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Connectomics

Summary:

Just outside the doorway stood what looked like Hermione Granger wearing a very form-fitting red or black something. The top was princess-cut and tasteful, unlike the rest of it. He held back a laugh as he looked back at Theo.

“Nice try, as if I would fall for one of those ridiculous illusions you used to cast in school. I think you’ve forgotten. I just saw Granger today, and her cleavage wasn’t nearly as spectacular—” He was going to continue until he saw Theo’s face and stopped abruptly, watching the man stare slack-jawed at the not-illusion woman frowning and glancing down at her chest before looking back up to meet his eyes with something like his death written there.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Chapter 1: Grasping at Straws

Chapter Text

Connectomics Cover

 

9 Years Post War

“Merlin’s fucking beard, what the fuck is WRONG with you.” Ron was pacing back and forth in their kitchen, undoubtedly drunk again. It was four in the afternoon, and he normally started drinking at two on a good day. The drinking started slower than you would have expected in the beginning. Just a muggle beer or two after work with Harry when he started his “temporary” job at the joke shop, then a few more beers alone after, then he would be drunk all weekend. He was clearly miserable working there after the first year, but he wasn’t qualified to work as an auror at that point. He would rather be mad at the world for happening to him, than do something—anything—to happen to the world. He had attempted to get the required NEWTs twice but was just shy in Transfigurations and Charms. He resented the people he took his tests with when they passed, deciding they had it easier than him for whatever reason. Maybe that was the easiest way for him to rationalize his shortcomings. Ron had fought one of the greatest dark wizards of all time, and with that came some entitlement. He felt surely he was qualified enough to deserve a position like auror, better even than lots of the witches and wizards working there now. Harry was able to get that job with no problem, and they went to school TOGETHER with the same exact classes! Whenever Hermione pointed out that he should study and maybe retake the tests just like Harry did when he came to his senses realizing he was falling behind in Potions—because she did believe Ron could do it—she was met with snide remarks about how easy things had been for her.
“Shut it. I know what you’re going to say. You could never understand. I TRIED more than once and I couldn’t do it.”

“Well, if you don’t want to try again to become an auror why don’t you pick something else with different—“ he cut her off.

“I WANT to be an auror. I tried harder than I have ever tried at anything before, and I still couldn’t do it. This is just my life now. I’m just going to work at the joke shop forever.” His face looked puffy and red, his eyes bloodshot and pupils dilated. The first sign she had to be very careful with what she said next.

“I just think if you put your mind to it, you could find something you really love that doesn’t need the NEWTs if you don’t want to try to pursue being an Auror again. You love quidditch! Maybe you could work your way up at a stadium or get an apprenticeship designing brooms!” She was smiling too tightly, already knowing where this conversation would most likely go.

He looked up then, a vein sticking out on his temple. She genuinely worried about his blood pressure, no longer the lean man she first started dating, he had a perpetual gut he hid well behind a few nicely placed charms. His shoulders were still broad, and he was incredibly strong, but it didn’t hold the same allure it once did. He hadn’t scooped her up bridal style like he used to when they first got married anymore when he would make her feel small in the right way. She sucked in a breath. Waiting.

He flashed his teeth, squinted his eyes in a mock smile, and forced out a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh as he stared her down with too much intensity, calculating. It made her sick to her stomach. “You know what? I’m great. Everything is great. I shouldn’t have said anything. I love you so much and am so happy.” He cocked his head in question or challenge, his teeth still clenched in that horrifying pretend smile that begged her to question his words and the bizarre emphasis he put on them.

“I just want you to be happy.” She darted her eyes then looked down. “I love you.”

“Don’t fucking do that. Act like I hit you or something. Why do you do that? You know I hate it.” He was standing closer now and she could smell liquor on his breath, so not just beer tonight.

“I’m just reacting. I’m sorry.” She forced herself to relax her shoulders and pull them down, lift up her chin, and meet his eyes.

“Don’t fucking lie. You’re doing it on purpose.” He was rifling through the cupboard now looking for the garbage he usually bought at the same time he went to the liquor store to pretend he just went out for snacks.

He popped open a bag of chips and forcefully opened the fridge making the jars clink to grab a cheese dip he bought with it.

“You know what? I want to be alone. Leave me the fuck alone.”

She used to fight this kind of conversation, trying to tell him things would be okay, that she would take care of everything if he would just stop giving up so easily. But somewhere around the five-year mark, she realized it was easier to just take herself away. The conversation never really went anywhere, and the results were arguably worse when she confronted his behavior when he was drunk.

As she was walking up the stairs to their bedroom, he yelled, “I want to be ALONE. I want to know that you’re not going to come down here and interrupt my alone time!”

That was her cue to get what she needed quickly from the downstairs kitchen and lock herself upstairs. Dinner, water, grab some clothes from the laundry basket that still hadn’t been put away. She would have taken a shower too, but he would be furious if she tried that now like she was intentionally dragging her time out downstairs to annoy him with her presence in her own home. The home her parents abandoned when she stole their memories and moved them to Australia. She would shower the next morning when he was sober and went back to pretending that he loved her and missed spending time with her.

Crying at night into their bedroom pillows was so much of a ritual now that she hardly remembered what it was like to want to sleep next to him. She felt safer when he passed out on the couch, which was most days unless he wanted her to fuck him. She spread her arms out and relaxed into the middle of the bed as she drifted off to sleep.

Hermione woke up to the buzz of her phone on the nightstand. Want to touch my dick? The text read.

She sometimes regretted showing Ron how muggle phones worked, like now, but the handiness took precedence over situations like these.

She had masturbated twice yesterday and really wasn’t in the mood, but she was his wife, and it was her job to be supportive, wasn’t it? Even as she said the words in her head she knew they were lies.

She stretched and slumped downstairs in her oversized pajamas to refill her water, and he lay on the couch still in his shirt from the night before, his dirty pants and boxers discarded on the floor next to him.

“Did you get my text?” He asked smiling as he stroked himself under the couch throw blanket he slept with.

She would have to wash it now that he was getting precum all over it.

She did her best to look unbothered. “No, I didn’t get it”.

“You should check it.” He grinned wider now.

She pulled out her phone, pretending to read it for the first time. “Oh, I was about to take a shower. I feel gross.”

His smile faltered, and her heart cracked a little. She really did used to love sex with him. He was kind and enthusiastic at first, ready to go down on her whenever even if he didn’t know what he was doing.

The first few years, she spent ages getting to know his body, learning his tells, coming up with new ways to touch him till she could make him cum violently, shaking in three minutes flat with just one hand. She pushed away the thought, questioning whether or not she had gotten so good at reading him out of necessity or out of an actual desire to make him happy.

He had given up on her pleasure a long time ago, or maybe he had never really cared that much, and she had given up on herself.

Looking back, the best sex they had was when she worked herself up first, reading being her first choice of single-party foreplay. She had told him a million times the things she was into. How she wanted to be touched, the things she wanted him to say. How just him being thoughtful and caring with her throughout the day could work her up: light touches that didn’t have the expectation of sex attached, helping around the house so she didn’t have to come home to a mess after work when he was home all day. She gave specific examples for all of it and even put them in writing a few times so that she didn’t question herself when he would gaslight her, saying he had no idea that she wanted those things. Ten years from the war, and he still seemed to think shoving his fingers into her before she was even wet was foreplay. As far as sex was concerned, after the tenth time asking him to stop changing his speed and rhythm when she would tell him she was close, she stopped telling him entirely. Then she stopped asking for what she wanted, and then she mostly stopped coming with him at all. Sex became a service she provided to make him feel confident and worthy.

She started to grab a towel to go into the shower when he uncovered his dick, stroking it for her to see. “What if you just watch? You don’t have to touch me; just sit by me and watch me.”

She knew what that was code for. Come and sit next to him while he reaches his hand out to squeeze between her legs or palm her breasts even when she pulls away. When he got his hands on her, he would stare slack-jawed into her face, seeing what he wanted to see. It was so much of a turn off that she would often just touch him to get it over with faster. To get his hands off of her. She doubted he knew that was why she touched him, but in the end, he got what he wanted, and he had made it abundantly clear already that her needs were only as good as a pretend fantasy to jack off to.

She hesitated in the doorway. If she didn’t do it and showered now, it would put him in a bad mood. If he felt rejected, he would probably start drinking earlier today. She weighed her options, trying to figure out what kind of day she wanted to have and how much time she wanted to spend tending to Ron. What was another day pretending? She thought as she knelt down by the side of the couch. He came in three minutes because, unlike him, she knew what the fuck she was doing with her partner’s body.

______

She leaned her head under the scalding hot stream of water, hand pressed against the tile wall to steady herself. The door was locked so he wouldn’t come in, and she actually had a few precious minutes to herself before he would find a way to ruin it.

She thought about masturbating but decided not to. The image of what she had just experienced was too fresh in her mind, and it would take a very powerful fantasy to override that. She shivered. It would be nice if she could just forget the glazed-over expression he so often wore that looked through her instead of seeing. She tried to mentally summon one of the earlier fantasies she would have about him lying in bed at Hogwarts before they were together. Him dragging her back to the common room during the Yule ball, chasing her into his dorm—the memory started to flicker back to last night, and she was now picturing him yelling, “I want to be ALONE!” slamming the dormitory door in her face. What little warmth she had felt quickly faded. She, of course, had had many fantasies about other guys in school around that time, too, but she didn’t think it was right to even imagine being with anyone real that she wasn’t married to. Fictional and completely untouchable men were just before where she drew the line. She liked to think about them as a treat just for being good when Ron did stuff like this. It felt less morally wrong if her little daydreams could never put her in a situation where she could act upon them. It’s not like she would ever find herself being bent over a desk by Draco Malfoy. She laughed to herself, imagining how much Ron would hate that one specifically. The laughter faded.

She washed herself so thoroughly that she came three times in the ten minutes she had allotted to feel something. A quick brush of her wet hair, some curly hair products, and a scrunch, and she would disappear into the floo for work before he knew she was gone.

Knock knock knock

“I have to SHIT!”

Ron swooped into the bathroom, and the second she closed the door, he blasted the bidet to try and cover the sound of him violently emptying his bowels. It didn’t.

______

When someone shows you who they are, believe them.

The final straw came twice.

The first time was when Hermione had needed major abdominal surgery after learning that she had multiple large ovarian cysts. She chose to get muggle surgery over magical—much to the protests of Ron—because she wanted them tested for cancer. When she woke up from surgery, he had left to drink in the car she drove to the hospital. He returned just sober enough to apperate them home, insisting she could get the car the next day even though he promised to take care of it. She was given pain management potions by her personal healer to take for a few days when she got back and was forbidden from going upstairs for two weeks along with driving. There were a lot of internal stitches the OB/GYN placed that they were worried about ripping if she made sudden movements, twisted, or flexed her muscles. Her healer disapproved of the surgery, given that once the stitches were placed, she had to heal like a muggle. Ron had taken her being able to walk as an indicator that she was fine, and invited Percy over that same night. The moment he stepped through the floo Ron volunteered her to watch his infant and two-year-old while they laughed and drank, ignoring the children completely. She tried to avoid getting in Ron’s face when he drank, but at this point, she wasn’t above begging.

“Please. I can’t do this right now” She could feel the deep incision that ran along her abdomen as she stood there holding the crying toddler that was obviously not okay for her to be lifting right now. The baby screamed in the background while she tried to make soothing noises through her own tears.
Ron sneered at her and yanked Percy by the arm upstairs, leaving her alone with the unending screaming and crying. They stayed up there for six hours while she bounced between the little ones. She found a rhythm but needed Percy to leave; she needed to lie down. She didn’t take her pain potion so she could stay lucid with the kids, and it was agonizing now. Ron wasn’t answering his phone. Everything hurt, but she did what she had to. She marched up the stairs and poked her head through the door. “I need you.”

“What do you want me to do? I’ve been drinking. You won’t let me take care of kids in this state.” He was slurring. Fantastic. Percy nodded in agreement too quickly as if unaware of the actual physical danger she was being put in. In that small window of time, the toddler had climbed to the top of the stairs, and she caught her by the elbow before she could fall backward. She couldn’t carry her down, and levitating would not only undo the hours it took to finally calm her down but was too dangerous with the wooden beams lining the ceiling with sharp hard corners every two feet. She demanded Ron help her carry the little one back down. He was drunk but probably had better odds of not dropping them than she did. She hated herself for having to make that call. She followed in front of them just in case he tripped so her body would break the fall. On the third step from the bottom of the stairs, her foot caught, and she twisted and fell hard. She screamed as she felt a ripping sensation deep in the right side of her pelvis, breath coming heavy as tears fell down her cheeks. Ron stared down at her unfeeling from the third step. They locked eyes then, and she saw nothing left of the man she married. Just an empty husk who only cared for her as a performance when he knew other people would take note.

“I fell. I think I ripped something. It hurts.” She choked the words out, beseeching him as silent tears streamed down her cheeks.

He placed the toddler back on the floor and, without saying a word, walked back up the stairs, leaving her where she fell.

She sat there wondering if she was going to bleed out for a few minutes, trying to stifle her panic before getting the kids down and writing an owl to Mrs. Weasley explaining the situation and begging for her to come over and help. She cast a quick diagnostic charm and everything looked okay, but it wouldn’t necessarily tell her if she ripped her stitches. Six hours later, Mrs. Weasley was on her doorstep to help with the children at the crack of dawn, and Hermione sat on the couch, unable to sleep while they talked mostly about Ron while she soothed the babies. Mrs. Weasley insisted he was going to get better. Hermione wanted to believe; she always did. Many, many months later, when she gathered the courage to tell her friends what happened, Luna pointed out that Mrs. Weasley didn’t even ask if Hermione was okay once that morning after learning she had fallen down the stairs after surgery.

She healed and didn’t die.

She did her due diligence with her healer and doctor a few days later to make sure she wasn’t going to die.

The world kept spinning.

Every time she coughed after that incident stabbing pain would radiate up from where she first had felt that ripping sensation. All it took was that or a sneeze to instantly see Ron’s dead eyes staring down at her from the third step turning away from her like he didn’t care, because in that moment he didn’t.

She would later learn that deep laughter also sometimes caused her old injury pain, but genuine laughter was an infrequent occurrence at this point.

She sat stark still on the floor, staring at the spot where he had been standing seconds ago.

An idiot forever attached to the idea that if she tried hard enough, did enough research, found the right thing that clicked with him, that he would get better.

She didn’t know when she had started calling herself names like idiot in her own head. It didn’t sit right with her. She wasn’t an idiot.

It wasn’t in her to quit either, to give up without having really tried over and over. She knew she could solve this problem like all the other insurmountable things they had overcome during the war. She made a promise to him with her vows, and she would do anything to keep them.

It wasn’t until spring, nearing their ten-year anniversary, that the second straw came.

She was working overtime from home, filing paperwork (and doing laundry simultaneously), and Ron was watching Percy’s kids for extra cash. Funny that Ron got paid for watching the kids. She heard a loud crack out of her window and then the delayed bone-chilling scream of a child badly injured. She felt like she levitated down the stairs she moved so fast. Ron brought the eldest girl in, cradling her head as she screamed, and Ron apologized to Hermione over and over (as if that would comfort the child) and handed her over. She snatched her to her chest and gently assured the small girl that she would be okay. She examined her skull and pushed on the welt already forming to make sure there was no movement, no fractures, or pieces of displaced bone before she cast a few precautionary charms to prevent internal bleeding and lit the floo to take her to St Mungos. Next, she cast a diagnostic spell to check her brain activity, specifically neural pathways (her specialty). Everything looked okay for now, but she needed the equipment and potions at St. Mungo’s to be sure. She could smell whiskey on Ron’s breath as she looked up at him, broom held loosely in his hand. Something in her broke. It was one thing to hurt her, but another thing entirely to hurt someone else, to hurt a child. Her wand shot out of her sleeve in one swift movement as she wordlessly cast expecto partonum without breaking eye contact with Ron. A long otter burst forth from her wand.

“Tell Mrs.Weasley I need her here now. Her son is drunk, and she needs to come and watch her grandchild while I take the other to St. Mungos. Ron dropped him from a broom.” She wasn’t going to lie to placate his delicate sensibilities anymore. He had always cared far too much about what others thought about him and his status. She remembered what he told her he saw in the mirror of Erased and hated herself. She should have known then. No doubt half of the reason he was with her was for the way it looked to other people. The brave war hero and his delicate heroine counterpart. The golden retriever and his black cat.

It took 45 minutes from when the boy fell to Mrs. Weasley's arrival. She took the infant outside while Hermione stared at Ron, who was about to hop into the fire.

“You’re drunk. You’re drunk, and you dropped her from a broom.”

He stared at her incredulously, and she could see that he was going to deny it.

Before he could get the words out she cast a diagnostic spell at him lightning fast. Normally she would ask, but not today.

His blood alcohol was so high if you cut it in half, he would still be drunk.

Ron stammered, “I didn’t drink when I was flying! I swear! Only after she fell!”

She did the math easily in her head.

He was gone for fifteen minutes between the fall and coming back inside. He would have had to slam nine beers in that time to have that much alcohol in his blood. Less if it were liquor, but he only had beer stashed where he sulked off to. She knew because she found it hidden outside by accident. She left it because if she got rid of it he would have just spent more money to buy more and hide it somewhere else. Nine beers in fifteen minutes meant he was lying. He was drinking earlier, watching the kids flying them on a broom, and she was so fucking done.

Her voice went cold and still, “I don’t care if you got drunk before or after. Both are unacceptable. Get out.”

“What?” He stammered.

“I’m kicking you out. Go to your parents' house. Take your shit. I’m done.”

“What do you mean you’re done?” But he thought he knew what she meant; only she had said the same thing at least ten times before. He would disappear to his parent’s house for a few days, then return when she was pliable enough to believe this time would be different. He would try harder, and things would get better.

He slammed the front door and threw his head back, screaming profanities ending with her name. She locked the door.

He tested her the next day, texting her to bring some clothes over for him because he “had to sleep in his dirty clothes” that night. He deliberately left the clothes she packed for him by the front door and swore at her when she tried to tell him to grab them like a child throwing a tantrum when his father showed up.

Mrs. Weasley came to get his clothes for him, because of course she did.

A week passed, and he asked to come home.

She had already packed the first of his things.

Two weeks passed, and he was begging her, pleading to come back. He missed her. He would do better.

She occluded when she interacted with him.

A month later, he was swearing up and down to anyone who would listen that he was a victim in this entire situation and that after the war, everything changed for him, but nothing had changed for her. He must have conveniently forgotten that she had to oblivate her own parents, and that she spent six years in two very intense medical programs only to learn there was nothing she could do for them.

If anything, nothing had changed for him. He was stuck as that boy who peaked in 8th year—not because he couldn’t do better, but because he wouldn’t.

A month and two weeks, and he was trying to fuck other people.

Mrs. Weasley encouraged it after she realized that Hermione was a lost cause and wouldn’t roll over this time like she always did.

It had been two months, and he was asking for things like his broom and other belongings. He asked when the divorce would be, laying on thick that she had everything, like her parents' home, and he had nothing.

She sat alone in her room on her familiar empty bed while his mother no doubt stuffed him full of home-cooked food and tales of how much better things would be now that Hermione wasn’t holding him back by not supporting him.

Three months and she had sorted through every single thing they owned and packed it. With a flick of her wand, they were miniaturized and shoved into the waiting hand of Mrs. Weasley. He had 28 boxes of things in total, refusing to pack a damn thing himself, so along with the extra work hours, she was once again responsible for him like the child he insisted on being. Her heart had steeled every time she came across an empty bottle he had stashed away in his piles of belongings. She packed them anyway. It wasn’t her problem anymore.

Four months later, she had started to breathe. That stubborn extra weight her body had found about five years ago had melted off without even trying. Her old clothes fit again. She wasn’t having nearly as many nightmares. Her heart palpitations had finally stopped, and she woke up this morning wet and impossibly aroused. She hadn’t felt like this since she was a teenager and fantasized about Draco Malfoy reaching up her skirt in the library. Speaking of—she opened a copy of the Daily Profit, and there he was front page.

Draco Malfoy Named Golden Galleon’s Bachelor of the Year

She scoffed and took a bite of her toast with way too much butter on it. What a prat.

Golden Galleons was an American magazine. The muggle equivalent would probably have been Forbes, except that the wizarding world had significantly fewer choices than muggle publications. For that reason, Golden Galleons received more attention globally.

He smirked at her. His pointed features now much more at home on a tall, lean adult body. His jaw was impossibly sharper, almost concave, and when he smiled, it was slightly crooked with the same crease to the side but more wolfish and sultry than the boy she grew up with. His hair was undercut short on the bottom and long on top. It reminded her of a paler, perfectly styled version of the main character from Titan A.E.’s haircut. The picture showed him from the elbows up. There was definitely a reason for that. He still had the dark mark on his arm for one. The ugly snake and skull that had haunted her dreams a lifetime ago. She shivered, remembering what it felt like to see it in the sky and listen to each scream you heard, trying to decipher if it was someone you cared about, if it was a child, if the screaming stopped. She blinked at nothing and folded the paper. She didn’t really give a shit anymore if the very few death eaters allowed in public still had the mark, but Voldemort and death eaters were a stain on our history that most tried very hard to forget or remember. There wasn’t much of an in-between.

She knew he still had the mark because she had somehow received a copy of Golden Galleons from a very uptight-looking owl two days ago who was clearly confused. After refusing to take payment for the thing that she reiterated she did not want, it dropped it on the counter and flew out of the kitchen window just in time for Crookshanks to jump impossibly high, swiping his paws at nothing but air. He jumped again to the counter, quickly hitting the newly closed screen with his face. He slowly turned back to look at Hermione, then back out of the window, tucking his face back against the screen and tail around his legs, adjusting his feet like that was exactly what he intended to do. Given the temperature that night, she closed the window with a snap of her wand, and he whirled on her face indignant. She chuckled, and in response, he straightened, walking towards her and right off of the counter like there wasn’t even an edge. He dropped to the floor with a thump so hard she worried he hurt himself. He was clearly trying to make the loudest sound he possibly could with his little toe beans—as if that was the most intimidating thing in the world. When she didn’t react like she should—touching his paws to see if he was hurt instead of being obviously intimidated and frightened—he skittered off the linoleum tile and bounced off of the open door to the living room like a ping-pong ball Batman.

He was probably fine.

She snatched Golden Galleons magazine off the table and brought it into her bedroom to read before bed.

Now clean and snuggled in, she flipped to the index (obviously) and took in the choices. It looked like there was a rather interesting article halfway through about the founding of Gringots. She wondered if the journalist had anything to add that she hadn’t already read about. About six flips in to find the article, one of the pages slid down and unfurled. She saw an arm first. An arm with a dark mark, among many other black tattoos. She pinched the page with two fingers and, in pulling it open, realized too late it was a centerfold of the man featured on the cover. Draco Malfoy smiled triumphantly at her, completely shirtless, lying on his side propped up with an elbow. He was fit, defined abs and more tattoos trailing down his hips disappearing into what looked like very expensive black jeans. The title to the left read Death Eater Turned Philanthropist Named Most Eligible Bachelor of the Year. She already knew what the article would be about, and she seethed.

After his war trial, Malfoy was sentenced to either Azkaban for a year or to live in the muggle world as one of them wand-free for a year. He chose the latter, and after his year was up, he used his new found knowledge to invest in companies that took all of the best ideas from muggle minds. The largest contribution being towards a potions pharmaceutical company with preparatory potions recipes unreleased to the public. It was great for controlling and maintaining control of profits. He had doubled his family's wealth in the first year. Quadrupled it the second. His main claim to success, of course, being owning a percentage of the potions equivalent of viagra. At least that potion worked on both men and women. Slightly less sexist than the muggle version, but still no cure for lycanthropy. However, she did hear through her work colleague before he left that Malfoy was interested in a lycanthropy vaccine. Most likely because he could make more money on that than a cure. She flipped the page expecting it to be something new, but the article continued on the right. The left had another enchanted photograph of Malfoy, this one was a throwback. Wearing Slytherin robes, now adult-sized, he sat cross-legged on the floor with Hogwarts-style bookshelves in the background. He was loosening his tie, unbuttoning the top button of his dress robes, and plucking out his little snake cufflinks to roll up his sleeves on repeat. All the while a nasty little crooked smirk played across his lips, cold eyes staring through long eyelashes directly into her soul, or the camera. Maybe both.

She looked at the picture much longer than she should have, thinking back to that messed-up fantasy, a dream? she used to have when she was a kid. The one where she slapped him, and then he chased her into the library. She hid, and when he found her, he had pressed her into the stacks, deft fingers drifting up between her legs. It was a very realistic daydream that had cropped up at the least opportune times.
She watched the Malfoy portrait carefully cuff each sleeve again with long, strong-looking fingers. There really was no harm in it; she thought as she reached down between her legs under the sheets. She slept naked now that she lived alone. No one was going to bother her, and she didn’t feel guilty for a second as she stared directly into Malfoy’s cold eyes and smirking face while she imagined that smirk pressed into her neck, whispering all of the things he wanted to do to her just like she used to dream about.

She saved the magazine under the mattress. Not for any particular reason.



 

 

Owl

The uptight looking owl for your enjoyment.

Chapter 2: Bereft

Summary:

Sorry this chapter is a bit of a tease, but I promise it will get there. Next chapter will be posted by the end of the week most likely. I wrote this faster than I would have normally, and it’s a bit shorter too, so please once again ignore the errors. I’ve been able to convince a friend of mine to read and hopefully attempt to catch my carelessness (bless her), so do anticipate periodic edits as the story progresses.

I will either add on to this chapter or start chapter 3 with a scene very similar to where Hermione found herself at the end of chapter 1. So look forward to that.

Chapter Text

3 Years Post War

Draco Malfoy was sitting at his polished wooden desk, flicking a pen from his thumb to forefinger in a repetitive and quick half-snap of a motion, a look of deep concentration playing across his pointed features. The office he now sat in used to belong to his father. A large rectangular window sat at his back overlooking the stables where they kept the thestrals responsible for pulling their ornate carriages through the ground’s many winding paths. It was spring and raining outside this afternoon, casting watery patches of light on the wood floors inlaid with what looked to be moonstone stars. The floor-to-ceiling white drapes drawn to either side of the window were charmed to match the inlaid stones, flashing blue and orange when looked at from extreme angles. Apart from that, the room was surprisingly bare compared to how it used to look when he grew up. The Ministry had taken many of the artifacts that used to live on the shelves when they raided the manor. No heed was paid to keeping the space intact when they snatched up anything questionable or the things they chose to call questionable as justification to take whatever they wanted. Some of the thick Ashwood shelves were broken in half, and Draco kept them that way as a reminder of—of something—what exactly he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was hard to believe that everything they took was dark and dangerous, but nothing was ever returned, and he never asked about it.

With a small screech, his Northern Hawk Owl named Thorn dropped a letter off at his desk, a letter that started his least favorite way: “We regret to inform you”. He violently crumpled it up before charming it back into its formerly crisp and flat condition. They weren’t going to accept him. No school would now. He turned his icy grey eyes to the window, the sky returning the same coldness. It didn’t matter that he got the required NEWTs. No school wanted the potential PR nightmare of further educating a former Death Eater. The risk outweighed the reward for them, even if he was a legacy and his family had made such generous donations in the past that there were two buildings that carried their names. It’s not like he was pursuing the dark arts, it was just fucking potions. He wanted to do something that made him feel useful and that could maybe even help people. Anything was better than staying locked up in the manor alone with his mother, who scarcely left her rooms or disappearing into the muggle world where no one knew him. It had an appeal, he’ll admit; after spending a year living with muggles, he learned a lot that year. But at the end of the day, he was a pretend version of himself there, about as real as his father’s sneering portrait was now.

He liked potions because he was good at it, but also because making things felt so much better than destroying them. He had witnessed enough destruction for a lifetime. typically potions majors ended up as teachers or auditors. The very best were inventors and testers. Very very few beyond that decided to take it further and turn it into a real business. The Weasley twins were a prime example of what could be done, although they technically didn’t have degrees or NEWTs when they founded the place. His pen stopped moving as he pulled on that little strand of an idea waving in the corner of his mind. It could work, and who really needs the paperwork when you have money? He pushed back from the desk and carefully rolled his button-down sleeves as he paced. With each twist of his wrists, he folded the material flat till it reached the crook of his pointed elbow. He was taught never to be sloppy in everything he did, and those habits were learned so young he doubted they would ever leave him. As he paced, subconsciously running his fingers through his hair, his brain played out scenario after scenario it felt like he wore a path in the floor before he finally stilled and decided.

“Ursa!” No sooner had he said her name, did his favorite house elf apperate, not two inches from his face, large blue-green eyes staring. He jumped and almost let out a grasp as his hands flew from his head with such force that his hair came with them. He suddenly looked every bit the washed up desperate man the world tried to tell him he should be.

“Ursa, please, how many times do I have to ask you to stop doing that.”

Voldemort had a habit of surprise apparating when he had taken over the manor as a way to instill fear and control. It worked. Like a fucked up Santa Claus always watching. It was horrifying, and even now, he couldn’t shake the response. It was embarrassing.

Ursa was a rather tall house elf clad in a deep blue dress with little spaceships printed all over it (he had come to learn what spaceships were). She wore it with a matching bow, suspiciously reminiscent of muggle clothing sets marketed towards toddlers. It was none of his business where she got her clothes, though, and he shook his head, coming back to his thoughts. She watched him closely as he smoothed his hair back into place and slowed his breathing.

His mother had gifted Ursa to him on his most recent birthday after his father had died in Azkaban. The timing was intentional. Lucious Malfoy would have never allowed their family to pay a personal house elf, but that was what Draco had asked for when Narcissus suggested he was of an age to need his own. The elves that remained at the manor after attempting to institute mandatory pay were still badly traumatized by their time living here. Still, he was determined to eventually turn the manor back into something worthy of the name Malfoy. That started with him making decisions that didn’t add to their social pariah status, like owning slaves, even if they wanted to be owned. As it stood, a quarter of the manor was still destroyed. Even with the sizable wealth he possessed, it made no difference when it came to getting someone qualified to actually come out and fix it. Every attempt he made to contract someone was met with unanswered owls and, quite often, howlers in return. The name Malfoy was hated by both sides after the war, to the point where the only places he could stand himself now were where no one knew about the war. Muggle places.

Ursa took the smallest step back and asked. “What do you need of me, Mr. Draco Malfoy, sir.” The formalities were always over the top with her, but she refused to drop them.

Draco returned to rolling the idea he had just decided on before he spoke.

“Would you be willing to leave the manor and spy on someone for me?” He looked at her evaluating her reaction.

“Ursa can do whatever needs to be done, sir.” She maintained her intense eye contact.

“If you’re uncomfortable with that, I understand.”

She blinked up at him as if that were the most absurd thing he had ever said and let out the start of a very loud laugh before she quickly turned it into what she must have thought was a convincing cough. He wasn’t amused. “I am comfortable helping you, sir.”

“Alright,” he said, down to business now. He appreciated her bluntness most days, even with her bizarre sense of humor. Fingers steepled and pressed against his mouth, sitting back in his chair now, he spoke. “I need you to observe the Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes joke shop in Diagon Alley. I want to know how business is conducted, what the protocol for inventing and testing new potions is, the names of suppliers, where and how they manufacture large quantities, delivery protocols, and business partnerships. I’m especially interested in the B2B work they do, not just the customer-facing products.” He recalled that they sold a bunch of charmed hats to the ministry a handful of years ago, and he was betting that quite a few of their inventions were not known to the general public. “I also want you to attend a few courses for me and report back.” He handed her the letter then and watched as she read it. “I want you to sit in these courses without being noticed and take notes. Get any of the books you think would be useful and leave those and your notes on my desk at the end of each evening you attend. If you need help, get the other elves to help you." Ursa frowned, eyebrows pinching up in the middle, scanning the paper.

When Ursa had first arrived at the manor she was immediately very different from the house elves he had grown up with. She had belongings for one. Mostly books, which surprised him before he realized that it shouldn’t and pushed down the guilt that came with the realization. The large majority of elves he had grown up with were illiterate. Most likely intentionally illiterate, knowing his father. The last thing that man wanted was them thinking for themselves. Draco spent the first three days getting her settled and giving her little tasks to see what it was like to have an elf like this on his payroll. Fairly early, he noted her intelligence. It was hard to miss with the way she observed and seemed to take in information. She had a photographic memory from what he could tell. His mother had actually done interviews to find her, which he thought was ridiculous until he saw how skilled she was.

She looked from the paper back to Malfoy, and a little smirk played on her lips. She tried not to show it, but he could tell she was exceptionally happy with this task. “I can do as you ask. I doubt the other elves will be able to help.” Or she wouldn’t want them to, so she could keep it all to herself.

With another loud crack, she was gone, leaving him alone once more.

He didn’t care about getting a degree, really. He just needed knowledge, and that was something within his control. He was already walking to the flu without really thinking of where he would go exactly. As he walked, he fluidly transfigured his black dress robes into a pair of fitted black jeans and a loose grey t-shirt. His shoes morphed into a pair of black-on-black chucks, suddenly changing the sound of his footsteps to something much quieter. If he could make this work for real: set up a company that did some good in the world (conveniently leaving off his name until he chose to reveal it), get a few business contracts already in place with his company instead of him, he might just be able to restore his family name and reputation and get to make things all at the same time. Might.

______

 

A handful of floo powder and a whoosh of green fire later and he was walking out of the leaky cauldron towards the muggle entrance, eyes down and ready to blow off some steam.

He picked the rowdiest-looking bar he could find and slipped by the bouncer with a quick notice-me-not spell. Once inside, he was able to breathe a little more. Unsure if it was the dark lighting, ambient sounds behind a thrum of music, or just the sheer number of people that made him feel better, he didn’t care to examine himself that deeply tonight. He slumped against a wall and exhaled, conjuring a glass of fire whiskey behind his back. Notice-me-not might be his favorite spell in this world. The worst moments of his life were when he was singled out, pulled aside, and not allowed to just be. He tapped his glass with a subtle replenishing charm as he downed the contents. The glass appeared empty for a moment before he swirled the contents, bringing more fire whiskey bubbling back to the top. When the ministry had sent him here it was mostly for show. He still had money, his mother, and all of the wandless magic he could learn. It was immensely challenging the first few months, but it got easier with practice. He often reminded himself in those days, not all wizards needed wands, just the inept ones. He may or may not have heard that last part in his father’s voice. Anyway, he learned a lot, not just wandless spells, but how different muggles were far from the ugly and bereft portrait his father had painted for him in bed time stories. They weren’t helpless, and there were a LOT more of them than those with magical ability. He didn’t realize the sheer numbers until he was immersed in it.

He leaned against the wall, took another sip of his drink, and waited. That was usually all it took to look wanting. He was good-looking, well-dressed, well-spoken, and more than willing to compromise his personality to reflect what interested parties wanted to see. Muggles called it matching energy.

He had hooked up with an impressive range and quantity of partners in the year that he couldn’t use his wand—if you find that sort of thing impressive. He didn’t. Thank fuck he had learned to cast contraceptive charms in fourth year wandlessly. No quidditch that year had given him a lot of downtime to fool around. He scanned the crowd like he always did. Finding a partner to take to bed was never hard for him, but he had a type after the war. Namely brunettes with unkempt or wild hair. Something about that just did it for him. He couldn’t quite explain why, but maybe it was the willingness just not to care when he had grown up being told over and over again that he couldn’t have one hair out of place, literally or figuratively. It felt like breaking the rules, and another well-deserved fuck you to the man who instilled those ideas in his head. The man who chose to give his only child over to a manic that tortured and branded him and was proud of that decision until he realized he had lost. He cracked his neck. Well, the former patriarch of the Malfoy household was dead, and the new one was going to fuck some frizzy-hared muggle senseless. If his father had been given a grave, he hoped he rolled in it.

Laughter from the other side of the bar caught his attention. There was a hen party dressed all in pink except for the person he assumed must be the bride. A mass of curly, unkempt brown hair cascaded down her back as she tugged on the hem of her dress so frequently she was either uncomfortable or not used to wearing short dresses in general. She half turned with her elbow on the bar, now pulling up her top and looking down to better attempt to hide her barely covered breasts. That explained the issue with the hem, then. He had already zeroed in on her and gradually made his way closer to the bar. He was willing to bet she was exactly his type if he could just see her face. He would never go after a married woman but engaged wasn’t married, and he really wanted to run his hands over those freckled shoulders and into that mess of hair. He wondered if she would make sounds for him when he pulled her hair. Figuring out what did it for someone was as easy as paying attention in class. Everyone had tells, and he was confident he could figure her out fast. She was talking animatedly to a red-haired woman who was frowning as he took another sip of his drink for courage. He had hardly tipped the glass back when he clocked Ginny Weasley, she was the red head. He swallowed his drink wrong and choked on the fire whiskey sputtering. He watched through watering eyes as Hermione Granger turned around, smiling eyes sparkling with unreleased laughter, and he was seventeen again.

He apparated on the spot.

Chapter 3: Breathing Exercises

Summary:

Draco finds himself unable to get the chance encounter with Hermione Granger out of his head now that he is back at the manor. He can’t shake the memories he has of her from the war, and takes matters into his own hands in an attempt to stop thinking about it.

Note: It was PAINFUL to not to write the explicit scene to the level detail I normally would. Just know it’s so that when real scenes happen you’ll be able to appreciate the difference.

Chapter Text

3 Years Post War

Continued

Draco had apparated straight back to the manor skipping the Flu entirely. The notice-me-not charm had completely saved his ass, or so he hoped.

She’s marrying him. How can she be marrying him!? He was walking at a brisk pace down an exceptionally long and dark corridor with windows facing the grounds to the north side on the left. There was no light streaming through them. His fingers were fisted at his sides as black robes unfurled from the grey shirt and jeans—wandless magic he didn’t even have to think about anymore. It was often easier when you weren’t thinking about it too hard. How on earth had that weasel that—he cut his own thoughts off with a guttural yell that filled the space with a sound that somehow hurt to listen to.

When he saw her face, he was back in the drawing room with Greyback and his parents. “Look, Draco, isn’t it the Granger girl?” It, not she, and he had said maybe—yea. His mouth had moved before he could process. Then Bellatrix and his father were overcome with glee at the thought of having her. Granger wasn’t going down to the cellar like the rest, and the idiot started shouting, “No!” If his aunt didn’t have a reason to hurt her before, she did then. So breathtakingly stupid. Bellatrix had grabbed Granger by the hair and dragged her, and Greyback was asking for her leftover body parts, and Weasley let them see exactly how effective what they were going to do to her would be. 

Draco sucked in a breath as he drew a bath for himself in a great clear glass tub centered in a bathroom so large it dwarfed average bedrooms. He wasn’t new to panic attacks and flashbacks, but this one he had spent so long locking away and avoiding—he knew it was about to come crashing down.

A twist of one of the fifteen silver taps, and thick purple foam strongly scented like lavender was settling on top of the near-scalding bath water as he stripped off his robes and vanished them to the laundry space on the lower level.

He settled into the water a centimeter at a time, grimacing at the heat. His hands gripped the thick sides of the tub, his tattooed arms pulling against the muscles to carefully lower himself.

Weasley had screamed her name from the cellars, which did nothing and served no one but himself. It made them want to hurt her more. Draco was made to watch her engulfed in crucio after crucio. Bellatrix had cursed her every time Weasley screamed. Draco had fought desperately to control his face, to give nothing of how he felt away. He had accepted then that he had stopped hating her the moment she smacked him in third year and had even started to fancy her. Those feelings were very hard to make go away.

When Weasel and Potter had somehow broken out of the cellar, it became clear no one was going to be able to save her. Potter had wrestled all of the wands out of his hands, and then he heard Bellatrix give Hermione to Greyback—as if she were a treat just for him. He had to do something quickly, or she was dead, or worse, eaten. He looked up at the chandelier; only four screws were holding it up. She couldn’t go to Greyback. He wouldn’t allow it. Reaching out his magic, Draco pushed at the screws forcing them out. The chandelier crashed, and glass went everywhere. He wouldn’t let his mother prevent her from escaping either. That was his first ever wandless disarming spell. They all thought it was the house elf. Good. She would get out. When they disapparated, he was left panting, Bellatrix screaming, but Granger was safe. He was crucioed by the dark lord that night, his occlumency was the only thing that kept him from death that night, but at least it wasn’t her.   

As he had watched her body disappear, he was certain she had been broken; her brilliant mind made mush the way Bellatrix so loved to leave her victims. He agonized over it. Not because he had a childhood crush—although that still remained—but because he could finally admit to himself that she wasn't just his equal, she was a better witch and a better person than he had ever been, and she deserved so much more than that.

When he finally learned that she wasn’t broken, he waited till he was alone and sobbed himself to sleep. Of course she wasn’t, she was the brightest witch of his age. She was Hermione.

He let himself say her name in his head like a prayer.

His face sat floating, jawline skimming the bubbles as he breathed deeply through his nose. He had picked up some breathing techniques from a yoga instructor he had spent some time with in the muggle world. He emptied his thoughts and focused only on his body, doing his best not to think about Granger. He flexed his feet under the water, then relaxed them. Next were his calves, knees, and thighs. Lean muscles pulled, then went slack, then higher as he remembered that low-cut white dress on Granger’s body. The way her hair brushed against her back when she turned her head probably tickled. He bet it would feel softer than it looked wrapped around his fingers. He pushed the thought of Weasley out of his head, imagining he was able to pass for a muggle she had never met tonight and that she wasn’t about to be married to someone who would make her miserable. They would dance together, and he would get her back to his flat in London. His body reacted to the idea of getting her alone. The moment he got her there, he would have closed the door and trapped her against it with his arms on either side of her body, knee between her thighs, making her dress ride up. She would try to tell him she didn’t normally do this, and he would reach up her dress between her legs.

He was trying a new breathing exercise in the bath now that involved a lot of up and down movements from his right hand.

He would tease her, lean into her hair, and whisper all of the dirty things he wanted to do to her. He would reveal who he really was as he slipped a finger inside her and tell her all of the things he had thought about her in school: about how in the third year when she had slapped him, he thought about it in every Charms class they had till the end of the school year, how in fourth year he had imagined her getting levitated upside down at the World Cup, everything beneath her skirt exposed, how in fifth year he had considered stealing one of her hairs for a polyjuice potion for Pansy before he decided it would be too risky if anyone found out. He would bring her right to the edge while telling her everything, then carry her into his bedroom.

Just the thought of her laying on his bed brought him close. The bubbles in the bath had disappeared into little wisps of purple foam around the edges of the water and no longer hid what he was doing beneath them. He had leaned his head back against the edge of the tub, mouth parted, and eyes closed

She would keep the dress and sharp heels on and open her legs for him. He would vanish her knickers and fuck her on the edge of the bed, her breasts freeing from the movement as he pulled the hem with his hands to slam into her.

He groaned, face red and hot. His hand was moving faster now while perspiration formed on his brow. He would flip her over and get her to scream his name into the pillows while she came.

His hips bucked in the water, eyes rolling into the back of his head as he continued to stroke himself, groaning now. He was close. He would say Hermione instead of Granger as he lost control, and they would both lose themselves in the sensation of him sliding in and out of her.

He found his release in the bath with the final image of her ass up and face down in his pillows, one large hand with white knuckles gripping the glass side of the tub as it washed over him in intense waves. He floated for a minute in the afterglow as if cursed with jelly legs, then spelled the water clean.

He shivered when he tried to get up too quickly, the aftershock from his climax still rippling through him. Being with Granger would never happen, and if, in some more perfect universe, she left the ginger plague and he had a real shot, he wouldn’t waste it like that. He would take his time and really learn her body, but at least the ballroom memories had stopped.

White blonde hair, messy from his momentary lapse of control, disappeared beneath the water's surface for a few moments before he came up in one full-body movement. It left him standing naked in the tub, leaning forward, water and fine bubbles dripping down his torso and legs. He flipped his sopping hair back in a familiar motion and dried it with magic in tandem. Theo would laugh himself out of a chair if he knew Draco had initially started to learn more difficult wandless magic in the muggle world to style his hair.

Flexing his jaw and stepping gingerly out of the very high bath, he shivered from the cold instead of aftershock this time. On a nearby chase lounge that fits perfectly in the connecting space between the bathroom and his bedroom sat his new pine wand, 12 inches, complete with a unicorn hair core just like his old wand. He snatched it up, dried his body with a quick wave, and walked straight to his over-stuffed cream-colored bedding.

The entire room was done in cream and soft light wood tones. Even the floors were a light, vaguely metallic wood reminiscent of the weather-worn beach wood bed frame. An extra large domed skylight taking up the entire west side of the ceiling gave a view of a few stars that had managed to shine through the gloom. The window connected to the same wall his bed was pushed against. Another great window faced the lake on the north side taking up almost the entire wall. It was mostly clear flat glass except for a web of ultra-fine prism glasswork that ran in veins, taking the shape of constellations that didn’t obscure the view. During the day when it was sunny, the window would light up each star and cast rainbows all over the smooth limestone walls. A large balcony ran from outside of the window to a matching door in the bathroom. To the right of his bed on the south wall sat a giant fireplace, the chimney made from solid thick glass like the bath climbed up the entire length. It was charmed to never get sooty and glowed when a fire was lit. A massive white sheepskin rug was laid in front of it. The entry into the hallway was nestled further down, closer to the bathroom on the south wall.

He let his body go stiff and fall as if in slow motion ending in a muffled thump face first into the lush spread. He could admit he was a snob about bedding. The duvet and sheets were made of a custom goblin silk blended with muggle rayon stuffed with down so fine he wasn’t sure it came from a goose. They had been woven by unscrupulous goblins after he returned to the manor after the year-long exile—his welcome home gift to himself—and they might have been his favorite thing in the world. He tossed most of the pillows to one side of the massive bed and conjured a cup of water to drink, setting it on the floating glass slab nightstand. He noxed all of the lights except for a small lantern in the bathroom and snuggled in with his wand beneath his pillow.

He pretended the style change was because he was an adult and not a child decking everything out in his school colors or because it matched his new wand or his hair. It was a completely unrelated coincidence that light-colored rooms made it easy to spot the silhouette of an intruder because who would want to tell anyone they designed a room around that?

He had given Ursa a sleeping room next to his, which had also helped him rest less fitfully. If he ever heard sounds drifting off, he could assume they were her. When he finally succumbed to sleep, it was restless and filled with dreams of uninterrupted weddings and hen parties at the manor where Granger and Weasley danced together. She locked eyes with him while kissing the weasel as a cruel tease. He would wake up between all of the nightmares with an aching need for his skin to be pressed against someone instead of being alone in bed.

He did more breathing exercises when he woke in the morning, thinking about the last dream.

 

 

Chapter 4: Too Close to the Sun

Summary:

Hermione finds herself on the wrong end of a conversation she wasn't expecting at work. Ron is exactly as sympathetic as you would expect him to be.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Almost 9 Years Post War

They called themselves the Episkey Queens. Amongst the ranks of healers assigned to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, they were the elite, or at least rumored to be. The group of five healers—all women—were often assigned the most complex of magic healing assignments, namely mind healing. Whenever an auror found themselves on the wrong end of cures or spells that altered the mind, they were there. Hermione had counted herself amongst their ranks for just shy of four years now. 

She had spent her first four years post-war doing some very hard work, including a remedial summer seventh year to prep for make-up NEWTs. About half of her remaining year had attended those courses. She had, of course, passed her NEWTs with flying colors, excluding Divination, because obviously that rubbish wasn’t even worth attempting and snagged a whopping ten Outstandings and one Exceeds Exceptions in Potions of all things. She was still upset about that last grade. Polyjuice potion was considered to be a NEWT potion, and she had brewed it perfectly in her second year. For her final year potion’s NEWT, she was given seven days to brew amortentia, and she thought she would do better than perfect and improve the potion by using Chinese peppermint instead of Western peppermint. It caused the characteristic spirals to spin faster than what was considered “Outstanding”, and she was fuming for a month. She had scoffed when Slughorn had classified love potion as one of the most dangerous and powerful potions in existence in their sixth year. Now she begrudgingly had to agree with him.

That same summer Ron and Harry had both taken off to cool their heads after everything they had gone through, which was understandable. She found that throwing herself into studies was a better distraction than anything else, but they had found other outlets. Hermione was almost disappointed when she had finished her apprenticeships, residency, and fellowship and had to actually start pursuing a career four years ago. There were too many choices and things she was interested in, but she knew she was interested in learning and knowledge above all else, so mind healing was a no-brainer (pun intended). Not that anyone in the Ministry knew or cared that she had achieved a Neurology MD along with her Healer’s apprenticeship. The human brain was fascinating.

She got her job after Harry had put in a good word for her. That, along with her status after the war and friendship with the present Minister of Magic Kingsley Shaklebolt, gave her an immediate ministry in. She was put with the Episkey Queens as the newest sixth member and started with the most junior of tasks, which she expected… at first. 

Harleen (heaven-forbid-you-call-her-Harley) Parlay had just been appointed as head of the field mind healer division when Hermione joined the team. When they first met she was struck by how different the woman she met was from what she was expecting. She was beautiful, petite and lean, with long effortless blonde hair and a sharp mind. Oversized square-rimmed glasses sat atop large calculating brown-almost-black eyes. She had a sneaking suspicion the glasses were there to buffer the initial perception people might try to make about her, especially with her hair and body situation. Hermione had done similar things with her personal style over the years to command respect in predominately male-dominated fields. Messy tied-back hair and practical non-stylish clothes always helped her to be taken more seriously at work, at least they did before.

Today Harleen had scheduled a meeting at 11:30 am just before lunch in Hermione’s office that had magically shown up on her wall calendar titled “Quick Check-In” at 11:00 that same day. Not exactly a cause for concern, except that when she swished her wand, allowing the meeting details to overtake the calendar, she saw a second person named Kelly Pennington invited, whom she didn’t know. It was also a little out of character for Harleen to schedule anything without more than four hours' notice at a minimum unless there was an emergent need. Hermione was guessing it was another research project, probably a rushed job that needed quick turnaround time to placate some out-of-touch Wizengamot council members. It happened more than it should, but it was part of the nature of the job. When her team wasn’t in the field, they were researching new and innovative ways to repair and preserve the mind. It was exactly what she had hoped this job would be when she first joined. No idle downtime that would stagnate the upward momentum that was her career. Ministry work rarely encouraged innovation; it was mostly bureaucratic bullshit that sucked the life out of people who had a soul. If she had a sickle for every person new to the ministry who came in bright and shiny then turned dull and listless in the first year, she would have enough to buy the house next to her parent's old house she now lived in. Compliance and the status quo were rewarded above all else, but she was fortunate to be removed from all of that.

Speaking of listlessness, she tapped the drawers of her desk with her wand, and a small notebook snapped into her hand. The notebook was charmed to match its counterpart pages that she had given to both Ron and Harry with the assurance that, no, it wasn’t like Riddle’s diary. Harry understood because he knew what texting was; Ron was much more hesitant. She set about writing Ron:

 

How is your day going?

I hope you’re having a good day.

Can you make something for dinner tonight? I have 7 meetings back to back tonight and I know I’m going to be beat.

Hey! I was just thinking about you. What do you think about getting muggle takeout for dinner? I can pick it up on my way home.

 

He didn’t respond right away, so she made herself busy finalizing and sending out some paperwork she had drafted earlier. She jumped with a start as her office door had clicked open with a bit more force than she was expecting, or maybe she was just extra focused on her work. Harleen and the person she presumed to be Kelly—a shorter woman with broad shoulders, unkempt burgundy shoulder-length hair, and round undefined features—walked through the door. She greeted Hermione with a large, very fake-looking smile as she grabbed her hand and shook it hard.

“I’m so pleased to finally meet you! I’m Kelly Pennington, personnel management coordinator and assistant secretary to Ryan Best—the head of the Magical Maintenance Department—which I’m sure you already know!” Her voice rose with excitement as she spoke, glee plastered in the corners of her mouth that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Harleen had made herself look slight behind the woman, eyes looking nervous but resolute. Something was off. Having someone internal from a different department meant this wasn’t the type of meeting she was expecting.

Without skipping a beat, Kelly let go of Hermione’s hand and said, “We wanted to schedule this meeting with you too; well, I’ll let Harleen Explain.” She gestured to the woman dressed in beautifully fitting silver silk robes.

Harleen stepped up to Hermione’s desk, and the robes seemed to float around her as she did, and she couldn’t place her expression. Her words came out faster than normal, almost like they were practiced. “After a lot of deliberation, we have made the decision to release you from the field mind healer division. We don’t think you’re a good fit and haven’t for some time. I wanted to give you a chance, but you just don’t seem to be able to keep up with this style of work. I put in a request for your transfer. I hope you understand. Do you have any questions for me?”

Her world was upside-down. Orange was the new pink. Nothing was real anymore. She had never experienced anything like this in her life. She had never not gone above and beyond in everything she did, this couldn’t be happening.

She realized she was expected to speak and couldn’t process everything fast enough. She managed to stammer out an auto-pilot response while her brain was still rebooting. “Oh. I-I I understand. I get it.”

“Good. I knew you would. Kelly can fill you in on the rest; please direct any future communications you would like to have about this through Kelly.” Harleen smirked at her and turned on her heel before the conversation between them could continue.

She was starting to shake as Kelly addressed her again. “We’re currently looking for a new role for you in a different department in the ministry; as of right now, there is nothing open, but I’ll keep trying. If we can’t find anything for you in two weeks, please know that you will be terminated effective two weeks from today if we can’t. I’ll keep you posted!” With that, she was out the door.

As soon as the door closed she sat at her desk staring at the door. The brand-new pit that had been hollowed out in her stomach only seemed to grow deeper as she stared at the door. Her chosen field in the magical world was very small and tight-knit. Harleen letting her go would make her blacklisted at the other top mind healing groups in Britain and likely most of Europe. She mindlessly groped at the enchanted notebook that felt like she had written in it a lifetime ago. Ron had written back.

 

I would love some takeout! Can you get some sushi from that fancy place you got it last time? They had really good hand rolls! I’ll take 8 Tuna Otoro, 4 Yellow Tail, 4 Sea Bass, 3 Botan Prawns, and 1 Abalone. You’re the best!

 

She dry heaved into her magically expanded desk drawer.

 

______

 

Hermione tried to soften the blow at home. She bought Ron his Sushi but nothing for herself. It was expensive food, and all she could think about was what they would do in two weeks. How had this happened!? She was playing the scene on repeat over and over again in her head the entire day up until she took the floo home. Every person she had ever worked with was happy with her and even raved about her. As the “newbie,” although arguably more experienced than a lot of the others on the team, she took the shittiest projects and patients that came up. She made it her mission to turn them around. People who had written complaints to the ministry for YEARS had started writing thank you letters mentioning her by name. She had developed a new documentation plan for patients based on her muggle residency that increased their efficiency tenfold.

Oh.

All it took was her thinking that one word for the pieces to start to fit together. She should have known. The ministry was already rife with nepotism, and with that came a certain expectation of social standing and background. Not necessarily pure-blood status, but the expectation of class and background that always came with multiple generations of witches and wizards that accumulated wealth and exceptional positions in the ministry. She didn’t get let go because she wasn’t good at her job. Harleen had said she “wasn’t a good fit”, a careful way of saying the quiet part out loud. She had hand-picked her entire team except for Hermione. All of them young, highly educated and driven women. All of them form immensely affluently wizarding families. It was like a dingy window had been cleaned for the first time if four years, and the room was suddenly so much brighter. She was never really a part of the team. She should have known when she was given all of the shit work, even though she had the most experience, even though she had the best track record. She had expected to be able to prove herself through hard work and busting her ass like she always did. It had never been about that. Her jaw tightened as she got out a plate, sauce bowl, and some steel chopsticks for Ron to eat. She would never be chosen, and now her career and possibly her life were about to take a dramatic shift. It was timed perfectly-she had to give it to Harleen. Just as Kingsley had been replaced and the new minister took office, she struck. There was no leverage anymore except Harry, and he wasn’t even management yet. She set the cardboard take-out boxes next to the plate and started washing the dishes Ron had left in the sink.

Ron didn’t notice anything was wrong. He didn’t even notice Hermione only got sushi for him and not herself. He sat at the edge of the kitchen counter, slurping the nigiri right out of the takeout box, not even bothering with the dishes she set out or the sauces that had been carefully packaged for transport. Hermione’s house, formerly her parent’s house, sat at the top of a hill. The large kitchen had a floating island with marble counters and four bar stools on one side. The other side had a sink built in. Against the adjacent wall, there was a double oven, range, and a large fridge with a freezer on the bottom. Her parents liked to cook and had enough money to renovate the kitchen, so they did. Behind the bar stools sat a drawing room with a sitting space inlaid with a mid-century-style brown sofa and coffee table. The furniture everywhere else echoed the same style, including the bar that Hermione noticed was missing a bottle of wine she had bought two days ago. Two large skylights would light up the large space during the day. Medium-toned wood floors were restored throughout the house, even leading up the stairs she took to go to bed.

She didn’t want to talk about it anyway. The conversation had happened in her head three times already, and it would only make him upset and lash out at her with questions she didn’t have the answers to yet. She resolved to tell him in the morning and started peeling off her stupid practical clothes. Maybe if she had fit in better, worn something more fashionable. UGH! She squashed the thought. Thinking that way wasn’t allowed, there was only room for one person in this home to be venerable and think about the things that weren’t fair in life, and it wasn’t her. It was never her. There was nothing left in her to care about changing into pajamas. She sunk into bed wearing the same knickers she wore the whole day and didn’t even care. Nothing mattered tonight.

Two hours later Ron actually snuggled into bed with her. She stared at the wall wide awake, listening to his snores that started almost immediately after his head hit the pillow. She felt like she had to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come out. A desperate need to be held and touched overtook her, so she grabbed Ron's limp hand and draped it over her side. His breath smelled like wine. A flickering memory of her father’s voice from when she was very young bounced around off the places in her mind she so often wished were empty. “Life isn’t fair little one. But you can be.”

She could be fair. It might take years, but she would be so fair to Harleen.

Notes:

I've finally been able to write a chapter from a computer and not my phone! There have been no edits from my reader yet, so hopefully, that will be coming soon. I've been taking advantage of having computer access to move everything I have to Scrivener, and in doing so, I've noticed a few plot holes I want to clean up, so good and bad, I guess. I'll add a note here if I have to change anything important in previous chapters.

Side Note: I'll add this to another chapter, but Crookshanks is a strictly outdoor cat when Ron lives with Hermione. (In case you were wondering why Hermione wasn't getting cuddles.) I'm sure you can guess why.

Chapter 5: All That Glitters

Summary:

Draco goes to the Ministry and finds himself privy to a conversation he wasn't intending to hear.

It's late but I promised I would post today. Felt cute. May edit later.

Chapter Text

9 Years Post War

 

Draco jolted awake.

Today was the day.

All of the cards he had been stacking for the last 6 years came down to this day as he placed the final card at the top. Would or wouldn’t he be granted a seat at the Wizengamot table.

Wand in hand, he flipped the heavy comforter off of his body and padded barefoot across the magically warmed wooden floor toward the bathroom. Early summer light caressed the side of his face and small muscles along his ribs as he moved through the cascade. The few hours he had before he met with the new minister of magic were ticking down, and he had one chance to make this meeting count. The minister may or may not know that Draco Malfoy was almost entirely responsible for his appointment and win in the first place, which could either work in his favor or immediately oust him.

Observation and quick thinking were perhaps the most important skills to have in situations like these. Thankfully, or maybe not, he had perfected those skills during his adolescence.

He cleared his throat and looked up at the temporarily mirrored ceiling into his own icy eyes flecked with silver furrows and deep, almost black crypts. The contrast gave them a dimension that seemed to sparkle. They hardened as he saw a shadow of his father stare back.

At once, the ceiling above the bathroom began to roll and crack the reflection away with enchanted lightning and thunder at odds with the bright sun streaming in. The sudden torrential downpour caught in the rays suspending rainbows briefly before the charm shifted to stop the rain and reflect empty again.

That was one way to get clean quickly.

A warm breeze grazed his naked body as he magically dried his hair, entering the attached clothing room. Calling it a closet would just be an insult to closets.

Black obsidian floors shone up at him, like smashed glass puzzle-pieced back together. Everything in this room was black and reflective. The hovering drawers filled with every accessory he could ever need, the dragon hide footstool and armchair that gleamed like patent leather in the corner farthest from the window, and two giant iron doors that closed off the room to the bathroom. Everything except the floor to ceiling mirror spiked like a diamond at the top, directly visible and framed as he walked through the doorway.

He already had clothing set aside and prepared for today, mostly black-on-black robes, lightweight linens, and silk for summer and a peek of off-white to break up the long line of the dark.

The delicate sectum sempra scars on his chest were white against the alabaster of his skin and wouldn’t show through the lighter color, thankfully, not like the tattoos. All manor of tattoos curled up his arms, most of them inspired by obscure raw potion ingredients, all designed and applied by expert muggle hands. He had spared no expense in that regard. The tops of his shoulder tattoos ended symmetrically in pointed leading lines connecting to his clavicle. The darkness of the robes enshrined them in a complete illusion of aristocracy.

He was born for this, literally. Gone were the shell-shocked remains of the boy who survived, and left was the man who was hopefully on his way to something more. It felt like a lifetime ago, and somehow still fresh. Maybe it would always feel like that.

Either way, it would have to do because he had two people he needed to meet before the minister, just to make sure he actually had the votes he needed if it came to that. He hoped it didn’t. It was very close last he checked with Pansey Parkinson and Blaise Zabini.

Polished dragon skin dressing shoes clacked on the floor as he made his way through several corridors and approached the smaller flu in his office.

The room looked much the same as it did five years ago, except now the shelves had been repaired and were being used again. Mostly potions books and muggle books lined either side of the wall. The refurbished Malfoy library kept on magically rejecting all of the muggle books he had collected and read in his lonely first few months in exile. Draco had every intention of bringing in a curse breaker to sort it out, but he liked the books in his office, and it was low on his list of to-fix items.

Planning on skipping breakfast, he didn’t give a second thought to Ursa’s presence in the doorway as he threw a pinch of Floo powder from the trick brick he had just tapped with his wand.

She opened her mouth to likely attempt to get him to sit down and eat the lovely breakfast plated at his desk, but he couldn’t and didn’t have time to bother explaining.

“Not a word Ursa.” He held up a finger as he walked single-mindedly towards the Floo. It was a bit rude even for him, but today was too important to throw off his timeline.

For just a second, her brows furrowed before smoothing over with an easy, unbothered expression. She maintained the requested silence staring directly into what felt like Draco’s soul as she snapped a finger. A larger-than-average cinnamon-swirled scone instantly materialized in his mouth, almost choking him. He gagged, wet crumbs and spit spilling all over the front of his dress robes, cinnamon sugar smearing into the cream of his silks as he brushed at the crumbs. The end broke off, bounced, and slid across the floor louder than it should have as he clawed at his throat and tried to swallow.

Ursa smiled satisfactorily at the head of Malfoy Manor on this most important of days as his Adam’s apple bobbed a few times before he was able to gasp and take in great gulps of air. A stream of choked swears echoed down towards the resolute elf, who didn’t so much as flinch. Instead, she held up a single finger as if to say the same phrase he had said to her back. Not a word.

Silver flashed in his eyes, now watery and bloodshot, as she glared at him in challenge, snapped her fingers again, and disapperated.

What on earth has possessed his mother to hire that bloody elf? He knew, of course, but his robes!

He brought his wand to his face and chest and scourgified himself within an inch of removing a layer of skin, but no matter what he did, there was still a small lingering scent of cinnamon he couldn’t quite shake. Fantastic. Very professional.

He stepped into the Floo, no time to change now, and clearly said, “Ministry of Magic”.

The manor was only recently granted direct access to the ministry. One of the many perks to owning and operating a business on premises that sold products directly to the ministry. Of course, when they first hooked it up, they didn't know it was his manor, but that was their fault for not reading the fine print.

He stepped out of the flames into the familiar atrium. The high ceilings were still peacock blue, with spectacularly embossed gold symbols that never stayed the same. The only thing that had changed since his last visit was the fountain statue.

Instead of the abomination that resided there before—it really was bad; the figures weren’t even set to a realistic scale against each other—a gold-looking slab had been erected standing just above his height. As he walked closer the slab seemed to shimmer and sparkle, names flashed across the surface as water ran down the face. A circular gold inlay around the slab read: “In remembrance of the fallen who gave their lives to protect the greater good.” How woefully generic.

He walked around the side of the circle towards the corridor he needed, glancing down to check his shoes, and by chance, saw a singular name in the same font as the slab but on the base opposite of the inscription. You really had to look for it to see it. He craned his neck to read the name, shining in minuscule print on the inlay it read Dobby the Free House Elf. The name didn’t flash, and his face pained as he recognized his family’s elf’s name emblazoned at the center of the ministry atrium with no other name beside it, not even Dumbledore’s. That particular choice had Granger written all over it.

It probably made little sense to most people who happened upon the name and didn’t know what had happened at the manor, if anyone even noticed the name at all, but he had been there. He knew why that name deserved to be there. He didn't think it was an altogether bad choice.

He occluded and didn’t linger.

__

Blaise and Pansey were waiting for him in the large cafeteria area. Little sections lining the walls boasted different delights from all around the world. He scoffed as he recognized the name of a highly awarded wizard-owned establishment in London, the name “Masingi” emblazoned on one of the slapped-together fast-service restaurant fronts. The real thing had been one of his favorites to choose for his birthday before birthdays became less important. They had great desserts.

Dark slanting eyes watched as he took in the space that immediately brought his attention back to the present.

“Blaise.” Draco addressed the tall-dark-and-handsome man with a subtle nod of his head as he pulled out a hideous metal chair that made a horrific screech on the floor as it moved.

“Pansey.” The impeccably dressed woman before him with the short-cropped black bob and long neck mirrored his movements without a word.

Blaise sat last, but Pansey spoke. “We’ve done what you asked. Thirty members were targeted, we believe 15 were convinced, maybe another five if we play our cards right. We’re still two shy of a majority best-case scenario.” She didn’t fidget as she delivered the news, perfectly poised as she had been brought up to be, as he had been too.

“That’s honesty better than I expected. Worst case, we try again next year.” He faked a small chuckle that wasn’t returned. They all knew that’s not how things worked for the Wisengamot. You’re either in or out, and no potential member had ever been able to make it back after a vote that wasn’t in their favor.

“Why do you even want this anyway?” Blaise met Draco’s attempt at an aloof expression with something worse than disdain—genuine concern.

“Want and need are two totally different things, but since you asked, I need a seat at the table to be eligible for other more important business dealings. No seat, no credibility, or so I’ve been told.”—Many times, by his mother, in fact.

Pansey looked down at her very expensive muggle designer watch—the latest fashion—and gripped Blaise on the shoulder. “Time to go” She said to no one and both of them at once.

They stood abruptly, shoes clacking towards where Draco would find himself in less than twenty minutes' time.

This was it.

He was left alone at the ugly too thin table top. His hand dipped briefly into his breast pocket to pull out two identical brown glass vials with drastically different contents. One held a potion he had never taken before given the addictive qualities, the other was an antidote he hoped he wouldn’t need.

He downed the first vial with a quick swig before vanishing it, and the second he tucked back into his pocket, trusting the first potion to direct him to take the second if he needed it.

The rush was immediate. Something very good and very important was about to happen today, he was sure. The resting scowl that so often found a home on his contemplative face was replaced with uplifted brows and a slowly growing smirk.

One fluid extension of limbs, and he was standing, then pointedly walking five tables over to sit once more. He noted a rather large potted plant set against his back with leaves wider than his head. This chair was a much better place to be.

A conversation had just started up behind him in voices he recognized but couldn’t quite place.

“I just need like two more pairs of pants.”

“You easily have fifteen pairs that fit you right now; where are they?”

“No, I don’t. I haven’t bought new pants in over two years!”

“What does that have to do with how many pairs of pants you have that you can wear!”

Heated whispers labored back and forth between what he assumed was a couple. He didn’t glance back, it wasn’t time yet.

“I need new pants; what is six gallions with your salary? I work at a fucking joke shop; the least you can do is make sure I don’t have to dress like it.”

He knew the voice now, and the opportunity to destroy Ron Weasley was right there, but still he waited. There was a better moment coming, he was sure.

“Ronald Weasley, you have so many pants you can’t even find and wash them all. Did you learn nothing in transfiguration? I know you hate it when I throw your words back at you, but are you a wizard, or aren’t you?”

He frowned deeply. “I can’t talk to you when you get like this. I get that you don’t want me anymore, but this is exactly what I was telling my therapist about.”

She interrupted him. “I was going to wait till the weekend at your parents, but you need to know my job changed a few months ago. My boss, I suppose ex-boss now, doesn’t think I was ever a good fit. They’re bouncing me around positions internally, but if they don’t find something permanent in the next week and a half, I’m no longer employed. It may mean giving you fewer gallons a month.”

A stupid “Whada-mean” broke through the short space of silence before the competent female voice resumed.

“I’ve already applied to several open positions outside of the Ministry, and I’m certainly qualified for them, but I do want to try to stay here if I can. There isn’t a lot of room for growth in other places, and assuredly not with the same access to resources that exist here. I’m going to try and stay even if they demote me.”

“Who cares about growth, just go wherever they pay you more. The extra money would be nice. I know you can make that happen.”

A shuffle of fabric in what Draco assumed was an awkward hug later, and he was able to make out loping footsteps followed by a single soft sob and intake of breath.

Draco had heard that sob before, had caused one like that before from the same person a lifetime ago. And she was no longer attached to the weasel. Interesting.

The potion told him that now was when he had to stand up and turn the corner.

As he did, he collided directly with a disheveled and red-faced Hermione Granger, clutching her bag as if the contents were more important than her own head as she flew back just shy of smacking the hard floor.

Time seemed to fracture as the brown-haired woman peeked irises in varied shades of warm honey through dark lashes clashing with his own silver. Hair as wild as his wasn’t splayed around her shoulders, as she found herself exactly where she didn't want to be. The recognition took her half the time it normally took others.

__

Malfoy

She almost said it out loud but bit her tongue.

__

Her feet moved to right herself before her arms, causing her to stand and teeter on her heels with an adorable panicked look on her face as her arms flew out for balance.

This was much more fun than expected; he thought as his hand reflexively steadied her by the waist before removing it with dragging fingers.

He watched as she used every ounce of restraint to not tell him to fuck off as he continued to smile down at her. He relished in the new, more obvious height difference, and even more so at how easily his hand had wrapped around a decent portion of her waist. He had been prompted by the potion to squeeze his grip a little more firmly than he normally would, but it wasn’t anything that would seem unnatural or planned.

“I—you—I need—“Before she could complete the sentence, face growing more red, he was holding out a small black card, neatly printed text embossed in off-white scrip tucked in the center; the entire front was a matte finish, the rest was glossy for contrast.

She snapped it from his fingers as he spoke, a hex waiting to jump from her pursed lips. “I’m always looking for researchers, and we pay very well. Keeping a position at the ministry is also encouraged, but not required.”

__

Hermione blinked way more than was necessary with a little shake of her head. Was he actually trying to help her? Surely not. How much had he heard?

“Think about it.” He moved to walk away, but found a small firm grip had locked around his wrist.

“Why? What is in this for you? Obviously, you must have heard everything, but your timing seems a little too planned.” There was a trick in this somewhere. There had to be. Her eyes bounced back and forth around his face searching.

A calculated and resolute voice met her scrutiny with a single word before he turned in a flourish of stupidly extravagant robes and left: “You.”

Her breath hitched unexpectedly before checking herself as she looked down at the address following the name “Callisto Potions & Protections”. As if the paper itself could sense her eyes tracking, the entire card burst into flame immediately after activating the hidden Fidelius Charm.

Oh fuck.

Chapter 6: Grey Sweatpants

Summary:

Hermione finds herself furious with the way Malfoy caught her off guard with a job offer and intends confront him before the day is even over.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Well, that was one way to find another source of income, but at what cost?

Hermione had left work early just after her lunch meet-up with Ron, which turned into her bizarre run-in with Malfoy.

Now in her parents’ familiar kitchen, she let herself sink to the floor and lean her head back against the oven, mind racing.

Hadn’t her father told her to never waste an opportunity? Did it matter that Malfoy was an absolute git with most likely the worst of intentions? Maybe? It was hard to say. It was completely possible that his notoriously selfish intentions were what led him to ask her to work for him in the first place. She was good at her job after all, or so she thought till a few months ago.

She paused to really think about the situation she was in now, and it hurt to put everything in perspective. She was a soon-to-be-divorced-almost-fired-ministry-healer who lived in her parent's house with her cat and no other family. Right after the war she had poured into her studies, then career, and barely had time for her friends. And now her high school bully showed up at the most—or least depending on how you looked at it—opportune time to offer her what exactly? Maybe a final laugh in her face if she actually showed up to his fancy-pants work premises complete with Fidelius charm? She scoffed at how pretentious the whole business card thing was. He didn’t give her any time to actually digest and properly respond. Had he approached her any other time, she was sure she would have said no. She might as well show up in the middle of the night just to fuck with him, given how very little information he gave her.

It felt like a trap, but the part of her that was curious about his intentions started to prance around her mind, flitting through possibilities like pulling books off of shelves in the library for a new project.

It would make the most sense if he wanted that final bit of retribution from the public to hire the Hermione Granger—Harry Potter’s smart muggle-born friend. She internally cringed at the title, but it made sense.

That had to be it. She thought back to her memory of the interaction to see if there were any other details she could reexamine now that she wasn’t fighting off the shock of seeing Draco Malfoy in person again after years of hardly being seen in public.

She closed her eyes and remembered as the oven handle lightly dug into the back of her head, grounding her. Her first thought after being completely thrown off balance and righting herself, was of how much taller Malfoy was. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting if she ever saw him in person again, but it wasn’t him being almost Ron’s height, although the similarities ended there. Ron was tall, maybe taller even, but was built like a brick wall—all barrel chest and beer belly—where as Malfoy was lean and imposing with a hint of that seekers build still touching his movements and gestures. In all of the pictures that she has seen of him published, none seemed to really show his stature or capture his presence at all. It commanded attention and was exceptionally hard to ignore when her nose was about the height of his clavicle. He had looked down at her and smirked. That expression brought back memories of the Malfoy she knew, but he had never directed that particular expression at her with anything but ill intention. That was probably exactly what he was showing in this scenario, right? 

Then she was hit with whatever cologne he was wearing if you could call it that. He didn’t smell like cologne at all.  It was more like a clean laundry smell laced with something electric. It was gone before she could really put her finger on it.

Why was she thinking about what he smelled like? She shook her head, letting her hair bounce back and forth in a comforting way before she stood up, rolling her neck to settle her thoughts.

This had to be hormones. There was no way she was actually interested in a person like Malfoy. It was just her body having those feelings, not her brain. The thought would have been comforting if she hadn’t remembered that magazine she had stashed under her mattress. She made a mental note to throw it away the next chance she got as she tried to formulate a new plan for the next course of action.

Maybe showing up at his work unannounced wouldn’t be that bad of an idea. A wicked smile started to spread across her face as she let her hands slide across the kitchen counter at her back that she was leaning on, tilting her head back just enough to brush her hair on the counter too.

She needed a little pick me up after everything. She really wasn’t that worried about a job. At the end of the day, she was competent, and that was what counted. If Malfoy wanted to fuck with her, maybe fucking with him back was just what she needed.

Not wanting to waste any time before she lost her nerve, she apparated into her closet. It was a walk-in, but messy, and so stuffed with all of the clothes she had ever owned it was hard to find some things. She started by siding hangers left and right near the very back, wishing she had spent the time to pair things down last year. She had the perfect thing to wear for her unexpected arrival if she could find it.

Forty-five minutes later, a triumphant shriek made the ever-vigilant Crookshanks stir from his nap on top of his throne of discarded laundry. A subtle flash of red shone against black at the hem of a garment bag, and she knew she found it. The dress was from a Christmas party during her engagement with Ron. An enchanted black to red multichrome almost-bodycon dress that had just enough boning and structure to make it work appropriate while also giving a fantastic hint of cleavage. And where were the shoes? She crawled around on the floor, blindly grasping beneath dresses that dragged on the floor, obscuring her view of the shoes tossed haphazardly behind them. She grasped a tapered heel and pulled out what she was looking for with a gleeful look on her face before she remembered she was a witch and could have accioed her stuff this whole time. With a flick of her wand, the match to her “shit stomping boots”—or so Ron used to call them—flew out from the depths of her closet into her outstretched hand. She wore the four-inch low-cut ankle boots to some of her most important meetings ages ago. It certainly had an effect on the men in the room when she wore them, so it was possible they still did. Maybe?

A few flicks of her wand, and she was refreshed. Her hair had been put up wet earlier that day, so it was easy to take it down and use a few charms to smooth, shine, and dry the curls into something bouncy and glossy. Makeup was the same, she wasn’t wearing any earlier, so a light dewy finish was effortless to achieve, freckles stark against the hint of blush tinting her cheeks. With a quick scourgify and a roll of some nice skin-smelling perfume oil she had picked up in Egypt, she was ready to take Malfoy down a peg.

She looked in the mirror then, sliding her hands across her hips as she angled to the side to see how her profile was. This was for sure a power outfit and certainly not something she would have filled out the last time Malfoy probably saw her body. She smiled as she thought about his reaction, thinking back to when his hands had squeezed her waists buried beneath her loose business casual clothes, and she had looked up and somehow had trouble remembering he was an absolute piece of garbage for just a moment. A quick hair removal and smoothing spell on her legs, and the look was complete.

She really should have told him off. For that matter, she should have done the same with Harlene. It was like big pieces of her personality had been slowly snuffed out by the people around her who were supposed to build her up instead of tearing her down, leaving a pile of ash where there should have been a raging fire. She was so sick of feeling helpless and sad for herself. That wasn’t who she was. She was smart, capable, and fiery. She was going to change the world and help people a decade ago. She was capable of sticking up for herself just as much as other people. She was a grown woman with ambitions and means, and fuck Malfoy for trying to make her feel like nothing. What was she waiting for?

It was time to call his bluff. Now. Tonight. Catch him off guard. She took one final look in the mirror attached to her closet door to remind herself who and what she was and then apparated to * Callisto Potions & Protections*, knowing full well—having full access to certain ministry records—that his “business premises” was also located at his family home, Malfoy Manor.

__________

Draco was pacing back and forth shirtless in his darkened bedroom, dimly illuminated by the light of a dying fire. It was almost midnight, and he had put on his favorite guilty pleasure brand from his stint in the muggle world, Viori jersey knit sweat pants in a grey closely matched to the color of his eyes. Over a dozen were stashed in the dark recesses of his closet for whenever he wanted that particular comfort. 

A long neck leaned his head back to tip the last of the contents of his celebratory drink as the fleeting evidence of a smile played across his forehead and brows. The overwhelming feeling of impending failure had just left the pit of his stomach with wide open space for restlessness and maybe even joy to creep in, hence the pacing. The last piece of his puzzle now together rushed over him and settled into his very bones. It had been what felt like a lifetime since he had had a day this good. Maybe never; he really had to think about it.

In the midst of his internal flashback of the day’s events, Draco found himself looking down at his arm in confusion. Goosebumps and an unexplainable chill filled his body as his breath became visible, which could only mean—FUCK.

No—it wasn’t dementors. With the ancient wards in place, they would never be able to step foot here; one of the many things the dark lord didn’t like about the place—what was actually at play he had never had to use till this moment.

In his early years back at the manor after he served his sentence—back when there had been many more threats on his life than there were now—he had set up wards to alert him if anyone came in via Flu uninvited to Malfoy Manor. A brief sharp drop in temperature was the alert, something guaranteed to wake him up in the dead of sleep while also making no noise and showing no visual indication to anyone who might be watching. Not that he wanted to think of those things now.

His wand was out in a heartbeat, and he was walking towards the pull of magic that told him which Flu had been accessed.

With a loud whoosh a tall green flame went out in the grand hall leaving it in almost total darkness except for two small lamps illuminated some six meters away. The fireplace in question hadn’t been used in years and had fine hairs standing up on the back of Draco’s neck as he looked for the intruder.

His panic could have been the come down from his earlier dose of Felix Felisis had it not been for the tall and slender man with a mop of wavy brown hair that crossed the threshold with perhaps a little more pep in his step than required for any occasion he could possibly be here for.

Expensive-sounding shoes echoed towards him as a voice somewhat louder than he was accustomed to hearing in his home spoke to his silhouette in the shadow of the doorway to the grand hall. “Well, aren’t you going to greet me, you sod?!”

Theo

Before Draco could even let out half his breath, Theo was talking again. “That was genius, really. Who would think taking a veritiserium antidote before they administered it instead of after would actually work.” Theo lowered his freckled nose to stare up at Draco, a knowing smirk ruining any illusion of distaste or anger. “Oh right, you. Pansey told me what you had up you sleeve right as I sat down at the hearing, and you would have damn near given me a heart attack if I hadn’t already noticed how exceptionally lucky it was you arrived two minutes late. If you were on time I wouldn’t have shown up with Goyle to claim our abandoned seats. Lateness is a very convenient mistake I’ve never seen you make in your life. So lucky that I have to question what exactly you’re brewing for Callisto Potions & Protections besides lingering release potions. I was surprised to learn you were the owner today too, not just a donor. Very clever that.” His head tilted in a rhetorical question addressing the newest member of the Wizengamot besides himself.

He had perfect timing, as always. Theodore Knot was about as unpredictable as he was intelligent—which was truly saying something—the boy, now man, still seemed to have a flare for the dramatic. He had barely kept in touch during the initial Death Eater trials and had gone mysteriously absent for the last five years until today. Clearly the many owls and five or so other methods he tried got to him some way, He must want something.

“Email,” Theo said as if reading his mind. “The email you sent me yesterday got to me at exactly the right time.” He sucked in a breath as if to continue when he really took Draco in. “And here I thought the Golden Galleons camera correctors had taken liberties. Apparently not. Nice grey sweatpants, by the way. They suit you; maybe try them with a cropped top so you can really see the best parts.” Theo’s eyes drifted as Draco tried and failed to deepen his frown. 

He was about to address Theo when a small cough interrupted them both. Just outside the doorway stood what looked like Hermione Granger wearing a very form-fitting red or black something. The top was princess-cut and tasteful, unlike the rest of it. He held back a laugh as he looked back at Theo.

“Nice try, as if I would fall for one of those ridiculous illusions you used to cast in school. I think you’ve forgotten. I just saw Granger today, and her cleavage wasn’t nearly as spectacular—” He was going to continue until he saw Theo’s face and stopped abruptly, watching the man stare slack-jawed at the not-illusion woman frowning and glancing down at her chest before looking back up to meet his eyes with something like his death written there.

She was angry, and for more than one reason now, most likely from what she had just overheard. “Oh, Interesti—” Theo almost got out before he was interrupted by what must have been Granger’s voice filled with far more authority and danger than he ever remembered hearing in the past as it lashed at them.

“Veriteserium antidote? Really? That’s how low you would sink to get on the board, you dirty rotten cheat.” Her hands were already drawing her wand, her steps matching her last three words as she walked forward mid-sentence towards the doorway of Draco’s home like she owned it. Her hair bounced in a mass behind her seemingly independent of the sharp steps she took that clacked through the room. He couldn’t help it as he looked down. Stilettos. She was wearing sharp black patent leather stilettos as she rapidly closed the space between them when he should have been drawing his wand instead of looking at her shoes.

Pointed silver eyes continued to watch the fitted dress shift back and forth from black to red with the light, then up to angry gold eyes darkening with emotion, almost matching the deep orange of the lanterns that back-lit her form. Where she used to turn red in the face with anger, she was now lethal with rage, and it suited her in so many ways. He barely recognized her. Surely this wasn’t the woman he gave his card to in the cafeteria. Besides the red face, when Granger used to get angry in school, she would tense up, grit her teeth, and lash out with a bluntness befitting a girl with a temper so close to the surface.

It happened too fast as the business end of a wand poked into the flesh below his now-open mouth, cutting off his momentary flashback. He closed it and swallowed hard. Her eyes lingered on his Adam’s apple for a moment before snapping back up again, but he caught it. Looking down, he was now able to really see the details of her face—closer than he had ever been able to before. He noticed how two little freckles just below her left eye touched as he felt the woman in front of him reach up into his hair with no hesitation and yank hard forcing his neck more prone. A little groan escaped his throat. What the fuck was that. He had expected her to be a lot of things when they met, but not this. He cringed and looked to her face just in time to catch the barest flash of heat before it burned away with more rage, leaving a much more dangerous and alluring woman. What an unexpected but pleasant surprise. A knowing grin met her back, challenging and acknowledging that he saw her look, and he knew what it meant.

Theo cleared his throat. “Not that I’m not super into this Granger—you two really do look cute together—but I need to talk to Draco for a bit. You can have him after.” Theo somehow always knew exactly what to say to defuse a situation while simultaneously making everyone as uncomfortable as possible. It was an art, really. Disarming, effective, and learned the same way his most impressive skills were, through necessity and a very difficult adolescence.

The moment was broken, and he was left wondering what Granger was doing here in his home. Funny how he hadn’t even questioned it until now. True, he had hoped Granger would take him up on his offer for employment, but not less than half a day after he had asked. He grimaced internally, he probably should have anticipated her need to get ahead along with her very-signature-pinch of being completely oblivious to social standards like the proper time to do all of this, at least for wizards. Perhaps muggles regularly showed up to acquaintance’s homes unannounced, though, from his experience, he really thought this was more of a Granger thing.

“What were you thinking? I was genuinely coming here to see if you were enough of a fool to actually give me apparation ability to this place, and now I’m learning that you just became the newest member of the Wizengamot and LIED to get there. Nope. You know what? I don’t want it. Whatever job you were offering, I’m so not interested.” It took all of her self-control not to let her eyes linger more than a second on his lean abdominal muscles and deep v-shaped pelvic lines cut off abruptly by the most form-fitting grey sweatpants she had ever seen. She swallowed and looked up at the ceiling, unable to wrench the pale muscled form from her mind, as it was currently being filed away in the back of her brain for later reference. The silence was thick enough that it felt like it stuck together and settled low to the ground like a heavy fog, broken only by the sound of Granger’s heavy nose breathing.

“Alright. Fair enough. You don’t know you can trust me. Want to see why I wanted to hire you first?”

It was like he knew exactly what to say to get her to agree to hear him out. A mystery? A problem to solve? Those were her catnip, and he knew it. She doubted whatever job he had in mind for her would make her not turn him into the new minister for using an illegal antidote, or at least a soon-to-be illegal one, but she did want to know why he would hire her specifically, someone he had previously hated till this exact day. She stiffened her back and, with a little pang of defeat in the back of her head, chose to let her curiosity lead with a “Fine.” that should have sounded more angry than it came out.

“Alright. Good. Follow me.” She did while doing her absolute best not to gawk at his shirtless back and very well-fitting grey sweatpants. A loud scoff from the back informed them both that Theo was trailing a short distance behind.

Notes:

Better late than never. My cat died and it has been a devastating time. I miss him dearly. I hope you enjoy this latest chapter, and I will hopefully resume a more consistent posting schedule moving forward.

Chapter 7: Follow Me

Summary:

Hermione learns about the new job, maybe.

Chapter Text

Follow me.

Draco almost used his wandless magic to transfigure his pants into a more covering professional outfit but decided he wouldn’t on principle as he padded down the faux star-lit corridor in his bare feet. If Granger wanted to come to his place of work, which also happened to be his home this late at night, she could deal with the consequences. Maybe she would think twice now that she had to look at his disgusting sectum sempra scars and his dark mark on full display.

A huff broke through the clacking of shoes as he stopped at the end of the east wing corridor, gesturing to a set of black marble steps leading into what looked like a deep, dark something. Malfoy gently nudged Granger to the front of the steps.

“Are there some potions ingredients down there that can’t be exposed to light, or do you just want me to go down first blind for some other reason?” Hermione was deliberately being difficult in part because Malfoy had caught her off guard when she was trying to do that to him, and she needed to level the playing field now. The other part had something to do with the knot in the bottom of her stomach that thought he might actually push her down the stairs. She probably should have sent an owl to Harry or Ginny, letting them know where she would be tonight—or maybe not, because they might actually disown her as a friend, or at the very least be exceptionally cross that she even considered a job offer from a former death eater. She turned to look at Theo as if in search of a lifeline in case Draco actually had it out for her.

The second Hermione made pleading eye contact with Theo, he turned to Draco and rounded on him. “Really?! You’re not going to light the torches just to power-play this whole situation. Did you forget I know this place from when we were kids too? Stop fucking with Hermione and get on with it. I want to get back before dawn.” He threw a surprisingly conspiratorial glance Hermione’s way before Draco could see it, leaving her perplexed and more than a little confused. She really didn’t want to go down there, but Theo seemed to have her back, which was an unexpected comradery given the circumstances.

“Can we just talk about the job first!? I thought you were taking me to an office or something. Not a dungeon.” She winced as she said the last word without thinking.

She had been to the manor and knew exactly which way the dungeons were and this was not it. She had no way of knowing what Malfoy had endured in the Manor after her brief but very memorable stay, but she was sure it wasn’t good, and bringing up those memories wouldn’t help her at all right now if he really did want to hire her for a job.

Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you to show up at this exact moment to get a full brief on the job opening I told you about less than 12 hours ago, but here we are. Next time I’ll make sure I go to sleep in full dress robes.” He said the last bit with an edge of anger, beginning to meet Hermione in that sweet spot between fighting and debating.

“Mate, you weren’t fucking sleeping. I know about the wards, and I know how you sleep, and even if I hadn’t already spoken to Ursa, I could have guessed that.”

Draco looked at Theo curiously now. How did he know Ursa, when did they talk? “When did you mee—”

“You would be surprised at how much I know about everything right now, but if you would just talk with me before—”

Loud stomps were echoing down the staircase, commanding the attention of the two gentlemen, now acutely aware that Granger had decided she didn’t give a fuck about what either of them was talking about.

Theo lowered his voice “What are you playing at inviting her here? She’s smart. She’ll see through anything you’re trying to do.” Theo was whispering, looking intently at the dark pit now as Hermione’s steps grew further and further away.

“What if I want her to? Maybe that’s the point,” Draco responded while barely moving his mount.

Theo raised his eyebrows practically to his hairline as he shot him a reproachful look then stepped easily down the dark steps as Draco cast a complicated illumination charm. It lit up the torches every ten feet with a blurry diffused light reminiscent of the same glowy opalite curtains in his fathers—his—study.

“Are you coming?” He called to Theo over his shoulder as the man tried to figure out exactly what Draco was trying to do here and if it had anything to do with what Ursa had told him.

Seven daunting flights of steps was how far Hermione made it before lanterns flicked on with beautiful iridescent light. She made a note to ask how the lights were charmed later as she managed the last few flights that were now easy to navigate.

The steps ended at the beginning of a second very long corridor that had torches along the wall matching the same lighting on the stairs she presumed Malfoy had activated.

“This is the tricky part.” She head Malfoy’s voice so close she jumped back into him, and he caught her again in the same steading way he had in the Ministry. This time, she could feel his skin against her open-backed dress, and she was momentarily frozen. Strong hands held her more prominently now that there was only a thin layer of material between her hip and his hand. One layer. She felt him shudder and slide his body away, loosening the grip of his freakishly long fingers till they were relaxed at his sides, almost like the moment had never happened. He must really be disgusted by me still; she thought as she looked up to see the tick in his jaw and furrowed brow.

“Right, as I was saying, the tricky part is seeing if the room will accept you.” She could almost hear the sneer in his voice again.

Hermione appraised the space, eyes bouncing off the black nondescript door in the corridor now in front of her, trying to look for some hidden meaning she might find there. She couldn’t make out any runes or other visual indicators of magical significance.

Draco watched her take everything in with intense observation and appraisal.

God, she was perfect for this. So calculating, so brave.

He ran his hands along the doorframe and then leaned against the wall as he spoke. “I’m now the owner of this manor, so it listens to me, but it has generations of Malfoys telling it to only value pure-bloods. This room has been used for over a millennia by select members of my family as a place to experiment and practice magic without the consequences of life or death. This is the very room I learned my first spells as a child in. Even the minestry can’t detect magic cast in this room. The wards are heavy but exceptionally valuable for formulating potions and new spells, almost like they—and, by extension, the Manor—have a mind of their own. Which is why I wanted to bring you here. If you can walk into this room and do what I ask, I’ll hire you on the spot.” Malfoy was explaining it all in a way that seemed to gloss over big things Hermione was determined to remember to ask him later as she tried to convince herself to walk through the now open doorway.

“On the spot to do what exactly? What happens if the room doesn’t let me in? What happens if it does?” She was stalling, and for good reason. Draco smirked at her, knowing that she had already made up her mind but was trying to draw out anything else he would give her. Gryffindor bravery was nothing if not predictable, and Granger so readily displayed that virtue—she would give him exactly what he needed to exploit and manipulate in this situation.

The next line he knew would be the twist of the knife to get her to enter the room. “No muggle-born or half-blood has ever attempted to enter this room. Quite frankly none have even been offered the opportunity, but if you can make it in I will tell you what I want your project to be. 100 galleons an hour, and you can back out anytime if you decide it’s not for you, provided you sign a nondisclosure agreement.

It sounded too good to be true. Probably because it was. “I’m not taking one step through that door before I have a document in hand that I can read and sign, one that also guarantees my safety and holds you accountable for the decisions of this place. After all you did say you’re the ‘owner’ of the manor now, so I expect you to control it. I’m not a fool.”

“Here’s the thing, Granger. That’s kind of why you’re here.” And without any indication, Malfoy shoved her hard through the doorway, and as he did, she felt magic wash over her, very much like what she felt when she broke into Gringotts, and all of their spells were broken beneath the waterfall. Her hair frizzed up and shrank two inches, all of her magical makeup disappeared, her steadying charms broke around her heels, making her painfully aware that her ankles would likely roll at any moment, and of course, the red-black charm on the dress was completely removed, leaving behind a simple white sheath of material fitted exactly the same but much less intimidating looking.

Hermione reached down to grab her heels off before she stood up too quickly, locking eyes with the man that just shoved her. “What the absolute fuck was that.”

“Language Granger,” She heard Theo say from the doorway, not entering the room himself. “Drakey doesn’t need any more encouragement now that you’re wearing that little number.” She looked up at Theo in confusion as he was raking his eyes down her body in the newly white bodycon dress. No matter. She didn’t have time for bullshit like these two Slytherin men messing with her. According to Malfoy, not one minute ago, she had just landed herself a job that paid $100 galleons an hour, and she intended to find out exactly what it entailed before she told Malfoy to go choke on a snake.

“So what’s the job then? It had better be good if you thought shoving me was even an option.” Hermione was staring at him, deliberately ignoring his shirtless chest and arms again. He was breathing hard and it took him a few seconds before he grabbed two thick binders off of a nearby wooden table. As she took in the room, she saw eight more long tables lined up, almost like a classroom, except at the end of the room, there was what looked like an exceptionally large steaming swimming pool.

“For flushing in case a potion gets out of hand.” He gestured towards the steaming bubbling pool that was much more dimly lit than the tables. Giant swirls of mist glided across the surface of a dark and still expanse wide enough to have at least one fully grown magic squid of its own. It must have spread beneath a quarter of the manor at least, which was saying something. “It contains the same potion that hit you in the doorway, just in much larger quantities and more concentrated. It’s kept warm to prevent it from expiring and has existed this way for a few hundred years. Feels a bit like a muggle hot tub if you’ve ever…”

He grimaced at Granger’s incredulous expression, but he powered through anyway “It would be a great way to experiment with potions if the damn room would let me, which brings me to my job for you. The manor is sentient, that much I have been able to deduce, but every time I try to experiment with potions it won’t let me in this room. At first I thought it had to do with intentions, but I think it is more than that. This room has historically been reserved for researchers in the family, specifically brilliant ones. Once the room accepted them, they were allowed assistants. I want you to see if the room will let you use it. If it does I have a ridiculous amount of things I need to test in a controlled environment, provided you’re willing to do it with me. I wouldn’t expect you to test things alone given the circumstances. Would you mind?”

He held his hand out palm up towards a small round wooden table just outside of the room where they had entered, upon which sat a very small glass vial. “This is the last part.” Malfoy’s voice was low and careful as he explained. “If you can bring that vial into this room, and get me to drink it, I’ll consider you officially hired.”

“What’s in it.”

“Veritaserum,” He replied, looking up into her face. “Consider it motivation to get the room to listen to you. If you can bring that in here and dose me with it, I’ll let you ask me two questions before I jump into the pool.”

Oh, this was too good, but there wasn’t enough time to come up with two questions. “I’ll try it.” She spoke to no one in particular as she walked towards the table in her stocking feet, feeling the cold seep through them from the hard marble floor. She had to think fast as she was trying to drag out her walking. What could she ask? What did she desperately need to figure out while he had to answer her truthfully?

As it always seemed to, it came to her just before her time ran out. She had already grabbed the potion, brought it through the doorway, and unstoppered it, shocking both herself, and from what she could tell through body language—Theo and Malfoy too.

Without thinking much, she gingerly took Malfoy’s jaw in her hand and brought the potion up to meet his lips, carefully tipping the contents back so as not to spill any. It was an oddly sensual experience holding his face in her hands and parting his lips with a vial. She could feel his jaw flex when she first reached up and again when she involuntarily shifted her hand to get a better grip, feeling the smallest bit of stubble across her palm as she moved. He looked into her eyes the entire time which added to the effect. Waiting until she saw his tell tale glances to the right and slightly blown pupils that let her know the potion was working, she started to ask her questions.

“Alright, so two questions; first, do you have any ill intent when it comes to hiring me for this role?” She had her hand on his arm so she could stay close enough for her to hear. The potion made you tell the truth, but he could still control the volume of his voice.

She watched carefully as the potion did its job, pulling the words out of him. “I did not harbor any ill intent when I chose to hire you.” He swallowed hard as she tracked the movement.

“I would bloody well think not.” She heard Theo again but continued to ignore him.

“Great,” She said, praising his response, although she wasn’t sure if she meant it.

“Two, did you send me a copy of Golden Galleons with that snarky owl I saw when I got here today.” Earlier, before Knot and Malfoy had realized she was there, Hermione had noticed a very familiar owl swoop just over her head before it was gone.

Malfoy’s eyes went wide. This was clearly not something he had thought she would ask, and he looked like he was about to be sick, face stark white and almost trembling. With satisfaction she watched him fight and lose as he barely audibly let out the word “Yes.”

“Why?” She breathed in his ear on her tiptoes to reach. She knew she was only granted two questions, but it was really his fault for not jumping in sooner.

Draco had to jump into the potion pool but was blocked by Granger’s short but firmly planted body, right between him and his only way out of the question. It took less than a second to decide what to do. He was going into that pool, and if Granger would’t move, they were going in together.

One shove was all it took as they careened into the potion in what felt like slow motion. Draco smiled as he saw her shocked face fall beneath the surface, followed shortly by his own.

That was way too close.

Chapter 8: The Pool Room

Summary:

Hermione and Draco find themselves realizing a few things as they enter and exit the potion pool.

Chapter Text

Falling beneath the potion pool was one of the more odd sensations Hermione had ever experienced in her life, and that included the Department of Mysteries, Gringotts, and being polyjuced into a cat. It was vaguely like a bubbling hot tub, as Malfoy had said, except that when fully immersed, it was more like her whole body had woken up from falling asleep. Not actual sleep, but the phantom pins and needles feeling that prodded a limb when it lost blood flow for too long. It hardly lasted a moment, but her body suddenly felt very real and alive after the brief pain subsided. It wasn’t quite an out-of-body experience, but she was immediately hyper-aware of her lungs inflating, the weight of her limbs, and the tickle of her wet hair on her neck as it dripped potion down her back.

It was invigorating and made her want to laugh. A dumb grin spread along her face as she tilted her chin to the enchanted ceiling and held in the inclination to actually let the laughter out. In her effort to control it, she shifted her concentration from her own body to the dark depths of the clear pool while attempting to covertly observe Malfoy and failing.  An almost identical expression met hers, except he was staring at her like he had never seen her before.

Draco was not okay. He might never be again.

From beneath the pseudo-simmering liquid, he had intentionally dove both himself and Granger into emerging something he was wholly unprepared for.

The first thing he noticed was the freckles, still stark in contrast against her tanned skin, peppering her nose and cheeks. Why had she spelled them away before? His gaze lingered on the water, clinging to impossibly dark eyelashes and then gliding down her long neck. Her curls were more pronounced now—weather from the potion or just getting wet he wasn’t sure—but her expression in combination with everything else was wild and beautiful, Granger was some untamed thing he felt a deep longing for in his carefully controlled life.

She was smiling in a way that was so knowing and so very much her that it took his breath away, or at least his words. The potion could do that—take away everything that wasn’t you—leaving behind the most genuine version of yourself, free from whatever spellwork builds up over the years weighing that person down. It wasn’t like being high, exactly. It's more like an extreme detox.

The Gringotts waterfall was just a pale imitation of whatever this was. That was more to protect the vaults from concealment spells and potions, but this—it wouldn’t undo healing spells, but instead, it seemed to work by looking inside the mind of the person in the pool and returning them to exactly themselves, whatever that meant to them.

There had been attempts to reverse engineer it a few times given the implications in the last seventy or so years. He personally had gotten about 60% of the way there and found that it had things in common with Amortentia and Veritaserum, which made a lot of sense. There was some finely worded and likely long-winded way of explaining why exactly that was, but the easiest way to explain it was that those two potions were the same in exactly one way—they were an absolute truth pulled from your mind that you had no control over.

As far as Draco knew no one had ever drank more than a few drops on purpose. He really wondered what would happen if he ever took a few swigs, but that was something best left till the end of his life if he really wanted to find out. Any Malfoy that had attempted that particular endeavor, to his knowledge, died.

A soak in its depths felt different for every person. For him, it was somewhere between a warm hug and like he had just eaten a very satiating meal. It was comfortable and safe, and he couldn’t help but easily smile every time he felt it.

However, that relaxed feeling was exercised from his body as soon as Granger seemed to get her wits back and locked eyes with him, standing up to her full height—still a far cry from his—most likely to round on him.

Draco didn’t even register whether or not she was talking because the moment she stood, he was hyper-aware of the completely drenched parchment-thin white dress she was still wearing.

As Hermione felt the pins-and-needles-feeling finally ebb away, she was immediately ready for a fight. She trudged heavily through the waist-height liquid, hovering her elbows above it as her thighs fought the wet material of her dress to move towards that stupid, lazy, grinning mouth. 

As she moved, Malfoy seemed to sense his impending verbal lashing, and stood up, and she really wished he hadn’t.

It was truly unfair the way the potion seemed to glide down his skin. Like it had decided to intentionally drip in patterns that accentuated every delicious part of his defined abs and tattoos, right down to those perfect leading lines that disappeared beneath his very soaked grey sweatpants. Delicious? She needed to get herself under control now.

Hermione took in a giant gulp of air that was meant to be a breath to steady herself, but when she went to let it out she looked up to find two sparkling silver eyes aimed directly at her chest as if transfixed.

Following his gaze she realized with immediate mortification that very little was left to the imagination above her waist after it got potion dipped. She slammed her body back into the water as fast as her anger turned into embarrassment, splashing herself in the face. At almost the same moment, a door slammed, snapping both of their heads towards where Theo had just let himself out, leaving them alone.

Hermione shivered returning her eyes to that perfect tattooed body, before glancing back up at the unfortunate owner’s face. She had to strike first and be firm if this was ever going to work.

“Well, this is a fantastic way to welcome a new hire.” Hermione was starting daggers at Malfoy as she crossed her arms.

“Excuse me, Miss-I’ll-ask-three-questions-even-thought-i-agreed-to-two.” He was desperately trying to distract her from thinking about that third question again.

She huffed. “Alright Mr-shove-me-in-the-door-and-get-me-wet.”

No.

No no no no no.

It sounded so cleverer in her head.

An electric shade of red lit up her face as Draco did everything in his power to not react but failed miserably. The occlumency he relied on so heavily in situations like these didn’t work in the pool. He was left with just his wits, which were thankfully one of his more endearing personality flaws.

“Care to say that again? More slowly this time?” Malfoy was closing the distance between them, and she was so not going to be okay if he touched her.

It was impossible not to move towards her; she was normally so composed and angry, and to catch her like this was a treat. He knew he might regret it, but he also might never get another opportunity where he could blame it on something other than himself. He reached up a hand to touch one of her stray curls, almost caressing the spot between her shoulder and neck. Her hair was softer than he imagined, even not fully dry. He had less than a second to file that away before a resolute hand had plunged out of the water, grabbing his index finger with surprisingly sharp fingernails—the finger that was still mindlessly twisting a single curl in fascination. 

“Let’s get one thing very clear, this is a professional relationship. I’m not interested in what you’re used to doing with other people down here or elsewhere, and even if the rumors aren’t true, just know I have absolutely zero interest.” Whoever said Gryffindors couldn’t lie.

He flicked his hand, effortlessly removing her vice-like grip, only adding to her outrage. He needed out to of this place and far away from her before he lost his mind, but instead of an ‘of course, excuse me while I go draft some paperwork’, what came out was, “Oh Granger, those rumors are a far cry from what I’m capable of, but you don’t have to worry, I would never do anything you didn’t want me to do.” Stupid. Stupid.

He didn't wait to see how she reacted before finding the pool’s ledge and situating his forearms and palms to lift himself out of the pool in a graceful ark while still facing her. Smooth. 

“I’ll send you a proposal outline tomorrow. It’s negotiable, but please know I won’t likely be willing to make any compromises as far as privacy and security goes. You have three days to respond with a counteroffer before I move on. I’ll have Ursa see you out. ”

At the sound of her Name, Ursa appeared, taking in the sight of Draco’s drenched clothing and wincing at Hermione, still neck-deep in liquid.

Granger had seemed like she was about to say something important, but Ursa’s presence deeply distracted her.

 Contrary to the dirty pillowcase Hermione expected, she watched the elf in what looked like—was that a Halloween-themed dress with pumpkins and black cats?—well, the elf wearing what looked like a muggle-printed toddler dress distracted her from properly narrowing her eyes at the now sopping wet man attempting to make a swift and discreet getaway. Ursa, watching Hermione in the pool, pressed her lips into a line so thin it reminded her of Minerva and made Hermione smile and almost laugh again. Damn this potion. She needed to get out of it immediately.

She swallowed her pride and unceremoniously sloshed herself out onto the hard floor with significantly less grace as the two residents of Malfoy Manor had started a heated and very silent whisper conversation.

Now out of the water, she cast a lightning-fast drying charm as she approached them, silently transfiguring the material of her dress into a soft terry cloth mid-clack. Her stilettos were still somehow intact after the entire ordeal.

The frizz of her now-dry curly hair was going to be a mess tomorrow, and she knew she had absolutely blundered whatever power play she imagined this was going be. Of course, just like everything else.

She grimaced before smoothing out her features into something resembling indifference. No matter, she was filled with questions that needed answers and wanted to get them on paper before Malfoy had a chance to even send the proposal, which meant it was time to leave. She thought of her computer waiting for her at home, bemused imagining how blindsided he would probably be by how much faster she would write with a keyboard instead of handwriting on a scroll. There were going to be rules, lots and lots of rules about what she was and wasn’t okay doing for this “job”, and he was going to listen.

“Thanks for the dip. I’ll admit I’m curious, but I do hope our next business encounter will involve more clothing.” She didn’t, actually. Fuck. Say anything to make him feel weird and not you. “I can see myself out thanks, and I’ll keep a lookout for your owl, it shouldn’t be hard for him to find the place quickly given he’s already visited like you said.” There, now he got to be the one scrambling to think of something smart to say. She didn’t wait for Malfoy to respond before she left just as quickly as she entered, marching up the steps two at a time just to ensure there was no chance he would be on her heels wanting to have the last word.

Hermione could swear she heard the sound of Ursa shrieking just before she cleared off.

The flu in Hermione’s home flared to life just before she tumbled out of it, kicking her shoes off the second her feet met the floor.

Today was a weird and awful day. If she could have talked to her dad about it, he would have asked, “Good weird or bad weird?” and the truth was she didn’t know, or she did, but the answer was both?

She locked her flu right when she passed through the bricks with a quick shortcut spell she had learned from an old second-hand witch cookbook of all places. She supposed it had only taken one ruined soup cooked over a fire to make that particular brilliance of magic essential, but it surprised her to see it not mentioned in any other text she had ever read. Regardless, she wasn’t going to sleep until she could relax and get out of her own head after what just happened. She had already decided she could write and send her piece tomorrow afternoon. It would still be ahead of Malfoy’s document most likely. He was always so lazy in school.

Taking the low-pile carpeted stairs up to the top floor, she shed her dress and shrugged on an old oversized black t-shirt. That was better. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, smiling at the shirt displaying her parents’ old dental practice logo on it, and stopped dead.

Staring back at her wasn’t her smile, or it was, but it was also her dad’s. The pool had reverted the changes she had made to her teeth in fourth year, except somehow they now looked very much at home in her adult face. They were never really that oversized, she was just a fourteen year old girl with awkward adult sized teeth. She had grown into them now, and the sight made her want to cry, hands raised to touch her mouth.

She leaned in closer and smiled with force this time, which made her flinched at how much she really did recognize the smile. Tears started to pool in her eyes before she tilted her head back, breathing hard to blink them away.

That pool was something else. If for no other reason than the potion pool itself, she really wanted to come to a fair agreement and terms for a working engagement, even if Malfoy was going to be “overseeing”.

Her late-night brain started furiously churning out some quick visuals of Malfoy shirtless again with a pile of parchment at a broad desk, explaining to her that he did, in fact, make them in triplicate when she was ready to sign. If she would just sit right on his lap.

No. Nope. Nice try brain.

She snatched a quick one-shot romance from her bedside table and breezed through it to take her thoughts somewhere else where stress only existed for the characters in her stories and not for herself.

The main male character was tall, dark and handsome, and definitely not blonde because that would have been a problem for her at that exact moment.

After losing track of where she was in her story three times and reading without absorbing anything, she gave up.

She was so destroyed by that whole interaction, and why the fuck could he not put on reasonable clothes.

She looked at her floor at the tossed-aside white terrycloth dress and let the hypocrisy wash over her before she decided she was still better than Malfoy and his stupid owl.

She paused for a moment before tentatively fishing around under her mattress for the copy of Golden Galleon’s that lived there now while she considered what to do with it.

Why would he send this to her? To brag and get her to trust him, maybe? To set her up for something. It had to be nefarious because he definitely served himself before other people. That’s what Slytherins did, wasn’t it?

She flipped to the centerfold without looking at the index and really looked this time. The expression was hollow compared to what she saw today in the pool. His body slouched on its side was also nothing compared to seeing it in real life, soaking wet and right in front of her.

She shivered. Nope, she didn’t need to think about this or keep the magazine, for that matter. She was immune to assholes now, and he was just another asshole waiting to lure a woman into his trap and make her life miserable. He was an old unrealistic fantasy that was about to become her coworker, boss? Definitely, coworker if she had to say it out loud.

She would throw the magazine out tomorrow, and she tossed it to the ground by the side of the bed right where she was going to step so she wouldn’t miss it tomorrow. It hit with a loud and dramatic smack. She then quickly whipped her body around under her covers and noxed the lights in something that defiantly wasn’t embarrassed fury. She pushed her eyes closed, trying to will herself sleep, conjuring images of the dark-haired man in her story, and not the one just beneath the surface of her subconscious with silver eyes and icy blonde hair.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. This was not happening. This was all at once better and worse than he had ever expected. In less than 24 hours, Draco had gotten back on the Wizengamot, reconnected with Theo, learned that Theo had gone to classes with Ursa, found out Granger was single or soon to be again, gotten her to agree to consider working for him, and he had seen the most perfect smile beam out her face actually directed at him immediately followed by an almost completely unobstructed view of her tits in that stupid pool.

He could see why Felix Felicis was highly addictive and controlled.

He made a note to tell Ursa to prevent his use of it in the future, just in case, as he settled into his desk to start writing up Granger’s work proposal. If he got it done before nine, he could justify dropping it off in person, given it was the weekend, and he had a feeling she was a morning person like him. He would go see her in a few hours and try and figure out where they stood, then take a long afternoon nap while he waited for her response.

His biggest concern was getting her to test his potions safely and in a way where she kept everything secret from competition. She always seemed like the type to let certain details slip if she was proud enough of them. He thought back to her third question and desperately tried to think of how to not actually ever mention it again.

The truth was he had sent her that magazine when he started to think about who he could get to use the room with him. When he had asked himself who he knew was a brilliant, intelligent researcher and who might also actually consider him if he asked in the right way, there was only one name that came to mind. He just needed her to see him differently and not like the person he was in school.

The article painted such a flattering picture of him he thought that it might soften her up, and if that didn’t work, maybe the pictures in there would make her reconsider.

His other option had been Theo, but he had no way of getting ahold of him after trying for years. Up until today, he had considered Hermione a crap shoot, too, which left him with practically no other options. Now that she might say yes, he was too eager to get started. They would have to work in the pool room together. There was no way he was leaving her alone with all of the ideas he had, and potions were always a two-man job. He didn’t trust anyone else. A vivid image of his body pressed into her back while he watched her stir one of his potions over her shoulder caught him with a flash of desire so unexpected he almost splashed his ink bottle onto the draft he was just finishing up.

He really hoped they would get more chances to use that pool. Maybe he could work that into the document somehow.

Chapter 9: Shuffle

Summary:

Hermione is back at her place and needs

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Immediately after Hermione had left, Draco and Theo spoke in his office, and he found out all about Theo attending University with Ursa. Theo, of course, had deduced after a few months who she reported to and swore her to secrecy. Given that she was paid and not bound to Draco, she could keep secrets or lie to him, so she did. That wasn’t the biggest upset in this conversation, though; no, it was that Theo had been spending the last few years living amongst muggles and working towards a few muggle graduate degrees and had been in contact with Pansey and Blaise the whole time, just not him.

It made him feel not just inadequate but ashamed. Theo had been under the impression that Draco had been spending his time forcing his house elf to get him a “degree” while he sat on his ass and partied in muggle clubs, ignoring his friends and responsibilities.

That couldn’t have been further from the truth. He spent most of his time researching and planning for the last few years, it was just that no one could know he was the one behind it until very recently when he went public.

Only parts of his business were publicly shared, of course. The Daily Profit and other publications hadn’t learned about his muggle outreach clinic, and he hoped to keep it that way in order to keep the place up and running. The last thing he needed was angry sabotage from someone who was still angry with him from the war.

Theo had naturally figured that bit out and was very keen to interject himself into Draco’s business, which left him with a lot to think about. Namely how angry he was at himself to put his friends in a position where they felt that they couldn’t see him for years apart from an occasional letter.

It was so lonely, and perhaps he deserved it. He was the only one of them that took the dark mark, even if he didn’t want to do it. It made sense he had to suffer the consequences.

Which brought him to Granger. He had just finished up the first draft of the proposal, and it was almost 6. The window started to show hints of sunshine as the first few rays refracted on the ceiling. He had a plan for how he wanted the exchange to go, and in order for it to work, he needed the upper hand. Thankfully, Granger was nothing if not predicable, and he knew just what to do.

Draco stood from his desk, stretching his limbs and cracking his knuckles before he snatched up his wand and tapped the several-foot length of parchment he had just completed with his wand, causing it to roll up with a snap.

Next, he grabbed a small monogrammed piece of parchment and scribbled down a quick letter that had to arrive at Granger’s house at precisely seven in the morning, just before he planned to pay her a visit with the surprise document. The note entailed his plans to stop by in the morning, making it seem like he had given her reasonable advance notice. Ursa would be tasked with slipping it in the muggle mail slot. Something that would make him look both thoughtful, and probably be just unexpected enough for her not to check if she was awake.

Worst case scenario, if she saw the letter get delivered, she would perhaps be a bit more suspicious of how he conducted business, which she had every right to be, although he hoped to avoid provoking her anger further.

Hot beads of black wax seal dripped onto the envelope, and before it could start to harden, he pressed his Malfoy signet ring into the wax. It almost burned but quickly dissipated. The ring was most certainly charmed to dispel heat, along with some other choice spells that prevented documents from being read by anyone other than the intended recipient. When he removed the cool metal, a serpent surrounded by fifteen stars was embossed deep into the dark wax.

The ring had changed itself slightly to each wearer when it got passed down from generation to generation. When his father had worn the ring it fit his middle finger on his right hand, and the serpent had two sun accents instead of stars. The ring had been one of the few things his father was allowed to keep at Azkaban, so when an owl had dropped it off on his desk in a small cotton bag, he knew his father had died before the official announcement had found its way to him.

As much as he didn’t want to wear it, the ring was tied to Malfoy Manor magic. If he didn’t put it on, the house would have no master and subsequently wouldn’t listen to him or his mother until a new master was declared. His mother had urged him to put it on before the house rejected them entirely and sought new ownership, which was something he didn’t even know was possible until Narcissus shared that it had happened twice in the past.

Anyway, from the moment Draco slipped the ring on his finger the house seemed to listen to him in a way it never had before. It didn’t necessarily repair some of the damage that was done, but it did seem to customize itself in a way that supported his every proclivity without him having to explicitly say what he wanted.

He sealed the closure of the scroll of parchment the same way, pocketing it in the casual back and dark grey robes he had put on before talking with Theo.

Draco pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes. This was all exhausting, but it had to be done.

After handing the parchment to Ursa and a quick look and scourgify for freshness, he disapparated with Ursa to the Granger residence for the first time, not entirely sure what he would find.

__

 

After around five hours of sleep, Hermione was staring up at the ceiling, the sun had woken her up because she forgot to close her blackout curtains. She may have been a bit distracted last night. At the thought, a hard lump attempted to form in her throat, but she refused to let it come to fruition. Instead, she shot out of bed, resisting the urge to cover her head with the plaid and flannel blanket and cry like her body wanted her to. She had work in two hours and then had a giant fuck you to write to Draco Malfoy during her lunch break. 

She cringed again, thinking to herself that she would probably get it done before lunch because she would have a lot more time on her hands before the final transfer if that ever happened.

Happy thoughts. Think happy thoughts.

She walked over to the old six-disc stereo that had some of her CDs in it from another life. She would play it once in a while when she was feeling particularly nostalgic. Nostalgia seemed to be the best cure she had found for loneliness so far, not that it made it go away, but more like it complimented it in a way that made it feel bearable.

She set the stereo to random and let it pick the song for her as she cast a spell to get tea steeping and two rashers of bacon and eggs cooking on the range downstairs.

Today was going to be a good day. It didn’t matter that her support system was gone. That her career was borderline destroyed, that her school bully had come back into her life looking like something out of a wet dream come to life just to knock her down one more peg. Ron still needed her for money, and his parents saw him as a victim in all of this. She needed to stop thinking.

She turned the volume up on the stereo till Barbie Girl by Aqua was so loud it helped her to forget her feelings for just a second as she snatched clothes out of her closet, giving herself permission to feel silly and remember the last time she danced to this song at her bachelorette party with her friends.

__

 

Draco arrived at Granger’s house just outside of her wards because of course she had wards. Ursa was able to slip past them to deliver the letter, then left Draco to find the best point of entry on his own.

Granger’s casting was surprisingly thorough. The ground level was exceptionally hard to penetrate, but he was able to find a point of weakness on the upper level. A quick wave of his wand, and he was on the balcony just outside of a large window.

It took a few tries to dispel the remaining concealment and deterrent spells, but when he did, instead of being greeted with a hallway as he had expected, it was attached to a bedroom instead. A bedroom with Granger listening to some very loud music with strong innuendos about being played with like a toy.

His eyes were transfixed as he watched her dancing, hair more mussed than he had ever seen. She was singing into a hairbrush and dancing at her reflection as if it were a different person. His eyes widened as she did a particular feat of athleticism he would have thought beyond her as she jumped down from the bed and directly in front of the mirror.

She made intense eye contact with herself between smiling and singing, then scooped the center of her loose t-shirt in one hand, revealing a soft, perfectly shaped stomach teetering in time to the music.

Her pants had ridden down from the dancing, and he could see that strip of skin he loved to pay special attention to with his mouth before... He involuntarily popped his jaw and ran his tongue along his upper teeth till he found a sharper spot and pushed, using the sudden pain to try and bring him back into his body. It didn’t work. He was too busy filing away the movements he would love to put to use in very different ways. He held his breath when he realized she had reached under her shirt and was squeezing what he could only make assumptions about while still dancing at the mirror. She quickly turned around to shake her ass, head peeking over her shoulder to watch herself, smiling like she had made a joke between her and the mad woman looking back at her. Oh, he could so use that.

*Crack* He was standing directly in front of the mirror. Her body took a few seconds to register what her face already had. She shrieked, knees giving out, bringing him down with her. Before she could right herself he crossed his legs and fell on the floor so she couldn’t hex him, which consequently put her in his lap. Now he was the one smiling while he waited for the firestorm. It came in seconds with an elbow to his ribs and a string of curses.

Worth itor that is what he would have thought if an angry orange ball of teeth and claws hadn't launched directly at his face with the speed and force of a fully grown hippogriff.

Notes:

I'm finally getting back in the groove of this story. I still obviously need someone to proofread, but until that happens I'm left with just writing the best that I can and hope my mistakes aren't too annoying.

Chapter 10: Bandaids

Summary:

Two characters that loathe each other finally get to meet, and Hermione has to deal with some awful behavior.

Notes:

This is my favorite chapter to date! It was so much fun to write, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I did! As always, still looking for an alpha reader.

Chapter Text

“Ow. That hurts!” Malfoy was whining in the downstairs kitchen as Granger started cleaning up the deep claw marks across his shoulder and neck with a damp, soapy dishcloth. He tried to snatch the cloth out of her hands to do it himself, but she glared at him, so he let her continue.

“Well, if you had given me some warning that you were going to show up here this early, I would have put Crookshanks in his room.” She dabbed a little more firmly on the corner of his cut, making him wince.

He lifted an eyebrow. “The orange menace has his own room? Of course he does. I’m sure you had it built right next to a throne room for the Weasel.” She really did have a way of attracting angry orange-haired animals.

“I’ll have you know this was my parents' house, thank you very much! I didn’t have it built like some pompous rich boy with mommy and daddy’s money.”

“So you’re not going to deny the throne room then?” The moment he said it, he could practically see the steam pour out of her ears, and it made him smile. She was very fun to upset, at least until she took out her wand and pointed it under his chin for the second time in two days.

Granger paused and took a few deep breaths to stop herself from cursing him into oblivion before speaking again, keeping the wand in place. “You have come into my home unannounced, directly into my bedroom, in fact, and somehow still think it’s okay to sit here and mock me while I clean your wounds. You really are an absolute ferret of a man, aren’t you.”

He couldn’t help it then; the insult that called back to their school days was almost a funny memory now compared to what he had been through. He mockingly laughed under his breath in a sing-song way that he knew would get under her skin. “First, I did let you know I was coming. I sent you a letter through muggle post well before I arrived.” Well, before is subjective, right? “And I don’t know where you get off telling me I should have warned you when you showed up at my home with no warning at all!” He knew he had her when her nose scrunched, and her eyes flicked to the letter still unopened on the floor by the front door. 

With a careful movement of her wand, no longer threatening him with it, she summoned the letter to her hand, letting Malfoy have the cloth back. Granger was nothing if not thorough and perhaps a bit suspicious now too, as she tore open the letter and began to read. He held in his satisfaction but couldn’t help being just a bit smug, having thought this far ahead. If she saw him looking too pleased now she might figure it out, so he schooled his features into something resembling pain again.

She was frowning deeply after she looked up, then sighed as if she was about to speak before looking down at the floor to pause for the few more seconds it took to gather her thoughts. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been myself. Between my job at the ministry being changed, and the things going on with my—with Ron, and now this new job you want me for, I’m all over the place. I won’t apparate to the manor in the middle of the night again for work or otherwise if you promise to send me an owl or something more predictable if you plan on stopping by here. Deal?”

Surely she must be broken. This wasn’t the Granger he saw last night or just a few moments ago. The one that was about to curse him into oblivion and enjoy it. He gently set the scroll on the counter with a dull thunk before saying, “Deal. Just read this over today and get back to me when you can. The sooner, the better. He gestured to the scroll. I won’t keep you, I just need to know where I can actually apparate out of here, the wards downstairs don’t seem to be very penetrable.”

Granger looked at him, calculating. “How do you know so much about my wards?”

“I just apparated into your bedroom, didn’t I?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Yes, but I cast the same wards on every entry point of the house, including the windows.”

“Oh, well, when you cast wards on an entry point, you need to make sure there is no other attached space that could be seen as an unwarded room. I’m sure it was weaker there because you forgot to include the balcony as part of the original house in the protection spell. Do you have bandaids or something?” He was holding a hand to his neck where a small amount of blood was gathering again after having just been wiped off.

She was looking at him like he was an alien. “How do you know that much about ward casting? Also, more importantly, how do you know what bandaids are?”

“I lived with muggles for a year. Surely you remember my sentencing. You were there.” He was getting annoyed, and these scratches hurt.

She huffed. “Of course I remember. Give me that.” She snatched the cloth back from his hand at his side and started cleaning the blood from his neck again. “I had just assumed you bought a giant fancy apartment and kept to yourself until your sentence was up. I never expected you to actually learn much about the rest of the world.” She let the statement hang in the air. It was fair for her to expect that of him, but it still stung.

He needed to leave. This was a mistake. She clearly still hated him, and she was probably right to think that way. He needed her to work for him, so the less time she had to find more reasons to dislike him, the better. “It’s fine, see.” He waved his wand and conjured two perfectly placed bandaids on his neck. “There. All fixed.”

Granger was transfixed by the casual conjuring of muggle medicine. Even she didn’t know how to do that spell. Without thinking, she reached up and touched the bandages, tracing her fingers around the edges and admiring the magic that went into them.

He leaned his head back to give her better access without thinking. Fuck that felt nice. He involuntarily shivered, and she looked up just as a loud dinging sound echoed in the house.

“Shit!” She pulled her hand back like it was electrocuted. “I forgot, oh no, you need to"—but before she could finish her sentence, the front door was opening, and Malfoy, reading the room, dropped behind the kitchen island, blocking himself from being seen by whoever was coming in. He wasn’t sure why he did it beyond a hunch and the pleading expression she gave him.

A woman’s voice boomed from the doorway. “Well, doesn’t this look lovely? Looks like you’ve been really making this place yours. We won’t be long. Just have to grab a few things Ron forgot. You don’t mind, do you dear? Ron said he had some pants here still, and I know there are some wedding gifts you’re holding on to that he needs to take back with us. After all what would you need a safety clock for when you don’t have anyone but you on it anymore?” Mrs. Weasley spelled the clock that looked similar to the Weasley’s clock from the wall, except instead of spoons it just had regular hands.

She was right. The only hand left on the clock now said Hermione, and it pointed at home, which she didn’t need a clock to tell her.

He heard a second set of footsteps now. “Sorry Mione. I couldn’t wait for you to get the rest of our stuff to me, and it’s not right of you to keep the wedding gifts anyway. Your family couldn’t even come to the wedding and didn’t buy us anything.” Weasley started haphazardly rifling through drawers and cupboards just on the other side of where Malfoy had slid down. Granger was flicking him panicked glances between watching the Weasley duo toss her things around.

“I rather thought we were going to be discussing what I was comfortable with you taking. I wasn’t planning on having you rifle through my things.” Granger twisted her fingers as she talked, clearly uncomfortable with the situation.

Arthur Weasley was standing in the doorway now and chimed in immediately. “Hermione, we both know that as long as you and Ron are still waiting to be assigned a separation hearing, he has every right to claim this place as his home. Half of everything, including this house is his by magical law.” 

That wasn’t right. Although separations were very rare in the wizarding world, Malfoy was more familiar with wizarding law thanks to the tutoring he was given in his teenage years to prepare him for managing the manor. He even had a few council of magical law members on his payroll for business. There were a surprising amount of hoops to jump through when starting and subsequently maintaining his business, and he absolutely hated the redundancy involved in law.

It was none of his business, really, but she had mentioned that this home belonged to her parents, and her parents weren’t at the wedding, which meant she likely inherited it before getting married, making it hers and not something they had to split. 

“I really think we need to talk about this first. I’m also right in the middle of some quick business, so if you could at least move to another room while I finish up here, I would appreciate it.”

Weasley snorted. “What business could you possibly be doing in your kitchen this early in the morning.”

Well, he tried but couldn’t stand it any longer. Shoving off from the floor, he rose from behind the counter to stand behind Granger. “If you constantly insist on not listening to the biggest brain in the room, Weasel-bee, I’m afraid you’ll find yourself proven wrong time and time again, but by all means, continue making your point.” He gestured at the air.

Ron flinched but recovered quickly before turning beat red and clenching his fists, looking between Malfoy and Hermione. “What are you playing at? Why is this git here?” His eyes flicked between them, noting Hermione still in her pajamas, then the two eggs in the frying pan, and finally the bandaids on his neck. Weasley’s eyes narrowed to slits, suspicious. Oh, this was going to be way too much fun.

“Nice to see you again too Weasel, now if you don’t mind, Granger and I were just discussing a business endeavor she was considering with a friend of mine before you so rudely interrupted. I trust you know how to see yourself out while we finish up?” Malfoy turned to Granger, giving Weasley his back. “We can also go upstairs where we’ll have more privacy to… talk… if you’d prefer.” He cocked his head to the side and smirked, his very intentional pauses and emphasis painting a picture for the audience behind him. Something unidentifiable flashed in her eyes before a loud crash drew both of their attention.

Mrs. Weasley was holding her son back while he looked at them menacingly, chest heaving up and down. The mug that he was holding lay in pieces on the floor. “Are you fucking him?! So help me, if you’re fucking him, I will take everything you have like the whore you are.”

That was a mistake. Even Mrs. Weasley could see it and stepped away from her son to stand in the doorway with her husband grimacing at the situation unfolding.

“Isn’t it interesting that you still care about those things?” Malfoy moved himself forward a pace, brushing the last few bits of ginger cat hair from his shoulder. “What business of yours is it who she’s fucking hmm? More importantly, why are you still here?” He was angry, but years of practice kept him calm.

Ron was stuttering, the buffoon struggling to string two words together in the midst of his own competing rage.

With a flick of his hand, Malfoy dismissed him with all of the aristocratic grace he was forced to learn too young. “Don’t bother, that was rhetorical—That means I don’t expect you to answer,” He said sarcastically. “A word to the wise, though,” he shifted his gaze to the doorway, to Weasley Sr., and found another hostile expression there. For a moment, it felt strange to somehow find himself in his father’s place while also making completely different moral decisions. How odd. He raised his brows. “When you threaten someone in their own home with made-up laws, you might want to check and make sure no one who knows more about magical law than you are in the same room—or weren’t you going to tell her that property obtained prior to a marriage isn’t considered joint property?—.” His eyes turned to steel.

Mr. Weasley looked down at his feet then. He clearly knew. “It’s also worth noting that after you move out of a shared residence during the separation process if you are not a partial owner—which I suspect Weasel here didn’t buy part of this house given the state of his pants situation—then he has exactly seven days to remove all of his belongings before Miss Granger here gets to keep what is left. How many days has it been?” He pulled out a very expensive-looking pocket watch that opened to show a little display of the calendar year slowly rotating.

“Actually, it’s fourteen days!” Weasley blurted before the hushed silence clued him into his mistake.

“Ah. How silly of me, I completely forgot.” The detachment in his voice was frightening. “So if you would be so kind as to set down what you’re clearly thieving from this home and leave before I call magical law enforcement—” He turned to Granger, who looked like she had been struck, too stunned to speak. “—Does Potter even know about this?” He questioned her, trying to figure out if he had to pull some strings if St. Potter was going to take the wrong side of this little dispute.

“Not exactly, he knows we’re getting separated, but I haven’t talked about any details.” 

“Ah.” He gave Weasley a knowing smile, then turned back. “I suspect this would be news to him, too, then. No matter, if you don’t mind, I would be more than happy to patch up the hole in your wards now if you’d like me to?” He wanted to do this so badly. Seeing how they trampled over her in her own home and how she just let them made him sick to his stomach. She just needed to say the word.

“Sure.” She said for lack of any other thing to say as she stared at the man trespassing in her home on the other side of the kitchen, his parents watching from the doorway.

“Thanks love.” A wicked grin lit up his face.

Weasley’s eyes flared at the casual endearment used for Granger as Malfoy reached out with his magic, sans wand, and removed three runic names from the complicated magical tapestry woven into the house. It wasn’t something you could physically see if you didn’t use a wand, it was something you felt with magic and sort of pictured in your minds eye.

Ron’s face glazed over as the magic snapped into place. “I’ve just remembered I need to be at a quidditch match!”

“Better hurry, don’t want to be late,” Malfoy called after him as he bustled out the door, his parents already gone.

Granger hadn’t moved from her spot backed against the corner cupboards and was staring wide-eyed at where they had all just left, then to him.

“Are you okay?” Malfoy was holding his breath, hoping he hadn’t overstepped to the point of dissuading her to work for him.

Her voice was hollow as she spoke. “Why did you do that?”

“There were quite a few things I just did. Which thing are you asking about?” He shifted in place uncomfortably.

“Why did you let him think we were together? Why did you tell him we were talking about a business venture for your friend?”

“Oh, that.” He rubbed his hand on the nape of his neck sheepishly. “Well, when you look at the contract, one of my terms is that no one can know that you’re working for me. Unfortunately, a few unsavory friends of my father know about the potion pool, and if they found out you were able to use that room, there would be a target on your back. It was safer to let him think we were something else.” He left the something else up to her to determine the meaning of.

“Oh.” She stepped forward and grabbed the document off of the counter. “That makes sense.” She sounded robotic.

“Are you sure you’re—?” He tried to push forward, but she cut him off.

“You should probably go. I have to get ready for work. I’ll work on reviewing this today.”

“Right. Okay, I’ll just.” He grimaced and pointed up the stairs before exaggeratedly swinging his body in that direction in a request for permission.

“Did you fix the hole in the ward on the balcony, or just kick out Ron and his parents?” He was desperately trying to figure out how she was feeling but failing.

“I—well, yes and no—because I did the patch, the wards on your balcony window will still let me in and out. You’ll have to finish that bit yourself, but it shouldn’t let anyone else in now.” Why was he smiling like an idiot?

“I see. Okay, thanks, I suppose.” She was watching him carefully.

“You’re welcome.” He answered the script she fed him.

“Okay, bye then.”

“Bye.” He walked up the stairs three at a time to get out as fast as he possibly could. What was wrong with him? There were a thousand better ways to handle that conversation. Fuck.

 

 

Twenty minutes later, Hermione was standing over the sink, splashing her face with cold water so the evidence of her crying in the kitchen would disappear before she got ready to head to the ministry.

Chapter 11: Ink

Summary:

The document gets reviewed, and Hermione learns exactly what Draco is trying to do.

Notes:

I finally did some intensive editing in lieu of having an Alpha reader, which led to this chapter not being posted on Sunday. Feel free to go back and re-read the updates, but if you don’t feel like it, the gist of the changes are as follows:  Draco was praised as an investor/donor in Callisto Potions & Protections for the article feature, but he didn’t reveal he was the owner until the Wizengamot hearing. Hermione also doesn’t know that Draco can do wandless magic in the first chapter or that he could be a legilimens or occlumens. Also, Hermione got demoted a few months before Draco approached her about the job, which would be after Ron had been kicked out. I just had to make the timeline make a little more sense. It should now. Please feel free to let me know if I missed anything in the updates! It’s starting to get too long for me to reread the whole thing before I write every chapter now. Also, I made some cover art from a scene in Chapter 6 and included it at the top of Chapter One; if you haven’t seen it, go and take a look! Anyway, enjoy this next part of the story! Special thanks to Epsilon, an amazing friend of mine who helped me edit this chapter!

Chapter Text

Hermione walked down the hall in basement level eight towards the Magical Maintainance Department, trying not to roll an ankle. She lost track of time after Malfoy had left and threw on an outfit without much thought. She was wearing simple grey dress robes, a pencil skirt, and the only shoes she had right by the door: her shit-stomping boots.

The “temporary” room she had been working in for the last few months wasn’t much more than a broom closet. There were no windows, not even the charmed illusion ones that could be found in most of the other basement rooms, and a long table that she shared with two other ministry workers. Gable and David normally kept to themselves doing work for the archives, so she typically kept herself quiet and busy too. Gabe was the older of the two men and often brought in homemade baked goods. David was a bit younger than her and was more standoffish; he was a great to vent to, though.

Her current “assignment” was to comb through auror reports mentioning injuries and match them with the corresponding medical reports. It was incredibly boring work, but she was hopeful something better would open up for her eventually, although that feeling was starting to dwindle as of late. Malfoy really did make her an offer at exactly the right time.

This morning was a lot, and she was still processing everything that had happened as she opened up the scroll he had left for her to review. After only having had a few hours to put it together, she was surprised at how much thought Malfoy had seemed to put into it. His penmanship was small, slanted, and incredibly elegant too. It reminded her of the handwriting she saw on a museum trip when she was ten years old displaying letters written by scribes.

A good portion of the document was standard employment contract stuff, but there were more interesting bits too, including a mandatory use of the potions pool after each work session together for safety. There was an opt-out of the contract after she learned about the actual project, which she appreciated. She wasn’t allowed to disclose that she was working for Malfoy or his company. The document read:[This may include but not be limited to any lies or cover stories that do not damage the reputation of either party. An agreement may be struck in the event of conflicting presumptions about what public disclosure is deemed acceptable by either party.] Ah, that was the bit he was talking about with her in the kitchen.

Well, Ron can think whatever he wants. It’s not like anyone would believe him anyway. He had been avoiding his friends like the plague for years. He would feel too “sick” to go whenever they got invited to a party or event. A lot of it had to do with shame. He hated being asked what he was doing with his life when all of his friends were so successful. Comparison was truly the thief of his joy but also hers. His behavior pushed her friends away from both of them at the same time. She hoped he would change, but he often told her that ‘people never change.’ She disagreed, of course. People did change; maybe he was just the one incapable of it, although she doubted he was that self-aware.

She still talked to Harry, but it was mostly just during lunch once in a while when he was in the building, which wasn’t often. She shifted her thoughts back to the page and read on. Veritiserium was to be used to ensure that both parties were honest when verbally agreeing to follow the document when interviewed by a third party. Theodore Knott had signed that section already. That was interesting. Malfoy must also have a huge stash of the stuff to throw it around like nothing. She supposed that did make sense for a potions company, but wondered how legal it was.

An unbreakable vow was to be used to ensure confidentiality. She might have to push back on that, but it seemed to only be required if both parties agreed to break the contract, so that was less of an issue than doing it upfront, at least.

Nothing was to be worked on in the space without the other party present unless they were basically dying. That was a bit much, but she would probably do the same thing in his shoes. He likely didn’t want her to have the opportunity to do anything he didn’t approve of directly. She guessed that also meant he was going to be a giant control freak, great. In the case of grave injury, an alternate from a list we both agree to and provide will be acceptable. Theo had signed there too. Granger noted an addendum here: [The need for a mandatory partner is negated in the event of a life-or-death scenario, where timing is a factor.] She had seen too many things go wrong in her life not to think this way. It was just the way her brain worked now. 

The next line took her a bit off guard. [Callisto Potions & Protections will provide and pay for living accommodations when required.] He had noted in the margin on a separate piece of paper sticking to that section explaining that this was for working on potions that need stirring every hour, etc… to avoid development and testing delays. Oh. So they were going to be developing a potion and not just researching the theory of one, it sounded like? She wondered what he could possibly be wanting to make that needed the potions room. Also what exactly accomidations meant, maybe a cot in the room or something. She supposed being paid 100 galleons an hour to mostly sleep wouldn’t be the worst thing.

The next line was mostly safety protocols. [In the event of a medical emergency, the potion pool will be the first line of treatment, followed by the activation of an emergency portkey directly to St Mungo’s emergency unit, which will always be on standby in the lab. Form of portkey TBD.] That was actually super smart. She wondered why Hogwarts hadn’t done something like that during the Triwizard Tournament.

Malfoy was really a bit more clever than she remembered him being at school. She supposed ten years was a long time, though, and apart from him being a pretty awful bully back then, she didn’t know much else about his actual personality other than what was printed in the tabloids. She winced, thinking about the things that had been printed about her over the years. Even with Rita Skeeter behaving herself, there were a million other writers willing to take her place, which they happily did. Since her marriage, the rumors of her being an insatiable slut that would date multiple men at a time had disappeared, and the worst they had printed since then was a thought piece on her infertility with subtle jabs at her muggle heritage possibly being a factor—as if the idea of not wanting kids right away while she pursued her career wasn’t even an option they considered plausible.—Well she would choose to get to know him if he chose to get to know her, professionally of course. She would be gone so fast if he hadn’t drastically changed.

She thought back to this morning when he pointed out the mistake in her house ward and how quickly he had patched it. Did he even use a wand for that? Thinking back, she didn’t remember seeing him draw his wand at all, which was strange. She probably just didn’t remember clearly. A lot was happening all at once, and it was hard to pay attention to it all. It’s not as if he could have fixed them without his wand.

She reread the scroll and jotted down a few more addendums, including a list of protection wards to cast at the beginning of every session, assuming it was going to be as dangerous as he was making it out to be. She was pleased she finished it before lunch as she stuffed the scroll and attachment into her bag. Malfoy had requested that it be hand delivered, given the sensitivity of the information. At this point, she was so far ahead with her other work no one would care if she left for a little while. She could always call it an early lunch.

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She made her way back to the atrium and waited in line for her turn to access the floo. It seemed a bit more polite than apparating like she had last time, and she wanted to seem professional. The wait was never too long anyway, but enough to where she had a little time to rehearse in her head what she wanted to say to Malfoy. Initially she was going to include never having to go near the drawing room in the addendum, but it was a bit awkward putting that in writing. Telling him in person seemed the lesser of two evils, and it would give her a chance to set the tone for their working relationship. Namely, that she would be calling the shots, too, not just him. She never wanted to see that fucking room again.

The green fire of the floo swept around her legs in a warm, breezy feeling as she took a steady breath to carefully enunciate, “Malfoy Manor,” and as she did found herself looking right into Percy Weasley’s shocked face before the pull of the floo wooshed her away. He had been next in line.

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“Fuck!” She stumbled out onto the grand hall from the fireplace, contemplating what Percy was going to think or say to Ron. This was going to get out of hand so fast if she couldn’t find a way to explain things properly. “This is fucking ridiculous. It’s always something, isn’t it?” She was ranting quietly to herself as she resituated her clothes and bag after pulling herself up from the floor.

From a distance away, she heard a throat clear and looked up to see that there were four other people in the room with her. They all watched her wearing variable expressions of amusement. Blaize Zabini, Theodore Knott, Pansy Parkinson, and Draco Malfoy seemed to have stopped mid-stride to watch her make a fool of herself tumbling out onto the floor. Fan-fucking-tastic.

They all looked like something out of a magazine too, which made it so much worse. Pansey was wearing a perfectly fitted knee-length boat-neck dress in black that matched her bob, with a deep red coat slung over her arm. Zabini was practically glowing in rich blue and finely tailored wizard’s robes. Theo was wearing loose jeans, a band t-shirt, and an unzipped army jacket. All of that was accessorized with a zebra print belt, dragon hyde boots, and black framed aviators with orange lenses. Malfoy stood the tallest of the four, although they were all taller than average, wearing a pressed white button-down cuffed up to his elbows, black jeans, and dress shoes. All muggle clothes, which piqued her curiosity for a second before her own mortification shut that down.

“Language Granger,” Malfoy said with amusement. “I have guests.” Pansey’s eyes were flitting between Malfoy and Hermione, seeming to be puzzling at something.

Hermione ran her hands down the front of her skirt in a soothing movement and remembered she didn’t care what any of them thought about her as she spoke perhaps a bit higher than normal. “I see that. I just came to drop off the document, as we discussed. I was hoping to go over it today, but if you have guests, I can come another time, or you can just take what I have now and get back to me with the final draft via owl. She fished around in her bag for the scrolls a bit too eagerly, and a stopped bottle of ink fell out and smashed on the marble floor. It was a testament to her self-control that her first inclination was not to scream but to be thankful it didn’t spill on the parchment inside the bag.

“You’re going to do it then?” Theo, completely ignoring the ink spreading across the floor, was beaming. “I knew it! Pay up Blaize!” He held out his hand expectantly as Pansey rolled her eyes.

“Just ignore them. I do.” Pansey gave Malfoy a look that silently communicated something, and then they both walked towards her, leaving Theo and Blaize bickering in the background. Hermione felt a bit akward with Pansey talking to her so casually. Was this a trap? It felt like a trap.

“I’m so sorry! Let me get it.” Granger was just reaching for her wand as the floor seemed to swallow up the ink, leaving just the bottle—now repaired—behind.

“I have more in my office if you need it. Also, this floor has had way worse things spilled on it, so don’t worry about it.” Malfoy leaned down to snatch up the bottle and noticed she was wearing the same shoes from last night. She watched him pick up the bottle and pause, then look at her face.

“Nice shoes, aren’t they Draco?” Pansey chimed in, breaking that small moment of eye contact they were sharing, making Malfoy jump. Malfoy coughed and stood up quickly, leaving her feeling confused.

“Thanks, she said to Pansey. It was kind of a fluke I wore them today. It was a bit of a busy morning.”

“You should wear them more often. They look quite fashionable.” Was Pansey complimenting her? Backhanded maybe? She didn’t know what to do with it. Thank her and compliment back, maybe? This was all new territory.

“Thanks; I mean, I’m just dressed for work, so they’re a bit much for me—for what I’m wearing, I mean. Your dress is stunning by the way.” She meant the compliment, at least. 

Pansey smiled at her warmly as Theo approached the group now. “So, are we doing this? Might as well while we’re here.” He had pushed up his sleeves and looked between her and Malfoy with his hands on his hips.

“Do you mind Pansey, Blaise?” Malfoy dipped his head at them when saying their names. “The sooner I get this done, the better. You can wait in the tea room if you’d like. I’m sure Ursa would be more than happy to bring you snacks and drinks.”

“Sure” Pansey gave him a curt nod. “Come on Blaize,” she beckoned the man follow her as they strode out of the room.

Malfoy held out the little glass bottle in the palm of his hand, and Granger took it, stashed it back in her bag, and then placed the parchment in his waiting hand as if in trade. “I have some addendums we’ll have to review before we agree to everything.”

“Would you be willing to go into my office to review them now? I don’t mean to be pushy, but I would appreciate it if you have the time.” He was patiently waiting for a response looking unbothered with his annoyingly perfect hair.

“I have the time,” Granger wanted to get this over with too.

“Alright, it’s just this way.” Malfoy stepped behind her, gently guiding her with a hand near her lower back, only touching the loose material there. He maintained that careful balance of touching but not touching around the corner, then walked ahead to lead the way. She noticed his hand right as he removed it and probably would have told him she didn’t need help walking had she noticed sooner. Although maybe with the shoes she was wearing–her thought cut off when they got to the door—Hermione watched as it magically unlocked as his signet ring touched the metal of the knob. He held the door open for her and let her slide in first.

The office was large and beautiful. Dark wood floors with little stone details sprawled out beneath a thick and heavy-looking wooden desk. A few stacked scrolls were on either side, along with a little wax seal set and a silver quill. The window behind the desk with the flowy magic drapes was surely meant to be the room’s focal point, but she found the shelves to the side of the desk built into the wall much more interesting. He had stuffed the shelves with books and she began to peruse without asking permission. To her shock, she realized with increasing curiosity that all of the books on this shelf seemed to be muggle books. She bounced around looking at titles here and there: The Mindful Body, Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time, Adventures on the Wine Route: A Wine Buyer's Tour of France, Home Repair and Improvement, The Internet for Dummies (did he learn how to use the internet?), An Adult Child’s Guide to What’s “Normal”, Complex PTSD: from Surviving to Thriving (yea, he probably needed that one), and a whole series of books that looked like some sort of thriller series, The Laughing Corpse, Circus of the Damned, Blood Noir, Skin Trade, Affliction. There had to be over 20 books in the series, and they all looked well-worn. She moved to reach up and grab one, but Malfoy cleared his throat loudly, making her jump and pull her hand back.

He had opened the parchment on the desk and was dragging one of the two chairs across the desk to his side, presumably for her to sit next to him. “Do you mind talking me through your suggestions?”

Granger looked from Malfoy to Theo sitting across the desk, then sat down in the chair closest to her that he had moved. She crossed her legs and smoothed her skirt, discarding her bag on the floor next to her before making a show of looking over the parchment. “I’ve taken the liberty of continuing to number the additions based on what you have set up for the document. I didn’t include it, but I also need to be able to use muggle electricity in the room and perhaps set up a bookshelf. I assume I’ll need reference material for whatever it is you want me to do.”

“I think that can be arranged. Most of the rooms in the manor allow the use of muggle technology now. I’m not exactly sure how it works, but when I became master of the manor, that seemed to change on its own.” He said it so casually, but it was a very impressive feat to get any electricity working around magic. She was for sure going to ask him more about the manor magic at some point. He read through her suggestions with little notes here and there, occasionally asking a question that she clarified quickly. He seemed to agree with everything she had wanted to add and, when they were finished, nodded at Theo, who got up to grab something from the shelf. “Alright, I mean, if you’re happy with it, I’ll just initial your changes and add it with everything else for us to sign.”

“That fast? You don’t want to rewrite it with your freakishly beautiful penmanship.” The second she said it, Theo burst out laughing, walking back from the shelves.

“Oh, Granger, you’ll learn fast never to compliment him on anything, or you’ll never hear the end of it.” She looked over at Malfoy, who was frowning at Theo.

“I don’t do that. And my handwriting isn’t freakish; it’s just the way I was taught to write, legibly and with precision.” He spoke without looking up as he began initialing next to each of her line items. When he reached the end, he looked at Granger. “Alright, I think it’s all in order. Ready for the potion?”

She twisted her fingers again as she glanced at the Veritiserium. It was the same nervous fidget he recognized from the kitchen with Ron. He didn’t like that this situation made her have some of the same feelings from earlier, and he felt the need to put her at ease.

“Theo will read the document out loud and ask if we agree after each line item. Then we’re going to sign it and take an antidote. Nothing beyond that.” He reached across the table and snatched one of the vials placed there. “Here,” he grabbed her hand and placed the little brown vial in her palm, closing her hand around it with his. Her hands felt small in his. “You can hold onto the antidote if that helps you feel more comfortable.” It did, and she nodded before Theo handed them each a demitasse cup and saucer that he had carefully measured Veritiserium into a moment before mixed with a bit of hot tea.

“Bottoms up,” Malfoy tipped the cup back, and she looked at the long line of his neck as he swallowed before remembering herself and drinking hers down too.

They did exactly as Malfoy said they would, going line by line as they agreed to each item, culminating in them signing the bottom. With a flourish of his pen, Malfoys signature momentarily lit up on the page, then settled back down to matte black ink. He handed her the silver pen as he slid the paper over on the desk. She signed her name right next to his, and the parchment flared with magic just like his had before rolling itself back up and nestling down to the side of his desk with the other scrolls.

She looked over, and he was positively beaming at Theo. When he turned back to her, he had schooled his features to resemble more moderate satisfaction. “Alright, are you ready to learn what the project is?”

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She couldn’t keep the curiosity and hint of excitement out of her voice. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” She twisted more toward him.

Malfoy was leaning back, hands behind his head. “I told you a little bit already, actually. I’m trying to reverse-engineer the potion in the potions pool, but that’s only a part of the puzzle. I’m trying to find a way to repair the neurological damage in the brains of people who were tortured to the point of losing who they were. I don’t want to call it atonement exactly because I know I can’t ever right the wrong that was done by—people like me. Death eaters, I mean.” He grimaced. “I just need to try. I have the means; I just need the space to work.”

Dumbstruck was one way to describe how she was feeling. This was so close to her own research specialty that she was practically vibrating, thinking about the possibilities and implications. “Do you think if we figure it out, it will work on patients who were obliviated?” She sounded so hopeful that he wondered who she knew who had been harmed in that way.

“I’m not sure, but I’m leaning towards no. I can show you what I’ve discovered so far tomorrow when we get started, but I think the victim’s original memories still need to be there.”

“Alright, I can bring my books tomorrow. I have a ton of stuff that would be relevant to this. How much do you know about chemistry?”

“Oh, I have a guy for that. Brilliant man. It’s a shame he’s a squib, or I would have had him in the lab helping me ages ago. I actually tried, but the room wouldn’t let him in.” At her scowl, he tried to explain. “The manor magic is a bit archaic, and I don’t really have control over that bit, but it seems to like you, so I don’t think it has to do with blood status or anything like that—which I should probably get this bit of the conversation over with so I don’t have to bring it up again, but I don’t care about blood status anymore—I mean you’re here, so that should tell you something, but I wanted to make sure you knew that I no longer maintain that old way of thinking. It was wrong—I was wrong. I’m sorry.” He was rambling and had not intended to have this exact conversation right now, but it just sort of spilled out. Probably best to do it now and not later, but still, he looked up at her, not sure what he expected to see, anger maybe? Instead, she was more appraising, not quite skeptical, more openly observing his face before seeming to come to a conclusion with a brisk nod. “I believe you for now; just never make me go in the drawing room again, please.”

“I won’t. That room doesn’t exist anymore, anyway.” His face had gone blank, occluding those tucked-away memories again.

She didn’t know what to say to that and didn’t really want to know what he meant at this exact moment. Where was Theo with one of his quips to break the awkward silence? “What time should I get here tomorrow?”

“Any time between five and eight would be good; I’ll greet you in the grand hall when you get here and walk you down. Theo, could you see Miss Granger out? I need to finish up a few things in here.” He had hidden his hand beneath the table but Theo didn’t miss the slight tremor.

Seeming to sense the urgency of his request, Theo jumped up and around to grab Granger’s bag. “Ready? Also, if anyone asks what you’re working on, you can tell them that you’re helping me with my magical match-making business.” He grinned and waggled his eyebrows. “I don’t know if Draco told you, but I also did an undergrad in Biology like you did, but I went into genetics after that. Very interesting stuff. I am immeasurably glad the old pure-blood families had no desire to learn muggle sciences when we were in school. Could you imagine what they would have used Punnett squares for? They would have engineered their perfect little grandbabies before we even came of age.” He snorted with a derisive laugh. Hermione couldn’t help but smile and wonder a bit at Theo. A muggle degree for a pure-blood was unheard of. He might even be the first to do it ever. And he had kind of an infectious personality. They might have even been friends if things had been different. She had a lot to think about when she got home.

 

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Draco handwriting sample:

Draco's Handwriting

Chapter 12: Made of Stars

Summary:

Well, I’ve been sitting on this chapter for way way way too long. I’ve read it so many times that my eyes should be bleeding, but I recently had someone important to me encourage me to finish it. I wrote some, then stopped again at what I thought was halfway through. I hated that I couldn’t do it. I wrote more, edited, deleted a lot, and finally decided to ask that same person if I should just post it, and reluctantly handed it over for them to read. They said I should post it today, but with the caveat that I add one more paragraph, which I have added. I hope you like it.

This chapter, like many others, is heavily influenced by music, so I would like to offer my personal Connectomics playlist as an apology for the delay. Thanks for reading, and expect more chapters soon.

Chapter Text

List

Hermione had gone back to work that Friday with a lot of ideas swirling around in her head. It was a mix of nerves about Percy, excitement about doing research again, and apprehension towards spending weekends and the occasional lunch or evening after work with Malfoy.

She had started writing down a list of all of the books she wanted to gather up for both herself and Malfoy to perhaps learn a little. If he didn’t understand basic chemistry, she probably had to start with something easy to digest. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she mindlessly fidgeted with a strand of hair around her finger. She had the perfect thing in mind.

When 5:00pm hit, Hermione had already packed her things in her bag and was speedwalking out of the ministry, headed toward the nearest Muggle bookshop. Cold air whipped her hair across her face as she brushed it away and opened the door, making a tinkling bell sound. The smell of freshly printed books only added to the cozy feeling she got from places like these. She made a beeline for the science section, followed by a quick stop in the children’s section first, picking out one title in particular that made her inwardly laugh as she pictured Malfoy’s reaction. She was most excited to give Malfoy that one first.

Two hefty bags filled with books later, Hermione was back at home and tearing through her closet again. This time, she remembered to use Accio sooner and picked out a decidedly Muggle outfit: simple straight-leg jeans with the knees ripped out and a black crew neck t-shirt. She figured it would be a good litmus test for him to see how stuffy he would be about their dealings. The contract was in place now, and there was no way she was dressing up every day to do lab work unless he absolutely insisted. Plus, they were going to have to get in the pool, and regularly dipping her nice clothes seemed like a bad idea. The entire situation was something she would have never done if it hadn’t been forced on her once already with no ill effects, which reminded her—she grabbed a hard case from the back corner of her closet that had her microscope and other miscellaneous lab gear. It was a hodgepodge of things she had amassed from university, along with most of the tools she had bought for her old office. The ministry actually tried to keep some of the things in her office before she provided proof that she did indeed purchase them herself. It was frustrating to say the least, but they had insisted on making room for their “new hire” as soon as possible. She still hadn’t heard who it was, but Harry would know and be able to tell her next time they had lunch, even if she lived under a rock now.

She went through her mental list again: books, new and from her shelf, lab equipment, coats and goggles, clothes for the next day, she had taken off her nail polish in case she had to get her hands dirty, should she pack a lunch?—maybe not so she could have an excuse to take a breather if things got weird or uncomfortable. She was also excited to test out her computer and phone in the lab. Even the ministry hadn’t figured out how to get her computer fully working in her office, which was a huge pain. It was one of the things she loved about living in a Muggle house: both magic and Muggle technology worked just fine.

Crookshanks was eyeing her curiously as she carefully placed everything she needed by the door for the next day. He was very aware of her schedule most days and had taken a few weeks to adjust to her new schedule with Ron gone. Saturdays were normally her stay in and read days, although Ginny had started to come by once in a while for an hour here and there after Ron got kicked out.

She was one of the only people in his family who had seemed to read between the lines and notice that something deeper had been going on. Hermione was hesitant to share a lot of details because it didn’t really seem fair to put Ginny or Harry for that matter in a situation where they would have to pick sides. Ginny was starting to get very nosy as of late, which reminded her. She got out her phone and texted Harry to have him let Ginny know that she would be busy tomorrow if she was thinking of randomly stopping by. She debated as she wrote and rewrote the message a few times, settling on telling him she had taken up a part-time job on weekends to do some biology research for an old classmate. That was technically the truth, and if he pried, she could tell him it was for Theo’s company.

Her pulse sped up thinking about Percy again and what he might say to Ron, what they would assume. She wondered if Harry and Ginny would be upset or, worse, worried about her associating with people like him. She was going to ask Malfoy if she could at least tell Harry a little bit about what she was doing to help smooth things over. He was an auror and would keep a secret if he knew it would keep her safe; plus, it would be good to have someone know where she was, just in case something bad happened.

Crookshank was winding his way through her legs as she walked into the kitchen and grabbed a can of soup from the cupboard for her and a can of wet food for him. She didn’t have the energy to cook like she used to, so that was her dinner most nights. Tonight’s selection was chicken and stars. She popped open the can and ate it with a spoon, standing in the kitchen, not even bothering to heat it up as she wondered what delicious home cooked meal Mrs. Weasley had made for Ron’s dinner that night before she quashed the thought.

Tomorrow was going to be a better day.

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Draco had woken bolt upright in the middle of the night in a cold sweat illuminated by moonlight streaming in from overhead. He hadn’t had a nightmare like this in weeks, but between earlier with Hermione’s mention of the room, and adding to that the risk he was putting her in left him feeling anxious and guilty. He might be placing her in real danger. The dream he had just had was a reminder of that.

The nightmare had been an incredibly realistic flashback from his first night alone in his Muggle flat after handing his wand in to the Ministry at the start of his sentence. He had only just fallen asleep in his new master bedroom when cold hands had grabbed him out of his bed early in the morning. They dragged him onto the floor head first with a loud thunk so hard that white light flashed behind his eyelids, immediately followed by a wave of nausea pounding from his temples.  He tried to stand up and struggle, but fighting with a head injury and no wand was nearly impossible. The assailants, of whom he thought there had been two but wasn’t sure, had beaten him nearly to death. They hit him everywhere but his face, seeming to know exactly where to punch on his body to cause the most pain without making him pass out. They had told him it was so that he would be recognizable when they found his body.

Whether they were Death Eaters or someone from the other side, he didn’t know, but he thought it was strange they didn’t use magic. It might have been to prevent the use of wands so he couldn’t get his hands on one, or it was a power trip for them because they knew he couldn’t use magic to defend himself. Either way, he had learned very quickly he was as good as dead if he didn’t figure out a way to protect himself. The aftermath had been agony; he was stuck on the floor for a day with cracked ribs and broken fingers, coughing up blood and trying to accio water over and over again until he had managed a few drops without a wand. Thirst and pain were good motivators, and he was a quick learner, but it wasn’t enough.

It was ultimately a Muggle woman who had knocked on his door that saved his life. She lived downstairs and had wanted to introduce herself to the new tenant. When she found him, she had placed a hand on his neck followed by poking at her phone while hurriedly talking. Her call had summoned what he would later learn was called an ambulance.

It was incredibly frightening being left with no choice but to be taken care of by the very people he had been told were no better than animals. However, he had already started to question the assumptions and judgment of his parents. 

The people he encountered had given him miniaturized potions they called pills for his pain and had all sorts of loud and bright contraptions. The number of people surrounding him seemed like far too many as they quickly tended to his body using some of the contraptions in ways he didn’t understand. He was poked with a needle attached to a tube that they had taped to his hand, and that was attached to some sort of soft glass potion bag. They cut his clothes off despite his protests, but they were probably already ruined. The whole thing would have been embarrassing if he hadn’t been so frightened and in so much pain. In those weeks in and out of consciousness at the hospital, he learned about muggle medicine and how truly misled his whole life had been up until this point.

When he was discharged, he knew it was only a matter of time before he was attacked again. He put everything he had into learning wandless magic, the first of which was basic ward casting. He had thankfully emptied almost all of the manor library for his exile in anticipation of never leaving his flat, so the resources were there. History books and old journals from past generations of Malfoy’s had paved the way for him. That was, consequently, how he had learned about the history of the potions pool. He had known about the room, of course, but never as more than a spectacle and a place to play as a child, not what it was truly capable of.

The dream had ended with the second attempt on his life, where his wards actually worked and let him know someone with malicious intent was starting to force their way in. Except unlike what really happened—where he had escaped out the window—instead, the view shifted to Hermione sleeping alone in his bed, then being dragged out and beaten by the same people that had hurt him the first time.

He snapped back to the present in his bed with a little jolt and looked at the clock. 3:14 am. He was up for the day then.

After starting his morning routine a few hours early, Malfoy busied himself with getting ready for Hermione to show up. Moving mostly empty bookshelves against the far wall turned into adding two new double desks to the space, along with matching ornate wood-backed stools for one desk and two modern leather swivel chairs for the other lower desk. He hoped she would appreciate the muggle touch the second set added, then reminded himself that he should set the expectation now that she would probably always hate him, which was okay.

As 5:00am came and went, he started to get antsy, rearranging the few books he had on the shelf, pausing to flip through his potions research journal tacked on the end. The clock hardly moved every time he looked up to check.

He should have given her a more exact time as he paced up and down, waiting for her to apparate.

 

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Hermione took her time in the morning, sipping her coffee black, sitting on her balcony with a blanket draped around her shoulders and Crookshanks purring on her lap. A cozy loveseat she had enchanted to stay protected from the weather stretched long enough for her to prop her feet up as she leaned against the arm. Nervousness was starting to creep in, making her abandon her coffee before it was finished, resolving to shower and get on with her day before she got too worked up thinking.

By the time she had showered, tamed her hair, and thrown her clothes on it was almost 8:00, which meant she wasn’t eating breakfast. With a quick thanks in her head to past Hermione for packing everything for her the night before, she swung her enchanted bag over her shoulder and apparated to Malfoy Manor in the Grand Hall. He was there seconds after she appeared, expression carefully neutral, wearing all business in Muggle black slacks and a white button down, greeting her with a casual “Good morning. Right this way.”

Hermione followed Draco down the steps, the lanterns casting iridescent light on the walls, with the same bag she had carried the previous day. He wondered if she had brought anything of use today to add to what he had already arranged, as he turned around and outstretched a hand, palm up. The offer to grab his hand was unexpected, and she hesitated, not sure if she wanted to touch him on purpose. Thoughts of all of the socially appropriate options she could choose from flew past until she settled on one. Perfect. Crinkling at the corners, her eyes gave away the beginnings of the expression she wanted to wear as she gripped the wand in her pocket—silently undoing the featherlight charm—as she draped her bag strap over his hand.

The weight of the leather bag was immediate, causing his arms to splay out immediately when the bag dropped with force. It didn’t thump so much as clang as if it were made of metal. Draco teetered on the step before regaining his balance, lending a sour expression. A single loud “Ha” broke from behind, slightly bucked teeth before he cut her off.

“What do you have in here, a whole library?”

Hermione flushed before saying, “You need 5,000 books to be considered a library, so technically, no.”

“Technically?!” He laughed, and to Hermione’s abject horror, he gripped the strap and somehow slid it up his shoulder with muscles that bent and flexed to hoist the strap up to where it belonged. She said nothing but noted that he wasn’t holding a wand. Strength spells were tricky and usually didn’t last very long. Still, the only explanation must be that he cast one earlier, hopefully for something like moving things around in their new space, and nothing nefarious. She let him get a few paces ahead of her as a precaution anyway.

His arrogance turned back on after that, pouring off of him in waves as they got to the bottom of the steps and moved down the hall. The door was the way she remembered it, but the room was not.

The far wall was covered in so many books that she was tempted to drop her bag on the spot to go investigate what he had. To think he was making fun of her for the number of books she might have brought when there was an absolutely full library already present in this room. The room was brighter in the day, having a ceiling enchanted to show the sky, much like Hogwarts’ great hall. The ceiling was domed, and the enchantment bled into the walls that looked like they were made of polished copper. On closer inspection, the marble floors had veins of what appeared to be copper twining in patterns that resembled lightning. Two desks faced the expansive pool with the bookshelves to the left. At the back of the desks, every potion’s ingredient she could imagine was carefully placed on little apothecary shelves with small magical tools, all of which were almost as expensive as the bookshelves. The wall with the only entrance and exit was bare save for a giant tapestry displaying all types of plants and potion’s ingredients interwoven into the pattern of a massive star. It was beautiful and must have taken a lifetime to make, even with magic. She reached up to touch it before stopping herself and remembering why she was there. “Is there anywhere I can put my books?”:

Malfoy gestured to a single empty bookshelf at the end of the long row, and before she could complain about the lack of space, he pushed the shelf open, revealing a long, narrow space. “The bookshelves are double-sided. I figured you wouldn’t mind using the other side. I’ve keyed the shelf that doubles as the door to my magical signature, and will be adding yours if you’re agreeable. I assumed you would want your things secured here if you planned on leaving them.” As he suspected, the extra effort was totally worth it just to see her expression shift from anger to frustration as she fought not to show how much she liked the secret bookshelves just for her.

“That will suffice, thank you. I assume I can also set up my things on one of the desks?” She carefully chose the more wizard-looking desk to plop her bag instead of the Muggle desk he had clearly put in place for her.

“Both actually. The desks are for us to share. I’m sure you noticed there are two seats at each. I assumed, depending on what we’re working on, having options and multiple spaces would be appropriate. Most of what I have already started requires a partner to work in tandem with me, which has been part of what has held me back thus far.” He walked over to a bookshelf with rather small, unmarked books and plucked one up. “After you get a chance to organize your things, I have some context about the potion for you to read in the notes I’ve taken. That’ll probably be all we have time for today, so best to get started.”

“What are you going to do?” As much as she was excited to get her hands on research, she couldn’t help herself. She was certain she needed to fill him in on some knowledge gaps as well.

“I was going to help you organize your books, of which I assume there is more than one shelf’s worth?”

Hermione flushed bright magenta before sharply plunging her hand into her bag. “I was thinking that you might need some context as well, given how uninformed you seem to be when it comes to Muggle science as it relates to potion making.” The book she had purchased the day prior was in her hand in a snap. “I may have some reading for you to do as well.” She couldn’t keep her face straight as Malfoy approached her, taking the strange square book in his hand. When he oriented the cover to read the title and frowned, Hermione hid her laughter in a very fake-sounding cough. The title read ‘Astro-Physics for Babies’ and was maybe fifteen pages long, heavily illustrated, and had thick, rigid pages.

“Is this?”

Before he could finish, she interrupted. “Yes, it’s a book for Muggle toddlers. I figured you needed to start somewhere, and this seemed appropriate.” Her voice was sticky sweet, which might not have stung so bad if she hadn’t been so right about how far behind he was.

“Thanks.” He said through gritted teeth. “I guess we should get started.”

“I guess we should.”

The following moments were full of tension as they each sat on their respective stools and cracked open the first pages of the books they assigned to each other. The back of the chair was stiff against Hermione’s back, but comfortable as she leaned and tried to take in the information. The first thing that struck her was how detailed and neat his notes were. The second was how far back they seemed to go. She was pleased to see he had at least a basic understanding of the scientific method when it came to testing a hypothesis but seemed woefully uninformed about why things worked the way that they did. Malfoy, on the other hand, was deep into one of the most humbling experiences of his life.

To his absolute horror, the book was not only informative but borderline life-changing if it was to be believed. He was skeptical, however, as he cleared his throat and opened to a page to show Hermione. “Am I to believe that we’re actually made of stars?”

Her sharp glare at initially being interrupted while reading morphed so quickly into mirth that she didn’t have time to control her laugh. Bright peals of laughter echoed around the room, making him feel foolish for saying anything. It took her a few deep breaths to get herself back under control enough to speak. “You grew up using magic, but that is the thing you find hard to believe. Incredible.” Before he could come up with something clever to respond, she buried her nose reading again, leaving him staring at her and wondering how many bits of stars it must have taken to put her together.

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Bonus pictures from Astro-Physics for Babies:

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Notes:

I searched high and low for a fic on the extreme end of Ron bashing. Finding exactly what I was looking for proved to be challenging, so here we are. A wise fanfic writer once partially quoted another quote and said “be the change you wish to see in the world,” so here I am doubling, tripping down? I hope this helps even one reader going through an experience like this to heal in the same way that it has helped me to write it.

To those that love Ron, I’m sorry. Just know that this isn’t really about him. It’s about Hermione.

Disclaimer: All characters, events, and circumstances in this work are fiction; even those based on real people are entirely fictional. All world-building and canon references have been written poorly intentionally. The following fiction may contain coarse language and smut and, due to its content, should not be read by anyone. Please do not add to Goodreads, or make anything for profit or sale based on this work.

I’m looking for an alpha reader, so in the mean time please excuse my likely many misspellings and typos. Thanks!