, as tall as Hermione’s waist, staring up at her with wide, insistent eyes. Immediately, Hermione checked the integrity of the invisibility cloak and found it very much in place. Somehow, though, the elf was looking directly at her, his hand extended imploringly.

“Come!” he squeaked. “Hurry!”

Hermione looked from the elf, down to Dolohov, and then over her shoulder at the patrols. They were getting closer.

But what on earth was the elf doing here?

Who was this elf?

What the fuck was going on? 

The elf, it seemed was not burdened by the same questions. 

“We’s must be going now!” he cried, eyes wide in the flickering light of the patrols. And then, he quite literally launched himself towards her.

“Wait—”

Hermione barely had time to cast a disillusionment charm over Dolohov before the elf’s arms wrapped around her leg, twisting the pair of them away into the darkness of apparation. 

Hermione’s eyes squeezed shut at the pressure, her mouth half-open in protest as the hood of the invisibility cloak was blown backwards. An instant later, she was released into a dimly-lit room — a bed on one side, a desk on the other, and a tall, brown-haired man pacing in the middle. At the crack of apparation, the man’s head snapped up.

At the sight of her, his dark eyes lit with recognition, and his lips lifted in a small smirk.

“Granger,” Theodore Nott said. “I was wondering when you’d turn up.”

Chapter Text

Immediately, Hermione’s wand was in her hand, pointed at Nott’s chest. Her heart was beating rapidly after the events in the garden and the unexpected apparation.

“Nott. What the fuck is going on?”

The man remained where he was, his dark eyes drifting from Hermione’s face, down to her wand, and back to her face again. He looked unimpressed.

“You Gryffindors are so predictable.” He shook his head and turned towards his desk. “I’m not any threat to you, Granger.”

Hermione pressed her lips together and did not move. “Why did your elf bring me here?”

“Because I told him to.”

At this, the elf beside Hermione nodded proudly. 

“Master Theo told Hinkley to watch for a disturbance and to bring disturbers to Master Theo.”

Hermione looked back to Nott. “Disturbers?” she repeated, arching an eyebrow.

Nott quirked his own. “Indeed.” He turned to the elf. “Thank you, Hinkley.”

Hinkley swooped into a low bow. He then patted Hermione’s hand soothingly, a jarring gesture after everything that had just occurred, and disappeared with another crack.

Hermione returned her attention to Nott. She didn’t have time for an interrogation, but she wasn’t sure if she could trust him—

“Is Pansy alright?” Nott’s question was quiet and unexpected. “That’s how you’re here, yes? You saw my memories? At the Ministry?”

Hermione swallowed and adjusted her stance. “Yes. Yes, that’s how I’m here.”

“And Pansy?” Even in the dim lighting of the room, the concern lining his face was striking.

Hermione nodded again. Nott’s posture relaxed, his hands sliding into his pockets. 

“Is that not proof enough for you, Granger?” he asked. As he spoke, Hermione noticed the dark circles under his eyes and the slightly disheveled state of his clothes. “What else do you require? A blood oath? A look inside my mind?”

“Would you allow me?” Hermione tilted her head. “Would you allow me to use legilimency?”

Nott’s answer came immediately: “Yes.”

Only then did Hermione lower her wand. He was right — she had seen his memories, and legilimency would take time she did not have. 

His willingness told her everything she needed to know.

“Fine,” she said. "Fine." She glanced around the room. “Are we in your—”

“Childhood bedroom?” He offered. “Yeah. Welcome in, Granger.”

The sickly pallor of Nott’s skin was alarming. He looked haunted.

“So…” he prompted, interrupting her scrutiny. He leaned against the wall, folded his arms, and looked at her expectantly. 

“I’m here for Harry,” Hermione said quickly.

“I’ve gathered.”

“Do you know where he is? Is he...” She swallowed. “Is he okay?”

“I know where he is.” 

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat. “And?”

“And he’s alive.” Nott glanced out the window, his jaw hard. “I’ll take you to him once the others show up.”

“Others?” she repeated, trying to compartmentalize the dread in her gut.

“Yeah, the other Order members. Reinforcements.”

At her raised eyebrows, Nott’s expression darkened. “Don’t tell me they sent you by yourself.”

“Technically, they didn’t send me at all.”

Nott’s jaw dropped. “You’re completely alone, then?” he asked, staring at her. “Granger, I’m sorry, but this is a fucking suicide mission. Even for you.”

Hermione simply looked at him. At her continued silence, Nott exhaled roughly.

“At least tell me you have a plan,” he said. 

She shifted uneasily. “Well, yes,” she said. “Four, actually, but they haven’t gone very well. I’m on Plan B now—”

“Plan B?”

“Yes, divert and distract, so—”

“Bloody fucking hell.” Nott ran a shaking hand through his hair. “You decided to attack the most heavily guarded building in all of England by diverting and distracting.”

“Well, I—” 

“Granger, do you have any idea how dangerous this is? Greyback is here, so is Dolohov—"

“Yes, I’m aware.” Hermione glanced at her watch. 3:40. Twenty minutes until the portkey activated. “There isn’t much time. I ran into Dolohov and some others in the gardens, and I handled them, but—”

“You did what?”

“—wear off soon, so I need to find Harry. You can either help me or let me go.”

Nott’s gaze was grim as he considered at her from across the room. Finally, he heaved a sigh and pushed himself off the wall.

“Fine, I’ll help you,” he muttered, pulling out the chair at his desk. He looked over his shoulder. “But Granger? Given that we’re both likely to die within the hour, you might as well call me Theo.” His gaze swept up and down her front. "And take off that bloody cloak. It's fucking weird talking to a floating head."

“The explosion? That was you?” Theo was staring at her. “How?”

They were standing on either side of Theo’s desk, a makeshift map of the manor drawn on a sheet of parchment between them.

Hermione shrugged impatiently. “TNT, mostly, as well as some ammonium nitrate—” At the blank expression on Theo’s face, she waved a dismissive hand. “Doesn’t matter.” She paused. “Another one is set to go off in five minutes.”

“Another one?”

“Divert and distract, remember?” 

Theo narrowed his eyes at her. “How many bombs did you set?”

“I prefer to think of them as charges, not bombs.”

“How many, Granger?”

“Four.”

“Fucking hell.” Theo looked towards the window, his eyes wide. “You’re a little scary, Hermione.”

“Yeah.” Hermione swallowed, her eyes returning to the map. “So Harry’s in the wine cellar?”

“Right.” Theo leaned over the table with his quill. “There are pairs of guards here and here,” he said, drawing X’s as he went. “There are three more in the cellar itself. They didn’t want a repeat of what happened at Malfoy Man—” He glanced at her apologetically. “Well, you know.” He rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. “So that makes seven total guards between the mouth of the corridor and Potter.”

“Shit.”

“Agreed.” Theo turned to her, frowning. “Even if we get past the guards, how are you planning on getting out?”

“I have a portkey that will—why are you shaking your head?”

“It won’t work.”

“What do you mean, it won’t work?”

“You can’t use a portkey in the manor,” Theo said. He’d run his hand through his hair so much it was sticking straight up. “Ancient magic.”

Hermione stared at him even as her stomach turned cold. “But I undid the anti-apparation ward,” she said.

“You undid the—how?” Theo’s eyes were impossibly wide. “How did you manage to—actually, it doesn’t matter. The portkey still won’t work. You have to get out of the manor itself before you can leave by magic.” Theo returned to the map. “If you’ve really undone the apparation ward, your best bet is to leave in the gardens you came in.” He circled the area. “Whatever you do, avoid the bridge here.” Another circle. “You’ll be boxed in, and it’ll be easy to pick you off from the windows.”

“Right.” Hermione chewed on her lip, looking to the clock impatiently. “Gardens, not bridge. Got it.”

Theo stared at her in disbelief. “Got it?” he repeated. He gave a harsh laugh. “Got it? Hermione, how in Salazar’s name do you plan on getting past seven guards twice?” When she began to protest, Theo shook his head. “Don’t you dare tell me the explosions. You could set off a million whizzbangs and the Death Eaters still wouldn’t leave Potter unguarded. You know that.”

Hermione’s mouth snapped shut against the fundamental recognition that Theo was right. She’d understood that this mission would be dangerous, even fatal, but now, with Theo’s map on the desk in front of her, with all of its circles and X’s, the enormity of what she’d undertaken washed over her. 

But, despite the complication of her exist strategy, she wasn’t out of options. She still had more tools.

“There’s also Plan C,” she said, reaching for her bag.

Theo stared at her. “And what’s that? Transfigure ourselves into owls?”

Hermione ignored his sarcasm and held up her flask. “Close. Polyjuice.”

The frustration evaporated from Theo's expression, leaving behind cool focus. 

“Whose?” he asked quietly, reaching for the vial.

“Dolohov’s.”

At that, Theo’s face transformed. When he looked at her again, his eyes were sharp and shining.

“Well. Why didn’t you say so?”

Their strategy was as follows: Theo would take the polyjuice, as he was closer in size to Dolohov and was better able to replicate Dolohov’s mannerisms. Hermione would remain beneath the invisibility cloak, a step behind Theo. They would use Dolohov’s reputation and influence to redistribute the guards, sending them away from Harry and towards Plan B’s explosions. Once Theo and Hermione made it into the cellar, Harry would join Hermione under the invisibility cloak, and they’d leave the way they came. 

“This might actually work,” Theo had said. He'd held up the polyjuice in a grim toast. “To Plan C.” 

And then: “This tastes like piss.” 

Later, as Hermione fastened one of Lucas’s shielding vests around Theo-turned-Dolohov’s shoulders, he’d frowned at her.

“Out of curiosity, Hermione, what’s Plan D?”

When she’d told him, Theo had turned as white as a ghost. 

“We’ll only use it as a last resort,” she had promised as they prepared in his bedroom. She’d hesitated. “Is there anyone here you’d like to warn or—”

“I’ll prepare the elves. That’s all.” 

Theo’s voice had been hard, and they had left it at that.

They set off for Harry immediately after the second explosion. The force of it rumbled through the floorboards, setting Hermione’s teeth on edge. She and Theo made their way quickly through the manor, down several winding staircases, before entering a dimly lit stone hallway. Hermione recognized the layout from the map on Theo’s desk, and sure enough, the first pair of guards quickly appeared from around the corner. They were young men, only slightly older than Hermione.

“What’s going—oh! Dolohov, sir. I didn’t expect you,” one of them said, his eyes widening. 

Theo didn’t waste any time. “Why are you two still here?” he demanded, his voice a rough and violent sound.

The other guard flinched as the first cowered. “You told us to stay—”

“I said nothing of the sort!” Theo’s Dolohov took a menacing step forward. “Did you feel that explosion? DID YOU?”

“Y-y-yes, sir.”

“Then I ask you again. Why are you still here?”

The two guards exchanged a frightened look. 

“Go up there and help Rookwood at the perimeter!” Theo shouted. “NOW!” 

At Theo’s final word, the guards jumped.

“Yes, sir.”

“Right away, sir.”

And they scurried past Theo and Hermione and up into the stairwell. Hermione waited until their footsteps faded before brushing Theo’s arm in recognition. 

He squared his shoulders. “We’re not out of the woods yet,” he said quietly, adjusting the collar of his robes. “Those two are notoriously thick. Rosier next, and he won’t be as easily convinced.”

Theo was right.

While the first pair had caved almost immediately, Rosier and his partner Gibbons were unimpressed. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder a few meters away from the door to the cellar, expressions of deep distrust etched into their faces.

“And why does Rookwood need us, specifically?” Rosier asked slowly. “To my mind, it would be more prudent for us to stay close to Potter in case any reinforcements show up.”

To his credit, Theo remained in character.

“Rosier,” he said quietly, tilting his head to the side in an uncanny impression of Dolohov, “what do you think the Dark Lord will say when he finds out you got in my way? Hmm?”

Rosier shifted slightly, but his jaw remained set. “He’d…He’d understand. He’d want me to stay with Potter—”

“And you’re sure?” Theo’s voice was almost a purr now. “Even with the explosions at the perimeter?” He took a step forwards and adjusted his grip on his wand. “You’re willing to bet your life on it?”

Rosier hesitated, his eyes flicking towards Gibbons. “Maybe…” He swallowed. “Gibbons, maybe you should go and check with Rookwood, just to make sure—”

But in that moment, there was a flash of silver, and a bear patronus appeared in the dim corridor. Theo’s whispered “fuck” was the only warning Hermione had before Dolohov’s disembodied voice thundered through the corridor.

“INTRUDERS IN THE GARDEN! INTRUDERS IN THE GARDEN!” 

Confusion lit across Rosier's face, followed closely by understanding. “POLYJUICE!” he shouted, wand already raised towards Theo. “Sound the alar—”

In an instant, Hermione had fired a stunning spell in his direction. Rosier blocked it just as quickly, a slight stumble the only indication of his surprise.

And then, the four were dueling. 

Theo cast a purple spell she didn’t recognize, and it collided with the wall beside Gibbons with a bang. Gibbons responded with spells fired in Hermione’s direction, but they were wildly off-target.

“It’s that fucking cloak!” Rosier shouted. “Someone’s there, invisible!”

Curses and shields snapped through the air. A jet of red made it past Hermione’s shield but fizzled before it hit her torso. Hermione barely had time to thank Lucas’ vest before Rosier deflected a Bombarda curse from Theo, knocking one of the rafters loose. Hermione threw up her arms to shield herself from the wood, and she was helpless as a slicing jinx raced through the air towards Theo. He cried out as it cut across his arm. 

A well-placed Levicorpus from Hermione sent Gibbons flying into the wall with a sickening crunch.

Rosier barely spared a glance for his fallen counterpart. “Whoever you are, you’ll pay,” he spat at Theo, his lip curling. “I’ll make sure of—”

The rest of Rosier’s threat, however, was lost, for at that moment, the door to the cellar opened, revealing none other than Fenrir Greyback.

“What the fuck is going on out here?” he yelled.

The sight of the werewolf had bile unfurling across Hermione’s tongue. She swallowed it back and tightened her grip on her wand.

Focus. Focus.

Rosier glanced over his shoulder at Greyback, and his brief distraction was all Hermione needed. Rosier collapsed as her particularly nasty curse hit his chest.

Any relief was shortlived, however, as Greyback and two other Death Eaters stepped into the corridor.

Hermione wordlessly disarmed and confounded one of them, and he sank to the ground, blinking at the lights on the ceiling. The other two, however, proved harder to deal with. 

Even in human form, Greyback was an intimidating figure, his yellow teeth bared in a snarl as he threw curse after curse in her direction. A hissing orange spell made it past her shield and cloak, and she shrieked as her arm began to burn as if submerged in acid. Her responding hex left her wand at a strange angle, and the recoil threw her into the wall. 

Hermione wheezed as the air was knocked from her lungs. On the other side of the corridor, Theo was holding his own against Greyback and the other Death Eater, but only barely. 

Hermione pushed herself away from the wall and clenched her jaw. 

“CONFRINDO!” she screamed. The jet of light raced through the air, headed straight for Greyback. She watched as the werewolf spun towards the spell, too late to cast a shield, and it would hit him, it would—

Greyback threw himself aside, out of the path of the spell, allowing it to collide instead with the Death Eater behind him.

The curse sliced the man’s arm clean from his torso. There was a terrible scream, cut short by another curse, from Theo this time, that knocked the man to the ground.

And then, Greyback was all that stood between them and the cellar door. 

Hermione and Theo sent a wave of magic towards the werewolf. They cast jinxes, hexes, curses, and spells so rapidly Hermione's lips barely had time to form the incantations. As the burning in her arm became more severe, Hermione cried out, throwing her magical core behind her next spell. Greyback’s shield shattered, and he gave a strangled cry as he collided with one of Theo’s curses.

She and Theo stood there, gasping for breath. She took in the five bodies on the ground around them.

“Well,” she said, grimacing as she pulled off the invisibility cloak. “That went smoothly.”

Theo snorted. “We don’t have much ti—Hermione, your skin is literally smoking.”

It was true. Putrid yellow vapor was unfurling from her left arm, accompanied by an unpleasant sizzling noise  A quick Finite Incantatem reduced the pain, but only barely. She hissed through her teeth as she took in a series of angry red burns on her skin.

“Are you alright?” Theo asked, reaching for her. “I can—”

“We’ll take care of it later,” she said sharply, pulling away. “How is your arm?”

Theo made a non-committal noise as he inspected the gash the stretched from his elbow to wrist.

“It’s not fatal,” he said, passing over it with a surface-level healing charm. “Would be worse without that shielding vest you gave me.”

"Yeah."

"Potter's just through there now. Follow me."

As they entered the dark room, Hermione was prepared to find Harry in poor condition. She knew, both logically and emotionally, that months spent under Voldemort’s wand would have terrible consequences.

But still, when her eyes adjusted to the dimness of the room and she saw her friend, the breath left her lungs.

Harry was huddled in the corner opposite the door, pressed against the cold stone despite violent shivers wracking his body. His swollen face was ashen, and a bruise purpled the skin along his jawline. Raw skin around his wrists and ankles spoke of long stretches in manacles.

Hermione didn’t realize she had stopped in her tracks until she felt Theo’s hand on her back. 

As they moved closer to Harry, more of his injuries came into focus. Several cuts festered up and down his arms, many of them reeking of dark magic. Hermione pushed down her nausea as she spotted a particularly gruesome wound above his left clavicle. 

“Harry?” she called gently, placing a hand on his forehead. 

The only response was his ragged, uneven breathing.

“He’s burning up,” she whispered. “How long has he been like this?”

Theo crouched beside her.

“Two days,” he said quietly. “I think it’s a kind of magical defense mechanism.”

Hermione nodded and pressed her shaking hands onto her thighs. 

Occlude. Occlude.

Suddenly, the room seemed very far away.

“Alright,” she heard herself say. “Let’s get him out of here. If you—”

“Mione?” Harry’s voice was soft, but it shot through her.

She froze and looked up to find Harry’s eyes drifting open. The familiar flash of green stole the breath from her lungs.

“It’s me,” she managed to say, reaching for his hand. “It’s me, Harry.”

“Ah.” For a moment, Harry’s lips lifted in a small, bittersweet smile. Then he turned his head away. “I’ve had this dream before,” he said.

Hermione’s stomach bottomed out.  

“Hermione.” Theo’s voice was an urgent whisper. “We have to go.”

“Right. Right.” With cold fingers, Hermione reached for the clasp of Lucas’ vest and gently transferred it to Harry. Next, she cast a featherweight charm, which would allow her to carry him under the cloak—

“S’goin’ on ‘here?” 

An unfamiliar voice barreled through the silence of the cellar. Hermione spun to find the Death Eater she had previously confunded stumbling through the doorway.

Theo swore. “Our curses must be wearing off.”

Sure enough, there was a rustling sound in the corridor. 

“Oo are you?” the man slurred, his dazed eyes on Hermione. 

There was a flash of purple from Theo’s wand, and the man collapsed.

“We have to move,” Theo said before he even hit the floor. “I’ll take Potter. We’ll be faster that way.”

Hermione didn’t argue. Together, she and Theo lifted Harry from the ground, wrapped him in the invisibility cloak, and placed him over Theo’s shoulder in a fireman’s hold. 

Get out. 

Together, they stepped over the body of the Death Eater and entered the corridor. The other Death Eaters were still prone and unmoving, and Hermione and Theo moved past them quickly. They needed to make it down the hallway, up the stairs, through the entryway, and—

“ARGHHHHHHH!”

Hermione screamed a terrible, terrible scream as white-hot pain jumped up her leg. Black spots danced in her vision as she felt her skin breaking and muscle tearing. She looked down in horror to find Fenrir Greyback snarling up at her from the ground, his clawed fingers tearing through her calf...

“Mudblood!” the werewolf hissed through yellow teeth, reaching for her with his other hand.“Have you missed me?”

She had to cast a spell, she had to do something…but fuck, it hurt like hell, how could it hurt so much—

There was a flash of green light, and Greyback collapsed.

Dead.

Hermione sucked in a breath and moved her eyes to Theo, whose wand was still pointed at Greyback. Theo's face was stone-cold, his lips thin and pale.

Greyback was dead.

Hermione was trembling now, her teeth clattering together against the pain as she looked back at the werewolf, that horrible, horrible man who had hurt so many people, who had haunted her nightmares for years, who was lying unmoving on the ground, black eyes open and unseeing—

“Hermione. Hermione!” Theo’s Dolohov was in front of her now, looking at her intently. “Can you walk?” he asked urgently. 

Hermione shook herself, tearing her eyes away from Greyback’s body. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I…I think so.”

Theo looked unconvinced, and for good reason. Hermione could feel the viscous warmth of blood in her socks, gathering at the edges of her tattered trouser leg, her muscles clenching and releasing in painful spasms—

Hermione waved a coagulation spell over her shin and calf and then called for her occlumency barriers. She had survived worse. They just needed to get up the stairs.

And though the entryway.

And into the garden.

Right.

She cast another coagulation spell for good measure.

“I’m right behind you,” she managed to say to Theo.

His dark eyes searched her face before he nodded once. “Here.” He extended his wand towards Hermione. She shivered as a disillusionment charm trickled down her shoulders. “Stay close to me,” he said.

He couldn’t see her nod, but she nodded anyways.

Hermione followed Theo down the hallway, grimacing as they passed Gibbons and Rosier on the ground. The stairwell was cold and empty, and Hermione barred her teeth as each step pulled at her injury. 

“How long until the portkey activates, Granger?” Theo’s voice was low in the quiet.

“10—” She gasped at the pain in her leg. “10 minutes.”

“And when is the next bomb?”

“Soon.” They were almost to the top of the stairs.

“How soon?”

“I don’t know, Theo, the remote isn’t an exact science.”

“How can you not know—”

There was a loud, explosive noise, and Hermione stumbled into the top of the railing. The entryway was just around the corner, and there was the sound of men shouting, followed by footsteps leading away from them. 

“Soon, then,” Theo muttered. 

Hermione managed a harsh laugh.

Theo ducked his head around the door. “They’re heading for the bridge,” he said quietly. “It’s working.”

Adrenaline leapt in Hermione’s fingers as they entered the hall and turned left, away from the bridge and towards the garden. Hermione could see the paned glass of the double doors, the darkness of the garden beyond.  

“Almost there,” she breathed, limping down the hall.

Her injury made her slow, though, and soon, Theo was several steps ahead. Hermione grit her teeth and glared down at her leg, pulling it forward with each step—

The door beside her banged open, slamming into her shoulder and knocking her into the opposite wall. Hermione bit into her lip to keep from crying out as her leg screamed in protest.

“What was that?” A Death Eater ran into the hall, silver mask flashing in the low lighting. “I just hit something!”

Hermione leaned against the wall, trying to regain control of her breathing. But her shoulder ached and her arm was throbbing, and she could barely put weight on her left leg. 

“Dolohov?” The Death Eater had noticed Theo. “What are you doing here?”

Another Death Eater entered the hall. “No, Dolohov is at the perimet—what the hell?”

A third entered through the door. “What are you two on ab—”

And at that very moment, Hermione’s disillusionment charm flickered and died. 

The Death Eater in the doorway noticed her immediately, his shoulders tensing in acknowledgement. He raised a finger.

“Granger!” he shouted. “It’s Grang—”

Theo’s spell hit him in the chest, and Hermione fired curses at the others, but she wasn’t fast enough. A silver patronus unfolded from a Death Eater’s wand, and Hermione was helpless as it howled down the corridor. Theo was at Hermione’s side in an instant. They stood back to back, deflecting curses and volleying with their own.

“Dolohov?” one of the remaining guards roared. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“That’s not Dolohov, you idiot. It’s polyjuice!”

A series of cracks sounded in the garden. A moment later, the glass windows exploded. There, on the veranda, stood three Death Eaters, robes rippling behind them. 

Hermione barely had time to pull Theo and Harry out of the way as another curse rippled through the air and collided with the wall behind them. 

“Shit,” Hermione muttered as she sent the shards of glass hurtling towards their attackers. She counted five of them now, maybe more, approaching from the garden.

“Shit,” Theo confirmed, deflecting a curse. He was dueling with one arm, the other placed over the invisible shape on Harry on his shoulder. “We—” He grunted as he fired off another hex. “We have to take the bridge.”

Hermione used a levitation spell to send a painting hurtling towards another guard. “But I thought you said—”

“I know what I said.”

And then, Theo brought his wand down in a decisive slash, and the ceiling in front of them cracked. Wood and stone and plaster fell to the ground in front of them, temporarily blocking them from view. 

And then, they were running down the hall, and there was blood in Hermione’s mouth from biting her tongue to keep from screaming, and Theo was shoving a heavy door open, and then they were on the bridge. 

“Hurry, hurry!” Theo beckoned her forward. “The apparation zone ends at foot of the bridge, so the portkey will work—”

“THEODORE!” a man bellowed deep within the manor.

Theo’s face went white, and he stopped in his tracks.

“Hermione,” he said urgently. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes, but—”

“Take Potter, get to the end of the bridge, and then use Plan D.”

“What?” She stared at him. “Theo, I don’t—”

Theo was already transferring Harry to Hermione’s shoulder. The featherweight charm made the weight bearable, but when Hermione lifted a hand to steady Harry, her fingers were shaking.

“Listen to me.” Theo voice was thin. “That’s my father. He won’t…I can’t beat him, and I’ll only make things worse for you and Potter. I can hold him off long enough for you to take the portkey.”

Hermione’ eyes widened as she realized what he was asking of her, and she readjusted her grip over Harry’s back. 

“No. No, Theo.” She shook her head emphatically. “We can figure this out. He doesn’t know it’s you! You still look like Dolohov—”

“He knows it’s me.” Theo’s mouth lifted in a rueful smile. “It’ll be alright, Hermione.”

And then he was turning away from her, sending a series of spells into the manor. 

“Hermione!” He called over his shoulder. “The plan!”

She clenched her jaw and stepped backwards while reaching into the bag at her hip. Her fingers closed around a smooth object and she pulled it from the purse. She hesitated. 

Nott Sr. was clearly visible in the entryway now, his face contorting with fury as he cast curse after curse in their direction. Theo was managing to block or deflect the spells, but it was clear that he was outmatched. 

As a particularly dark curse ricocheted off of Theo’s shield, three more Death Eaters burst onto the bridge. Theo threw a harried look over his shoulder.

“HERMIONE! PLAN D!”

At the sight of the desperation in his eyes, Hermione swallowed her guilt and, with a wave of her wand, sent the object in her hand hurtling towards the Death Eaters.

For a bizarre moment, time stood still as the glass jar shrieked through the air. It fell to the ground in the mouth of the manor, shattering on the brick.

Then, all hell broke loose.

Red fire spiraled into the sky, the same fire that Dolohov had used all those months ago in Portsmouth, the same fire responsible for Luna’s terrible burns. It raced along the manor’s walls, shattering windows and hissing through stone. Flames dove triumphantly into the building, and soon black smoke billowed from every eave

“Run!” she heard over the crackling of the fire. “Run!”

As the smoke grew thicker and pressed into her nose, she began to pull Harry towards the apparation point. Her eyes stung, and the air glowed red with the strange flames. Her injured leg screamed at her, but she was almost there...almost there...

The ground beneath her feet turned from stone to mud, and they was off the bridge now, in a place where the portkey would work. Hermione removed the cloak from Harry, reached into her pocket, and pulled out a small muggle dictionary. A tempus charm told her it would activate in two minutes, so she just needed to—

The sound of a strangled cry turned her blood cold. 

Somehow, she knew it belonged to Theo. Hermione looked to the bridge, back to the portkey, and then back into the smoke. 

She should leave Theo, she knew. He’d asked her to. He wouldn’t want her to jeapordize—

There was another cry. Hermione swore, tucked the portkey into Harry’s hand, and ran back onto the bridge.  

“Theo? Theo!” she called, coughing to clear her lungs. A glint of hair caught her attention, and she hurried towards it.

Theo’s Dolohov was laying there on the brick, unconscious, the side of his face wet with blood. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Hermione hissed, grabbing beneath his armpits and pulling him backwards.  She stayed low to the ground, eyes stinging at the smoke. She dragged Theo over the brick until they reached the dirt apparation point next to Harry.

A minute until the portkey activated.

Hermione was intertwining her fingers with Harry’s, her other arm under Theo’s shoulders, when the earth shook with the fourth and final explosion. The force of it knocked Hermione off balance, sending her stumbling away from Theo and Harry. She grit her teeth as she pivoted on her good leg, intending to grab onto the portkey once more, when a harsh crack echoed across the ground.

Hermione looked up, and her heart stuttered.

Dolohov.

The Death Eater was staggering slightly — from her earlier confundus, she guessed — but his twisted face was dark with fury.

“Granger!” he roared.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Hermione gasped, throwing a curse in his direction. 

He stumbled but continued moving towards her.

Thirty seconds until the portkey activated. 

Hermione clenched her jaw, set her feet, and raised her wand. Her body was trembling now, from exhaustion or pain or adrenaline, she didn’t know. With an unsteady flick of her wrist, smoke from the fire gathered in the air between her location and Dolohov, blocking him from view. Hermione exhaled roughly as she began to erect a shield between her and the Death Eater. The magic glowed blue in the darkness of the smoke.

But Hermione was more injured than Dolohov was, and he banished the smoke quickly. And while Hermione’s shield held against his first curse, it flickered at his second. 

And it fell at his third. 

Dolohov raised his wand and Hermione bit into her cheek, preparing for the worst, but the next jet of light wasn’t directed at her, nor was it directed at Harry or Theo.

It was directed at the ground to her right, where, she realized a second too late, the portkey had begun to glow. 

Dolohov’s curse collided with the dictionary, and it disappeared in a flash of sparks.  

“No,” Hermione heard herself say, a breathless plea across the smoky ground. “No. No, no, no.”

“What’s the matter, mudblood?” Dolohov taunted, holding out his arms. “Nowhere else to go?”

Hermione looked from the Death Eater back to Harry and Theo and made a split-second decision. For the second time, she called the smoke towards her to hide her from Dolohov. The cover was short-lived, but it gave her space to kneel between Harry and Theo and intertwine her fingers with theirs. 

Then, she called for her occlumency and took a steadying breath, desperately concentrating on her mental image of the portkey’s coordinates.

Destination, Determination, Delib—

Dolohov burst through the smoke. Realization lit across his face in a violent rush. “No!” He roared. And then: “Aufera Lamia!” 

Hermione saw his livid expression and a flash of red light before she twisted into darkness.

And then, the world fell away.

Chapter Text

This will be my last confession:

"I love you" never felt like any blessing.

- Florence and the Machine, Heavy in Your Arms

END OF PART 1

Chapter Text

PART II

Hushed and White

The darkness of Hungarian winter was a smoky, slippery thing. In the city, it clawed at grimy windows and burrowed into the blackened veins of marble altars. It wrapped between ribs and vertebrae in coils so thick and unforgiving, even the proudest of men walked with a curved spine and heavy head. 

The shadows felt different in the woods. 

Perhaps it was the stillness of the forest, the settled silence of frozen ground beneath layers of snow. Perhaps it was the inexorable articulation of death — in the derelict branches, the flimsy skin of leaves, the skeletons picked clean by icy wind.

There was a nihilism to it, an inevitability. 

As he moved soundlessly through the forest, Lord Voldemort reveled in this darkness, in its cold fatality and elegant violence. It spoke the language of old magic: a relentless, sensuous rhythm, more bone than breath, more soot than sinew, but still very much alive.

It had called to him.

And after months of searching, of waiting, of carving at the earth’s secrets, Tom Riddle had found what he was looking for.

The book itself had been an unremarkable thing — blackened by centuries of abandonment, its letters reduced to illegible splotches across ruined parchment. To locate such an ancient artifact, hidden beneath layers of wards and curses, was itself a formidable feat. But to locate the grimoire and subsequently draw the magic from its rotting pages, pulling power from each bruised press of text, consuming it as a fire does the earth  — that was extraordinary.

Lord Voldemort was no ordinary man.

The book had fought him, of course. Enchanted objects did not give up their magic easily, and the grimoire was no exception. It had taken him four hours, from the zenith of midnight to the grayness of dawn, to drain the power from the book.

And now, the fabled, ancient magic glittered in his veins.

The victory was a sharp copper on his tongue, a flash of metal in his exhale. Somewhere beneath the heady thrill, Riddle sensed his followers calling him back, their summons increasingly frantic through the marks that bound them. But even while their panic warned of carnage back in England, Lord Voldemort did not hasten. He did not worry.

He would return to them more powerful than ever before.

He would return to them a God.

He left the remains of the grimoire in a clearing where they lay, desiccated and dismembered, brutalized first by time and then by greed. To Riddle, the book was now worthless, hollow, used and now fit to be discarded.

He was so very wrong.

Had Riddle felt more reverence for the sanctity of magic, he might have sensed the glimmer of warmth within the curled pages, tucked beneath the weathered binding, between the lines drawn by a tormented hand. 

Indeed, had Riddle felt anything at all, he might have noticed the inscription on the front cover, the only word that had survived centuries of neglect, abuse, and grief.  

It was this word that became the grimoire’s final exhale, a sigh of magic across the frozen ground that was taken up by the snow, the trees, the earth itself, a promise of vengeance and vindication, of confession and conviction.

It was this word that lit through mist and cloud, travelled across mountains and plains and seas to settle finally in a limp, open palm.

Cothrom.

The earth hummed in response.

Balance.