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The Granger-Malfoy Survival Guide to Magic and Mischief

Summary:

When Hermione accidentally unleashes a horde of mischievous spirits across London, she’s forced to team up with none other than Draco, the reluctant Auror whose been assigned as her protection detail. Armed with ancient Japanese binding magic, a collection of cursed artifacts, and a hefty dose of mutual annoyance (pining), the two must track down and seal the spirits before the Magical and Muggle worlds collide.

Over eight chaotic months, they’ll face everything from faceless ghosts to trickster foxes, all while navigating an increasingly complicated partnership. Because if there’s one thing more dangerous than a city full of ghosts, it’s working with someone you can’t decide whether to hex or kiss.

Chaos. Curses. Chemistry. Welcome to the Granger-Malfoy Survival Guide to Magic and Mischief.

**I WILL BE EDITING AND BREAKING UP THE LENGTHY CHAPTERS INTO MULTIPLE CHAPTERS ON 7/28 BEFORE UPLOADING THE LATEST CHAPTER**

Notes:

This story popped into my head late last night and I just couldn't help myself. It was begging to be written.

Please enjoy thousands of words of straight up chaos.

Chapter 1: Don't Panic

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

 

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Day One: Monday, 7th of June 2009

Malfoy's First Rule for Surviving Magical Chaos:

Keep Your Cool.

On the off chance you stumble upon one-third of your former archnemeses attempting to open a cursed crate, do try to keep a level head.

Even when you then witness a horde of spirits escaping and unleashing chaos upon unsuspecting London the moment she succeeds in opening said crate.

(Optional: Blame Granger.)

 

----

 

Hermione Granger had seen her fair share of strange artifacts during her tenure in the Department of Mysteries.

But the crate sitting on her desk certainly gave her pause.

She leaned closer, studying the faintly glowing markings carved into the dark wood. It looked a good bit like ancient Japanese, she realized, though the characters weren't completely recognizable. They weren't the standard kanji she had seen in her cultural studies; they appeared to be something older, more esoteric, and perhaps even proto-magical.

She would need to translate them, which had her grinning from ear to ear. Finally, something that would make her sweat.

Hermione had spent years in the Department of Mysteries untangling the linguistic puzzles of ancient spellbooks and long-forgotten magical scripts. Her last major project had involved decoding the layered runes on a goblin-made relic believed to grant temporary invulnerability. (Though they’d only confirmed that it cursed the unwary to speak in riddles.) Translating magical languages was one of her favorite tasks, a perfect blend of logic, creativity, and patience.

However, Hermione just knew this crate very clearly fell into the something else category. The magic pulsing through the wood didn’t feel like the tempered enchantments of goblins or the static charms of the wizarding world. It was alive, somehow restless, as though the crate itself had a will. Hermione’s grin widened as her curiosity sharpened. 

This was why she had left Magical Creatures to join the Department of Mysteries in the first place. Not to file reports or get steamrolled by the Ministry on all her proposed bills, but to dive headfirst into the unknown.

Uncovering the secrets to this crate might even rival the excitement of her brief time decoding Veil inscriptions. Which, not to be frank, were bloody terrifying and profound. The very magic brushed the boundary between life and death. It would be frightening even for Merlin himself to run diagnostics on.

But this crate... well, it felt... playful? ...in a dangerous... potentially life threatening... sort of way.

Regardless, this was something that wouldn't involve sitting in another boring meeting listening to Greengrass drawl on and on about updating magical containment protocols for the Time and Temporal Branch. (Over at T&T, they had a lot of issues when it came to maintaining the fragile equilibrium in which time itself liked to function. Who would have thought time to be testy. Certainly not Hermione. It's not like she had tried to warn Greengrass from greenlighting that branch in the first place.)

Her hands itched to uncover the crates secrets, to see what lay beneath the carved warnings.

She shuffled closer, noticing a folded piece of parchment that lay tucked beneath the rope binding the crate shut.

Hermione frowned and picked it up.

Property of Tetsuya Shrine. Handle with extreme caution.”

She popped her head over the cubicle wall to Mandy, who had been a Ravenclaw in Hermione's year. It didn't make their working relationship any better, though.

Mandy swiveled in her chair, a loud squeak following. She glanced up with wide hazel eyes, and when she saw it was Hermione, she offered a tight smile. “Morning, Hermione.”

Hermione stuffed the urge to laugh right back down her throat. Ever since last years cursed trunk incident when Mandy had been nearly eaten while on site at Nott Manor during a decommissioning, they’d been on less than cordial terms. Mandy blamed Hermione for her lack of urgency in rescuing her.

Hermione may or may not have ignored Mandy's cries for help for twenty-odd minutes. (It wasn't her fault. She had gotten into a heated argument with one of the portraits on centaur rights regarding their rituals in the Forbidden Forest.)

“Heeeey, there, Mandy!” Hermione began, hoping to force the cheeriness to her voice she most certainly did not feel like conveying to Mandy. “Did you happen to see who dropped this crate off to my desk?”

Mandy blinked. “Oh, yes. Nice man.”

Hermione’s lash line twitched. “And?”

Mandy blinked. Again.

“For the love of Merlin, Mandy.” Hermione all but snarled, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. “Did he say anything to you?”

“Oh,” Mandy faux thought for a second too long. Hermione so badly wanted to whack her with a book. “Nope. Just nodded and dropped it off, then sort of… ran?”

“Lovely.”

Hermione dropped back to the balls of her feet and glared at the crate.

She had written a dissertation a few years back on Japanese ancient artifacts and their ties to soul magic, delving into how spiritual energy could be bound, manipulated, or preserved through enchanted objects. Her research had focused on legendary items like the Yata no Kagami, a sacred mirror believed to house fragments of divine essence, and komainu statues, which folklore claimed acted as guardians by trapping malevolent spirits within their stone forms. The paper had been well-received among the academic circles in magical anthropology, but she’d never had the opportunity to interact with such artifacts firsthand.

The crate in front of her pulsed with a similar enough energy reminiscent of the artifacts she had researched. Even the faint shimmering of the kanji inlaid into the wood was rather similar to the enchanted seals she had read about during her time at Mahoutokoro.

Could this crate be a forgotten relic tied to those practices? The markings on the wood were consistent with the kind of binding magic she’d studied...

This could be proof that ancient techniques used to anchor spirits or other entities to the material plane still were being practiced.

She nearly squealed with excitement.

If her dissertation was relevant, this could mean she was looking at a historic discovery. Perhaps even the first tangible example of the kind of soul-binding artifacts that weren't inherently Dark magic that she’d only ever theorized about!

(Or it could mean she was standing in front of something incredibly dangerous.)

Hermione's brow furrowed, and she picked up the note again. It was unsigned, so she headed towards security and asked to check the delivery log. There was nothing written down for the day, and the wizard on duty insisted they hadn’t checked in any sort of crate. They simply had no idea what she was talking about. How the bloody hell had this mystery wizard waltzed into the Mysteries offices without notice with a crate this large?

She tapped her fingers on her thigh as she stared at the ominous crate on her desk. Tetsuya Shrine... it didn't ring any bells, but she could always send a letter to the Headmistress of Mahoutokoro with an inquiry. She considered the witch a close friend, and ever since she stayed at the school while she researched and wrote her dissertation, they remained in touch.

Hermione glanced around, tugging her lip between her teeth. She really ought to bring this to her department head, but Greengrass was an utter moron, and not to mention a drunk. He’d sooner cart it down to archives and demand she go help Ryder and Turner in T&T as he so often did; which meant she’d spend the rest of her life wondering what was in the damn box.

“I’ll just give it a quick look,” Hermione murmured to herself, reaching for her wand. There couldn’t be anything that horrifying inside, could there be?

For the next hour, she tried every unlocking, unbinding, and dissolving spell she could think of.

Nothing worked.

Hermione groaned, scrubbing her face. Her temples were throbbing, her stomach ached, and she desperately needed the loo.

After a quick trip to relieve herself, she made herself another cup of tea and got back to work. She dropped into her chair, her mind racing. If standard spells wouldn’t work, that meant it was time to think laterally. She flipped open her notebook, scribbling down every detail worthy of note about the markings and the crate’s behavior.

Maybe something in her past research on binding magic could give her a clue?

Hours flew by as she continued her efforts, flitting back and forth between the archives and her desk, the scrolls and tomes piling up all around her.

She had notes and runes and Japanese characters running like ants in a line through her mind, and every single thought that she didn't have time to dive into, she wrote on a torn piece of parchment.

Which now meant that all over her cubicle walls were little bits of parchment hanging up with a sticking charm.

She chewed on her nail, her Muggle pen click, click, clicking repeatedly.

“Hey, ready to head to the canteen? Merlin’s beard, Hermione! What the bloody hell happened in here?!”

“Hi, Harry,” Hermione greeted, her tone more of a muted grey rather than it's usual eccentric mirage of color. “No lunch for me today. I received this crate first thing and I can’t get the damn thing open. How am I supposed to catalog the artifacts if I can’t open the box they came in?”

Harry walked over cautiously, and that’s when she noticed his fingers grazing the long since faded scar along his forehead.

If nothing else about this situation had given her reason to pause thus far, that most certainly did.

“Harry?”

Harry cocked his head, green eyes flitting back and forth between her and the crate in rapid succession. “Hermione... there aren’t Horcruxes in there... right?”

She gritted her teeth, wincing. “I don’t think so.... but... I also can't say for certain?”

Harry's nose wrinkled, and his glasses slipped down the bridge. He quickly shoved them back into place. “That doesn't exactly make me feel any better.”

“Why would I be sent Horcruxes?”

Harry shrugged, and stepped closer to the crate. His fingers skimmed over the note still stuck between the rope and the wood.

“Who sent it?”

“Tetsuya Shrine?” She answered.

“Why did that sound like a question?”

“It… wasn’t?”

He crossed his arms and gave her The Chosen One Look.

“Hermione...”

The pout that followed his admonishment was instant. “You’re going to make me tell Shacklebolt I may be in possession of highly illegal artifacts, aren’t you?”

The Chosen One Look did not wither, it simply intensified.

“You’re going to assign a guardian and open this up as an investigative case, aren’t you?”

One single black brow quirked.

She groaned and fell into her chair, flicking a dismissive hand in his general vicinity.  “Get on with it.”

 


 

Draco Malfoy stepped out of the Floo with a slight grunt, his robes a little too ruffled for his liking. The Ministry atrium was as busy as ever, with witches and wizards bustling past in a blur of conversations and paperwork. He ran a hand through his hair, straightened his robes, and took a moment to breathe.

Another case closed. Another day spent following leads, questioning witnesses, and kicking fucking arse. Draco Malfoy was an exceptional Auror, if he did say so himself.

He was at the top of his game. He knew it, Potter knew it, Robards knew it—hell, even Shacklebolt knew it.

Draco had the most arrests that led to sentencing’s in all of the department, even more than Boy Wonder himself who was made Head Auror, mind you. (Hah!)

If Draco could grade his own performance as a member of the DMLE, he'd give himself an Outstanding.

The truth was, he’d earned that grade, and then some.

When he first joined the Auror department, it had been a scandal. The Malfoy name was still tarnished by the war, and many had expected him to follow the path of a high-society aristocrat as his friends had. Perhaps make some token effort to clean up the family reputation in the Ministry as some wanker who just donated endless amounts of galleons. (Cough, cough, his best friend, Theodore Nott.)

But instead, he’d shocked everyone—unfortunately, himself included—by walking away from the life of luxury, leisure and languishing and stepping into the grind, greatness, and galivanting life of being an Auror.

For the first few years, it had been a struggle. There were those who questioned his motives, who still couldn’t shake the image of him as a spoiled Death Eater sympathizer. His friends, and his family, had thought him mad. The whispers at societal gatherings, the incredulous looks from old classmates in the Ministry... all of it had been part of the price he paid for choosing this career. But Draco wasn’t the same person he had been during the war. After he had gone before the Wizengamot and come out unscathed, he found himself reborn. Draco had aged, sharpened, and become full of restless desire to prove that he was more than just a name, more than a legacy.

And now, eight years into his career post training, he’d done just that.

Draco's competence had been proven time and time again, through his casework, through his efficiency, and most of all, through the results. He was the best at what he did, and he would scream fuck off to anyone who tried to deny it.

He had quickly risen through the ranks, impressing his superiors and leaving a trail of defeated Dark wizards and criminals in his wake. His knack for strategy, his ability to stay cool under pressure, and his razor-sharp focus had earned him respect, if not affection, from his colleagues.

But that respect had come at a price. There were still those who didn’t believe in his redemption, who would never fully let go of the boy he’d been.

For a long time, Draco hadn’t cared about that. He was too busy proving them wrong. But over time, he had begun to wonder if he was chasing... something. (He did not dare list respect, acceptance, or the general sense of belonging within that scope of wondering).

Still, it hadn’t slowed him down. His performance spoke for itself.

The department now saw him as an asset, a force to be reckoned with. He had handled high-profile cases that others would have balked at, tracking down rogue Dark wizards and Death Eaters, investigating the black market for cursed objects, and hunting down dangerous magical creatures. His arrests were always airtight, his reports thorough, and his methods—though sometimes unsavory, unorthodox and unbecoming (thank you, Mother)—always led to successful convictions.

The Ministry knew that when Draco Malfoy was on the case, it would get solved. He’d become the benchmark for others to measure themselves against.

Mainly, one red head, and one bed head.

Draco made his way toward the lifts, eager to return to his cushy corner office (thank you, Robards) so he could get the report filed. He was more than ready to go home after his month-long undercover stint. (One that involved entirely too much Polyjuice for his digestive tracks liking.)

He nearly moaned thinking about Mulberry Silk sheets and the sweet taste of aged brandy that was just waiting for him back at his flat.

He quickened his steps before he could be distracted by anything or anyone else, i.e, one Ronald Weasley.

His quill was already running through his mind, drafting the words he’d need to make the report sound more impressive than necessary.

A little flourish never hurt anyone.

“Oi, Malfoy!”

He groaned inwardly, already knowing who it was. Weasley was jogging toward him, looking slightly out of breath. He was clearly still riding the high of their somehow mutually acknowledged arrest, despite Draco having done all the work. Which was apparently just semantics according to Potter when Draco complained about it on-site.

Draco's pace was now more akin to a jog.

“Malfoy!”

Fucking twat-waffle.

Just as Draco was a few steps away, the lift grate began to close. 

Weasley caught up to him and immediately pounded Draco's back with a hard thwack.

“Great work today, mate. Want to grab a pint at Finnigan’s later?”

His eye involuntarily twitched, but the smirk that followed came easy. “No thanks, Weasley.”

“Come on, you never say yes. Everyone will be there celebrating!”

Draco’s brow quirked. “Celebrating me or you?”

“Hey!” Ron barked just as the grates spread open and Draco promptly stepped inside the lift. Weasley followed, and grumbled under his breath, “I helped too.”

If by helped he meant he had stood by eating toffees as Draco had crashed through a window tackling one of the smugglers after he caught Draco with a body-bind, then sure, he helped.

“Couldn't have done it without you, Weasley.” He muttered as the lift lurched to a stop at the second level. Draco swiftly made his way down the corridor toward headquarters, barely waving to his fellow Auror's as he beelined to his office.

He had been seated for no more than a minute before a memo came soaring into his office, fluttering over his desk. The plum paper-plane buoyed at eye-level, wingtips ruffling as if offended he hadn't automatically accepted it.

And then it got even better, because not even ten seconds later, Potter appeared with a shit-eating grin.

He wanted to bash his head against the wall, and then his desk, and then the wall again after he read the memo with Potter leering at him.

“You’re joking, right?” Draco rasped, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Unfortunately, no. I’m not joking.” replied Potter, annoyingly chipper as always.

Draco briefly wondered if he got laid more often than Draco did and if that was why he was always so damn happy. But then just as quickly as the thought came, Draco shoved the image of She-Weasley and Potter naked far, far away.

His body physically shuddered with revulsion.

“Why me?” Draco asked, but it really was more of a whine.

Potter didn’t even attempt to hide his grin.

Why did he find this so entertaining? It was quite possibly the worst thing that could have ever happened to Draco after the day—no, month—he had.

Dealing with one-third of the Golden Trio while undercover had been enough, but now another?

And it was Granger! He would rather deal with Potter’s inane smiling over whatever vitriol he would receive behest Hermione Granger’s pert mouth.

(Yes, he had eyeballs, thank you very much. She had nice lips. Hex him for looking.)

“Kingsley’s orders. You’re being assigned to Hermione as her Protection Detail. It’s a new case.”

Draco scoffed, crumbled the memo into a ball and chucked it in the bin. “Granger doesn’t need a guardian. I’m sure she can hex her way out of trouble faster than I can blink.”

“Which is precisely why Kingsley thinks you’re the right fit. You’re stubborn enough to keep up with her.”

Draco’s mouth dropped open into a wide ‘O’ for Outrage. “Stubborn enough… what a load of rubbish, Potter.”

“Think of it as a test of patience?”

Draco focused on his breathing techniques. Of course, Potter would be one to enjoy Draco's downfall. “And what exactly is so dangerous about her work that she needs a guard dog?”

Harry shrugged. “Something about a cursed shipment from Japan. Just keep her alive, Malfoy. That’s all you’ve got to do.”

Easier said than done, Draco thought with no small amount of sourness.

 


 

Hermione barely noticed his arrival. By the time he stepped into her cubicle, her desk was a disaster zone of half-open tomes, scribbled notes, and a cold cup of tea.

She immediately pointed towards the exit, which was… just the walkway. “Absolutely not.”

“Morning, Granger,” Draco drawled, leaning against the cubicle wall. It wobbled, and he gave it a cursory glance of disapproval before standing straight again. “Sorry, I already tried. Kingsley thinks I’m the one who needs to babysit you. Thrilled to be here.”

Hermione sighed and went back to work.

She didn’t bother to look up as she thumbed through the pages of two books at the same time. “I don’t need a babysitter, Malfoy. And I’m busy.”

“So I see,” Draco said, eyeing the chaotic desk and, more importantly, the ominous crate. “What’ve you got there?”

“A delivery.”

“Very quick off the mark, aren’t you?”

She narrowed her eyes, flicking a glare his way, before flipping two pages. “I believe there are some cursed artifacts from Japan inside.” She waved her wand over the crate, muttering diagnostic charms. “I just haven’t been able to open it yet.” The diagnostic glittered into being, sparkling various red and purple hues before exploding into shimmering dust.

“I’m assuming that’s not supposed to happen?”

Her nose wrinkled. “No.”

“How long have you been at this?”

“All fuc—” she cleared her throat, forced a placid smile, and then tried again. “All day.”

She finally resigned to look at him, sitting back in her own squeaky swivel chair, she let her gaze dart over his person. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually spoken to Malfoy. Perhaps two years ago during a New Year’s party at Seamus’s pub?

He looked the same, and by the same, she meant otherworldly attractive and annoyingly posh.

He was still overwhelmingly tall compared to the average wizard—not that she expected him to shrink any time soon—but it was still jarring to witness up close. That shock of pale hair remained coiffed and shiny no matter the state of his person or the time of day, and Hermione found herself glaring at his otherwise perfect, punctilious, prim appearance.

His Auror uniform was, of course, immaculately pressed and the robes themselves somehow looked to be without a single hint of lint or even a rogue strand of hair. She resisted the urge to look at her own robes, knowing they must be frumpled and stained from the hours she had spent crouched in various positions all throughout her cubicle.

“I figured, given the state of your hair.”

Hermione's brows nearly hit her hairline beneath her charmed bangs, cast daily to remain in a near perfect state of just enough wispy-ness (humidity non-withstanding). She immediately pat her mane of chestnut curls, no longer frizzy and untamed as they once had been in her girlhood. Her expression darkened when the beginnings of a grin began to overtake Draco's mouth.

Her hair charms were still perfectly fine.

Wanker, she thought, eyes turning into little slits.

Swot, his answering sneer replied.

“So, aside from your failure in figuring out what you’re looking at, what are your thoughts on why exactly my presence is needed?”

“I assume it has something to do with my overwhelming status of importance within the Ministry.”

Her smile was not coy, but positively catty.

“Yes, yes, the Wizarding World’s Leader of Innovating Ideas. I rather believe the title suggests all you know how to do is bore an audience to death with useless knowledge—”

“I’ll have you know I have a combined number of eight degrees, two of which are mastery’s and one a doctorate—”

“—Granger, I jest.”

She snapped her lips together into a tight line.

He waved a lazy hand towards the crate, resigning himself to accept their current predicament. She begrudgingly did the same.

“Catch me up to speed.”

So, she did, and somehow, Draco did not appear to be the least bit bored. He asked her questions, parroted her answers back for clarity before he streamlined some of his own opinions and observations.

At some point, Hermione found herself blathering on, rather tangent like. “—the magic feels alive, like—”

Draco held his hand up, stopping her. “I think it’s a bad idea to open this crate.”

He crossed the space of her cubicle to stand beside her. (Three steps—such a spacious office she had.) Hermione peered up at him, truly disliking the height advantage he currently had. She promptly stood and lifted her nose in the air when he fingered the note.

Hie glanced over the words, and slowly looked back to her with a frown.

Hermione huffed. “I’ve already read the warning, thank you.”

“Then I presume my advice will be heeded when I tell you to chuck this into the nearest body of water, hopefully encased in leaden weights?”

“Malfoy, I am a researcher. I am so close to becoming an Unspeakable. This could propel me forward in my career, and I have never backed away from a challenge. I need to know what’s inside the crate.”

“Which is currently not very keen on opening.”

She looked back to her book and flicked to the next page, quickly skimming the segment and then shifting her attention over to her character translation key. She pressed her tongue to her cheek and nodded a few times to herself before attempting the incantation.

Hermione flicked her wand and… the rope glowed bright red, and then slowly disintegrated into neat piles of ash that floated to the floor of her cubicle.

She squealed, jumping up and down as she rushed forward towards the crate. “Finally!”

And that was when Hermione realized she had just stepped into what she would later refer to as Total Havoc Unleashing Massive Panic.

(T.H.U.M.P was a rather smart acronym given the fact that was the exact sound the Ministry made the moment the crate began to open.)

The air shifted instantly. The office grew heavy, the temperature dropping several degrees as the crate’s lid creaked open.

“Granger…” Draco began, voice tight, “what did you just do?”

A faint, childlike giggle answered him.

From the shadows of the crate, a small, pale finger curled around the open lip, and then a creature emerged, or rather, a child with a wide, innocent smile and large, black eyes.

Hermione took a step back, a full body shiver coursing through her limbs.

“Granger,” Draco snarled again, brandishing his wand. “What the fuck did you just do?”

“I am... not entirely sure?” Her voice was high, and pithy.

“Should I be worried?” He snapped, clearly impatient. He grabbed her arm and dragged her behind him. “I have a feeling I should definitely be worried.”

She squeaked, “It's probably nothing to worry about?”

A second figure emerged, and a third, until the room was teeming with eight glowing, otherworldly creatures. Shadowy forms slithered from the crate’s depths, screeches and whispers filling the air. The spirits surged toward the office walls, passing through them like smoke.

“Nothing to worry about?” Draco shouted, dodging as a particularly large, scaly creature flew past his head. “THIS DOES NOT LOOK LIKE 'NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT'!”

Hermione’s heart sank. “Oh no.”

Oh no?” Draco repeated incredulously. “What does ‘oh no’ mean, Granger?”

“It means,” Hermione said, eyes wide, “that I may have just unleashed a horde of ancient yokai on London?”

“What the FUCK is a yokai?!”

She hopped from foot to foot, her nervousness growing tenfold as the remaining spirits began to undulate. Christ, when had her hands gotten so sweaty? She dragged them down the front of her robes.

“They were often bound to things as protectors or prisoners.”

“Those do not look like protectors, Granger.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, her voice still a horrid squeak. “That’s because they aren’t.”

Outside the Ministry, the streets of Wizarding and Muggle London were already starting to change. Shadows lengthened unnaturally. Faint whispers echoed where there were no people. And in the corner of an empty park, a flickering figure giggled softly before vanishing into the fog.

Back in her office, Hermione turned to Draco, who was still glaring at her now that the last of the yokai had disappeared. He had taken to pacing holes into the floor, and only paused long enough to make her flounder where she stood.

“What do we do, Granger? I am not equipped to handle fucking poltergeists!”

“First, we need to stay calm. Don’t panic.”

His laugh was scathing. “I am not panicking!”

She took a deep, calming breath. “We need to catch them before they cause too much trouble.”

Draco sighed, running a hand through his shock of pale hair. His silver eyes were molten ores desperate to burn her.

“Of course we do. And by ‘we,’ I assume you mean me.”

“Not just you,” Hermione rushed to correct him, grabbing her book on Japanese folklore from her shelf. She peered inside the crate, lips pursed. Eight objects lay in no particular order at the bottom of the crate, each seeming to pulse with nefarious energy beneath her scrutiny. Given the situation, she opted to overlook that tidbit. “We’ll need to find a way to bind them back into their artifacts.”

She really should have tried to open the crate in one of the containment rooms... oh, well. Too late now.

“How exactly do you plan on doing that?”

She winced and proceeded to shuffle through her books. “Not sure.”

“That is positively spectacular news, Granger.”

“Listen, Malfoy. I wasn’t expecting that!”

Draco groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Clearly!”

“We’re going to have to work together.”

The breath he took was exceptionally well-timed with the screams that began erupting all around them.

The second sign that something was very wrong came when Draco lifted his pocket watch. Together, they watched as it spun wildly, the hands flickering between meaningless positions.

He glared at it, then at Hermione, who opted to appear too preoccupied leafing through an ancient tome to notice.

“You’re remarkably calm for someone who just unleashed a nightmare on London,” Draco said, his voice tight with irritation.

“I’m working on fixing it,” Hermione replied, and he scowled when she had the audacity to speak to him so curtly. She flipped to another page of the book, her delicate brows furrowed in concentration.

“And how exactly do you plan to ‘fix’ this?” Draco gestured broadly toward the crate full of various heinous looking objects. “There’s an army of angry spirits out there, and your genius idea was to open Pandora’s box.”

“It wasn’t Pandora’s box; it was a carefully warded artifact crate—”

“—which you unsealed without a second thought!”

Hermione slammed the book shut, her patience wearing thin. “We don’t have time for this, Malfoy. The spirits are loose, and if we don’t act quickly, the magic they’re carrying will wreak havoc across the city.”

Draco sighed, pressing the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. “Fine. What’s your plan?”

“We need to go looking for them.”

His hands dragged down his face, his agitation growing. “Quite obvious, and something you have already made clear.”

“Fuck off, Malfoy.”

“Ten points to Gryffindor for exceptional use of colorful language.”

She glared, and he glared right back.

“I cannot believe you did this.”

“I didn’t know!”

“Evidently not!”

“Well, come on, then!” Hermione started to shrink a multitude of books down and shoved them in her bag, before opting to just sweep the entirety of her desk into said bag.

She looked at the crate, then at Draco.

He sighed and picked up the wooden crate. It was obviously heavier than he expected, considering his knees buckled. He tried to cover his misstep with a quick shuffle. Hermione huffed a laugh, thinking he looked a bit pathetic.

He opted to say, “I hate you, in case you forgot.”

“Likewise,” she replied as she transfigured her chair into a wagon. She gestured rather flappingly towards it. Draco placed the crate down, grabbed the handle and began pulling the hideous bright red wagon behind him, wheels squealing.

 


 

The Department of Mysteries office was in shambles, people running around, dodging memos flying through the air.

They made their way to the lift calmly, though Draco could admit he felt a bit peaky, bypassing Greengrass’s office as he soundly slept strewn across his desk, and within minutes of stepping into the Ministry lobby, Potter was there; walking step for step with Hermione

“What have you done?”

Hermione lifted her nose in the air and huffed. “Nothing I can’t fix.”

“Kingsley is on his way.” Potter warned.

Then came a familiar booming voice shouting across the atrium: “Hermione Granger!”

Hermione paused her strutting, which had Draco stopping as well. The blasted wagon hit his calves and he stumbled, and then glared at Granger when she laughed.

Shacklebolt stomped towards them, his face a mask of fury.

“Hello Minister, lovely to see you.” She greeted, plastering on a false grin. “We are on a rather tight schedule, you see, so excuse my rudeness but we must be going now.”

“What have you done?”

“I do believe I have set about a hoard of yokai on unsuspecting Muggle and Magical London, sir.”

“Oh, lovely.” The Minister replied blandly.

“I think the Department of Magical Accident’s and Catastrophe’s should deploy a few teams of Obliviator’s. Harry, I assume you have dispatched as many Auror’s as possible to handle any scenes we can’t immediately get to?”

Draco was going to wrap his hands around her little avian neck and squeeze it until the light in her pretty brown eyes extinguished.

(After they handled the yokai, of course.)

“I assume they will gravitate towards places with dark magical signatures.” Hermione intoned sometime later.

Draco had lost track of the time, honestly.

Hermione was reading as they walked through the streets, humming as she went. It was surprisingly calm in this area, which made Draco all the more on high alert.

“Dark magical signatures.” He parroted.

“Yes.”

“And how do you know that?”

“I don’t.”

He took a steady inhale of oxygen to settle his rising blood pressure. “You don’t?”

She huffed and snapped her book shut. He glared heavily enough that she snarled her retort back, “I don't!”

You don't.”

“Must you repeat everything I say?”

He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact you opened something that literally said do not open under any circumstance?”

“That was on the back of the note!”

“Why didn’t you FLIP it over?!”

She paused, glared some more, and then opened her book again. That petit little nose lifted in the air at the same time as her book. “I was curious.”

“Have you never heard of curiosity killed the—”

“Kneazle, I know.”

“Why can’t Potter or Weasley do this with you? Aren’t they used to risking their lives alongside you?”

She sniffed, and it was so Granger-coded he wanted to throttle her. “Meh.”

“I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Are you currently going through the five stages of grief right now, Malfoy?”

“Yes, I am in the first stage. I'm grieving, for I will miss my life being filthy rich and obscenely handsome.”

She rolled her eyes, long lashes clinging to her brow bone. “So dramatic.”

“I think my reaction is perfectly acceptable.”

Her eyes slowly rove towards him. “You are not going to die.”

“Yes, I absolutely am going to die and in my obituary I wish for it to say my cause of death was Granger induced stupidity, so everyone may blame you, and I will be forever remembered a martyr.”

“There are worse ways to die.” She replied, suddenly grinning.

“There are much better ways to die, too.”

An hour later, or maybe longer, or perhaps shorter. Again, time 'twas so fickle...

They found themselves in an abandoned streets of East End, where they had received reports of some sort of ghostly figure. Charming, really. He was positively tickled to have received that Patronus. The report had been alarmingly vague, and it made Draco rather annoyed that it was nearly dusk, and they had been wandering the greater part of Muggle London for far longer than he had anticipated.

Not that he thought wrangling eight monstrous spirit creatures would be easy, he just hadn't really expected it to take this long to find a single one.

“This is ridiculous,” Draco muttered, scanning the area with his wand drawn. “We have been looking for hours and nothing has shown up. I want to go home. I’m knackered and I’ve just been Polyjuiced for a month straight. Granger, please, enough is enough.”

The faint mist curling through the streets felt unnaturally cold, and shadows danced at the edges of his vision.

He swore he felt something, he just hadn’t located it yet, but he wasn’t exactly keen to do so.

“Stop complaining. We can’t just go home.” Hermione snapped, stomping her foot.

He quirked a brow, trying to diffuse his smirking mouth back into its natural resting position: a pout.

“Of course we can just go home.”

She rolled her eyes, and stomped ahead.

“Very stompy.”

“What?”

“You’re very stompy.”

“That’s not even a word.”

He grinned. “It most certainly is a word.”

She glared at him over her shoulder, whipping her long hair around with the movement. Draco tried not to fixate on the way her curls swayed with every swish of her hips, but he was still a man and his willpower was rather weak at the moment given his sleep deprivation.

Draco had admired Hermione from afar for many years now, all in vain, of course. She was shackled to Weasley and there was not much he could do about the ginger colored barnacle.

His… crush… had solidified long before she had defended him at his trial, honestly. This strange fixation he had with Hermione Granger had started around fourth year for Draco.

No, that was a lie. It started when she slapped him in third year.

Regardless of his admirations time of origin, it solidified around fourth year. He liked to tell himself that it was the fact that someone like Viktor Krum had taken interest in her (or it was the fact that he was fourteen and learned how to properly wank) but his interest in her could not be tampered. How could anyone expect him not to notice Hermione? She was brilliant, beautiful, and fucking vicious. One was either blind or stupid if they didn't break their neck when she walked past.

Though he found her incredibly fit and likely always would, Draco never dared do anything other than ogle and offer a few scathing remarks for old times sake whenever he was in her presence. He didn’t exactly fear Weasley, but he rather liked the idea of not getting sacked for hitting on his bosses best friend’s girlfriend. Salazar, what a mouthful.

Working with her would be a completely new territory, one he didn't exactly trust himself in if he were being honest. She was a pretty witch with a smart mouth who liked to berate him. It would only end in disaster. Or death, given the whole yokai business. Time would only tell.

“Can you please focus? We have to locate the yokai and bind them back to their objects before—”

A soft rustling interrupted her, followed by the unmistakable sound of bare feet slapping against stone.

Draco whirled around, his wand tip igniting with a bright, silvery light. “Did you hear that?”

Hermione nodded, gripping her own wand tightly. The street was empty, but the shadows seemed alive, twisting and writhing as if something was moving through them.

And then they saw it.

Or rather, a figure emerging from the mist.

It looked human at first, wearing simple, tattered robes and walking with an eerie, deliberate gait. But as it drew closer, the truth became painfully clear. The creature had no face.

He heard the audibly intake of her breath getting caught in her throat.

“Granger, please tell me you know what that is?”

She nodded, gaze flicking down to the open tome in her palm. She flipped a page and whimpered. “It’s a… Noppera-bō,”

Draco blinked, lifting his wand towards it’s head. He hissed, “A what?”

“A faceless ghost.” She swallowed and glanced towards the crate, then back to Draco, and then towards the yokai. “They’re supposedly harmless… most of the time.”

“I don’t like those odds, Granger.”

“Are you afraid right now?”

Yes, he absolutely was going to strangle her.

“What do you fucking think?!”

“Well! They feed on fear!”

He scoffed and twisted his lips until they were pursed. He wasn’t afraid. This thing was probably just like Peeves. He could handle Peeves.

He could handle a faceless fucking ghost.

“If I hex it, will it slow it down?”

She hummed, but it was more akin to a wobbling whine. “I haven’t read about the possibility of dueling with yokai.”

Draco readjusted his wand in his hand, nodding his head back and forth as he thought, as he tried to form some sort of strategy. “How do we bind it to an object?”

“I haven’t gotten that far.”

He took in a deep breath through flared nostrils. “Do you know which object to bind it to?”

“I… haven’t gotten that far?”

“Merlin’s balls, Granger.” He rasped, stepping towards the advancing spirit. It moved slow, like mist over water, and it’s robes gave no insight to whether or not it was a corporal form or not, or if it even had limbs. “Fuck it.” He shot a stinging hex it’s way, and as if stepping around a stone, it slipped out of reach. “Well, it’s conscious, Granger, so I hope you’re cataloguing this for your future fucking memoir!”

He cast a Brachiabindo, and when that failed, he cast a full body-bind, but the ropes simply bound around air and fell to the concrete. He tried Ebublio, and then to freeze the orb of water, and again, the spirit simply moved forward.

“Granger!” He snarled, side-stepping away from her so the entity would track towards him and away from her. “I am running out of options here. Nothing’s working!”

He sent another barrage of spells and jinxes its way, but still nothing worked.

“Did you seriously just try to turn it into a chicken?”

“Do you know what to do or not?!” He snapped, climbing up a set of stairs to a nearby townhouse. He glanced up, and then proceeded to climb towards the overhang.

“Where are you going?!”

Accio Nimbus!”

He held out his hand, tapping his foot impatiently as the yokai levitated in the air, still advancing towards Draco.

And that was when a face flickered into existence.

He swallowed thickly, hand still outstretched.

He was face to face with a version of himself from years ago, pale and gaunt, with hollow eyes full of fear and desperation. He had thought that he had looked strong. He had thought himself an adult, but staring at the face of his youth right now only reminded him of how truly young and out of depth he had been.

He took in a sharp breath as his young face shifted, flickering over the dead that haunted him. Dumbledore, Snape, Fred Weasley, Lupin, Tonks, Lavender Brown, Colin Creevey, Vincent, Moody, Cedric Diggory, Sirius Black and... Voldemort.

“Do you see, Draco?” he hissed, and Draco's foot slipped on the shingles of the overhang as he tried to move back. Move away from the Dark wizard that hissed and grinned with rotted, fanged teeth. The yokai was gone. It never existed. It was always him.

“G-Granger!” His voice was hoarse, and small. He tried again, refusing to look her way. Refusing to break contact. “Granger, run!”

“This is who you really are, Draco!” Voldemort hissed in his mind. “No matter how hard you try, they’ll always know you are weak. You are a coward! An excuse for a Malfoy!”

Draco felt sick to his stomach, and he staggered to his knees. Voldemort was gone.

His father hovered over him now, mere meters away. Clawed fingers outreached, signet ring gleaming in the lamplight.

The broom handle hit his palm, jerking him back to reality. Hermione was screaming his name, and a stinging jinx hit his kneecap. “Snap out of it, Malfoy! Get on the broom and get away!”

His gaze cut to hers, brown eyes wide and beseeching. Tears streamed down her cheeks, flooding the pretty freckles there. He swiftly mounted his broom, cursing at himself for getting ensnared so easily. He was a seasoned Auror! He knew how to handle nefarious magic, and within minutes, he had nearly been overcome.

He dove down, whipping around Hermione before pulling up on his broom handle and rising behind the yokai. He hit it with a Tempest Jinx, and this time, it struck true.

The being jerked forward, and spasmed.

Draco swooped down, hovering near Hermione. “Well?” Draco asked dryly, hoping the lamplight didn't give away his chalky pallor. “Any ideas yet?”

The yokai simply hovered midair, twitching.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine, Granger.” He bit out. “Caught me off guard. Now's not the time. What do we do?”

Hermione bit her lip, but ultimately reached into her bag, pulling out a small piece of parchment. She quickly summoned a Muggle pen and scribbled intricate characters across the paper. “I think we need to lure it into an artifact and then slap this over the artifact and activate the seal.”

Draco dismounted and threw his broom over his shoulder. “So, once it’s trapped, that flimsy piece of paper will bind it to its object?” Draco stared at her, and she merely blinked at him. “You’re making this up as you go, aren’t you?”

She gave him a sharp look in return. “Do you have a better idea?”

Before he could answer, the Noppera-bō tilted its head from where it hung, and it’s twitching grew more feverous. It slowly turned, and then twisted upside down, revealing eight spider-like legs that curled over its faceless head.

Then it moved.

It crawled towards them with unsettling speed.

“Run!” Hermione shouted, grabbing Draco’s arm and pulling him down the street. He almost forgot about the wagon, and it’s damn wheels were now shrieking in protest behind them. He threw his broom in the crate and pushed his legs harder, now dragging Hermione with him.

“Granger, if we survive, I’m making you go on runs with me because you are so fucking slow!” He yelled, gaze darting over his shoulder to see the advancing spider spirit.

“I’m not slow, that thing is just fast!”

They darted into a narrow alley, the creature’s soft, shuffling footsteps echoing behind them.

“Brilliant plan, Granger,” Draco hissed, his breath coming in short bursts. He smacked his back against the bricks and heaved for oxygen. “Run until we can’t and just wait until it catches us?”

Hermione ignored him, her eyes scanning the alley for anything they could use. At the same exact time, both of their gazes landed on a cracked, ornate mirror leaning against a rubbish bin.

“Draco, over there!” she called, pointing to the mirror.

“What are we supposed to do with that?” he hissed, wincing at the sound of the squeaky wagon. He cast a quick Muffiliato. “Which object are we supposed to bind it to?!”

“Noppera-bō hate mirrors.” She hissed, dragging the mirror across the alleyway to rest against the wagon’s wheels. “They’re forced to confront their own lack of identity, so I imagine there must be a compact in the crate it was bound to.”

Draco wasted no time in throwing his broom to the ground, blindly searching the crate for something that might look like a compact.

“Why a compact?” He hissed, picking up a ceremonial fan and then a lute. He quickly dropped the fox mask when it burned his fingertips.

He tried not to pay attention to her as she quickly scrawled something on the ground in what looked like chalk, and finished by drawing a large circle around the characters. She rushed back to where he was, and grunted and positioned the mirror towards the end of the alleyway, where it would ultimately face the creature on a warpath.

“Granger, there isn’t a fucking compact in here!”

“Look harder!”

He picked up a comb, a music box and then finally, he found the compact.

It was a thing of ancient beauty, its age evident in every detail. The outer casing was made of dark, polished wood, worn smooth by centuries of handling. Intricate carvings adorned the surface, delicate cherry blossoms intertwined with tendrils of mist, their petals almost glowing faintly under the dim light.

In the center was an inlaid design of a faceless figure, its blank visage framed by shimmering mother-of-pearl and surrounded by tiny, golden stars.

The clasp, shaped like a coiled dragon, was crafted from tarnished bronze, its scales etched with precision so fine it seemed alive. The hinges groaned softly as Draco opened it, revealing the interior: two small, round mirrors facing each other, their surface clouded and cracked.

He cast a quick Reparo, and then handed it off to Granger when she stretched out a palm towards him, keeping her eyes on the alleyway entrance. Draco stepped closer to her side and lifted his wand. 

Seconds ticked by, and nothing appeared.

Draco grew impatient.

“Give me your shoe.”

Hermione blanched. “What?”

“Now, Granger!” 

She only hesitated for a moment before reluctantly toeing off her silly little flat and tossing it to Draco. He glanced at her choice in footwear and snorted. “You need better shoes.”

Then he threw it down the alleyway, where it hit the ground with a resounding smack.

In seconds, the ghost rounded the corner, its faceless head twitching as it approached.

When it caught sight of the mirror, it froze, its spider form shimmering like a heatwave. A low, keening sound filled the alley, making Draco’s skin crawl.

Draco tightened his grip on his wand, his jaw set as the ghost’s distorted form hovered at the edge of the mirror’s reflection. The keening sound grew louder, reverberating off the walls of the narrow alley. He fought the instinct to step back, his skin crawling as if a thousand tiny beetles were skittering up his spine.

“Stay focused,” Hermione whispered, her voice taut with nerves as she carefully adjusted the mirror in her grasp.

The ghost twitched, its faceless head tilting unnaturally to one side as it observed the mirror, its outline shimmering. A burst of static-like energy crackled around it, and the air grew colder, the icy tendrils biting into Draco’s exposed skin.

“You’ve got about five seconds before it figures out the mirror is a decoy,” Draco muttered. “Do your thing, Granger.”

Hermione leapt forward, thrusting the parchment against the creature’s faceless head. The characters on the parchment began to glow, and the spirit let out a high-pitched wail as it was pulled toward the seal. She quickly stepped back to his side and lifted her wand. She moved it in a precise, fluid motion as she murmured a series of binding incantations. The sigils she had sketched earlier (he now realized was enchanted chalk) began to glow faintly on the ground around the ghost. As the light intensified, the yokai jerked violently, its spider legs scuttling forward as if trying to escape the glowing circle forming beneath it.

“Not today,” Draco growled, stepping forward. A quick flick of his wand sent a stream of white-hot light towards the ghost, pushing it back into the trap. The creature hissed, its keening pitch rising to a deafening screech.

“Almost there!” Hermione shouted, sweat beading on her temple as she poured more magic into the incantation.

The ghost twisted and writhed, its faceless head swiveling toward Hermione as if it had sensed the source of its entrapment. Draco didn’t hesitate; he stepped in front of her, his wand alight with defensive magic. “Not happening, you faceless fuck.”

With a final surge of power from Hermione, the binding circle flared, and the ghost let out a final, earsplitting wail before it dissolved into wisps of silver mist. The mirror behind them clattered to the ground, unharmed but eerily still, its surface no longer reflecting anything but the alley.

For a moment, it was silent save for their labored breathing. Draco finally lowered his wand, his eyes flicking toward Hermione. “I’m keeping your shoe as a consolation prize.”

Hermione huffed, brushing her hair back with a trembling hand. “You owe me a new one, anyways.”

“You owe me a new eardrum.”

The parchment slowly fell to the ground, now etched with the ghost’s shape.

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, crouching down to examine the seal. “Let’s hope it holds long enough for us to bind it to the artifact”

Draco glanced around, his wand still at the ready. “Hope? Granger, I threw your shoe at a ghost. That deserves more than hope. It most definitely deserves results, at the very least.” He shuffled over and picked up the seal, holding it at arm’s length like it might bite him. “This is what you called harmless?”

Hermione smirked and opened the compact. Draco placed the sealed yokai inside after folding the paper to fit and sighed a breath of relief when she clicked the compact shut.

“I said they’re harmless most of the time.”

Suddenly, the air around them seemed to distort, and he felt a tugging around his naval. The compact in Hermione's hand glowed a faint red, and in the center, the image of the faceless creature writhed and hissed, resisting the magic. Just as Hermione began the chant of the final binding spell, the world around them shifted.

Hermione gasped. Draco blinked, disoriented. For a moment, they weren’t in the dimly lit alley in London anymore.

They stood instead in a grand yet strangely cold chamber, its wooden floors polished to a mirror shine.

The room smelled of incense and cherry blossoms, and moonlight spilled through the sliding shoji screens.

Draco grabbed Hermione's shirt and tugged her against his chest, training his wand on the woman who sat before a lacquered vanity, her silhouette framed by a haze of smoke from a nearby incense burner. Her kimono was exquisite, embroidered with cranes and flowers in shimmering silver and gold. The air crackled around them, and she leaned forward, inspecting her face in a bronze mirror, her lips curling into a satisfied smile.

“It's the artifact!” Hermione whispered, gripping Draco's forearm that was locked tight around her waist.

Perfection,” the woman murmured, running her fingers over her flawless skin.

Her voice carried a sharp edge of pride, undercut by an unsettling hunger.

Behind her, the faint sound of footsteps. She didn’t turn, but Draco and Hermione did. 

Husband,” she said, her tone dismissive, her eyes never leaving her reflection. “Your presence disturbs my peace. I’ve already told you to leave me be for the evening.

A man stepped into view, right through Hermione and Draco. They scuttled back, and Draco noticed the man's face was lined with worry. He was plainly dressed, his weathered hands betraying a life of labor, a stark contrast to her opulence. He wrung them together, brows scrunched tight.

This is not who you are,” he said softly, his voice trembling. “I no longer know the woman before me.”

She didn’t answer at first, only adjusted a stray lock of hair. Then, her laughter rang out. It reminded Draco of his mother's false tittering.

You should be grateful,” she said, finally looking at him, her red painted lips curving into a smile. “Your wife is the most beautiful woman in Shogunate. Men would kill for the sight you take for granted.

Beauty fades. You’ve let it consume you, twisting your heart. Please, return the mirror. The shrinekeeper warned us—

Her hand slammed onto the table, rattling the brushes and powders. “Enough,” she snapped, her eyes burning with fury. “That old fool doesn’t understand the gift he gave us. This mirror reveals my true self, the most exquisite form of all.

But as the words left her lips, the mirror’s surface rippled like water, the bronze darkening to black. Her reflection no longer smiled. Instead, the face in the mirror began to blur, melting like wax under flame.

What is this?” she whispered, leaning closer. The reflection’s features dissolved, leaving only smooth, blank skin.

The man backed away.

No!” she screamed, clawing at the mirror as though she could pull her reflection back into place. Her hands left scratches on the polished bronze.

But it was too late. The room darkened, shadows gathering around her like smoke. The reflection turned its head, staring at her with its featureless face, and then it stepped forward. Out of the mirror. Toward her.

Her screams echoed through the chamber as the yokai consumed her, her beauty stripped away, leaving her faceless, nameless.

A ghost bound forever to the cursed mirror.

Draco felt that tug on his naval, and they twisted, turning and landed with a crack back in the present. Hermione staggered out of his grasp, clutching her chest as the vision faded. Draco reached out and gripped her arm, his expression tight.

“You saw it too?” she said breathlessly. “Christ, that was horrifying.”

“Vanity destroyed her.” Draco swallowed, staring at the compact from where it hovered between them. It shuddered in the air, its glow intensifying. Draco raised his wand. “Time to wrap this up, Granger.”

With a final burst of magic, the compact snapped shut, its carvings glowing for a moment before falling silent.

The faceless yokai was bound once more.

Draco shook his head once Hermione placed the artifact back in the crate with all the rest. “I am definitely going to die on this assignment, aren’t I?”

“Not if we stick to the plan.”

“And what’s the plan, exactly?”

“Track down the rest of the yokai,” she replied, already heading back to the street. “And try not to get ourselves killed in the process.”

Draco groaned when she grinned at him over her shoulder, but followed nonetheless.

“Next time, wear something with laces, actually, no. You should wear heels.”

“I don't think I'll be able to run in heels.”

“Well, I can’t sacrifice my dignity again by throwing another ghastly flat.”

She sighed, “Fine, but only if you're the one buying the shoes.”

He couldn't argue with that logic.

Notes:

Thank you so much for checking out my fic :) I would love to know what you thought of this chapter! For anyone wanting to hear about future updates or just wants to know how my writing is going OR has any questions, head to my tumblr page! I'd love to chat! <3

Chapter 2: Following the Phantom Trail

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Day Two: Tuesday, 8th of June 2009

Granger’s Second Rule for Conquering Mystical Calamities :

Preparation is Everything

(Malfoy's note: preparation includes letting exceptionally handsome, charismatic and talented Auror’s handle the dangerous bits.)

We have learned in our field research that ancient spirits are cunning, elusive, and entirely too keen on using your demons against you.

(Malfoy’s note: field research is quite a nice way to phrase near death experience.)

This is especially problematic when your partner is Draco Malfoy, whose greatest survival skill seems to be infuriating everything in his path.

(Malfoy’s note: I’d like it on record that my “infuriating everything in my path” saved Granger from becoming a Noppera-bō snack yesterday.)

(Granger’s note: You threw my shoe at it!)

(Malfoy’s note: Sacrifices must be made.)

 

----

 

The Minister of Magic looked very Minister-y this day, which to Draco meant he looked rather sporting. Draco shook his hand upon entering his cushy office and showcased his P.A.M. (Proper Aristocratic Manners) by pulling Hermione’s chair out for her.

She looked at him like he had grown a second head, and perhaps he had. He wasn’t positive, so he touched his neck. No, still only one head. What a relief.

“What is wrong with you?” Hermione hissed, flaring her eyes as she sat down primly, flicking her long chestnut mane over a shoulder. The curls were thick and bouncy today, a far cry from her frizzy Hogwarts days. He would have to remember to compliment her exceptional use of hair charms.

He blinked, blearily, remembering she asked him a question and the words he spoke did not belong to a language of this world.

Merlin, he was tired. How many hours had he been awake now?

Too many. He couldn’t count past thirty anymore.

Draco steadily ignored the red-hot tips of his ears as he sat down himself, leaning back to appear as if he was not on the brink of exhaustion. No, that made it worse. He sat up straighter, crossed an ankle over a knee, and remained like that until Shacklebolt raised a brow in query.

“All right there, Draco?”

“Fine, sir. Been a long… month?”

“Ah, yes. I did hear about the conclusion to that case. Congratulations.”

A beat of silence passed, and then Granger kicked his heel with her toe. Draco sprung into action. “Right, yes. Thank you, Minister.”

“I’m assuming you’ve asked us here to go over our plan.”

Plan. Plaaaan.

Yes, plan. They had a plan.

“We’re hoping to not die.”

Hermione closed her eyes and sighed dejectedly.

“I’m happy to hear that,” Shacklebolt said, chuffing a dry laugh, clearly unbothered by Draco’s somewhat unorthodox reply. He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “I assume, then, that you’ve made some progress tracking the remaining yokai?”

Hermione, ever the professional, snapped out of her momentary lapse of patience and straightened in her chair. “Well, yes and no, Minister. I believe I have been able to identify three more yokai and their associated artifacts, based on my past and present research. The Noppera-bō we encountered yesterday has been safely bound—” she shot Draco a pointed look, “—despite unconventional methods.”

Draco shrugged, the epitome of nonchalance. “The shoe was effective.”

“Be that as it may,” Hermione continued, her tone clipped, “I’m sure the next few yokai will require a more precise strategy. Thus far we haven’t heard of any more sightings. We are planning on setting up a boundary of some sort, perhaps to contain them and keep them from straying beyond London. I’m hoping to have this resolved rather quickly.”

Shacklebolt nodded, eyes sharp as he looked between Draco and Hermione. “That would be a wise course of action.”

“I’ve already worked out logistics with Harry, and the Obliviator’s are on stand-by. So far, most Muggle’s haven’t seemed to have noticed anything happening, but I’m sure we will soon know of a few who have traces of magical lineage that are able to detect something is awry.”

That intrigued Draco, and he made a mental note to ask her about it later. Whether or not that mental note would remain intact when he was of sounder mind and body remained to be seen.

“Draco, have you come up with a solid plan on ensuring Hermione remains safe throughout this ordeal?”

He sat up straighter, forcing all his brainpower to fire up at once. “I will have the scroll listing my established obligation of responsibility on your desk tomorrow morning, sir.”

“See to it that you do. Good work, both of you. And, Draco, do get some sleep.”

They both rose to stand, and when the Minister picked up a parchment and began to read it, they quickly saw themselves out. Draco tried not to wince as the wagon squealed in the wake of their silent dismissal.

Down in the atrium, they hovered near the fountain. He wasn’t exactly ecstatic about this next course of action, but he was in no right mind to go about warding her domain anytime soon, so when he said, “We should establish a headquarters at my flat, the wards and protective enchantments and repelling charms are quite strong, so I think it would be best to head there first,” he had expected a resounding fuck off, no, I’m going home.

Not: “Yes, I think that’s rather smart of you to suggest.”

Draco blinked at Hermione in surprise. “You—what?”

She glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. "I said, yes. I think it's a good idea. The wards at your place are likely more advanced than anything I’ve got. I’m rather lax about it, to be frank. I’ve got a Muggle alarm system, but I’m not exactly keen on being a sitting duck while we wait for leads."

Draco’s lips twisted in confusion, but the edge of suspicion in his tone remained. “You are not someone who enjoys relinquishing control.”

“Survival trumps my pride; besides, it’s not like we’ll be able get anything done if we’re not together.”

Draco gave a short, breathless laugh at that. “Fair point. All right then, let us get moving.”

They made their way towards the Floo network, both silent. Draco couldn’t shake the feeling that Hermione was still holding something back, something she hadn’t said, but given their current circumstances, he wasn’t in the mood to press her about it.

He just wanted to sleep.

As they Flooed back to Draco’s flat, he cast a quick glance over at her. “Are you sure you’re alright with this? You might think my flat isn’t very homely.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow as she stepped out of the Floo with a slight stumble. “You must give me the full tour then, Malfoy.”

Draco gave her an unimpressed look as they walked toward his living room. The place was minimalistic, with sharp edges and too many polished surfaces, and it smelled faintly of wood polish and expensive cologne. It had never really felt like a home, but it served its purpose. The wards, charms, and enchantments covering the entire building were formidable enough to handle whatever life might throw at him, and he was presently thankful that past-Draco had been smart enough to have enough foresight to use his family’s blood magic whilst he cast the wards in and around his flat.

“You’re welcome to take a seat, Granger,” Draco said dryly, gesturing to the chaise lounge, though he knew she would likely remain standing.

Surprisingly, she took him up on the offer, looking around briefly before settling into the cushions, hands folded neatly in her lap. “I’ll need to go through my notes before we do anything else,” she said, pulling out a small spiral-ring notebook from her bag.

“Must we get back to it so soon, Granger?” he sighed, a tired frown tugging down the corner of his lips as he dropped into the armchair opposite her.

Hermione’s eyes flashed with irritation, but she didn’t respond to his teasing. Instead, she looked down at her notes, her brow furrowing.

“I need strategy, Malfoy,” she finally said quietly, more to herself than to him. “I need to know exactly what I’m dealing with.”

“What we’ve been dealing with is utter chaos for over twenty-four hours now, Granger,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “You’re tired. I’m tired. We’re all tired. Let’s just take a break, work it out tomorrow.”

She didn’t look up from her notes. “We don’t have time to rest, Draco, besides, it’s the middle of the day!”

He nearly stomped, but remembered how silly Hermione looked while doing so, and managed to refrain. “I’ll put on a kettle, then.”



He in fact, did not put on the kettle, because he passed out.

Hermione prodded his cheek with her finger, and he merely twisted his head away and grumbled, “…sod off, tiny flying demons…”

Chuffed, cranky, and confused, Hermione opted to find the kitchen. She was positively famished and figured Draco had to have something to eat in his totalitarian penthouse.

“Come to my flat, I’m sure you won’t think it homely,” she mocked, mimicking his posh voice as she wandered down an exceptionally long hallway. The walls were adorned with priceless art, the majority of it Muggle, shockingly. It’s not that she expected him to not have Muggle art in his home, but also, she really hadn’t expected him to have Muggle anything, so, seeing it there on his walls was a bit jarring, all right? She squinted at Van Gogh’s swirling skies, Caravaggio’s dramatic contrasts, and even a bold Kandinsky, its abstract chaos almost at odds with the sharp, clean lines of Draco’s interior.

She frowned, but it was less of a, ‘how ridiculous,’ and more of a, ‘how pleasantly curious,’ sort of frown.

The floors were dark wood, polished to an impossible sheen, and her footsteps echoed faintly in the cavernous space. She passed an antique sideboard, topped with what looked suspiciously like a Muggle record player. She spotted his vinyls stacked neatly beside it, and thought to herself that she wouldn’t put it past him to claim it was enchanted to constantly play Tchaikovsky.

“Homely, indeed,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. Every detail screamed curated perfection, yet the sheer precision of it all felt oddly sterile. Where were the mismatched tea mugs, the piles of books, the—

She paused at an alcove displaying a delicate glass sculpture. It was intricate, almost fragile, with twisting tendrils of smoke-like glass suspended in midair.

A subtle charm must have kept it from shattering, but Hermione doubted Draco would tolerate anyone close enough to risk breaking it.

Finally, she turned into the kitchen. It was a space as crisp as the rest of the flat, with sleek black cabinets and counters that gleamed as though freshly wiped down. There was not a crumb or dish in sight, though a small stack of unopened takeaway menus sat on the island.

Typical.

“Merlin forbid he owns a kettle,” she grumbled, opening cabinet after cabinet and finding nothing. On the last one she opened; she discovered neatly arranged bottles of imported whiskey instead of food.

There was a loud pop! which made Hermione nearly jump out of her skin. Thankfully, body still intact, she met the eyes of a wide-eyed house-elf.

She had to count to ten in her head to keep from hexing him from across his flat.

The elf twisted her hands nervously; big blue eyes trained on Hermione.

“You is M-m-miss Hermione Granger.”

Hermione blinked.

“Master has talked much about you.”

Hermione choked on air, somehow, and resigned herself to lower the bottle of whiskey she had instinctively grabbed as a makeshift weapon. “That’s… me, yes. And you are?”

She would be ignoring the elf’s secondary comment, thank you.

The elf let out a tiny squeak, her hands clasped together as though she was trying to stop herself from bursting into applause. “I is Tansy,” she said breathlessly. “I is… I is meeting Hermione Granger! The great, brave witch who freed the house-elves! Who is saying we is having rights! Who is giving us wages!”

“Oh,” Hermione said, momentarily taken aback. “I wouldn’t call it brave…”

“It is!” Tansy insisted, her voice rising in a pitch that could shatter glass. She smacked her hands over her mouth and whispered in awe, “Tansy is so sorry to shout. Tansy is so happy. Tansy thinks she is overwhelmed.”

“Well, uh, thank you, Tansy,” Hermione said, feeling her cheeks heat. She had been called many things over the years—clever, insufferable, even brilliant—but this level of reverence was new.

She hadn’t met many house-elves since the bill had gone through and passed, so she supposed at least she knew her efforts were somewhat well received. She had worried she might have ruined the entire Wizarding England with the legislation when it passed a few years back.

“No, Tansy is thanking you, Hermione Granger!”

“I just wanted to make sure elves had the chance to make their own choices…”

“And we is making them! Tansy is making choices every day,” the elf said proudly, her ears perking up. “Master Malfoy is paying Tansy thirty-five Galleons a week.”

Dear god, Malfoy of all people pays his elves well?

“Tansy is buying ribbons for her ears! And books! Tansy loves books!”

Hermione smiled despite her inner ramblings.

“That’s wonderful, Tansy. Really.”

The elf suddenly gasped, looking horrified. “But Tansy is forgetting! How can Tansy help Miss Granger? Miss Granger is hungry?”

Hermione nodded, somewhat sheepishly. “A little, yes, but it’s alright, I can figure something out—”

With another squeaky pop!, Tansy vanished, only to reappear seconds later with a flurry of activity. Loaves of bread, jars of jam, fresh butter, a steaming teapot, and even a platter of scones appeared on the counter. Tansy darted back and forth, muttering, “Miss Granger cannot eat scraps. Miss Granger must have the best!”

Hermione watched in wide-eyed silence, overwhelmed by the elf’s enthusiasm. “Tansy,” she said gently, when the kitchen finally stopped spinning with activity, “this is enough. It’s perfect. Thank you.”

Tansy beamed, clasping her hands together again. “Tansy is so happy! Tansy will tell Master that Miss Granger liked her cooking!” And with another loud pop!, the elf was gone.

 

----

 

Day Four: Thursday, 10th of June 2009

Granger’s Third Rule For Overcoming Magical Hardships:

Trust is a Four-Letter Word.

(Malfoy’s note: seven more yokai on the loose behest one tiny hare-brained witch is not a magical hardship, it is chaos, don’t listen to her blasphemy.)

Sometimes, your survival depends on trusting the person next to you.

Other times, that person is Draco Malfoy, and you realize survival might be optional.

(Malfoy’s note: she would have died today if I hadn’t been there. A rogue horde of river fairies hellbent on drowning her in the Thames and a broken wand, anyone?)

(Granger’s note: I unfortunately have to concede that. Though I maintain the fairy horde was your fault.)

 

----

 

Draco didn’t particularly care for being reprimanded, and he especially didn’t care for being yelled at by a now red-faced Potter, who, Draco thought, looked rather like a particularly enraged garden gnome after someone had nicked its hat.

Potter’s glasses had slipped slightly down his nose from his tirade, and the way he jabbed his finger in Draco’s direction made it look as though he were trying to cast a curse with sheer indignation alone.

“Did you ever stop to think, Malfoy?” Potter barked, pacing back and forth like he was trying to wear down the wooden floorboards of his Head Auror office. “Or did you just leap headfirst into a potentially catastrophic situation and hope for the best? Do you know how many Obliviator’s had to be dispatched?”

“No, I don’t think I do—”

“Thirty-two, Malfoy! That’s how many!”

Draco crossed his arms, leaning casually against the desk behind him, exuding the kind of infuriating calm that he knew would only rile Potter up further. “First of all, Potter, I don’t leap into anything. I stride. With purpose. Second of all, Granger was the one who led us into their nest, which mind you, was the middle of a park in Muggle London. Had I known she was going to dive headfirst into their nest thinking there was a hidden yokai within it, then I certainly wouldn’t have had to pull my wand out in front of so many Muggles!”

Potter let out a sound that was somewhere between a growl and a groan. “You then apparated into Diagon Alley with a fairy horde attached to you, Malfoy!”

“Correction,” Draco drawled, inspecting his nails. “Granger did the apparating, I merely followed my principal, and then I led them out of the alley after you failed to secure the perimeter upon my request for backup.”

Potter’s face turned a deeper shade of crimson, and Draco had to bite back a smirk. He could practically see the steam rising from Potter’s ears. Hermione, sitting at the far end of the room with her arms crossed and a look of pure exasperation on her face, cut in before Potter could explode.

“Enough, both of you,” she said, her voice sharp and commanding. “We’re wasting time arguing over something that’s already happened. The fairy incident is handled. The priority is finding the next yokai before it causes any more trouble.”

Draco straightened, giving Hermione a sidelong glance. “Handled is a strong word, Granger. My coat is ruined, and I’m fairly certain your wand is still broken.”

“And I’ve already apologized for that,” Hermione snapped, her cheeks pinking. “But maybe if you hadn’t taunted the fairies after I stumbled into their nest—”

“Oh, please,” Draco interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. “It was hardly taunting, and excuse me, but you are not innocent in this. You did not accidentally stumble upon them, and besides that point, I have my own to make. I simply thought it was humorous they believed they could contend against me, a trained Auror. Back to you, now. If you hadn’t had the grace of a drunken troll, we wouldn’t have even been in that situation to begin with—”

“—Which is exactly why they attacked you and not me after I apparated us away from the Muggles—”

Potter groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Merlin help me, I don’t know how you two haven’t killed each other yet.”

“Mutual tolerance,” Draco said smoothly, flashing Hermione a grin. “Isn’t that right, Granger?”

She simply swiped her broken wand off Harry’s desk and strode from his office with the grace of a stomping hippogriff.

Draco saluted Potter, then followed his pain of a principal to the lifts. She strode right past Weasley without a word, which Draco found remarkably odd considering he thought the two of them something of an item (more like a parasitic-symbiotic relationship but alas, semantics). Weasley came to a swift stop, turning on his heel to call after her. “’Mione?” She continued on, not even tossing a wave over her shoulder as she thundered towards the lift. “Hey—where’re you going?”

“Afternoon, Weasel.” Draco drawled as he walked past, offering a curt nod.

Not his problem, nor his prerogative.

Weasley’s face was a contorted mask of confusion and ire. “Oi, what’re you doing with Hermione?”

Draco turned and proceeded to walk backwards with both flourish and immense talent. He was certain he looked positively hip doing so, too. “Hasn’t your girlfriend told you yet, Weasley?”

What?”

Gods, he really was thick, wasn’t he?

“Clearly, I’m on Granger duty.”

Weasley simply blinked, and recognition came over his features. “Hermione’s your principal?!”

Draco grinned, his canine’s gleaming. “Got to run now, she’s got me on a tight leash.”

That leash, otherwise known as the collar to his robes, was yanked, and Draco stumbled backwards into the lift just as the grates opened and swiftly closed on Weasley’s jaw-slackened expression.

“That was unnecessary.” she muttered, shoving her broken wand into her bag that seemed to never lack room. He would not be commenting on the legalities of such a bag.

“Completely necessary.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Granger, when are you going to learn that when it comes to taunting Weasley, I consider it an art form?”

She scowled at the grates as the lift sluggishly moved towards the atrium. “You’re too old to taunt.”

“Never too old to taunt Weasley, though.”

She rolled her eyes, and he was pleased to see that he had gotten a smile out of Hermione for the first time all day. Not that he was going out of his way to make her smile. He’d never do that.

When she didn’t say anything, Draco’s mouth opened on its own accord, and of course, opted to pry for information about said redhead he liked to taunt and his current, more than obvious, lack of whereabouts in Hermione’s life.

“I thought you and Weasley were a bit of a single-minded entity?”

“What?”

“You’re not with Weasley?”

Single-minded entity,” she snorted, “Is that your way of calling him dim?”

“Well, I will always find a way to sneak in an insult about Weasley, but my question stands precedent as to whether or not I find him intelligent.”

He most certainly didn’t, but he wasn’t going to draw that particular conversation out a moment longer.

She sighed, loud and dejected. And then said nothing.

So, Draco waited, but not with bated breath. Because he would have suffocated, considering she continued to stew in silence the entire ride.
Once the grates opened, Hermione stepped out without another word.

He stood there, dumbfounded by her lack of answer, and nearly got trampled by a horde or wizards and witches. He cursed, having enough of hordes, and squeezed (bodied) his way past and jogged after Hermione. “Granger!”

She continued walking towards the nearest Floo with the least amount of people waiting, completely ignoring him, and making him seem mad in the process by all those who watched him chase after her scurrying form.

Just as she reached for a handful of Floo powder, he snatched her wrist and dragged her away from the suspecting fireplace.

“Let go of me, Malfoy.”

She pulled her wrist, and reluctantly, he released her. “Salazar, Granger. Has one of those fairies crawled up your—”

Tears welled in her eyes, and suddenly Draco found himself speechless when said tears trickled down her cheeks. She turned her head and aggressively swiped them away.

He felt incredibly awkward and quite frankly slightly unhinged at the sight of Hermione Granger crying in front of him. He took a step back. His throat felt strangely on the brink of closing, and he flexed his fingers to dislodge the itchiness creeping beneath his skin.

“Can we just go to Olivander’s before he closes for the day?” she said, face still turned away in a severely uncomfortable looking position. “I’d really rather not have to wait until morning to get a new wand.”

Draco nodded and swallowed the thickness gathering in his throat.

It tasted like bile and regret.

 


 

Walking back into Diagon Alley with a new wand warm against her palm, she let her magic wrap around the instrument so it may acquaint itself. Same wood, same core, and yet it still felt different.

Hermione latched onto that feeling, using it to deflect the growing look of concern on Draco’s face, which only increased in tension as the minutes passed. He hadn’t said a word since they Flooed to Diagon, and when he opted to trail behind her like a well-dressed shadow instead of at her side as he had taken to doing, she found she didn’t like the way his steps clicked after her own, an in-sync echo.

She didn’t owe him an explanation, and yet after nearly five days of spending ninety percent of her time with the wizard, she thought it would be the right thing to do. At least it might explain her dramatic outburst of tears in front of the poor chap.

No man liked to witness a woman crying. Especially an English man.

Stopping outside Flourish & Blott’s (it was muscle memory and not intentional, though she did want to make a quick stop to see if her order had come in) she turned to face Draco, who as she guessed, stopped when she had.

He glanced towards the shop window, brow knocked.

Both opened their mouths at the same time, and as she said, “I’m my own entity,” he said, “Shall we go inside?”

Draco tilted his head, clearly puzzled by their awkward synchronization.

"Right, uh, you first," he said, gesturing with a flourish that might have been mocking if she hadn’t come to know him decently well in their short amount of time forced together both night and day.

Hermione hesitated, a small flush creeping up her neck.

Why was this suddenly so difficult?

She drew a breath and blurted, "I broke up with Ron last year."

Draco blinked, clearly not expecting that. "Right,” he said again, slower this time, as if processing the information required more bandwidth than usual. Then, with a pointed glance toward the shop, he added, "Care to tell me why we're loitering outside a bookshop instead of discussing your love life somewhere less public?"

"We’re not discussing my love life, Malfoy. I just thought you should know.”

“I see.”

“For context."

"Context," he repeated, crossing his arms and leaning casually against the shop's window display. "And what context would that be, Granger?"

She narrowed her eyes, regretting her decision to volunteer the information in the first place. Blast. Bollocks. Bologna!

She cursed her inherent nature to overshare.

"You asked earlier, and I didn’t answer. I’m answering now. Consider it closure on your curiosity."

"Curiosity closed, then," Draco said. "Though if I were you, I'd have made up something more dramatic. Infidelity, scandal, a sordid love triangle, perhaps."

Hermione glared at him, though her lips twitched. "It was mutual. And amicable. There’s no scandal to speak of, no matter how much you might wish there were."

"Mutual, amicable, and dreadfully boring. Of course." He straightened up and gestured toward the door. "Shall we, or would you like to share more riveting details about your perfectly polite breakup with Weaselbee?"

Flourish & Blott's smelled of parchment, ink, and the faintest hint of dust, a combination that had always been comforting to Hermione. She made a beeline for the counter, Draco following at a more leisurely pace.

While she inquired about her order, she could feel his eyes on her back, and it was all she could do not to whirl around and demand he stop looking at her like she was some sort of mystery. Once the clerk handed her the package—a thin book wrapped in brown paper—she turned back to find Draco leaning against a shelf, flipping lazily through a tome he had no intention of buying.

"Anything curious?" she asked, more to fill the silence than out of genuine interest.

He snapped the book shut and placed it back on the shelf with deliberate care. "Not really. You done here?"

She nodded, clutching the package to her chest. "Yes."

They stepped out into the street, the hum of Diagon Alley filling the air once more. She had hoped that would be the end of it, but Draco, apparently, had other ideas.

"So," he said casually, falling into step beside her this time, "was it really mutual, or are you just sparing me the gritty details?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "It was mutual, Malfoy. We grew apart. It happens."

"Mm," he hummed, clearly unconvinced. "Doesn't strike me as very Granger-esque to let something fall apart without a fight."

"Not everything can be fixed by sheer willpower.”

"No, I suppose not."

They walked in silence for a few minutes, the tension between them thick enough to cut with a knife. Finally, Draco broke it, his tone softer than before.

"For what it's worth, you don’t seem the type to give up easily. If it didn’t work out, it’s probably because it wasn’t supposed to."

Hermione glanced at him, startled by the uncharacteristic sincerity, and thus came to a complete stop. She had a bad habit of doing that around him.

She wondered if it made her look a bit twitchy.

"That’s... oddly insightful of you?"

Draco smirked, the moment of vulnerability gone as quickly as it had come. "Don’t get used to it, Granger. I have a reputation to uphold." His hands slipped into the pockets of his robes, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I just, uh, I didn’t hear about it, that’s all. Caught me off guard, all right? You’re my principal and I didn’t dig deep enough into that part of your life as I should have to begin with when I established my care plan.”

Care plan sounded much more delicate than the situation granted, but she let it slide.

“It’s not exactly newsworthy, Malfoy. People break up all the time. I just thought you should know, seeing as you clearly think I’m obligated to answer for my relationship status.”

“Not obligated,” Draco countered, his smirk returning faintly, though it lacked its usual sharp edge. “Occupational hazard to ask hard questions. It’s just that… you two were... predictable.”

“Predictable?”

“Steady.”

“Ah.”

“Like a house elf and its tea towel.” He added.

Hermione’s mouth dropped open, scandalized. “Did you just compare me to a tea towel?”

“Not you. The relationship,” he said, tone casual, though she caught the quick flicker of hesitation in his eyes. “Comfortable. Sturdy. A bit worn out, maybe.”

She crossed her arms, trying not to smirk herself despite the irritation bubbling up. “And you’re an expert on relationships now, are you?”

“I’ve been in a few,” Draco replied breezily, though there was a distinct tightness to his tone that made Hermione arch an eyebrow.

“Oh, yes. I’m sure all your exes look back on their time with you fondly.”

“Of course they do. I’m a catch.”

“Ah, because the sight of you makes women fall to their knees before you like you’re some sex god and they must beg for your affections?”

“You said it, not me.”

“Ugh.”

His laugh tickled her cheek, and she had to hold her breath to not notice the faint trace of spearmint.

“Say it, I know you’re dying to.”

She grinned. She couldn’t help it.

How did he even know she had an insult at the back of her tongue that was more than ready to wag its way to freedom?

“What was it then, Malfoy? The incessant sarcasm or the unrelenting arrogance that won them over?”

“Both,” he said with a grin that was too smug for its own good.

Hermione exhaled, trying not to laugh. “Ridiculous.” She turned to move on, ready to finally get back to HQ, aka, Draco’s Flatsion (Flat + Mansion) but then, quieter than she’d expected, Draco added, “So... you’re okay?”

She paused mid-step, caught off guard by the question. Turning back to him, she found his expression unreadable, though his brows were slightly furrowed, and his hands had left his pockets, resting awkwardly at his sides.

“I’m fine,” she said after a beat. “It wasn’t... I mean, we weren’t meant to be. Obviously.”

Draco nodded once, his gaze slipping past her to the cobbled streets. “Good.”

“Good?”

“Good that you realized it,” he said, straightening his posture and slipping back into the sharp-edged confidence she recognized. “Better to figure it out than waste your time pretending. Life’s too short for that sort of nonsense.”

Hermione studied him for a moment, wondering if he was speaking from experience. Before she could press further, he gestured toward the street for them to carry on.

When Draco followed close behind, his footsteps matched hers, but this time they felt less like an echo and more like a melody.

----


Day Ten:
Wednesday, 16th of June 2009

Malfoy’s Fourth Rule for Surviving Granger-Induced Magical Chaos:

Know When to Break the Rules

Flexibility is key when dealing with unpredictable magical creatures—or with Granger, for that matter.

But let’s not get carried away. Rules are made to be bent, twisted, or outright ignored in the pursuit of survival… just as long as they’re my rules.

(Granger’s note: why did they let you become an Auror if that is your outlook on the law?)

(Malfoy’s note: because I am exceptional, Granger. Do keep up.)

Remember: yokai don’t play fair, so why should we?

Adapt, improvise, and always keep your wand at the ready.

Unless, of course, you’ve snapped it in a dramatic fit of rage. In that case, we’re doomed.

Signed,
Draco Lucius Malfoy
(Survivor, Genius, Handsome Devil, and Reluctant Babysitter of the Brightest Witch of Her Age)  

 

----

 

Hermione stared at the spread of artifacts in front of her, circling the table, then doubling back as she squinted at her notes. She hated the amount of question marks in the fine print.

They had been at this for nine days now, and they were no closer to finding another yokai.

The first one had to have been a lucky find; she realized with no small amount of dissatisfaction.

To have located it and bound it within the first day of them being released was pure circumstantial luck. She figured that the spirit hadn’t found a den to hide in, and that was why they happened upon the entity.

But now that the remaining yokai had hunkered down, it made their search all the more daunting. The reports had puttered out after the fifth day, and most of Magical and Muggle London had gone back into the normal swing of things. The Obliviator’s intervened when necessary, and when they got summons to sites, so did Hermione and Draco.

Most of the reports were benign, and didn’t appear to really point towards mischievous acts from ancient spirits. Mainly a few incidents with rogue underage magic and spells that had gone (terribly) wrong.

Hermione sighed for the umpteenth time in less than a minute and glared at Draco from where he lounged. He leaned back on two legs of his dining table chair, teetering back and forth. He had long since kicked his feet up onto the lip of the table, ankles crossed, steel-toe gleaming in the overhead lights.

After the third (unsuccessful) day of their hunt, they had cast a large veil around London meant to contain the spirits. It was complex magic, much more complicated than she initially anticipated. She had tinkered with border wards and boundary spells enough during the months of running and hiding with Harry and Ron, but those experiences had been less about magic and more about surviving. So, after hours of failed casting, and Draco’s bored, drawling complaints of her inability to properly set up wards, she agreed that she’d needed Draco’s help (not that she would ever admit such a thing out loud ever again, to anyone. Ever.). And because he was, after all, a very skilled Auror, they had done a spectacular job.

After the veil was cast to keep the yokai from prowling further beyond the city’s boundary lines, the idea for a map bloomed into existence.

“You’re not even looking at the map,” Hermione said, her voice bordering on exasperation as she crossed her arms and cast a frustrated glance at Draco, who was clearly far more interested in the movement of his own feet than the magical map sprawled across the wall.

Draco lazily twisted his head, the flicker of amusement in his silver irises just barely visible under that half-lidded glare. "It’s not changed in the five minutes since I looked at it."

“Yes, well, you might miss something if you don’t watch it.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "You really think something’s going to jump out at us while we’re sitting here, staring at the map like a couple of bored owls?"

Hermione huffed, the task at hand suddenly feeling heavier than it had in days. There had to be something they were missing, something in the fine details that hadn’t revealed itself yet.

It was driving her bloody mad, and so was Draco sodding Malfoy.

"I’m just saying, we might catch something if we keep our eyes on it."

She gestured toward the map spread out on the wall before them with sticking charms. The glowing lines and symbols of the city looked as inert as ever, but the map wasn’t just a simple projection of locations. No, this was a map of a different caliber.

One that she had invented herself, thank you very much.

Hermione had potentially(definitely) created something history-altering. She had constructed a charm, for which she had no name for as of yet, but something clever would come to mind soon enough.

Hopefully.

It hadn’t taken her all that long to figure out how to create the charm. Of course, it wasn’t like she’d set out to revolutionize magic—she just needed a solution. It had been a moment of inspiration, born from frustration and the need for answers. For a few days, she had studied the magical traces and spell work of the Marauder’s Map with the intention of replicating it for her own obviously pressing needs.

Though, when she fire-called Harry, asking if she could borrow the map, he immediately stepped through Draco’s flat in a panic, thinking Hermione’s inquisition was because Hogwarts was under attack. After calming him, she explained her plans and he begrudgingly handed over the map and went on his way, grumbling like a cave troll.

She had managed to mimic its function on a much broader scale after a few sleepless nights, and in the process, created something entirely new. The Marauder’s Map, of course, was a masterpiece in its own right, but Hermione’s mind had kept churning, seeing how the spells could be adapted for a larger radius.

What she had created was so spectacular, she still could hardly believe it.

This map wasn’t about evading capture, or tracking people’s whereabouts, it was about the very essence of magic being highlighted

Using the boundaries of the veil they had set in place; Hermione had woven the magic into a map that was able to alert her and Draco to any magical traces that were beyond the relative norm for everyday magical footprints. The map didn’t just show locations, it tracked anomalies, disturbances, and concentrations of magical energy.

This was no longer just about casting a wide net; this was about sifting through the strands of magic to locate what didn’t belong.

It was genius, if she did say so herself.

She couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride when she looked at it. Again.

“You’re staring at the map like you want to snog it, Granger.”

She flicked her gaze to Draco, hoping the look would come across scathing. “I am staring at a masterpiece, Malfoy.”

He snorted, and her face grew dark, which only made him laugh harder.

Sure, it wasn’t perfect, and it wasn’t going to make the yokai blink into existence like the lights on a Christmas tree, but it was still a valuable tool in their search. She’d managed to make something from (sort of) scratch, a charm that would help them track what they couldn’t see with their eyes alone.

And she was pleased to know Draco even agreed that it was something that would benefit the Auror Department in the long run.

Still, it wasn’t enough. Not yet. The map was their best lead, but it hadn’t led them to a yokai yet despite seeing a few traces of their ancient magic flicker in and out of existence every now and then.

The longer they searched, the more she realized that the yokai they were hunting now had to be actively hiding, cleverly avoiding detection.

Sentient, perhaps? She shuddered to think it true.

“As always, your lack of modesty is most gratifying to witness.”

“Stuff it, Malfoy. I’d like to see revolutionize magic the way I have.”

“You piggybacked off Potter’s map.”

“Don’t act like you’re not impressed,” Hermione muttered, half to herself, her fingers brushing over the edges of the map.

Draco grinned, the brackets around the corners of his mouth deep. Hermione swallowed the pool of saliva that flooded under her tongue.

“I never said I wasn’t impressed, Granger.”

She rolled her shoulders back rather primly and glanced back down to the artifacts. Ignoring the blush that was slipping past the collar of her t-shirt. “Yes, well, you should be.”

A few beats of silence passed, and then Draco crooned, “I’m merely suggesting that if you’re not careful, that massive head of yours might explode.”

Hermione cast a wandless stinging hex at his ankle, and he jerked back hard enough he toppled backwards, landing in a heap on the floor surrounded by the splintered wood of his chair.

 


 

Draco had resigned himself to relaxing. It had been a long enough day, and his chaise was calling his name. He had just settled himself down, a pillow comfortably placed beneath his rather sore neck, a book hovering above his head, and a warm cup of tea in hand when one posh, annoyingly inarticulate ponce stepped through his Floo.

He took a deep breath, having dreaded this exact moment for days now.

He knew it was only a matter of time before Theo would have gotten bored enough to ignore Draco’s warnings to stay away.

“Should have blocked the Floo if you didn’t wish to see my handsome face,” Theo chirruped when he noticed Draco’s scowl.

“Yes, my fault for thinking you capable of being a rational adult.”

“You don’t look like you’re in any particular danger at the moment.”

The book hovering in front of his face was snatched out of the air, and he huffed an annoyed breath to see Theo thumbing through the pages with an impatience he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy.

“That’s because you haven’t met the devil whose taken up residence in my dining room.”

“You did mention something of a principal, didn’t you?” Theo snapped the book shut and tossed it on top of the coffee table. It landed with a hard thwack that made Draco wince. “Who is it?”

“No one you need to concern yourself over. Be gone, gremlin. I am busy being exceptional at my job.”

“You’re holed up in your flat that has more protection in place than Azkaban, my friend.”

“I find your point lacking.” Draco said, crossing his arms and closing his eyes. If he just pretended Theo wasn’t there, perhaps he would just… leave.

“What exactly is going on that a travel ban has been set in place by the Ministry?”

Draco sighed. “It’s beyond your capabilities to understand, Theodore.”

“I am very capable of complex though.”

“Hm,” hummed Draco.

“I just chose not to engage in such a thing.”

“How unfortunate it is that I call you my best friend.” Draco remarked blandly.

“You’re snippy. I don’t like it when we fight.”

“Are we fighting?”

“Well,” Theo sniffed. “You’re being dreadful.”

“My apologies.”

Theo tutted and sat himself down in an armchair to Draco’s left, he stretched out his limbs like a cat and nearly whinged, “It’s Wednesday, which means half priced butterbeers at Finnigan's, and I’m bored. We must go out.”

“Can’t.” Draco snapped. He squeezed his eyes tighter. “Busy.”

“Do you wish for me to wither away from my boredom?”

“Of course not,” Draco said, sighing. He managed to open a single eye. “But you do not appear to be languishing away at present.”

“It is my soul you should fear for.”

Draco fully opened his eyes with a groan that bordered on a growl.

Just as he was about to physically force Theo back home, Hermione stepped into the room.

“Malfoy, has Harry come to fetch the duplicate of the map? I sent an owl—oh, hello?”

Hermione stopped dead in her tracks, hovering between the hall and the living room. Draco unfurled his body to his full height, stepping around the chaise to gesture between the two.

This was the last thing he wanted to do, but alas, manners.

“Granger, you’ve met Theodore Nott before, but I’ll introduce you again.”

Theo’s laugh burst out of him like an unchecked kettle, wheezing, and wailing. “Hermione Granger is your principal! Oh, this is great. This is bloody splendid!”

Draco’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. "Careful, Theo," Draco drawled, his voice dripping with menace. "I might forget we’re friends and introduce you to our rather impressive collection of cursed artifacts instead."

Theo ignored the warning entirely, stepping forward and offering Hermione an overly dramatic bow. “Hermione Granger. Brightest Witch of Her Age. Draco’s principal. What a delicious turn of events.” He straightened, his grin splitting his freckled face in two. “You must be the devil he’s been whining about.”

Hermione’s lips twitched, but she quickly schooled her features into something more neutral. “I wasn’t aware Malfoy had real friends.”

“Hah!”

Draco merely scowled between the two who were most definitely fast tracking to be rather chummy.

He needed to stop it. Immediately.

“I presumed he made them up for show.”

“Oooooh,” Theo crooned. “Did that string, Draco?”

“I am pleased to see he has at least one friend with a sense of humor. I feared you’d all be morose and terribly posh.”

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. “For Merlin’s sake, Granger, don’t encourage him.”

“Oh, that was encouraging?” Theo turned to Hermione with mock offense. “I was under the impression she was insulting me.”

“Same difference,” Draco muttered.

Theo smirked and perched himself on the arm of the chaise, lounging in a way that made Draco’s eye twitch. “So, Hermione,” Draco withheld his tch of disgust at Theo’s flirtatious drawl, “what’s it like babysitting my dear Draco here?”

“She’s my principal, Theo.”

Theo carried on, ignoring Draco. “I assume he’s insufferable at best and downright maddening at worst?”

Hermione tilted her head, her gaze flickering to Draco. “It’s been enlightening, to say the least.”

Draco scowled. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Preferably far away from me?”

Theo ignored him, leaning conspiratorially toward Hermione. “I’ll bet he’s already tried to weasel out of doing anything remotely dangerous, hasn’t he? Claimed he’s too important to risk his perfectly coiffed hair?”

Hermione fought the smile tugging at her lips. “Actually, he’s been quite helpful. Though his hair has been a consistent topic of conversation.”

Draco threw his hands in the air. “I am standing right here!”

“And we’re so grateful for your presence,” Theo quipped without missing a beat.

Hermione finally let a small laugh escape, and Draco groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Granger, please, I am begging you, stop indulging him. He will never leave.”

“I don’t mind him being here,” she replied with a shrug, her tone far too amused for Draco’s liking.

Theo clapped his hands together, a gleam in his eye. “This is fantastic. I must stick around for this little partnership. I feel it has endless entertainment potential.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Draco snapped.

“Oh, come now, Malfoy,” Hermione said, her tone feigning innocence. “Maybe Theo could be of some use. He seems resourceful.”

“There is absolutely nothing of value he could contribute to our mission.”

“Absolutely not true,” Theo said with a smirk, blue eyes positively gleaming with ill-intent. “I’m an invaluable asset to any operation. Just ask anyone.”

“I’m asking you to leave,” Draco deadpanned.

Theo ignored him, turning back to Hermione. “So, what’s this grand mission you’ve got him on? Surely it’s something worthy of his talents. Just today, I tried to make a trip outside London, and I was rebounded several feet. The Muggles went about their way just fine though. Rather odd, don’t you think?”

“Sorry about that, situational hazard. Anything with a magical trace will be rebounded by the veil we put up around London.”

“How interesting…”

“Yes, quite.”

“I did most of the work.” Draco protested.

“Not true, I think we did an equal amount of spell work.”

“So, you created it together, then?”

Draco said, “No.” and the same time Hermione said “Yes.”

Theo looked between them, and being Draco’s best friend since womb-hood, he saw his greasy little gears begin to turn.

“This is a very interesting development.”

That was when Draco had decidedly had enough Theo-ism’s for the time being.

“Time to go, gremlin.” Draco grabbed Theo by the collar of his jumper, grabbed a fistful of Floo powder, and sent Theo on his merry way just as he cried out, “Toodles, darlings!” as the green flames whisked him back to Nott Manor.

Draco hid his face with his hands in shame. “I am so sorry.”

Hermione’s tinkling, girlish giggling had his head snapping up faster than a whip.

“You didn’t have to kick him out.”

“I did,” Draco insisted, and when she quirked a brow, he realized he must have looked a wee bit manic. It always happened around Theo. Blasted Theodore. “Trust me, he’s a menace. He cannot be trusted. Ever.”

She cocked her head to the side, thick chestnut curls tumbling over her shoulder in a rather distracting show. “Are you still friends with all of them, then?”

Ah, yes. It was time for The Talk.

“Not all of them.”

She nodded slowly, chewing on her cheek.

Draco, being good-natured, and an overall well-to-do chap, sat down in the armchair Theo had previously occupied. He clasped his hands between his knees and tried not to sigh.

“It’s really just Pansy, myself, Blaise and Theo that still hang out. Greg, uh,” Draco cleared his throat, looking as far away from Hermione as possible. “We haven’t spoken since Vince died. I had a falling out with Daphne when I broke off my betrothal with Astoria, and so—”

“You were engaged?” Squawked Hermione, rather owl-like, which meant he had to look at her now. 

Whisky eyes met his, warm and inviting and not at all full of judgement as he had expected.

“If you want to put it that way, then yes,” he muttered, tugging at the collar of his jumper. He felt a bit warm, so he waved a hand and banished the fire roaring in the wake of Theo’s leave. “For a year.”

She cleared her throat, slipping from the arm of the chaise down to the cushions proper. A slump, if you will.

“I see...”

“It’s different than an engagement,” he suddenly said, not entirely sure why his mouth was moving. “To me, at least. I didn’t really have a say. I just agreed.”

“Until you didn’t?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged, hoping it came off nonchalantly. “until I didn’t.”

She hummed deep in her throat, and Draco found himself staring at her slender neck, at the hand splayed around the base of her throat as she stared out the windows of the living room.

She had delicate, fine bones in her fingers. Pretty golden skin, and a soft, feminine jawline.

He swallowed and jerked his attention to his own hands, weaving his fingers together, twisting and tugging on his knuckles until they popped.

“You know,” she said, clearing her throat. “Ron mentioned once how he didn’t mind being around you so much anymore.”

“High praise, that is.”

“Oh, shut up,” she huffed, smiling despite her admonishment. “I just meant it in the way, well, I don’t really know. I suppose I meant that I’m glad we’re all… okay. Does that make sense?”

Draco nodded absently, still playing with his hands, ignoring hers as best he could as they fluttered while she rambled on in her explanations.

“It was a bit touch and go there, at first. I really thought we might lose Harry.” Her delicate brows furrowed, and Draco certainly did not pay attention to the way she chewed on her lower lip. “It’s such a blur now, for the most part. I think I’ve compartmentalized it, though. Best I can do.”

She was pretty when she was introspective, and Draco shifted closer to count how many freckles danced across her petit nose. He had always thought she was exceptionally pretty, but now that he was forced to take in every inch of her face, he wondered when it was she had become this gorgeous? Fucking hell. Had he Stockholm’d himself? Was this some sort of proximity induced madness?

He needed to squash the warmth blooming in his chest immediately. There was no time to drift into fantasies where he explored expanding the nature of their relationship.

Draco cleared his through like a properly sane man, or something of the likes. “Bit of a mess, was he?”

“Yeah,” she said absently, tugging on a loose string from the rip in her Muggle jeans. “A bit.”

“I was too, if it’s any consolation.” Draco stared at her profile, at the way she sank her teeth into the plump flesh of her bottom lip, at the deep crimson shade the action drew forth. “I drank for a solid year... after.”

He could not fight the shudder that overtook his body.

Her gaze snapped to his. “Did you?”

“Mhm,” he somehow, someway, managed to sound like this was an easy thing to speak of, and promptly ignored the little niggling voice in his head that said with Hermione, it sort of was easy.

“I saw uh, a myriad of whisky bottles in your cupboard. Sorry, I snooped a while back.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “I’m not surprised.” Then silence. So much silence.

Until he spoke again.

“I do drink now and again, but not like that. Never like that.” He scratched his cheek, blunt nails catching on stubble. “I had a lot to… work out. To grieve. To forgive myself for.” He swallowed, feeling the heat of her attention on his jaw, his cheek, his mouth. “I still do. I always will.”

“It never really leaves us, does it?”

He slowly tracked his gaze across the room until he met those intricately colored irises, a rich blend of amber, brown and gold, and for a moment, he didn’t mind the thought of getting lost in them.

Notes:

Thank you for the comments, kudos, bookmarks and to all those who have subscribed. This was originally going to be a one shot but I fell in love with these idiots and this plot and well here we are.

For anyone wanting to hear about future updates or just wants to know how my writing is going OR has any questions, head to my tumblr page! I'd love to chat! <3

Chapter 3: Mind the Phases

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Day Twenty-Two: Monday, 28th of June 2009

Granger’s Fifth Rule for Navigating Magical Calamities:

Know Thy Enemies Weakness

If you can manage to pinpoint what will make them crumble, then you’re sure to come out on top.

(Malfoy’s note: Merlin, you’re just begging for me to make a randy joke, aren’t you?)

(Granger’s note: Point proven.)

 

----

 

Hermione paced up and down the length of the walkway outside her cubicle, ignoring Draco as he tossed her not-ball-shaped-stress-ball between his hands, smirking at her restlessness. She was, for all intents and purposes, going barking mad.

He was everywhere. Poking his nose in everything. He watched her. He followed her. He smirked while making little randy jokes and took to waggling his eyebrows whenever she flushed in response. He knew how she took her tea, and often plied her with sweets when she was cranky from skipping breakfast. He fetched her things from the archives, picked up take away for dinner when she said she was too busy to eat, and did all of these things without a modicum of displeasure.

If anything, he seemed happy to comply.

It was insanity.

Hermione stopped mid-pace when that little strawberry shaped sponge hit her shoulder, helplessly ricocheting to the floor.

“What was that for?”

He looked entirely too pleased with himself, that infuriating smirk plastered across his face after he accio’d the not-ball-shaped-stress-ball back to his awaiting palm with a bit of wandless magic. He then continued his game of toss with far too much ease for someone who had absolutely no business being this comfortable around her.

“You looked like you could use it.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Can’t you bugger off for a bit?”

He dropped his head over the headrest of her new swanky office chair—courtesy of one Draco Malfoy—and she immediately turned a furious shade of fuchsia when she watched with entirely too much interest as he took a swig from her water bottle.

Again, because she felt she needed to reiterate this fact to herself amidst that new development, she was going barking mad.

“Can’t. The baddie ghosties could pop up at any moment looking for their homes.”

She groaned, stomped over to where he sat in her chair at her desk in her cubicle, and snatched the squishy stress sponge from his calloused palm. She squeezed it once, and then threw it at his forehead. It gave an innocent thwack, and then tumbled rather inelegantly into his awaiting palm.

“I’m going to the canteen.” She announced, lifting her nose in the air. “Goodbye.”

She was alone for exactly seven seconds before his cologne overtook her sensibilities. Gods, honestly, how old was she? Fourteen?

“I meant alone, Malfoy.”

“Granger, I like my head attached to my body, as do I enjoy the use of my cock, so if you would please just allow me to do my job, that would be great.”

She choked on air and had to stop walking so she could cough her way back into properly breathing and functioning and existing in a normal human way if she were being honest.

What?”

“If anything happens to you, Shack will have my head, and Potter will take my cock. Prizes, I imagine, to mount on their respective walls.”

“Horrifying image you just conjured up for me. Again.”

“Well,” he drawled, and she shoved a palm over his opening mouth to stifle the randy joke about to be made. No doubt about either her knickers being damp, or why she was picturing such things, or probably, picturing his cock given the context.

“Enough, Malfoy.” She hissed and carried on towards the corridor to make her way to the lift.

They went down, making many stops at the various levels of the ministry, and along the way the lift picked up both Harry and Ron. Joy, oh joy, praise be.

“Hey!” Harry greeted cheerily, and when Ron didn’t say anything at first, Hermione only raised her brows, and he muttered out quietly, “Hullo, ‘Mione.”

“Off to lunch?” she queried.

“Yes, you?”

“Yes, quite famished.” Draco snorted from somewhere behind her, but she paid him no mind considering there were three bodies between her and her overzealous, overhelpful, overeager bodyguard.

“Malfoy? Harry asked, craning his head to glance up past the small sea of heads. "That you back there?"

"Yep," he replied coolly. “Afternoon, Potter. Hello, Weasel.”

The latter muttered a respective greeting of, "'ello, dickhead."

She sighed, her foot tapping impatiently as she waited to be released from these hellish confines.

The lifts opened up into the atrium, and Hermione allowed herself to be swept into it with the crowd. Draco caught her hand when she began to lose her footing, and she snatched it back the second his skin contacted hers. She rightfully ignored the warmth his touch left in the wake of its absence.

She and Harry chatted happily with Ron sulking on Harry’s right, and she again, ignored Draco’s looming presence at her left. She did, however, notice the many glares he and Ron seemed to exchange in the short walk to the canteen, while in the queue for their food, and then all the way to the table they sat at. Together.

It was proving to be the strangest day.

Draco ate his ham and cress sandwich next to her, and occasionally stole a crisp from her open bag on her tray. Each time she swatted at his hand, but let him steal another despite her warning.

She drew the line at caffeine, threatening to hex him when he tried to steal a sip from her coffee.

“I don’t want to wait in the queue again.” He whinged, a haughty sneer on his face. “Besides, you never even drink your entire cup.”

“Sometimes I do!”

“Hardly. Especially if there’s no sugar in it, and I noticed you didn’t ask for any.”

She rolled her eyes, and on principle, proceeded to drown the entire cup in several gulps.

Draco snorted and reached over the swipe the drip running down her chin. “You’re entirely too stubborn for your own good, woman.”

“I don’t tolerate thievery.”

“Hm,” He quirked a brow, and then reached for her crisps with a smug little smirk. She cast a wandless stinging hex at his fingers, which only made him laugh.

“What is happening?”

Hermione jerked her attention towards her two oldest friends, looking between Harry and Ron in rapid succession.

It had been easier than she expected to put out of mind what happened between she and Ron, considering he had been her boyfriend for nearly a decade.

Thankfully they both were adults about the situation and managed to slip back into their old friendship, and neither held any grudges.

After a good amount of time had passed, of course.

That on its own was profoundly mature for Ron especially, considering he was a seasoned pro at grudge-holding. She was also pleased to note that it had been much easier than she had anticipated to act as if they hadn’t seen each other naked thousands of times. A rather impressive feat, if she did say so herself.

She blinked several times to bring herself back to the present, managing to step away from her spiraling thoughts.

She’d somehow forgotten they were there amidst her quarreling with Draco.

Christ almighty.

“What?” Her voice was pithy, and she felt her face heat to an imaginable degree, hot enough she broke out in a sweat. Harry and Ron looked between the two of them, the former in awe, the latter in horror.

“Are you two chummy?” Ron asked, his mouth twisting in that way of his when his brain was working entirely too hard. “Have you gone and made friends with Malfoy?”

“Well, Ronald, I’ve been forced by your boss and our best friend as well as our dear Minister of Magic to endure Draco’s company every moment of every day, so yes, I would think two adults with many similar interests would in fact, become chummy after such a long time of forced proximity.”

“Bloody hell,” Ron said, slumping in his seat.

Harry only laughed, and to Hermione’s own bout of horror, Draco looked utterly shocked at her admission.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

He merely shrugged, but she saw the slight smirk threatening to make its debut. “No real reason, Granger.”

She glowered, let out an undignified growl, and pushed away from the table. “Have a good rest of your day.”

Draco was hot on her heels in record time, down to four seconds. Not that she was counting.

“You make it incredibly difficult to do any sort of lazing about.”

“Not your job.” She snapped back, and that earned her a deep laugh, the kind that had him throwing his head back, bringing out the brackets she liked so very much at the corners of his mouth.

 

----

 

Day Twenty-Four: Wednesday, 30th of June 2009

Malfoy’s Sixth Rule For Untangling Magical Messes:

Think Like the Enemy

Through rigorous investigation, we’ve discovered that yokai are far more strategic than we gave them credit for.

(Granger’s note: there is nothing rigorous this man has ever done in his entire life)

(Malfoy’s note: I can list quite a few rigorous activities I enjoy doing on the regular, Granger)

They’ve adapted to avoid detection, using our own tools and assumptions against us. The solution? Think like the yokai.

(Malfoy’s note: Just to make the audience aware, I’ve been thinking like the yokai for days; Granger is just catching up.)

(Granger’s note: You thought they might want to move into your flat if I offered them the opportunity. Forgive me if I doubted your insight.)

(Malfoy’s note: The offer still stands if they’re paying rent, which you are not, by the way.)

 

----

 

"No," Hermione interjected quickly, feeling her irritation rise like a wall of steaming water. "but the yokai are. They’ve clearly adapted!”

“I told you they were sentient.”

“Draco, there is no way. That would require a brain, which they don’t have, and a consciousness, which is impossible without a brain.”

“Well, then would you care to logically explain how they’ve found ways to stay off our radar if they are not, in fact, sentient?”

She wrinkled her nose, and he smiled a soft, knowing smile at her in a way that said he was fond of her.

She ignored it.

“The ghosts at Hogwarts are sentient, no?”

“Yes, but that’s different.”

“How?”

She threw her hands up, “Christ, I don’t know!”

“We’re not just tracking random magical disturbances, Granger. We are clearly tracking the work of creatures who know what they’re doing."

There was a long pause as Hermione crossed her arms, gaze drifting back to the map. She hovered close enough to him she felt his warmth radiating, and his cologne curled its way around her senses. He smelled like rain, and new parchment, and the sturdy musk of pine trees. He reached past her, temporarily caging her in against the table to grasp one of the artifacts to get a closer look, and when his arm brushed her waist and his breath hit her exposed shoulder, she swallowed.

He settled back to where he was previously standing, kitsune mask in hand, and she took a miniscule step away.

“You’ve been studying the map too much," he muttered, half in jest, but there was a rare note of seriousness in his tone. "It’s just a tool. We’ve got to rely on our instincts more than this, on what we have in front of us tied to the very creatures we are trying to find."

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but something in the way Draco said it, that bare flicker of belief behind his usual sardonic tone, made her stop. She had never asked for his approval, and yet in this moment, it felt like something akin to it. Maybe he was right. Maybe they (she) had become so focused on the map, and the overwhelming sense of urgency that befell them daily to get this situation wrapped up, that they’d (she’d) lost sight of what truly mattered.

Draco held the mask up to his face, and she snatched it away, cradling it like a precious baby to her chest. "No touchy."

He shrugged, and picked up the music box, fiddling with the broken key.

With a frustrated sigh, Hermione put the mask back down and turned her back on him to stride towards the massive window overlooking the London bridge.

She massaged her temples with a dejected sigh.

"What do you suggest we do? Forget the map and opt to chase them down like we’re hunting for wild dragons?”

"Wouldn’t be the first time you tried to go after something dangerous with no plan."

"Shut up, Malfoy," she shot back, glaring at the churning river and the tiny, nearly microscopic boats bobbing at its surface. “It all bloody well worked out, didn’t it?”

“Yes, yes, we all bow to Her Majesty, Hermione Jean Granger, Brightest Witch of Her Age, receiver of The Order of Merlin First Class, general Do-Gooder, Slayer of Evil Wizards, etcetera, etcetera…”

She turned, glared, and tried to suppress the smile threatening to bloom into a full grin. She was determined to keep it hidden.

“It sounds like you might be a tad jealous of my accolades.”

“You have turned into quite the egomaniac, haven’t you?”

Ignoring him, her new usual, she pivoted their conversation in a new direction, lest she wish to get into yet another pissing match with him.

“We have followed every single lead we’ve been sent.”

“Yes, and the overarching theme of the leads have told us what?”

Hermione frowned, her frustration creeping back up. “That the yokai are in fact hiding. That they’ve adapted. That they’re smart, and we’re not dealing with random magical blips, but potentially entirely sentient creatures that have likely mastered detecting our own magical signatures.”

“Precisely.” He said in a tone that suggested he was just tickled she finally managed to agree with him, though she had done so through the grit of her teeth.

The silence between them stretched, thick as tar. Hermione didn't know if it was the caffeine or the relentlessness stirring her bones to go, go, go, but the acquiescence she gave stung. She didn't want to admit that he was right. The map had become her crutch, a way to keep control in a situation where everything felt just out of reach.

They’d been searching for twenty-four days now, pouring over the map, tracking every flicker, every odd magical pulse, and yet—nothing.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Fine, say you’re correct. Say they have the ability to adapt in such a way. What do you propose we do, Malfoy?”

Draco leaned forward, eyes flashing with that infuriating glint of confidence she was far too familiar with by now. “We start thinking like the yokai. If they’ve adapted, we need to adapt, too.”

“Thinking like the yokai? What does that even mean?”

“Use that bloody oversized brain,” Draco said, his smirk growing as rested against the table, as though he were presenting the most obvious solution. “They’ve got a method, a pattern. We need to find it. We need to figure out how they think, how they operate. We need to barter with them, essentially. Obviously, they want something."

She tracked the way his pale forearms flexed as he leaned, how his fingertips rapped against the wood like he was playing the piano.

“Freedom,” she finally choked out.

“Perhaps,” he said flippantly, “but I don’t think that’s the case. What happened when we stopped carting around the crate?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes, considering this.

“We haven’t been able to find them.”

“Yes, they’ve disappeared.”

Her mind began to reel, wheels turning.

“They want the artifacts?”

Draco shrugged. “What did the Noppera-bō seem to want?”

“To eat you?"

"Yes, and no.”

Hermione pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes. “Okay, I understand where you’re going with this, but I have to counter the argument with my own. If they truly wanted the artifacts, why wouldn’t they be crawling all around your flat?”

Draco’s smirk flickered, but he didn’t immediately respond. Instead, he continued tapping his fingers, considering her words. Hermione could see the gears turning in his mind, the familiar calculation that always seemed to accompany his more insightful moments.

A flash of light sparked through his grey-blue eyes, like a shooting star through dusky clouds.

“Where are we in the lunar phase cycle?”

Hermione blinked at the sudden change in his tone. It was as if a piece of the puzzle had clicked into place for him. Her brow furrowed as she quickly processed the question. She had been so caught up in the practicalities of their search, she hadn’t even thought to consider the influence of the moon.

She glanced at the calendar on the wall, biting her lip as she calculated the days. "We're five days away from a full moon."

Draco's gaze sharpened. “That’s it.”

Hermione froze. “What do you mean—?”

“The full moon,” he said, straightening up, his voice almost excited. He rushed forward, towards her, and she had to drop her head back to meet his wide-eyes. “It makes perfect sense. The yokai aren’t just randomly appearing—they’re tied to the lunar cycle.”

Her mind raced as she processed the implications. “So... you’re saying they can only manifest in their corporeal forms during certain phases of the moon?”

Draco nodded; eyes gleaming with satisfaction of finally connecting the dots. “Exactly. The full moon is when they can fully materialize, draw on their power, and interact with the physical world!”

And then he did something she had never in a million, trillion, bazillion years expected. He picked her up by the hips, and swung her in a circle, gleefully laughing as he said, “Salazar, we were so fucking blind!”

Hermione let out an indignant squawk as her feet left the ground, her hands instinctively clutching at his shoulders. “Malfoy! Put me down this instant!”

But Draco only laughed louder, spinning her around with surprising ease. His hands were firm yet careful, and she was startled by how strong he actually was, realizing that she’d never considered until now, what with him being more of a sharp-tongued menace than a physical powerhouse. But he of course was strong, considering his drastic height and his rather impressive build.

“We finally fucking cracked it, Granger!” he exclaimed, his grin wide and unapologetic. “Do you know what this means?!”

Hermione’s head tilted back as the room blurred in a whirl of motion, a laugh escaping her before she could stop it. “Yes, I know what it means, now put me down!

He obeyed, though not without spinning her one last time for good measure. Her feet touched the ground, but the world still seemed to tilt slightly as she clung to him for balance.

“That’s why they’ve been so elusive,” he said softly, looking down at her in a way that was entirely new and somehow familiar all the same. “They can only come out in full force when the moon is right.”

Hermione felt the weight of the revelation sink in. She’d been so fixated on tracking magical disturbances, on pinpointing every tiny anomaly, that she’d completely overlooked the possibility of a celestial connection. Of course, the yokai were creatures of ancient magic, and it stood to reason that their power would be bound to something as primal as the moon.

“Wait,” she said, her voice tinged with disbelief. “That means they’re not even here in full form right now, are they?”

“No,” Draco said with certainty, and his fingers curled around her waist, digging in. She should pull back, should shove him or make a joke or anything, but she found her feet planted. “They’re hiding. Still trapped between worlds, in their ethereal state, waiting for the next full moon. They can’t cross over until then. Not completely.”

“So we’ve been wasting time,” Hermione muttered, frustration creeping back into her voice. “They’re not even real threats right now.”

He huffed a laugh and pinched her side when her frown began to overtake her face. That had her squealing and batting her hands at him, and he only pinched her other side in response.

“Stop pouting.”

“You called Theo a menace, but I think you were deflecting. You’re quite the insufferable git when you’ve been proven right.”

“And you are an adorable loser when you realize you’ve been outsmarted.”

Hermione blinked at him, suddenly feeling like her heart was pounding hard enough to be heard in the quiet of the room. His face was closer than she’d expected, his cheeks faintly flushed, his gray eyes alight.

Christ.

She stepped away, clearing her throat, but he merely caught her wrist before she could fully pull away, his grip warm and steady, and for a moment—just a fleeting second—his features shifted into something gentler. More revering.

“Admit it, you’re impressed by my absolute cunning.”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

“I’ll admit that it’s a good lead. Nothing more.”

Draco grinned again, clearly unbothered by her refusal to give him full credit.

“Good lead, she says,” he muttered, shaking his head with mock exasperation. “You’re a tough nut to crack, Granger.”

“And you’re a nut, full stop,” she quipped, pulling away and brushing imaginary dust off her jeans. “Now, if you’re done flinging me about like a rag doll, we have work to do.”

“Yes, boss,” he said, still smiling as he stepped back, though his hand lingered just a fraction too long before finally releasing her wrist.

 

----


Day Thirty-One:
Wednesday, 7th of July 2009

Malfoy’s Seventh Rule for Mastering the Arcane Art of Survival:

Always Have a Plan B.

(Granger’s note: and a Plan C.)

There’s no guarantee that your first course of action is the right one.

(Malfoy’s note: because Plan A will definitely fail.)

 

----

 

The little red wagon’s squeaky wheels were fast becoming the bane of Draco’s existence.

It trundled noisily across the gravel paths surrounding the Royal Observatory, carrying the crate of cursed artifacts, each more likely to doom them than the last. The shrill noise grated against his nerves, but not nearly as much as Granger's insistence that they follow her map despite its apparent inability to make up its mind.

“Granger, the map is clearly leading us in circles,” Draco muttered, his wand casting a faint lumos as they paced along the edge of the grounds.

Hermione didn’t even glance at him, her nose buried in the parchment glowing faintly in the moonlight. “It’s not leading us in circles, Malfoy. It’s narrowing down the source of the magical signature.”

“Oh, is that what you call this?” He gestured to the wagon, the uneven gravel, and the night air that was far colder than he liked. “Narrowing down looks suspiciously like aimless wandering.”

“Feel free to go back to the Ministry and file a report about it,” she shot back, adjusting her grip on the map.

“Tempting,” he drawled, “but I’ve already been reminded that I’m responsible for ensuring you don’t die.”

Hermione paused, lowering the map slightly to look over her shoulder at him. “You could at least try not to sound so put-upon about it.”

“Granger, I’m near to freezing my bollocks off.”

“As always, thank you very much for that graphic description.”

He grinned cheekily. “Oh, you’re quite welcome—ah!”

Draco jerked forward when he felt a warming charm hit his nether regions, hissing through his teeth at the sensation. Draco shot Hermione an incredulous look, one hand clutching the hem of his coat as if to shield himself. “Granger, did you just—”

“Maybe if you spent less time complaining and more time helping, you wouldn’t need me to rescue your bollocks,” she quipped, her focus unwavering as she looked back down at her ridiculously stupid (brilliant) map.

“You’ve got a disturbing knack for making that sound like charity,” he muttered.

Her thick lashes fluttered as she tracked her gaze across the enchanted map, watching as it moved and updated with every step they took. Draco shivered, pulling his coat tighter around him as he eyed the observatory with narrowed eyes. The thin glow of magic flickered faintly on the map, leading them toward a tall stone tower in the distance.

She opened her mouth to comment on his teeth chattering, but he snapped, “Don’t even say it, Granger. I’m too cold to care about your lecturing,” Draco’s fingers curled around the wagon’s handle a bit tighter as they passed beneath a canopy of bare trees. He rather disliked the way the branches chose that exact moment to creak ominously in the wind.

Hermione, who had come to a full stop, was hunched over the map in front of him. “I wasn’t going to lecture you again on your lack of preparation when it came to outerwear. I was trying to figure out what’s causing this.”

He peered over her shoulder, the faintest stir of her hair brushing his cheek, the warmth of her skin just out of reach but undeniably present. It was rather maddening, and he distracted himself with the map, trying very hard to watch the way it pulsed. Its glow flickered like a heartbeat, and his gaze darted the slender curve of her neck, tracking the pulse point softly thrumming beneath that stretch of golden skin.

He inhaled, and his eyes damn near rolled to the back of his head.

He couldn’t help himself.

He was a bit touch starved, if you will, considering he had an ever-present roommate now in the form of one five-foot-nothing beauty with big brown eyes and the most maddening disposition.

Which meant he hadn’t been able to properly indulge in a good wank in weeks.

Draco was less resigned than he thought he would be about that fact once he mentally noted that Hermione smelled positively divine at any given time. Her scent had taken over his entire flat, save for his bedroom, not that he wouldn’t mind it there too, but alas, the principles of having a principal.

She smelled like the warmth of amber, the sharp cut of fresh jasmine, the sweetness of strawberries with an undertone of something darker, almost musky, that always lingered in the wake of her absence like smoke in the air.

Her scent tasted of the forbidden. Of the illicit. A quiet pulse of cedar wrapped around the edges, grounding the scent as if to remind him that, despite the way it played tricks on his mind, it was nothing he would ever truly be able to indulge himself in.

And that lingering note of saffron? Unmistakable. Remarkable. Dizzying.

Not loud, but demanding in its own right. Subtle, but sharp.

It was far too much, and yet, all at once, it was everything.

Draco took a half-step back, the air suddenly feeling warmer around him, though the chill of the night hadn’t let up. There was no reason for it, none that made sense, anyway. He was already too close. Too close to both the map and… her.

He caught his breath, forcing his gaze back to the map. Focus. That was what he needed to do.

But it wasn’t easy. Every time he tried to move, there she was, moving with him, and there was that scent again, following him, weaving in and out of the air like the ghost they hunted.

It was the way it lingered, the way it made the world feel just a little bit hazier, a little bit dreamier.

When strands of her hair got caught in his stubble from where they came loose from her coronet braid, and he sputtered, trying to free follicles from his mouth as he stepped around to face her, she let out a soft, husky laugh that had his bollocks absolutely fucking tightening in his trousers.

“If you weren’t breathing down my neck you wouldn’t have eaten my hair.”

“I was syphoning your warmth.”

“Always knew you were a bit of a leech.”

He tched but ended up laughing despite himself. “Whatever is glowing on the map is definitely not normal magic.”

“Yes, I agree. The colors are off.”

“Let’s try and speed this along, then.” Draco snapped, desperately ignoring the ache unfurling in his lower abdomen, of the overwhelming need that seemed to kick up every new day he spent with this witch. “Might I remind you; I am rather cold.”

“You’ve already made that abundantly clear,” Hermione muttered, but her tone softened as she glanced up at him over her shoulder. She was so beautiful, it had his heart threatening escape from the confines of his ribcage. He watched the way she looked to the clear night sky, entranced with her as she was with the heavens. The moon was full, its face glowing bright and clear, and the stars scattered beyond were faint and few between, but he didn’t particularly care for astronomy. Not when he could track the constellations in her freckles.

“I’m a bit nervous, honestly. We don’t know what we’re walking into.”

“Yes, well, it’s much too late for that now, darling.” Draco huffed, hoping his sarcasm would take the edge off her clearly growing panic, and curb his unrelenting fanaticism with one Hermione Jean Granger, Principle to one Draco Lucius Malfoy, Auror.

He rubbed his hands together in vain against the cold, against the fluttering in his stomach.

“You’re an arse.”

He squinted at the observatory, ignoring her, before flicking his attention to the map, then back to her. Gods, he needed to stop staring so much.

“And you’re the expert in magical anomalies. Any ideas?”

She hesitated, whisky eyes tracing the faint glow that shimmered over the map.

“It’s much colder than it should be for the seventh of July.”

“Hm, I suppose you’re right.”

“Feels sort of like the Dementor’s presence, no?”

He didn’t like that suggestion one bit, and it quickly sobered any rousing desire.

“Comforting, Granger.”

She continued on, now moving with much more vigor in her brand-new trainers (she hadn’t thanked him nearly as much as he thought she should have).

“There are a couple yokai that could cause such a disturbance in temperature.”

“I am waiting with bated breath for the list of potential adversaries that might freeze me to death.”

She scowled at him. “Which ones would you like me to expand on?”

“Start with the most dangerous. Obviously.”

She bit her bottom lip, tugging it between her teeth. Draco watched with rapt attention, almost forgetting about what the fuck she was talking about as she said, “There’s legends of an entity called a Kuraokami.”

“Hm, meaning?”

“Well, it translates to storehouse deity.”

Draco grinned. “Oh, that sounds harmless enough.”

“It’s a dragon.”

Draco’s grin promptly dropped into the void otherwise known as fear, and his face screwed into a feature-wide frown.

“I know you find me powerful and quite dragon-like in nature, but I am not keen on fighting dragon’s, Granger. Can we call Potter on your little Muggle jotter thingy?”

“Hush,” she waved a dismissive hand, and dug around in her ridiculously tiny crossbody bag, and pulled out a tome nearly as big as her torso. She flipped through it and then pointed to the page titled: “Yuki-onna?”

Draco’s lips twitched, sifting through the annotated notes Grange had written in the margins.

“Ah, so an emotional wreck?”

“I don’t think it’s quite that simple,” she said, her brow furrowing as she scanned the surroundings. “Some versions suggest the Yuki-onna was a woman who was wronged by a lover or her family. She was supposedly left in the middle of a snowstorm, and it led her to become a spirit of cold vengeance.”

“Right,” Draco muttered sarcastically. “A lovely, cold spirit that we’re now supposed to trap.”

“Yes, it appears so.”

“Brilliant.”

Hermione raised her hand, stopping them in their tracks. “Wait,” she whispered, as the distant wind picked up, carrying with it a bitter chill. “Listen.”

Draco stilled, his breath visible in the air as the wind howled across the open grounds. There was no sound other than the wind at first, but then… a faint, chilling voice reached his ears, soft and melancholic. Come closer… come closer to me…

Draco’s eyes widened.

He most definitely did not like the sound of that voice.

“Nope,” he barked. “Nope, nope, nope.”

Malfoy!” He glared at her when she grabbed his cloak, stopping him from retreating.

“Granger, as much as I have grown to adore you, that was creepy as fuck and I may not have mentioned this before, but I am absolutely fucking terrified of ghostly women whose sole purpose for existence in the afterlife is to seek vengeance.”

“Ghostly women?”

“Yes, I was chased by one as a small child at the Manor before she was banished, and the memory still haunts me to this day.”

Her eyes flickered, the amber in them warming. Then they narrowed. “You’re such a liar!”

He sighed, dropping his head in mock defeat. “Must you see through me at any given point?”

Something whisked past their ankles, just a brush of a touch to his knee, and Hermione stumbled back as if she had been pulled.

“That wasn’t you, was it?” Hermione nearly shrieked, her voice much too shrill for this time of night. Her attention flicked around in alarm.

“As much as I would love to play with your skirts, Granger, that was most definitely not me.” Draco brandished his wand, his grip around the handle tight as he cast a protego around them. The temperature seemed to plummet, and a sharp gust of wind blasted against his shield charm. Draco pulled Hermione behind his person, taking carefully measured steps with his wand trained on anything that even slightly moved as he turned in a full circle. Only the trees seemed to shudder, and then, of course, snow began to swirl even though the sky was still clear.

Draco tugged Hermione closer to him, fingers bunching the fabric of her cloak as he pressed her side into his spine. “Stay close to me now, Granger.”

The wind kicked up, furious and howling, and within its current, a feminine voice wailed with rage and sorrow.

“I don’t think it’s the dragon.” She whispered.

“Oh, what a relief.”

Snowflakes danced around them like confetti, too delicate to catch but far too many to ignore and his breath came in visible clouds, while the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

“Malfoy…” Hermione breathed against his shoulder, tugging on his cloak. He followed the direction she trained her wand from behind him, and if he had thought himself cold before, he was positively tundral now.

The yokai was no longer just a mere whisper on the wind that brutalized his shield. She had materialized fully, her figure clear and unmistakable in the dim glow of the moonlight that filtered through the swirling snow.

Draco exhaled; his breath now visible in the freezing air. “I take it this isn’t a polite social call.”

“Not funny.”

Draco gritted his teeth and trained his wand right at the spirit. She was a being of pure ice, far from human in the way her entire form pulsed with the arcane and unnatural. Her skin was nearly translucent, and her ink-black hair cascaded around her like an undulating river.

“I don’t really care for how she’s looking at you, Granger.”

Because she was looking at Hermione, gaze exclusively trained on the witch he was determined to protect. Her eyes were a deep, echoing blackness that seemed to absorb the moonlight glowing down upon them, fixated on Hermione’s rising and falling chest. She moved towards them like she was floating, billowing skirts barely rustling as she seemed to both rush and drawl out her approach.

Her mouth moved, but no words came loose from her blue-tinged lips, and when her hands lifted. Draco thought there was no time like the present. He cast a barrage of spells, incendio, and impedimenta, his diffindo hit her hip, and a spot of dark blood bloomed on the spirit’s robes, but she continued, uncaring. He then cast “Confringo, confringo, confringo, Gods-damnit!” and when those hands raised again, he called out “Protego horribilis!”

Draco grabbed Hermione and pulled her close to his chest as a blizzard hit his shield charm hard, the wind snapping with vigor against the massive shield of shimmering silver-blue in front of them. The blast of wind that followed was like the fury of a thousand storms, so intense that it nearly knocked Draco off his feet. The shield held, but just barely, the icy wind clashing against its surface like a beast battering its cage.

Hermione gasped, the cold seeping into their very bones, her face pale with the sudden chill that surrounded them. But before Draco could even process the situation fully, he reacted without thought, tucking her head beneath his chin, and curling his body entirely around hers. “You’re safe, Granger. I’ve got you.”

She nodded, but the tension in her body betrayed her anxiety. Her breath came in quick, shallow gasps, visible in the freezing air. The yuki-onna was no more than a few steps away now, her form impossibly beautiful and terrifying in equal measure.

Draco’s heart hammered in his chest as he flicked his wand again.

"Incarcerous!" The ropes of magic shot forward, twisting around the yuki-onna’s arms, but they froze mid-air, unable to bind her.

The yuki-onna’s gaze softened upon seeing Draco wrapped around Hermione, and Draco wondered if she was studying them, searching for something hidden beneath the surface between the two of them.

Her icy breath billowed out towards them and Draco felt the temperature plummet further. His shield crackled in protest, and for a moment, he feared it might shatter under the force of her power.

"Granger, we need to—" Draco started but was cut off as the yuki-onna moved again, her form sliding with an almost hypnotic grace.

Then it happened. The entity raised both hands high, her fingers outstretched toward them.

 A gale of wind tore through the grounds, howling as if in response to her silent command. The snow thickened, and Draco felt the ground beneath them shift, a sudden pressure weighing down on them. Something cold slashed against his side, and he groaned, dropping to a knee to palm the place in his side that had been hit. Pain unfurled with an unnatural sort of cold, the kind that burned hotter than fiendfyre.

Hermione staggered back, and Draco forced himself up, hissing in pain.

“Granger,” he croaked, then cast an expulso. “Wagon. Crate. Artifact.”

She seemed to grasp his intentions and staggered towards the wagon. At once, she began to sort through the artifacts that remained.

An explosion of fire erupted from his wand, aimed directly at the yuki-onna. It hit her full force, the blast of fire magic colliding with her icy winds. For a split second, there was an explosion of light, followed by steam and a scream of pure agony. Draco’s nostrils flared when the yokai flew back several meters.

He waited until he knew the yokai was indeed incapacitated for the time being before rushing to aid Hermione. He whipped up a ring of fire to circle around them as a measure of added protection and then cast another protego to shield them from the heat.

“Which one do you think is the artifact, Granger?”

She muttered arithmetic tables as she looked, casting diagnostics as she sorted through them.

“I’ve narrowed it down to the comb, I think. It makes the most sense,” she muttered, her voice strained. He couldn’t focus on the way her hands shook as she worked, or else he’d lose more than just a few pints of blood. His sanity, for one. “Inlaid in the wooden handle are snowdrops and scilla carvings, which are winter blooms. My gut is telling me this is right.”

It was apparently all the Yuki-onna needed to hear, because it chose that precise moment to rise from its little moment of post-mortem R&R.

“I can force her back and continue to distract her while you make the circle?”

“Right, yes.”

“I need you to under no circumstances engage in dueling, do you understand me?” Draco wasn’t sure what overtook him, but he gripped her chin and forced her eyes to meet his. His fingers were coated in blood, and it smeared against her unblemished skin with such stark contrast. Their gazes clashed and held. “Your job is to draw, bind, and seal, Granger. I don’t need your help.” Draco’s voice was sharp as he aimed another spell at the spirit, but his mind was partially elsewhere, fighting off the increasing dread that at any moment something catastrophic might happen to Hermione.

"I—" Hermione bit her lip, stepping closer to him, her breath a white mist in the air. He flicked his attention back and forth between her and the spirit, trying desperately to not lose too much focus. “Okay. Yes. I can do that.”

He cast another wave of spells to hold back the spirit’s advance, but she was relentless, her ethereal form shifting closer to the two of them. The yokai’s jet black eyes locked onto the witch next to him with an intensity that sent a shiver down Draco’s spine.

The next few minutes were a blur of flashing spells being deflected by harsh gusts of icy wind. He laid into the yokai, taking a step with every incendio that hit true, following it with bombarda maxima and again with another incendio. He cast a new shield charm around Hermione every time the spirit tried to crash against the previous one, and he allowed his full range of powers to rise to the surface.

He rapidly fired spells, sometimes two at a time if his wandless magic obeyed him from his outstretch hand. A stupefy at the same time as an incendio, a bombarda as he cast confringo.

“Malfoy!” He heard Hermione calling for him, and he dropped back to her side so they could retreat and draw the yokai forward.

“Where’s the comb?”

“In the circle. I managed to inlay a series of binding spells into the characters that would trigger the seal’s activation when the yokai touches the artifact, that way we don’t get pulled into another one of those weird pensieve-less memories.”

“Brilliant, glad to know I won't risk frostbite.” He grinned despite the situation, despite the fact that he could feel himself growing faint from blood loss. Despite the fact that he was starting to feel things for the witch in front of him that no ministry ordered protection agent should ever feel for their principal.

When she grinned back at him, he swayed, pressing a hand to the gash in his side.

They both looked down at the same time, and when she gasped, he merely said, “Fucking hell, got me good, didn’t she?”

Hermione lurched forward, lifting her wand to cast a diagnostic spell in order to heal him, but he stumbled back and waved off her attempts. “No time.”

“Malf—Draco, oh, Christ—you’re bleeding,” Hermione snapped, her eyes darting to the deep gash across his side, where the fabric of his coat was dark with spreading crimson.

“It’s not that bad,” he said, even as he winced with the effort of standing upright. “Focus on the yokai, Granger. She’s—”

A bone-chilling wail echoed across the open field, cutting him off. The yokai was advancing again, her form twisting unnaturally in the howling snowstorm. Ice crystallized beneath her feet as she floated closer, the air crackling with deadly intent.

“GRANGER—now!” Draco shouted, jerking his wand toward the glowing circle she’d laid out in advance.

Hermione hesitated, visibly torn between her urge to heal him and the critical timing of their plan. With a frustrated huff, she raised her wand, her sharp eyes fixed on the yokai. “Stay close,” she ordered, her voice trembling slightly, though whether it was from fear or the biting cold, he couldn’t tell.

The yokai let out another unearthly scream, and the snow thickened into a near-blinding flurry. Draco staggered but kept his wand trained on her. “Right beside you.”

Hermione adjusted her stance, her wand emitting a faint golden glow as she muttered incantations under her breath. Her voice cut through the storm as the yokai stepped into the center of the circle.

The characters around the comb flared to life, sparking brilliant blue and silver, and the parchment seal fluttered as it began to activate. The yokai froze, her black eyes widening as the energy crackled upward, forming shimmering bands of light that wrapped around her body like chains. She thrashed, her screams turning into anguished cries, but the more she struggled, the tighter the magical bindings grew.

“Oh, brilliant, it’s working!” Hermione exclaimed; her hands steady as she fed her magic into the seal. “Keep her distracted while I finish the binding.”

“Distract her, she says,” Draco grumbled, limping forward with his wand at the ready.

Gritting his teeth, he fired a series of blinding incendios at the edges of the circle, keeping the yokai from escaping, her form shuddering under the combined assault of flames and the binding magic. Each spell he cast left him more drained, his vision dimming slightly at the edges, but he refused to stop. Not until it was over.

Not until he knew Hermione would be safe.

With a final, desperate cry, the yokai surged forward, her hand reaching out as if to grasp Hermione, but the seal flared one last time, its light consuming her completely.

The snowstorm vanished in an instant, leaving the air eerily still.

The comb lay in the center of the now-dormant circle, glowing faintly before returning to its ordinary state.

Hermione lowered her wand, panting heavily. “It’s done,” she said softly, her voice shaky.

Draco managed a weak smirk before his knees buckled. He dropped to the ground with a graceless thud, clutching his side. “Brilliant,” he wheezed. “Now, can we address the part where I’m dying?”

Hermione was at his side in an instant, her wand already casting diagnostic spells over his wound. “You’re not dying,” she said firmly, though her hands trembled as she worked. “But you are an idiot.”

“An idiot who just saved your life,” Draco muttered, though his smirk faded into a grimace as her spell began attempting to knit the torn flesh together.

“And for that, I’m grateful,” she replied, her voice softening. “But don’t ever do something so reckless again.”

“I hate to break it to you, darling… but we have six more full moons to get through,” he murmured, his eyelids drooping

Hermione shook him gently, and Draco thought her hands felt quite nice on his body.

“Oh, no, you don’t. Stay with me, Malfoy. You don’t get to take a nap now.”

His eyes fluttered open, and he gave her a weak grin. “Didn’t know you cared, Granger.”

She huffed, though the corner of her mouth twitched with a reluctant smile. “Let’s just say I’d rather not have to explain to Kingsley why my Auror didn’t make it back.”

“Mm, yes, it would be a rather ghastly situation if Weasley were to become your protection detail instead.”

“Quite ghastly,” she agreed, voice tight.

“Don’t worry, Granger. That’ll only happen if I croak due to you being utter rubbish at healing magic,” he coughed, and Merlin, that was blood in his mouth. “Who would’ve thought the brightest witch couldn’t cast a proper episkey.”

Black danced at the edges of his vision, and he managed to squint hard enough to see Hermione’s pinched face.

“Something… wrong?”

“Nothing, Draco.” He hummed when her hand came to rest against his cheek, and he dropped the weight of his head against her soft palm. Had the sound of his name coming from someone else’s lips ever sounded so lovely before? He didn’t think so. “Everything is fine. You’ll be just fine.”

Just as his eyes began to droop closed, he tracked the faint wisp of shimmering blue light, and then he could have sworn an otter patronus danced around Hermione’s head before the void took him into an abyss of pure darkness.

Notes:

Your comments, kudos, and bookmarks have left me speechless. Thank you so much and please enjoy chapter three. It's a long one :) I have no beta so if I make mistakes you may lmk if you feel like it and I’ll see to fixing them best I can!

Next chapter will be posted Wednesday Dec 4th at the latest! (My baby is on a nap strike this week so cross your fingers I find time to write 10k more words—we shall see.)

My tumblr page if anyone would like to pop by! I'd love to chat! <3

Chapter 4: A Stitch in Time

Chapter Text

Day: Thirty-Two: Thursday, 8th of July 2009

Malfoy’s Eighth Rule for Surviving Murderous Yokai:

The Full Moon is a Giant Neon Warning Sign.

(Granger’s note: no further commentary on this.)

(Malfoy’s addendum: we do think the rule speaks for itself.)

 

----

 

Hermione stared at the blood seeping into the pebbles beneath her feet, the cacophony of chaos in the background a dull roar in her ears. She bunched her cloak closer to her chest, swallowing down the lump that had gathered in her throat. There was a flare of a lumos maxima, and she squinted against the bright blue-hued light, lifting a hand to shield her eyes.

The gravel behind her crunched underfoot heavy boots, and when the faint hint of apple and tobacco smoke filled her nostrils, she turned to greet her best friend. “Hi.”

He gave her a tight-lipped smile of sympathy and sparked his cigarette with an old titanium zippo. The flame made the yellow in his eyes stand out, and then when it disappeared, they were back to their bright emerald green, staring pointedly at her, waiting for her commentary.

She scowled, and he simply quirked a brow over his smudged glasses and took another long drag.

“Such a horrible, nasty habit, Harry Potter.”

“Yes, quite aware, considering you have been telling me that for the past ten years.”

“It causes cancer.”

His laugh was short and chuffing as he said, “And we have magic to fix such things.”

She continued to scowl and resigned to walk away from the bloodied scene, allowing Harry to lead her over to the bench where a Medi-witch was on standby. She tried to argue against it, but he insisted she needed to look her over.

“Malfoy’s already been taking into surgery,” Harry told her with the intention to comfort her.

It did no such thing.

She glared at the diagnostics that flared to life above her head. “He shouldn’t even be in surgery.”

“It’s not your fault.”

Her eyes rolled, and she sat back with a huff when the Medi-witch deemed her fit as a fiddle before apparating away from the active scene. She stared at the Auror’s that flitted about, quick-quotes-quills scribbling away notes about their findings. A few hovered near her wagon, and she called them off with threats of hexes and yokai.

“It is my fault.” She finally said, knowing she wouldn’t be able to avoid this particular conversation. She was just glad Ron wasn’t present for it. “I hadn’t considered the yokai capable of inflicting cursed wounds, and I should have.”

Harry crossed his arms and took another long, deep drag of his cancer stick. She had half a mind to cast an auguamenti over his head.

“Shacklebolt might want to expand this into a team-oriented case.” Another drag, another plume of smoke. “I can’t say I disagree.”

She glowered, grimaced, and grumbled her grievances beneath her breath. “We are perfectly capable on our own.”

He chuckled, which made her smile despite her best efforts.

“This was given to me. It’s my case.”

“We still don’t know who dropped the crate off.”

She pushed herself to stand, but Harry shoved her back down. “Sit.”

“Harry Potter, do not tell me what to do!”

Dropping his cherry tipped cigarette to the ground, he stomped it out with his heel. “Listen to me, Hermione. You have six more artifacts, yes?”

“…yes.”

“Six more full moons?”

She rolled her eyes. “Regurgitating facts I already know is not as helpful as you may think it is.”

“Okay, so that means six more months of being tied to Malfoy.”

Past Hermione would cringe at the concept. Present Hermione did no such thing.

“And?”

His expression twisted into one of pure confusion. “What do you mean and? Don’t you want to get out from under his thumb? You were just complaining the other day that he practically breathes down your neck.”

She crossed her arms and lifted her nose with a haughty little sniff.

“Well, yes, he does, but that’s beside the point.”

“What’s the point?”

She chewed on her lip, hating the way a flush crept over her cheeks. She pointedly looked anywhere but her best friend’s face. “We are a good team, and the more people involved, the higher the stakes, and the less likely this gets resolved properly. I don’t have time to catch a team up to speed and teach them the correct way to bind and seal an entity as powerful as a yokai.”

“You have a month between every manifestation.” He said this like it was a fact she again, was not aware of.

“Yes, Harry. And a month is not enough time to do all of that, and then some considering everything else that goes into these rituals. One must be an exceptional witch or wizard to handle such delicate matters.”

His eyes narrowed in Chosen One suspicion. “I’ll come onto the case, then.”

“No!”

Head cocked; Harry stared at her.

No, he studied her.

“I see,” he finally said, a tight line drawn between his brows.

This time she did stand. She glared at him, daring him to speak his mind. He merely stared, giving her the Chosen One look.

“Good.”

Then she brushed past her best friend without another word and apparated straight to St. Mungo’s.

 


 

There was an annoying humming in Draco’s ears, and every so often he heard the occasional chime that broke up said humming. He felt pressure at his temple, and his eyes flashed open. Sterile, white ceiling tiles were the first thing he noticed, and when he cut his gaze to the left, Hermione stood over him, blinking with alarm.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, jerking her hand away from his face. “You’re awake!”

He groaned, lifting a hand to scrub his heavy eyes into being more compliant with his brain’s alertness. “Yes, I do believe when one open’s their eyes it equates to being awake.”

Those whiskey orbs of hers rolled, and he couldn’t ignore the smile that teetered dangerously close towards spreading across his face.

“Oh, thank Christ. When they castrated you, I feared you might lose your darling personality.”

That had him jerking forward, hands darting to his nether regions.

Her cackle exploded into the hospital room, and he snarled his displeasure. “Cruel, conniving little witch!” he said, lunging towards her, only to yowl in pain as a stitch in his side pulled uncomfortably tight.

She gently guided him back to his reclining position and went to fussing over him like some mother hen with her flock. “You must lie back, Malfoy. You just had surgery to counteract the curse! You’re still healing. It was quite a gnarly wound.”

He grumbled but was obliged to accept her fussing. He didn’t exactly mind a beautiful witch doting over him, no matter that said witch was his principal and not the other way around.

“How deliciously domestic this scene is,” Theo’s drawling voice said by greeting as he appeared in the doorway to Draco’s hospital room, holding the most obnoxious bouquet of flowers and an even more obnoxious bottle of firewhiskey.

Hermione took exactly three steps away from Draco, and he felt the loss of her warmth immediately. “Oh, Theo. I was starting to think my patronus hadn’t been able to find you.”

“You sent him a patronus?” Draco asked, not bothering to hide his shock.

“Yes, of course. I wasn’t sure if I would be able to get here before you woke since I was needed at the scene to go over some… things… with Harry.”

Draco raised his brows but said nothing.

Theo strolled into the room, plopped the flowers into Draco’s lap, and then popped the cap of the bottle. He took a hefty swig as he settled himself into the only chair in the room. Draco scowled, plucking the bouquet of violently offensive flowers from his lap with two fingers as though they were a contagious disease. “What in Salazar’s name is this supposed to be?”

“A token of my unwavering affection and, of course, a tonic as old as time to aid your recovery,” Theo drawled, stretching his long legs out in front of him and swirling the firewhiskey bottle like it was a glass of fine wine. “Also, they're enchanted. So, if you try to bin them, they'll scream obscenities loud enough to wake dear old Lucius from the dead.” There was an awkward stretch of silence, and then Theo continued, “Sorry, forgot not all of us had horrible relationships with their father’s.”

Hermione muffled a laugh behind her hand, and Draco shot Theo a sharp glare.

“Please leave,”

“I fear I cannot.”

“I will set a locomotive charm on these flowers and then imperius them to attack you.”

Theo grinned wide. “Oh, please do try,” Theo challenged, leaning forward eagerly. “I’d pay good galleons to see you duel a bouquet while flat on your back.”

“I feel more and more inclined each day to regret our friendship,” Draco grumbled, dropping the flowers unceremoniously on the bedside table.

“Too late for that, snookums. You’re stuck with me.”

Hermione coughed, drawing their attention. “As much as I’d love to watch this riveting display of male bonding, Theo, you should know that Draco’s not supposed to be drinking while recovering. The Medi-wizard was very plain about that.”

Theo raised his eyebrows. “Really? That’s odd, because just moments ago, I distinctly remember him saying in the corridor—” He deepened his voice in a crude mimicry, “—‘firewhiskey is excellent for magical wound healing.’”

Hermione crossed her arms, her expression unimpressed. “Funny, I didn’t hear that part.”

How had his life come to this?

“Let him drink, Granger, I won’t be partaking. Besides, it’ll keep him from harassing me about why I got cursed in the first place.”

“Speaking of,” Theo said, leaning back again and tipping the bottle to his lips. “Care to explain how you managed to get yourself skewered by an ancient ice spirit? Or should I assume it’s because you’ve finally lost your edge, dear chap?”

Draco scowled at him but didn’t answer. Hermione, however, stepped in with an irritated huff. “It was my fault. I underestimated the yokai’s ability to curse its attackers, and Draco got caught in the crossfire. Embarrassing, really. I feel quite daft.”

“Granger, you are anything but daft.” Draco cut in, glaring at her for even thinking such a blasphemous thing. “But, if it’s any consolation, even I didn’t think about that potential hazard and I am, after all, the most brilliant Auror in all of England.”

Her eyes rolled as she sat on the edge of his bed, her focus entirely on him. Draco pointedly ignored Theo’s sharks grin as he observed the scene playing out before him.

“I’m so sorry, Malfoy. You could have died.”

“And leave your care to Weasley’s greasy paws? I think not.”

She wet her lips, lashes fluttering as reached out to grab his hand with tentative fingers. It was barely a touch, but it set his body on fire in the most remarkable way.

She squeezed his fingers. “It’s still my fault.”

“I promise, it wasn’t.”

She huffed, which made him feel funny things, like he must comfort her immediately so that he might banish any guilt from existence.

“If it helps, I’d take a curse for you any day, Granger, if it meant you’d simper like this every time."

Her laugh was slow as it rose, and when she finally looked up and met his positively simpering stare, the diagnostics monitoring his vitals flared bright as his pulse sped far beyond its natural resting rate. Thankfully, she wasn’t inclined to comment.

Theo cleared his throat, smug as a cat that got the cream, and said, “I’m sure if Draco got himself hurt, it’s probably because he was too busy swinging his massive wand around to notice the danger.”

“Oi!” Draco snapped, cutting his attention to his gremlin of a best friend. “Can you fuck off?”

Hermione opened her mouth to comment but promptly closed it, which made Draco’s own grin spread into place.

“Thinking randy things about me again, Granger?”

She snatched her hand away and stood just as quickly. “Oh, shove off,” Hermione said, grabbing her bag as she lifted her nose in the air. “I need to get back to ministry and do a proper work up of the artifact—don’t give me that look, I won’t be alone. Harry is meeting me there—I’m keen to see the analysis.” She hesitated at the door, palm hovering around the knob. “Try not to antagonize the patient too much, Nott.”

Theo gave her a mock salute. “No promises, love.”

As she left the room, Draco watched her go, a small smile tugging at his lips despite himself. Theo caught the expression and tilted his head, scrutinizing him with sudden interest.

“Well, well,” Theo murmured, swirling the firewhiskey again. “You’ve got it bad, haven’t you?”

Draco’s smirk vanished, replaced by a warning glare.

“I don’t know what you’re on about.”

“Oh, please,” Theo said, waving his hand dismissively. “The way you look at her is practically criminal. You’re lucky she’s so oblivious, or she’d have hexed you by now.”

Draco’s face flushed, and he crossed his arms defensively. “You’re delusional.”

“Am I? I’ve known you since we were kids, mate. You’re not nearly as subtle as you think you are.”

Draco growled under his breath and closed his eyes, leaning back against the pillows. “I’m going to hex you into the next century once I’m back on my feet.”

“Sure, sure,” Theo said, taking another swig of firewhiskey.

 

----

Day Thirty-Four: Saturday, 10th of July 2009

Granger’s Nineth Rule for Conquering Supernatural Adversities:

There’s No Such Thing as Too Much Research

When dealing with yokai, ancient artifacts, or magical calamities, information is power, and every obscure footnote, half-forgotten legend, or contradictory anecdote could hold the key to survival.

Proper preparation prevents magical mishaps.

(Malfoy’s note: please know that keeping exhaustive notes, diagrams, and an alarmingly aggressive library is by no means normal, nor are books that bite.)

(Granger’s note: arguing that efficiency is the cornerstone of teamwork is not the same as research. It’s laziness.)

(Malfoy’s note: it’s called delegation, Granger. Look it up in one of your books.)

 

----

 

Hermione was pleased to know that Draco made a full recovery, and that there was no lingering side-effects or cursed energy left residual on the blonde bloke who stood in her dining room turned library. He strolled up and down the shelves of her bookcases, fingering spines, flipping through pages, and overall seemed rather impressed with her collection for what felt the billionth time that he’d seen it.

Since they’d learned that the yokai weren’t likely to manifest unless it was a full moon, Draco had taken to relaxing a bit on his overzealousness when it came to her protection, which left Hermione to find excuses for his company beyond her usual nightly stay at his flat (neither had commented that this was hardly necessary anymore).

She had rather liked spending her time with Draco, believe it or not.

So, really, nothing had actually changed in the nine days since their (Draco’s) full moon revelation. At present, her current excuse was needing his assistance on researching the Suzuri, which Hermione believed would be the entity tied to the inkstone artifact. It was only common sense after all, that an inkstone spirit belonged to, you guessed it, the inkstone.

“I haven’t had the mind to ask before, but where exactly do you eat if this is supposed to be your dining room?” He glanced at the round table that had been overtaken by more books than she had the care to currently count.

“In the kitchen,” she said by way of dismissal, adding to the growing tower before her. Seeing as it was yet another one of their daily trips to her humble abode (again, neither commenting on the fact that she still remained at Draco’s flat every night no matter the previous sentiment made that he had relinquished some of his protective zeal) or witch’s hovel as Draco liked to call it, visiting Crookshanks to give him his daily snuggles and to go through her library to see if she could find one of the many books she had used whilst writing her dissertation.

Crookshanks, who had taken to looking rather ancient these days, hobbled over to bunt her shins. He yowled, long and obnoxiously, vying for her attention. She tutted, and absently reached down to pet him down the length of his spine, smiling when his tail curled around her arm to ensure she pet him from nose to tail tip, as he liked.

“Such a sweet boy, Crooky, oh yes, you are so sweet.” She crooned, resigning herself to crouching down to give him a quick snuggle. “Oooh, kisses.”

Their love fest went on for many minutes until she spotted two dragonhide boots in her line of sight, standing mere inches from her crouched form. She slowly roved her eyes up to the wizard who blinked down at her, cheeky smirk in place, per usual.

“You never talk to me that way.”

Her jaw dropped, and he simply laughed and laughed as he made his way towards the kitchen to no doubt rifle around for a tin of biscuits. Hermione stared after him, her mouth opening and closing like a fish stranded on the banks of the Thames.

“I—what—Malfoy!” she finally spluttered, rising to her feet, Crookshanks still draped across her arms like some ancient furry scepter.

Draco’s laughter echoed from the kitchen, where the unmistakable sound of her biscuit tin lid popping off reached her ears. She stormed after him, Crookshanks reluctantly hopping down with a grumble when she deposited him onto a chair en route.

“Get your grubby little mitts out of my pantry,” she scolded, entering the kitchen to find him leaning against her counter, biscuit in hand, his expression the picture of smug satisfaction.

“I shall put my perfectly well-maintained mitts wherever I so please.”

She scoffed and made to snatch the tin from him. He merely held the tin high over his head, which meant she would not be getting them back anytime soon.

“I cannot stand you.”

“And yet here you are, standing.”

“Har-har. You are so clever, Malfoy.”

“Hmm, your concessions in offering compliments to me do make one wonder,” he drawled, biting into another biscuit with a pointedly slow crunch.

Hermione folded her arms, glaring. “One must do what they can to contain someone so evil.”

He brushed a few errant crumbs off his shirt and smirked.

Evil? Don’t let poor Crooky-wooky hear you speak such heinous lies—” he crooned, glancing at the cat as it curled its tail around his leg. “—he might revoke my cuddle privileges.”

“He only likes you because—” she snapped her mouth shut faster than a fairy snare.

His grin was positively criminal. “Oh, do go on, Granger.”

She stomped her foot and jumped, trying to reach the tin he still had raised above his head.

“This research is vital, and we don’t have time for you to loiter around acting like you own the place—now please give me my biscuits!”

“I would never own such a hellish property.”

“Yes, well, not all of us inherited gigantic French Chateau’s or posh English Manor’s.”

He watched her struggle with a grin on his impressively symmetrical, annoyingly handsome face for many minutes before apparently growing bored, or he simply pitied her pathetic attempts. He dropped the tin into her grabby little hands.

She ignored the way his quicksilver eyes made her flush when they clashed with hers.

“I do believe you were about to say that he only likes me because you like me.”

“I was going to say no such thing!”

An ashen, well-groomed brow rose, which only intensified her flushing.

“Weasley did call us chummy. Are we chummy, Granger?”

She glared, he grinned.

“It’s all right to like me, darling. It’s not a sin. Merlin will forgive you for it.”

“Merlin is not the same as Jesus Christ, Malfoy!”

His laughter panned out around her small kitchen, slowly rising before turning into a deep belly laugh. The dimples in his cheek crept into existence, and then ultimately were overtaken by those beautiful brackets at the corners of his lips she was growing to adore so very much.

“Must I take up Muggle Philosophy now? You already have me watching that ridiculously rubbish show about aliens on the telly.”

“It’s Theology!” She all but snarled, and then beelined her way to the stove to put on a kettle, slamming the biscuit tin onto the counter a little harder than necessary. “Christ, you make my head hurt.”

“Oh, please,” he tutted, crowding her space by way of taking up residence in the corner between the stove and the fridge. “You’d miss me terribly if I weren’t here.”

Hermione’s breath hitched for just a moment before she clicked the gas on the stove.

“Get back to reading, Malfoy.”

Chuckling, he grabbed another biscuit on his way out, tossing it in the air and catching it with infuriating ease. “As you wish, my lady. But don’t expect Crookshanks to take your side when you’re this grumpy.”

 

----

 

Day Forty: Thursday, 15th of July 2009

Malfoy’s Tenth Rule for Overcoming Spiritual Catastrophes:

Allow Yourself the Occasional Indulgence

Constantly being on vigilance and put through near-death experiences can be tiresome, make sure to treat yourself to a well earned pint.

(Granger’s Note: Translation: Drag your partner to the pub under the pretense of camaraderie and act like it’s all for Harry’s benefit.)

(Malfoy’s Note: Correction: Celebrate properly, Granger. There’s no better excuse for indulgence than the birthday of the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice. Besides, you could use a pint. You’re rather high-strung.)

(Granger’s note: I am not high-strung!!!)

(Malfoy’s note: Someone who isn’t high-strung wouldn’t feel the need to use excessive punctuation to make their point.)

 

 ----

 

Seamus Finnigan knew how to throw a proper party, which was the only reason Draco had deigned to show up to Potter’s birthday bash at Finnigan’s pub in the first place. The celebration was being held two weeks early, for what Hermione called "good reason"—namely, Potter’s plans to take a holiday on his actual birthday. Something about escaping the chaos of parenting three mischievous brats with She-Weasley for one blissful, child-free weekend.

“Well-earned,” Hermione had insisted, which had prompted Draco to reply with something semi-insulting about Gryffindor self-righteousness.

That, naturally, earned him a smack on the arm—a gesture he might have found adorable if it hadn’t come from the same witch currently glaring at him for finishing the last of her butterbeer while she had gone to the loo.

“Must you always steal my food and drink?”

He gave her a slow grin and reached for the bowl of chips in front of her. She smacked his hand and scooted further into the booth, taking the bowl with her.

“Come now, Granger, sharing is caring.”

She rolled her eyes and flipped her long horsetail-like braid over her shoulder, which was scandalously bare he was pleased to note. She wore a lovely green top that was wrapped around the base of her neck, leaving much of her back exposed.

“Funny, coming from the man who hoarded the entire pint of fried rice the other night.”

“That,” Draco replied, lounging back in the booth. His arm wrapped around the back of the seat, and his fingers dangled precariously close to the wisps of curls dancing at the curve of her shoulder. “was only fair. You ate all the spring rolls; I could have died from lack of sustenance.”

“You are incredibly dramatic.”

“It was simply self-preservation.”

“I had ordered the rice specifically for myself so I might have it for lunch the next day.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Did I not buy you lunch to make up for my thievery?”

“Well, yes, but my point stands precedent. Stop stealing my food and drink!”

A loud burst of laughter from a nearby table cut him off from retorting, and Draco glanced over to see Longbottom in the middle of an animated story, gesturing wildly with a pint in hand while the rest of the Gryffindors roared with laughter. Potter and Weasley were doubled over, cheeks red, and even the usually unflappable She-Weasley had tears in her eyes.

“Your people are... loud,” Draco observed, scooting slightly closer to Hermione.

The two of them had been occupying the table by themselves for some time now, neither feeling too inclined to drink as heavily as the rest of their former classmates. Draco couldn’t say he didn’t mind given his current company in one Hermione Jean Granger, Apple of His Eye.

She followed his gaze, a fond smile tugging at her lips. “Well, I could point out that a good bit of them are your people, too.”

He hummed, noncommittal, though he didn’t entirely mind the sentiment. As insufferable as the lot of them could be, they had become oddly tolerable.

Well, most of them. Weasley would always excluded from that sentiment.

Eyes following his train of thought, he glared at the twat-waffle. He tried to ignore the uncomfortable, irrational jealousy that began to niggle its way into existence when he considered the fact that he had somehow managed to bag the extraordinary witch sitting at Draco's side for an entire fucking decade.

He supposed he was pleased to note that he no longer held the keys to that kingdom anymore. But, neither did Draco, so his pleasure went as quickly as it had come.

“Draco,” Hermione said suddenly, her voice softer now. He turned his attention back to her and immediately felt his pulse quicken.

Her amber eyes were focused on him, warm and unguarded, and it was a look he was still learning to handle. “Thank you for coming tonight. I know it’s not really your thing.”

Draco tilted his head, considering her words. “You mean drinking overpriced pints in a room full of raucous Gryffindors and enduring Potter’s endless war stories?”

She gave him a sharp look.

“I would have had to come anyways, Granger. Principles of you being my principal.”

She glanced away, and he tracked the bob of movement in her throat. “Yes, job well done. I am safe from the baddie ghosties and Ronald’s incorrigible ego.”

“Hm, yes, I do think his ego is frighteningly persistent. That memoir Skeeter published about him was rather over the top, don’t you think?”

Hermione’s nostrils flared in that delightfully predictable way they always did when Skeeter’s name came up. “The Crimson Hero of the Golden-Trio was an absolutely ridiculous title, and you know it,” she hissed, her voice low but venomous. “And half the anecdotes in that book were pure fabrication. Ron barely remembers any of them happening the way she wrote them.”

Draco snorted, swirling the remnants of his own butterbeer lazily in its glass. “Perhaps that’s because he spent most of your horcrux hunt trailing behind you and Potter like a lost Crup.”

She leveled him with a glare that might have singed his hair if she possessed any wandless pyrotechnic talent. “Ron was an integral part of the war effort, Draco.”

“I’m sure he was, Granger.” He crooned, leaning closer, his voice a low purr. “Integral enough to warrant three chapters dedicated to his Quidditch achievements? Funny, I don’t recall the war being won with a Quaffle.”

He smirked and flagged down the barkeep for a round, and two tumblers of firewhiskey appeared. He pushed one towards Hermione. Her lips pursed into a tight line, but he could see the faint flicker of amusement in her eyes, despite herself.

She tried to mask it by taking a slow sip of her drink, but he knew better.

“Admit it,” Draco said, his voice dropping lower. “It was utter tripe, and you hated every minute of proofreading it.”

Her eyes widened, a spark of indignation lighting in them.

“Who told you I proofread it?”

Draco gave her a devilish grin. “Please, Granger. You’re a perfectionist to the bone. No way you’d let Skeeter publish without making sure the grammar was impeccable, even if the content was drivel.”

Her shoulders slumped, and she let out a long-suffering sigh.

“Fine. Yes. I proofread it. And it was agonizing.

“See?” he teased.

“You’re unbearable sometimes.”

“Ah,” Draco said, leaning back with a satisfied smirk. “But I do believe you like me anyway.”

Her cheeks tinged with pink, and she turned her attention to the table of loud Gryffindors, now cheering as Finnigan attempted to balance a pint on his head.

“I still can’t believe you came tonight,” she muttered, more to herself than him.

Draco shrugged. “It’s Potter’s birthday party. He's my boss, your best-friend, whatever. It would look bad if I didn’t show, and again—”

“Yes, the principle of me being your principal. I get it.”

He chuckled into his glass, draining it, and she was quiet for some time, fiddling with her own glass. He had expected the conversation to have fizzled out, but then she asked, “Is that really the only reason?”

He cleared his throat at the curious look that danced across her features as she studied him, and he tried not to fidget beneath the heat of her firewhiskey eyes.

“No… I suppose not.”

She tilted her head, and he tracked the way her neck stretched, following the curve of her shoulder, the pop of her clavicle.

“Then why?”

Draco glanced at the table of Gryffindors, the chaos and noise strangely familiar, almost comforting in a way he’d never admit. But then his gaze returned to Hermione, those eyes filled with warmth and light, her cheeks pink, her hair a beautiful mess curtsey of the humidity.

“For you,” he said simply.

Hermione’s breath caught, and for a moment, the noise around them seemed to fade.

Then, predictably, Finnigan’s pint went tumbling to the floor with a crash, and the pub erupted in laughter and shouts. Hermione turned toward the commotion, her laugh joining the rest.

Draco couldn’t look away from her.

 

----

 

Day Forty-Two: Sunday, 18th of July 2009

Granger’s Eleventh Rule for Seizing Mystical Maladies:

Always Lock the Bathroom Door

This doesn’t exactly pertain to survival, just the retaining of one’s dignity.

(Malfoy’s note: seeing your principal’s bum makes for many randy jokes.)

 

 ----

 

It was an obnoxiously hot day, the kind that made the air in Hermione’s cottage feel oppressively still despite her best attempts at charm-cooling every room. Her air-con window unit had sputtered its last breath that morning, and no amount of smacking, coaxing, or whispered threats could revive it. The oppressive heat had already drawn a steady stream of complaints from Draco, who was now sprawled indecently on her sofa.

“Granger,” he drawled, fanning himself lazily with a piece of parchment, his robes discarded in a pile on the floor. “This is unbearable. How can anyone live like this?”

He sat with his legs splayed, sleeves rolled up, and three buttons undone—a fact he’d made a point of emphasizing earlier, calling it “scandalously casual.” Hermione hadn’t dignified it with a response.

“By not whinging every thirty seconds,” she retorted, perched cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table. She was painstakingly organizing containment spells for their next mission, cross-referencing probabilities of use with arithmetic charts.

“Whinging? I’m not whinging,” he countered, adjusting his shirt with exaggerated nonchalance. “I’m lamenting the lack of proper ventilation in this glorified shoebox you call a home.”

She shot him a sharp look over her shoulder, purposefully ignoring when his knee brushed her spine as she leaned forward.

“There, there, sorrows, sorrows, Malfoy. Do remember you know how to use a cooling charm.”

With a flick of her wand, an icy breeze swirled around his head. Draco closed his eyes and sighed with theatrical bliss.

“You’re welcome,” Hermione muttered, rolling her eyes and returning to her work.

The afternoon slogged on, punctuated by more complaints from Draco. By the time they’d finished lunch, Draco had claimed the sofa entirely, sprawled out like a particularly sulky half-Kneazle who had taken to doing his own lazing out in the garden, hiding beneath her deck.

“Don’t touch my notes,” Hermione said firmly as she stepped over his legs, clutching a change of clothes on her way to the bathroom.

The heat called for a cold shower, and she wondered if he would try to get away with asking if she would make her lemonade later. She could admit she could do with a glass. It was positively delicious.

Draco cracked one eye open. “What do you take me for? A savage?”

She raised an eyebrow but refrained from commenting as she shut the bathroom door.

What she forgot, in her haste, was to lock it.

 


 

Draco had just started to doze when he heard a loud clattering from the direction of the bathroom, followed by an impressive amount of elective language that one might call colorful. Curious, he sat up.

“Granger?”

He frowned when he got no response. It was probably nothing, but it put him on edge. Deciding to investigate further, he called out, “Granger, you all right”

The bathroom door creaked open as he moved toward the hallway.

His words trailed off.

Hermione, in her post-shower absentmindedness, had just reached for her wand when she spotted him.

For one horrifying moment, neither moved.

“Malfoy,” she said, her voice low and dangerous.

“Granger,” he replied, eyes darting anywhere but at her—though not quickly enough to avoid a glimpse of damp curls and a distinctly towel-free bum.

His brain seemed to glitch at the sight, and he was quite sure his jaw had hit the floor.

Now, he had seen Hermione’s bum many times. He had looked at it often, and without a care of being caught. It was a rather nice bum, the kind of bum that would fit pleasantly in his palms if he did say so himself. But alas, again, the principles of her being his principal meant that those randy fantasies would remain as such.

Now, however, he wasn’t quite sure he was willing to allow them to merely be fantasies.

Her bum in tight Muggle jeans was one thing, but her naked bum? With droplets of water trailing along the curve? Yes, well, that was an entirely different sort of situation he could not simply ignore. His gaze traced the arc of her bare shoulder, the dip of her waist, the slope of her thigh beneath said naked bum, and the delicate swell of her calves.

Salazar, he was salivating.

“I am going to give you five seconds,” she said evenly, pointing her wand at him with one hand while clutching a bathrobe in the other.

“Wait, wait,” Draco spluttered, stumbling backward. “This wasn’t—lock your bloody doors!”

She flicked her wand, and he was promptly doused with an icy blast of water.

It took roughly two minutes for the heat to return to Draco’s bones, and even then, he was still grumbling loudly from his seat at the table while Hermione worked, an hour post bum-ogling-incident.

“That was uncalled for,” he muttered, drying his hair with his wand.

Hermione, who had since dressed and returned to her notes with a vengeance, didn’t look up. “Seeing your partner naked is also uncalled for.”

“Hardly my fault.”

“Could have knocked.”

“Could have locked the door.”

They lapsed into silence, Draco glaring at her through damp bangs while she pretended to ignore him.

Finally, he leaned back in his chair with a smirk. “You know, Granger, this might be the most compromising position I’ve ever found you in.”

Her wand twitched. “Say another word, Malfoy, and you’ll find out just how compromising a position a slug hex can be.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender, though the smirk didn’t fade. The image of her was burned into his mind and would remain as such because he was a male after all, and he was keen to appreciate a nice bum.

“Not a word,” he said solemnly, though his grin made it clear he wasn’t done tormenting her anytime soon.

Chapter 5: Ink Blots and Fox Plots

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Day Forty-Nine: Friday, 23rd of July 2009

Malfoy’s Twelfth Rule for Managing Magical Mishaps:

Expect Motherly Interventions to Occur

One must always be prepared to face one’s mother, especially if one has (allegedly) skipped the monthly mother-son dinner without so much as an owl.

Naturally, this means an unannounced visit from Narcissa Malfoy at the worst possible moment.

Expect tea, disapproving glances, and a full audit of your life choices.

A mother’s intuition is, after all, sharper than a basilisk’s fang.

(Granger’s note: Narcissa was lovely, thank you very much. I, for one, enjoyed the roast pheasant that night.)

(Malfoy’s note: Do you realize that ever since you showed up, she decided she likes you better than me?)

(Granger's note: For obvious reasons. Plural, might I add?)

(Malfoy's note: I happily accept my third place rank.)

(Granger's note: Was that a tear sliding down your cheek while writing that?)

Be warned: no amount of clever deflection will save you from the raised eyebrow of judgment or the inevitable, “Why don’t you bring her to dinner again next month, Draco?”

Survival strategy: smile, nod, and let the interrogation happen.

(Granger's note: So, that's what you two were whispering about before we left!! Aha! I knew it!)

You’ll live to fight another day.

Signed,
Draco Malfoy (Reformed Mama’s Boy, Yokai Tamer Extraordinaire)

 

----

 

He expected his Friday morning to start the same way it had for the past forty-nine days (though whose counting, certainly not him). He would sit at his kitchen table, reading the Prophet, eating toast with runny eggs, and drinking the perfect cup of tea—made by one Hermione Granger, Philanthropist, Pending Unspeakable, and Creator of Said Perfect Cup of Tea.

But this morning did not go as expected. As he read, ate, and drank his own mildly brewed tea, he did it all in silence, without the aforementioned witch as company.

Frustrated, he folded his paper and decided he’d go pound on her bedroom door, formerly known as his guest bedroom, to demand answers as to why she wasn’t awake yet. For Merlin’s sake, it was ten past eight and they needed to leave for the Ministry at half past.

But then, as he took one last sip of tea and placed the cup in the sink to be washed later, he turned and nearly choked on that damn sip. Because there she was, coming down the hallway, in the most indecent of states. He stared at the five-foot-nothing, bleary-eyed, frizzy-haired beauty of a witch he’d become rather besotted with ever since the bum-ogling-incident as she walked toward him in the tiniest pair of sleep shorts he’d ever seen—and fucking hell, Merlin, Salazar—CHRIST ALMIGHTY—she wasn’t wearing a bra. Alarm bells blared in his mind: look away, look away, for the love of all things magical, look away.

The threat of slug hexes crossed his short-circuiting mind, but Draco Malfoy was as touch starved as he was smitten, and those two things made for a dreadful combination. Especially when the witch of his affections was walking toward him with her hips swaying, and nearly every inch of her delicious golden skin was on display.

His only viable option in this precarious situation was to simply attempt to prepare himself to be flayed alive by her mere presence alone.

She came closer, and his throat tightened. Focus, Malfoy. Focus. He told himself, willing his eyes to move away. But no, they remained locked on her fucking perky tits as she walked toward him with that casual, sleepy grace that was almost maddening. She yawned, stretching her arms over her head, blissfully unaware of the effect she was having on him.

He damn near bit his knuckle to keep himself from simpering.

“Morning,” she mumbled, her voice still thick with sleep.

“Morning,” he croaked, and Merlin, she was too close now, and he could smell her, and he could see the faint outline of her areolas and he was now vaguely aware of the rising tent in his trousers. He promptly turned towards the sink and began to wash his dishes by hand, trying to remain cool, calm, and collected.

Instead, he was flustered, frustrated, and fully aware of his painfully hard cock.

She blinked at him, and of course, noticed the way he was pressed against the sink, and his overall strange demeanor. She went to the stove and put on a kettle not even a step away from him and while she waited for it to boil, she came to stand next to him, hip pressed against the cabinet below the sink, arms crossed over her chest (thankfully). She stared at his profile, big brown eyes burning holes in his jaw. He kept his eyes trained on the dish rag in hand, finding the suds he scrubbed into the porcelain to be most intriguing.

 “What’s the matter with you?” she finally asked, and Merlin, her arms dropped to her side to fiddle with the hem of her shorts. Had she noticed the way they were affecting him?

Did she have any clue at all about his borderline obsession with her?

He was more than aware of the fact that she hadn’t needed to remain staying at his flat, but he was selfish, and again, besotted, so he kept that fact to himself and hoped she was just blissfully unaware of the unnecessary precautions.

He cleared his throat, hoping he sounded somewhat normal when he said, “Nothing, Granger.”

He caught the furrow of her brow from the corner of his eye, and because he was clearly a bloody masochist, he looked at her when she tugged on her lower lip. Then his gaze darted down, because he was a male and there was a nice pair of tits in front of him, in an extremely thin tank top, in mid-July, which meant he had opened the window this morning upon waking for fresh air, leading to it being breezy inside the flat.

Explaining why her nipples hardened.

He nearly turned into a rabid beast at the sight, and somehow, perhaps his iron fucking will alone, he managed to not jump her.

Instead, he choked, sputtered out some barely coherent English, and was bloody thankful the kettle chose that precise moment to scream for attention.

“We need to leave in twenty,” he managed to grit out between clenched teeth, and strode from the kitchen as fast as he was capable of without outright running.

Exactly twenty-four minutes later, Hermione was dressed in ministry appropriate apparel, and Draco had never been more thankful for ankle length hems and high-necked robes. He busied himself with pulling on the leather gloves he had placed on the mantle last night, trying very hard to keep his mind from wandering to all the nefarious fantasies he had conjured up while waiting for her to get ready. His thoughts were in disarray, a hodgepodge of embarrassment, annoyance, pure, unadulterated attraction. But he was not about to acknowledge any of that.

Not aloud, anyway.

He shot her a sidelong glance as she threaded her arm through the crook of his outstretched elbow, and even though she was fully dressed, when the hem of her robes brushed his ankle, the tip of his ears turned a furious shade of burgundy.

“Are you going to breathe anytime soon, or should I find a paper bag for you to hyperventilate into?” Hermione’s voice broke through his mental haze, and he almost choked again.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped, and grabbed a handful of Floo powder before calling out, “Ministry of Magic!” and strode into the flames.

Stepping into the atrium, Draco immediately noticed two things. One: Hermione did not let go of his arm the entirety of their walk towards the lift and two: he realized as they almost passed her, that his mother was standing in front of the atrium’s fountain.

Hermione glanced up at him when she noticed the stiffening of his limbs and the slowness in which he now strode, and when she saw his attention was elsewhere, she followed it.

Precisely at the same time Narcissa Malfoy spotted them.

Together, arm in arm like a couple. They weren’t, but she didn’t know that, and now she most certainly assumed they were by the way her eyebrows rose, and her lips pursing into a fine, fine line.

“My mother is here.” Draco announced, though it was pointless because even Weasley could have deduced such a fact.

“I can see that,” Hermione said, and did not let go of his arm like he predicted she would.

He led them to his mother, who was wearing the latest fashion in witch’s robes. They were a deep plum velvet, inlaid with silver tracery at the hems of her billowy sleeves and knee length hem, and lined with silver silk. The neck was funneled, showcasing the diamond and emerald heirloom necklace that hung from her neck. It would be a gaudy piece on anyone else, but on his mother, it always looked lovely.

Hermione released her hold on his arm when they were only a few steps away, and so Draco had no choice but to greet his mother. He removed his gloves, as was the polite and aristocratic thing to do when greeting one’s mother, leaned forward, and they kissed cheeks.

“Mother, do you remember Hermione Granger?” His voice came forth as flat but polite, and he felt his blood in his veins rapidly cool as he dove deep into a state of Occlusion. “We were classmates—”

“Yes, Draco, I remember Miss. Granger.”

“Ah, good.”

Draco stood there, arms hanging semi-casually at his side as his mother turned her attention to Hermione. He had never feared anything more that the two witches he considered closest to him being in the same room, let alone being present as they spoke.

“How are you, Miss. Granger?”

When Hermione didn’t immediately answer his mother’s question, he turned his foggy eyes onto the witch, only to find that she was staring at Draco like she didn’t recognize him, which if he wasn’t currently in the thralls of Occlusion, that look might have stung.

Seconds ticked by, and finally, Hermione turned to his mother and gave her a tight smile. She took the Malfoy Matriarch’s outstretched hand, still clad in her daytime gloves, mind you, and shook it properly. “Well, thank you. How are you, Mrs. Malfoy?”

“Well, thank you.” She parroted, and promptly turned back towards Draco. “You missed dinner last night.”

Of all the things he expected her to say, that was most certainly not it.

“I apologize, Mother. I hadn’t been mindful of the date.”

Her blue eyes, more cerulean than his own, hardened in challenge. “I expect our dinners to be cancelled ahead of time with a letter of curtesy, Draco. Not by way of failing to show up.”

Draco blinked, caught off guard by his mother’s chastising—in public, no less.

Her gaze never wavered from him, as though silently daring him to argue or make an excuse. It was the same look she’d given him as a child whenever he had disappointed her.

He wasn’t sure whether it was her scrutiny or the guilt or the fact that Hermione was witnessing this verbal lashing, but he could feel his Occlumency walls flickering.

“I understand, Mother,” he said, pushing out the words with as much calm as he could muster. His eyes flicked briefly to Hermione, who was still standing there, unusually quiet, watching every moment of the mother and son as they fought in a language she was not raised to understand.

“You will come for dinner tonight.”

He was a grown man, but there was little anyone could do, grown man or not, to dissuade a command from Narcissa Malfoy.

“Mother,” he began, wincing at the tightness of his tone, “I am currently on an assignment that makes my attendance impossible—”

Impossible?” She parroted, cutting him off.

“Yes, I have been placed as Hermione’s protection detail for the foreseeable future and cannot attend,” he shifted his head, jaw clenching, feeling rather like a dragon as he did so.

“Then she will join us.”

“I hardly think—”

“I would be pleased to join you and Draco for dinner, Mrs. Malfoy.”

His mother smiled then, her practiced, social smile. “Does seven o’clock work for the two of you?”

Draco found he lost the ability to speak and was thankful that Hermione had a voice for both of them. “Yes, that works.”

“Lovely. I’ll see you two then.” She pecked Draco’s cheek, nodded to Hermione, and went on her merry fucking way.

Which left Draco absolutely gob smacked.

He took a deep breath, dropped his Occlusion so quickly that his head spun, and proffered his arm to Hermione once more.

She snorted at his extended arm and strode towards the lift without him.

He pivoted, trailing after her like a dog with its tail between his legs, and proceeded to spend the entire morning receiving The Silent Treatment.

 


 

Shuffling her notes for the day, she slid them beneath her hole puncher and slammed down on the contraption. She then flipped through her already too thick binder and added to her growing collection of documents on their yokai case, feeling rather put off that she had spent the last four hours hardly absorbing any of her research.

Draco had left her for the canteen not even ten minutes ago, mumbling some excuse that he’d be back with food and caffeine for the two of them, trusting that she wouldn’t die in the twenty minutes he’d be gone.

She tried to ignore the fact that she missed him already.

How did one even miss someone they spent all their time with? It seemed silly.

Perhaps it was circumstantial, and once the case was settled, and the yokai were safely bound again, life would go back to as it had been before Draco’s rather dramatic upheaval of it.

She didn’t exactly fancy the idea of her life returning to its former monotony, where she went through the day-to-day motions of existence as a twenty-nine-year-old witch with nothing but her work and her friends to keep her company.

She had begun to like this new version of her life. It was different. Unpredictable. Enjoyable, even.

She was starting to realize that she didn’t want anything to go back to the way they had been, even if it made her uncomfortable to admit it. It’s not that she relied on Draco’s company, or that she even needed him, but she liked him. She liked spending time with him, liked the way he could make her laugh with a simple quip. She liked how his presence had become so familiar that she sometimes found herself looking for him in a crowd when he wasn’t at her side, or the way his eyes would soften when he thought no one was watching.

It was all unsettling and unfamiliar, yet oddly comforting.

She closed her binder with a sigh, rubbing the back of her neck. The silence of the Research Division offices floor felt uncomfortable, too still in the absence of his vibrant presence.

She let her thoughts wander to his mother’s dinner invitation, to Draco’s rare moment of being put in his place by Narcissa Malfoy, of all people.

She wasn’t sure what was more shocking: that Draco was so easily cowed by his mother or that Narcissa had put Hermione in the position of agreeing to dinner, practically on a whim.

The thought of spending an evening in the Manor, especially after the awkwardness of the morning, made her stomach twist into knots. She had long since tackled her demons regarding the events at said Manor, but still, sometimes it was best to let things lie as is.

Dinner with Draco’s mother would also be what one would hardly call a casual affair. She was certain Narcissa’s eye for detail and perfection would be in full force, and that Hermione would flounder and fail in every single way.

“Granger,” Draco’s voice interrupted her thoughts, and she looked up to find him standing behind her, a tray of food in one hand, two precariously balanced coffee cups in the other.

“There you are,” she said, managing a smile. “I was starting to think you’d abandoned me.”

“Not a chance,” Draco said softly as he set the tray down on the desk in front of her. “I wouldn’t dream of leaving you here to drown in memos and artefactual mysteries.”

“What would I do without your intellectual brilliance to guide me?” she deadpanned, taking the cup he proffered.

“Expire, I’m sure. Become spirit fodder. The list of possible outcomes is endless.”

“I’m sure you have a contingency in place for every single one.”

He leaned against the edge of her desk, his usual cocky demeanor back in full force. “Well, of course. I’m always worried about you, Granger, so that means I must always be prepared for the worst possible case to arise.”

She paused, catching his gaze for a moment, and all she saw was the truth. A quiet undeniable vulnerability lay in the wake of his words.

She cleared her throat, suddenly feeling the warmth of his proximity. “You did almost die for me, so I suppose I should believe you.”

He smirked, but there was that softness in his eyes again that she didn’t quite know how to interpret.

“And I’d do it again, just so you’re aware.”

She felt the shift in the air, a quiet tension that mirrored the way it had felt this morning between them in his kitchen, something neither of them had addressed yet. Among other things.

Hermione swiveled in her chair and snatched the bag of crisps he had just opened. Popping one into her mouth, she decided to cool the fire in her blood by saying, “You’re a very good Occlumens, you know.”

Draco’s arm froze mid-movement, coffee cup hovering in front of his chin. She stared at his mouth, the fullness of his lips, and squirmed when his tongue darted out between the seam just as he took a drink. “You noticed, then.”

“Of course I did.”

“How?”

She hesitated, then decided to just tell the truth. “Your eyes changed.”

She tracked the way he swallowed, avoiding the depth of those arctic blue eyes she spoke of, and instead found herself in an entirely different sort of hell than the Cold War she had put them in this morning.

“My eyes,” he parroted, setting his cup down on her desk to cross his arms. Her breath caught when the muscles in his forearms jumped, and when the thick, blue veins beneath his pale skin bulged with the movement, her heart threatened to jump free from her chest. She stared at the smattering of blonde hair on his arms, at the rolled sleeves of his white dress shirt, tacking the faint shimmer of a notice-me-not charm on the faded Dark Mark just barely peeking out beneath.

“Hermione.”

She looked up, releasing her lip from where her teeth had sunk in. She met those icy eyes, and she thought she might cry, because he was looking at her in a way no one ever had before. She swallowed the knot in her throat, feeling it sink its way to the pit of her stomach like a stone.

“Your eyes changed.”

“How can eyes change?”

She glared at her cubical wall, flushing a bright burgundy. “They got cloudy. Dull.”

“And are they usually not dull?”

She snorted. She couldn’t help it.

“Of course they’re not dull, Draco, what, have you gone twenty-nine years without looking at your reflection?”

“I know what I look like.”

She huffed, because she knew there was no way around it now, considering he would just goad her until she submitted.

“You have the most electric, most vivid, most beautiful eye color I have ever seen.”
Why, oh, why had that just come out of her mouth? She wanted to crawl into a hole. She could have gone for a normal compliment. She could have just said, you have nice eyes, Draco.

“You think my eyes are beautiful?”

When she finally got the courage to look at him, she anticipated seeing a smirk dancing on his lips, but there wasn’t even a trace of amusement.

He was pure contemplative beauty, skin milky and chiseled like a Grecian bust.

“Yes,” she said, her voice clear. “Among other things.”

One ashen brow just barely flicked up. “Is that so?”

“Mmhm,” she hummed, and decided she needed to exit this conversation lest she wished to simply keel over and die from embarrassment. She pushed away from her desk and stood, offering him a tight smile. “Be back in a jiffy.”

He blinked a few times, and it appeared the tension that had just been radiating between them simply flatlined and died. “Where are you going?”

“The loo.”

No further questions, and no resounding footsteps trailed her as she made her way to the toilets. She darted inside, and effectively locked herself inside the cubical. She pressed her forehead to the door after a quick wandless scourgify, because in her getaway she left her wand on her desk like a rookie. She then proceeded to woosa her way out of a panic attack for the better part of ten minutes, until the knocking at the door came, and she couldn’t woosa her woo-wants away like she had hoped a moment longer.

She took one last deep breath, opened the cubical door, washed her hands and swung open the toilet door with much more vigor than she intended. She almost stumbled when she found Draco leaning against the frame, wand twirling between his fingers, and of course, all she really noticed was that he had unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, and a smattering of pale chest hair was now visible.

She lifted her nose in the air and strode past him, saying, “It’s weird when you loiter outside the toilets.”

“It’s weird when you leave in the middle of a conversation.”

“You just wanted me to fawn over your good looks.”

“Perhaps,” he said as she slid back into her chair, and she ignored his hard-pressed stare at her temple as she pretended to be busy flipping through books. After her fourth page turn, his palm came down on the spine, and his other hand tucked beneath her chin. He gripped it with his fingers, and she tried not to feel the scratch of his callouses and how it made her squeeze her legs together.

When he forced her to meet his eyes, she wasn’t prepared for the intensity reflecting in them.

They were hellfire blue.

Sweltering, burning, devouring her as they tracked every freckle, every feature on her face.

“Hermione,” his voice was molten, liquid gold to her ears. Gooseflesh erupted across her skin at the pure reverence in his tone.

Had anyone else ever said her name in such a way? Had they ever spoken it like it was poetry? Like she belonged in a museum, on display for him alone to enjoy for however long he desired?

Would it be selfish of her to hope he did so for eternity? Was it wishful thinking, was it a hopeless, desperate desire that he saw her in such a way?

Was he even capable of feeling that way about her?

There was the distinct sound of a throat being cleared, and Hermione jerked back at the same time Draco dropped his hand away from her chin. Beet red, Hermione swiveled hard in her chair but somehow managed to swing around too far, and then had to survive through the awkward squeaking as she scooched her way back to facing the person standing outside her cubicle.

And of course, it was none other than the Chosen One himself.

 


 

Draco hadn’t hated Harry Potter for close to twelve years now, but as he stared at the scruffy haired tosser who led the way through the security doors outside the Research Division, he thought it was time to reacquaint himself with their childhood rivalry.

His nostrils flared, his blood still boiling with annoyance as he replayed the scene in his mind. The Boy-Who-Refused-To-Die had barged in at the worst possible moment. Could he not see they had been very clearly in the middle of something? And by something, Draco meant that he had been this close to confirming whether Hermione cared for him in the same way he cared for her.

His reason for cutting in had been fine enough—Shacklebolt wanted to see them to discuss their preparations for the next full moon, which wasn’t happening for another twelve days. So, in Draco’s eyes, that fine reason could have waited long enough for he and Hermione to have finished their conversation sans interruption via Saint Potter.

He knew he really ought to be more concerned about his boss walking in on such an intimate scene between himself and his principal, but the lines were too muddy at this point for him to really give that much of a shit. And besides, it was Potter. It wasn’t like he was going to give him a tongue lashing over his fancifulness of his childhood friend.

He glanced at Potter’s stiff shoulders, and his posture had him second guessing that line of thinking.

They headed towards the lift, and Hermione asked him a question about his kids, which Draco cared not to hear about but listened to anyway. He was being nosy, sue him.

“And then, of course, Albus thought it would be hilarious for me to transfigure the couch into a flock of geese,” Potter said, laughing as though it was the funniest anecdote Hermione might ever hear.

Draco watched Hermione chuckle lightly, her warm, genuine smile lighting up her face in a way that made his chest ache. He tched under his breath, which made Hermione glanced back.

Her amber eyes softened when she noticed the sharp line of his jaw. “You okay?”

“Peachy,” Draco snapped, forcing a tight-lipped smile that he was certain looked more like a grimace, especially when his eye twitched immediately after. “Do carry on. I’m absolutely riveted by Potter’s thrilling tales of domestic paltry.”

Potter turned around, grinning like the insufferable prat he was. “You’re welcome to join us for dinner sometime, Malfoy. I’m sure the kids would love to see you.”

“And your wife, Potter?”

Potter’s wife still deferred to calling Draco ferret, and he found that the humor surrounding the nickname to have long since expired, which was precisely why he hadn’t taken to going to any of the dinner parties he had been invited to throughout the years.

Harry gave a shrug, which made Hermione laugh. Again.

Eye twitching continued.

Once they made it to the lift, Draco forced himself to take a deep breath, inhaling the sweet scent of his witch (not really his, but he was feeling rather possessive at the moment despite Potter’s marital status) and calmed himself back to a rational state of being.

It would be fine. They would meet with Shacklebolt, they would go home, and he would make her dinner—Merlin’s balls.

They already had dinner plans.

With his mother.

He breathed again, in through his nose for ten seconds, held it for five, then expelled it too loudly for it to not have been noticed.

“All good, Malfoy?” Potter asked, pushing his ridiculous glasses back up his nose just as he raised his eyebrows for confirmation.

“Mm,” Draco nodded, and glanced down to Hermione who drifted closer to his side. Their gazes dragged for long seconds, and he listened to the sound of the lift humming softly as it ascended, occasionally punctuated by the tinny voice of the Ministry's announcement system. She gave him a look that said, stop being weird, and he smirked in return.

When the lift finally arrived at the atrium, the three of them made their way to, you guessed it, another lift that would lead to the Minister’s floor.

Sometimes he truly disliked how asinine this buildings layout could be.

Once they reached Shacklebolt’s cushy office, the shaking of hands commenced, pleasantries were exchanged, and Hermione was off to the races.

She wasted no time in updating the Minister on what they were expecting, most of it being theories as they still hadn’t nailed down on which specific yokai might have been bound to the artifacts they had in possession, given that the leads they were going off were bleak at best.

Draco rehashed the duel with the Yuki-Onna, explaining that it was actually rather difficult to fight an ancient near corporeal being when they were at the height of their powers, but not to worry because he could handle it, and ensured Hermione was safe as safe could be.

He thought his concluding remark would be taken well, but it apparently was not, because that was when Shacklebolt said, “I am a bit concerned about the visit to St. Mungo’s.”

Draco did as Malfoy’s do, and simply smiled a bland, aristocratic smile that usually took the edge off senior Ministry official’s cornerstones of concern. “No need to be, sir. It was a one-time event. I won’t let myself get distracted again while in the field.”

Draco blinked, because honestly, why the hell had he just said that? Draco cut his attention to Hermione, who looked at him at the same time with a very quizzical look on her pretty face.

Shacklebolt looked at both of them, and he obviously noticed two things. First, how close Draco’s crossed knee was to the arm of Hermione’s chair, which she just so happened to have her elbow resting against—touching said knee. And second, that Draco was still staring at Hermione.

Potter chose that precise moment to cut in with a laugh, an excuse that they wouldn’t take up anymore of the minister's time and proceeded to grab Draco’s shoulder with too much force to call it friendly. Then, rather rudely, he dragged Draco’s arse out of the Minister’s office. His metaphorical tail was between his legs the entire walk and ride to the Auror Department.

Potter slammed his office door closed, snapped his blinds shut and when he cast a muffliato, Draco knew he was positively fucked.

He wasn’t one to cower, but as Hermione liked to say, Christ almighty, Potter looked positively murderous.

“You have ten seconds to tell me what the bloody hell is going on between you two.” His words were spoken in what one one would call a shout. Draco winced.

“Potter, I can assure you there is nothing remotely nefarious going on between Granger and me.”

“Maybe not yet.”

Draco’s jaw feathered and he cut his glare to the wall behind Potter’s face.

“I gave you this assignment because out of every one of my Auror’s, you were the least likely to get wrapped up in rookie moves. I expect better of you, Malfoy.”

“Rookie moves? What exactly do you think is happening? I’m not fucking sleeping with her!”

“I think you’re falling for your principal, that’s what I think.”

Draco realized that Potter didn’t need to curse to convey his wrath: it was plain.

“Potter, don’t be ridiculous—”

“Don’t even deny it, Malfoy. I’ve been watching this unfold for weeks now and what I walked into today was not only unprofessional but wildly inappropriate. I’ve been looking the other way until now; but I can’t do that anymore. Not when we aren’t the only ones aware that something is going on between you two. Kingsley is smart, and he saw the way you look at her. Good Godric, everyone has at this point!”

Draco took a deep breath, because right now, this wasn’t Harry Potter, Boy Wonder. This was Harry Potter, Head Auror, and Draco’s Boss.

He rather liked his job and didn’t fancy getting sacked.

“I am aware that it is not the ideal situation.”

“Do I need to pull you from the assignment?”

Draco blinked, and he physically felt the blood drain from his face. “No.”

“I expect you to nip whatever fascination you have with Hermione in the arse and do your damn job from here on out. Am I clear?”

“Yes, very.” Draco said, forgoing adding the sir because there was only so much groveling to one’s former childhood adversary one could tolerate.

When he opened the door to Potter’s office, he found half the department outside, and knew the licking of his wounds would have to wait.

They all scurried like rats when they saw his look at me and you die expression, and of course there she was.

It was as if she were Moses walking through the Red Sea as it parted (Hermione had managed to teach him a lot about Muggle history, and the one thing they both agreed on regarding Moses was that he was most definitely a wizard).

He trudged towards her, frown firmly in place. “Well? How did it sound?”

She chewed on that damned lip, then tried to offer a placating smile. “Like the adults in Charlie Brown.”

“What?”

She sighed and waved a dismissive hand. “Muggle film animation.”

“Ah.” He resigned to say, stuffing his hands in his trouser pockets.

“I was able to pick up that he reached new decibels that I haven’t heard from him before.”

“Yes, Potter can really lash you when he wants to.”

“Well? What did he say?” She tucked a rogue curl behind her ear, and he cursed the twitch in his fingers, wishing to have done the action himself. “Why is he so cross with you?”

Draco swallowed, and cut his gaze across the floor, noticing more heads ducking behind cubical partitions. “Doesn’t matter. Let’s go, day’s nearly through with anyways.”

“Home?” She asked as she kept up with his punishing stride.

The hope in her tone made his chest constrict.

“No,” he answered once they made it to the lift. “I need to actually ward the grounds of your hovel and set protection charms and jinxes.”

“What? Why?”

The lift dinged, opening into the atrium and Hermione didn’t immediately join Draco on the other side. He sighed, forcing impatience in the flare of his nostrils. “Granger, must you always ask so many questions?”

She blinked, and slowly joined him, though her steps were rather short and choppy now which meant he had to slow down to accommodate her, which also meant it was hard to keep up with his irritation.

“Why do you have to ward my house?”

“Because I’ve been putting it off long enough.”

“You’re always with me when I’m there.”

“Yes, well, it’s hardly necessary for you to be staying at my flat anymore.”

There. He said it, and it was done. No taking it back.

Line’s redrawn, happy now, Potter?

She came to a slow stop before the Floo, and when he turned to regard her with his ire, any anger dissolved quite pitifully.

Because there was a flicker of hurt in her amber eyes, and it felt like a punch to the gut—one he most certainly did not have the time to dodge.

 

----

 

Day Sixty-One: Thursday, 6th of August 2009

Malfoy’s Thirteenth Rule for Managing Magical Deviations:

Communication is Key

It’s important to maintain the lines of communication, because it creates trust, which is the cornerstone of every successful partnership. Magical or otherwise.

(Mafloy’s note: when it comes to navigating the unpredictable chaos of battling ancient yokai, you must trust your partner’s instincts and their decisions.)

(Malfoy’s note: even if said partner hasn’t so much as looked to you in twelve days)

 

----

 

Hermione had declared Draco her enemy twelve days ago.

Not that he was counting the time down to the seconds, but if someone wanted that sort of information, they might know he had spent twelve days, three hours, fourteen minutes, and thirty-six seconds in Hermione induced purgatory.

But of course, he hadn’t been counting because that would be positively mad, and he was completely sane.

The only reason he knew he was still in the aforementioned purgatory known as The Silent Treatment was because his current companion this evening was the blasted squeaky red wagon. He could also count the backside of Hermione’s head as present company as well if she wasn’t too busy trudging through the grandiose Reading Room of the British Museum, keen on keeping her distance from him both verbally and physically.

He had forgotten how well Gryffindor’s could hold a grudge.

Very well, if anyone wanted to know, because the witch was positively petty.

Hermione hadn’t even said anything after he’d essentially told her that their playing of house was unnecessary and it was time for it to come to an end, let’s keep it professional, please.

He’d explained, with what he thought was perfect logic, that her safety was only a concern during full moons, and therefore, his role as her protection detail was really, rather redundant, and that he should have gone about sending her on her merry little way sooner.

He said things like, my fault, Granger, I should have thought about it sooner, and please, go back to living your life as you had been before I bodied my way into your schedule, and please forgive my egregious error, I will pop in every so often to do wellness checks and to ensure that the wards around your domain remain intact.

In return for his more than generous apologies? Not a single word.

Just a stare so blistering it could have made a kettle scream. She even cancelled on dinner with his mother, which left Draco with little choice but to do the same.

He had ignored the scathing letter his mother had sent in reply, thinking it best to apologize in person… at a later date.

Preferably while she was out of the country and he could not be walloped.

The very next day after his most apologetic, professional spiel, Hermione had been icy, her usual aloof remarks now replaced by this impenetrable wall of silence.

She didn’t speak to him unless absolutely necessary, and when she did, it was clipped and brief.

And now, here they were, still not on speaking terms, tracking one of the wily little yokai that had slipped through their fingers two hours ago. Tricky little buggers, they were.

The large domed room was hauntingly quiet save for their steps, the wagon’s incessant squeaking, and the quick puffs of their breathing. He eyed the polished wood of the desks as he passed them, glistening beneath the golden glow of the brass lamps, then looked back towards the curved ceiling.

It was an architectural marvel, a breathtaking testament to ingenuity and artistry. It rather reminded Draco of the neoclassical Roman architecture he’d read about in one of Hermione’s many Muggle history books, a subject he was beginning to find most interesting.

Since his introduction to Muggle history, he found himself far more intrigued than he ever would have admitted aloud. Especially not to his former… associates.

It was strange, he thought, how the Muggle world was so often dismissed in the wizarding community, and yet it held such a depth and beauty to it. Such a vast history full of struggle and achievements, stories of beautiful, ingenious discoveries and creations that Draco thought far out-maneuvered magical feats. Why were Muggles considered at a disadvantage for their lack of magical aptitude when they could create things like this?

Draco was beginning to wonder if magical folk were the ones truly at the disadvantage, considering he was starting to lean towards the conclusion that the wizarding world, for all its brilliance in magic, often fell woefully short.

Magical folk seemed content with practicality, enchantments, and the bare minimum of design. It was an oversight he found increasingly frustrating the longer he spent time with Hermione in the Muggle world. Why couldn’t such aesthetic splendor coexist with the wonders of magic? If Muggles could create such magnificence without a flick of a wand, surely wizards had no excuse.

She walked ahead of him with purpose, barely sparing him a glance as she scanned the towering shelves that framed the circular room. The flickering light of her wand illuminated the rich mahogany wood, casting long, eerie shadows. Her steps were brisk, and Draco had no choice but to trail behind her, with the blasted red wagon squealing along at his heels.

A particularly loud squeak from the wagon (loaded down with more than just artifacts, mainly research materials that she couldn’t possibly need) earned him a look of absolute disdain from one Hermione Granger, Empress of Withering Glares and Champion Grudge-Holder.

He could feel the irritation crawling up his neck.

“You know,” he began, just for the sake of breaking the silence, “I’m starting to wonder if you’ve spelled this thing to be unable to retain silencing charms.”

Hermione didn’t respond, her focus entirely on the rows of ancient tomes bound in weathered leather and gold lettering. She made a sound of acknowledgment (a grunt, perhaps?) but that was it.

She was still pretending not to hear him. Pretending not to care. But Draco knew better.

There was a small part of him that wished he had just kept things 'professional' from the start. That part of him (admittedly, a very small part) wondered if he had, they might not have found themselves in this situation. Hermione would have been annoyed, yes, but at least she wouldn't have cut him off like this. But would he have even cared? He struggled to wrap his mind around this idea, and decided rather quickly there was not a world in which he was expected to be this close to her at all times where he wouldn't have had the same outcome of utter besotted-ness.

After spending all this time in purgatory, he was beginning to not give a damn about Harry’s tongue lashing. Especially not when he still felt the pull of Hermione’s proximity.

He resented having draw those damn lines. It made him feel... less. Less human. Less Draco, if that made any bloody sense, because how could one woman make him feel more of himself in two months than he had felt in his twenty-nine years alive?

It was madness, and again to reiterate, he was completely sane.

He was not used to feeling like this.

The silence between them now felt heavier than any words could express. Each of Hermione’s deliberate steps echoed in his ears, the only sound beside their quiet breathing and of course, the squeaky wagon.

“Tell me again why we’re here,” Draco pressed, trying again to crack the wall. “The map has clearly led us astray,”

“It has not led us astray,” she said coldly, her attention flickering to the next aisle. “It’s here somewhere. We just have to—"

“I meant why are you making me lug around a squeaky wagon full of artifacts and research for a case you obviously seem to think you have under control on your own.”

Hermione shot him a look, one that could melt the stone columns around them if she so pleased.

“We’re both working on this case, Malfoy. It's called cooperation,” she said, her tone clipped.

“Yes, but at this point it rather feels like you don’t want me here.”

“Well, because I don’t, but I must put up with you so I will. Stop sulking and keep your eyes peeled.”

He didn’t like how those words hit him. Or how they made him feel like a child again, caught in some petty squabble over nothing.

The truth was, he wasn’t sulking. He was just fucking frustrated. But of course, Hermione didn't see that, because he was back to being an arrogant prick in her eyes.

Again, he did not like being rejected.

He sighed, looking up at the dusty shelves. The yokai’s presence was near, of course she was right, because he could feel it. It was slippery and elusive and every time they thought they’d nabbed it into a corner tonight, it slipped away to hide somewhere among the millions of ancient texts.

They hadn't figured out which yokai it was, but Hermione liked to think it wasn't that powerful, just one of the trickster spirits they'd been researching.

A soft rustle broke his concentration, and Draco’s eyes flicked to the end of the row. Hermione was crouched down, rifling through a stack of parchments that had been left carelessly out of place.

“Are you ever going to talk to me again, Granger?” Draco asked, his voice quieter now and not the biting sarcasm he’d been hiding behind. “Or is this to be my eternal purgatory?”

She didn’t look at him immediately, but when she did, her face was unreadable, her eyes cautious.

“I’m talking to you right now, Malfoy,” she said, her tone neutral, but he could hear the guarded edges.

Professional Draco rubbed his face, while Emotional, Besotted Draco wailed in retaliation.

Internally, of course.

“You damn well know what I meant when I said that.”

She trudged forward three steps, and then suddenly she whirled on him, pointing her wand.

“Don’t move.”

“Granger,” he warned, fingers flexing around his own wand trained at his side.

“Draco,” she rasped, and he saw something akin to fear in her glistening eyes. His gaze darted to the map glowing faintly in her hand, and his breath hitched when he saw the two red and purple masses blinking into existence not even ten meters away from their own glowing magical signatures, both of theirs a light yellowish white in comparison.

The air around them seemed to drop in temperature, the faint hum of magic growing louder.

“Where is it?” He asked, making his way towards her to brandish his wand and stand at the ready.

Hermione didn’t answer right away, and her wand hand trembled beside him. She was looking up, and he tracked the space to where her gaze was locked. That’s when he noticed the faint shimmer at the edge of the high, arched windows.

“There, up there!”

The air around them grew impossibly cold, the faint hum of magic now a sharp buzz that prickled at Draco’s senses. He gripped his wand tighter, his free hand instinctively reaching back for the handle of the squeaky wagon. “Granger, draw the circle.”

“Two signatures,” Hermione murmured, ignoring his order. Her voice was taut with disbelief, and he noticed how hard her hands shook as she clutched the map. “This—this has never happened before. They’re not supposed to—I never thought they’d—”

“Work together?” Draco finished for her, his voice a harsh whisper as he tracked the rippling masses of energy slowly growing in size. “Wonderful. Just bloody wonderful.”

The spirits in the distance coalesced into two distinct forms as they descended not to far from where Draco and Hermione stood, side by side.

One was fluid and ethereal, a humanoid figure cloaked in swirling black smoke that seemed to drip ink with every step. Its face, or what passed for one, was an unsettling mass of shifting shadows, with eyes like pinpricks of light that bore into Draco’s very soul.

The other figure was smaller, more compact, but no less threatening. It was sleek and fox-like, with glowing red fur that seemed to ripple like flames in the dim light of the Reading Room. Its multiple tails fanned out behind it, each one tipped with a flicker of silver light, and its intelligent eyes glinted with mischief as it regarded them with a predatory tilt of its head.

Draco swore under his breath. “Tell me that's not what I think it is.”

Hermione swallowed hard; her wand now steady despite the tremor in her voice. “It’s a kitsune. I didn’t prepare for that—Draco—”

He took a hard, steady breath. His pulse a drum in his chest. He tracked the subtle shift in her energy, and a bolt of heat shot through him in rush of protectiveness.

His magic was like a storm gathering on the horizon, a quiet hum building in his veins that quickly turned into a crackling inferno he could feel beneath his skin. It seeped out, wild and untamed, a pulse of pure energy that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention. It felt dangerous, like the wild winds before a hurricane, and his instincts screamed for him to act, to protect, to strike.

The suzuri moved first, its fluid form slipping between the gold-lit desks and towering shelves like liquid shadow. Its inky tendrils lashed out, snaking through the air with unnatural speed. Draco quickly cast a shield charm before one of the tendrils slammed against it, splattering a spray of black ink that hissed where it touched the floor.

Protego horribilis!” Draco barked, reinforcing his shield as Hermione fired off a spell at the kitsune, which, unfortunately, darted rather nimbly out of the way.

“Draco, the kitsune—I can’t duel and bind at the same time!” Hermione snapped, her attention split between dodging the kitsune’s fiery tails and keeping her own shield intact against the suzuri.

“They’re working together to disorient us,” he hissed, and shoved her to the side just as another wave of inky blackness slammed down where she had just been standing. He called up another shield and cast a barrage of offensive spells. “We need to separate them, but we can’t do that unless we split up and I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

“Draco, we have no choice!”

“I said no, Granger!”

She snarled to herself, and he caught the tail-end of her muttering stubborn bastard. She ducked behind him, digging through her bag for the enchanted chalk and her stack of parchment seals. He was bloody thankful she had made those in advance, and continued casting spell after spell as she shuffled through them.

“Granger, any time now!”

“I’m looking for the two that will work against them!”

“Well, please do hurry up because they seem rather determined to spill our blood.”

She seethed a breath between her teeth, then said, “We need to focus on binding one at a time,”

“Brilliant fucking observation, Granger.” He shot back, slashing his wand through the air to counter another inky tendril. “Shall I ask nicely for one of them to please stop trying to kill us so we may focus on binding its friend?”

The kitsune let out a high-pitched cackle, its multiple tails flicking forward in unison to send a wave of shimmering silver fire towards them. He threw up a shield and tackled Hermione behind one of the reading desks. The flames licked dangerously close to their heels, burning through the polished wood like acid. “I do feel like they’re rather ticked, don’t you?”

She shot him a look of pure loathing just as he yelled out a confringo, sending the explosive burst of magic toward the kitsune over the top of the desk they hid behind. It leaped nimbly onto a desk further down the aisle, its glowing eyes locked on his with unsettling intensity.

Draco dragged Hermione back, and cast his wand towards the wagon to bring it with them, wincing as it’s wheels squeaked. He saw a burst of a shadow, and threw up a shield around the wagon just as a tendril of acidic ink slammed down, striking with relentless precision. Each time one hit his shield, the impact sent shudders down his arm, the inky residue sizzling on contact.

Granger,” he panted, his voice strained. “I know you’re scared—”

”—I’m anything but scared—”

“—well then you could at least try to fight back rather than leave the hard bits to me—”

“—the HARD bits?” She shrieked in indignation.

Draco shot her a dark look just as he cast a flurry of hexes the yokai’s way. None landed.

“Chalk. Circle.” He barked. “Now, Granger.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” She shouted just she sent a blast of steel-sharp ice shards the kitsune’s way.

“I will when that brilliant mind of yours isn’t focused—”

“Don’t compliment me with an insult,” she snarled. “It’s you who needs to give me time to draw the circle!”

“Fine!” He shouted, dodging a rather nefarious looking blob of ink that just so happened to be on fire. (Why did he take this job again?) “I’m going to disillusion you, Granger.”

Her fiery eyes met his, clashing like a storm over an open field, and she gave a curt nod.

Wonderful, her self preservation won out over her spite.

He cast a disillusionment charm over her just as she began crawling on her hands and knees towards a wide enough spot on the floor. He watched as the chalk bobbed in the air and tracked her faintly smudged outline as a circle began to form on the marble floors, and then fully turned to focus on the creatures advancing from two fronts.

“Fucking hell,” he snarled to himself, warding off another surge of the kitsune’s fire just as the suzuri sent a wave of ink towards him. He shielded both he and Hermione, and cast an impedimenta at the kitsune, then snarled sectumsempra (thanks, Potter) at the suzuri. It wailed in response, and ink exploded from the slashes across its shadowy torso.  “Do you two fuckers have no common decency when it comes to dueling?”

“Draco, I need the inkstone!” she shouted from behind him.

“A little busy right now, darling!” he yelled back, casting a protego maxima at the same time he shot forth a confringo towards the leaping kitsune. It dove elegantly out of the way and chittered a hiss that sounded horribly like a laugh.

He felt a hand at his back, and he tensed, ready to turn and fire a stupefy until her breath his his ear as she said, “It’s me,”

He relaxed for just a moment, long enough for her palm to brush along his hip to let him know where she was as she moved, still thankfully disillusioned.

“Hermione,” Draco bit out, deflecting another strike from the kitsune. “Stop, I’ll get the bloody crate!”

Her hand was gone, and he searched desperately for a ripple of movement to try and see where she was.

The fox chittered behind him, and he cursed, turning on his heel to throw up another shield.

Hermione gasped from somewhere to the left just as he heard her call up a weak protego. He felt the impact before he saw it, a resounding echo as a wave of ink slammed against her shield.

The suzuri screached, and Draco didn’t like the sound of that one bit, so with a flick of his wand, he sent a barrage of incendiary spells toward the inkstone yokai and dove away from the silver flames of the kitsune.

“Granger?” he rasped, searching the ground around him, and cast a revelio out of pure desperation.

She was diving towards the wagon with a tendril of ink nipping at her heels.

StupefyImpedimenta!” Hermione shouted, her spells just barely keeping the yokai at bay as she finally reached the wagon. She skidded to a halt beside it, one hand already moving to the crate as she lifted her wand and cast protego horribilis in Draco’s direction.

Draco, meanwhile, opted to then turn his full attention to the suzuri, driving it back with a relentless onslaught of spells. “IncendioDiffindoConfringo!”

Each spell seemed to strike true, but the yokai reformed almost instantly, its inky body regenerating with an unnatural fluidity.

“Granger!” he shouted, risking a glance over his shoulder.

“Almost there!” she called back, her wand tracing intricate patterns in the air as she chanted the binding incantation.

The kitsune lunged at her, its fiery tails streaking through the air like whips. At the last second, Hermione ducked, her free hand grabbing one of the heavier books from the wagon and hurling it at the fox spirit.

“Take that, you little shit!” she growled, dodging another strike as the book hit the kitsune squarely in the face, momentarily stunning it.

He choked on a laugh, he couldn’t help it, until his shield flickered just as the inkstone yokai lashed out with renewed fury.

“Draco, focus!”

“Trust me, I’m fucking focused!” he snapped just as he wand tip began to glow. "If I wasn't, we'd both be dead!"

He panted, flicking his attention between the spirits as the inkstone began to hum with energy. The yokai must have sensed the pull of the artifact because it let out an eerie, keening wail and surged at Hermione who was running full tilt towards the chalk circle. Draco intercepted it with a well-placed bombarda maxima.

“Now, Granger!” he shouted, his voice raw.

Hermione completed the incantation just as the inkstone yokai lunged for her once more. The artifact flared with blinding light; the seal attached to it fluttering. The yokai let out a deafening scream as it was pulled inexorably toward the inkstone. Its inky form twisted and writhed, fighting against the binding magic, but it was no match for Hermione’s precision.

She levitated the artifact into the circle just as the first wisp of ink seeped into the stone. She cried out the ritualistic incantations with furious determination, and Draco searched the room for the kitsune, listening for it’s chittering, but it was nowhere to be found. He cursed, gaze darting back to Hermione. Her hair crackled with magic; little zaps of lightning twisting through her curls. He watched with bated breath as the yokai released one final, echoing cry before it was sealed within the artifact, its shadowy tendrils vanishing into the now glowing inkstone.

Draco slumped against one of the reading desks, breathing heavily as he finally found the kitsune and watched it's corporal form disappear into thin air.

“Fox is gone.” he muttered, watching as Hermione straightened, her face pale but triumphant. He dropped to the ground, resting his back against the desk’s face. “Little shit ran away.”

“I’m not really upset about that fact right now,” she croaked. A sheen of sweat glistened on her brow, and Draco tracked the way her chest rose and fell in rapid succession “I’m rather tired.”

He hummed and closed his eyes long enough to control his panting.

“It must have realized what I was doing and didn’t wish to succumb to the same fate.” She added, and Draco peeled his eyes open to look at her, tracking over every inch of her person, searching for something amiss, something bleeding.

Twists of wild curls stuck to her sweat-dappled forehead, and her thick braid seemed to cling to the side of her neck. Her robe was askew, the collar half-turned, sleeves rolled up, and the hem was singed to hell. Her breathing was fast, still ragged from the exertion, but every little intake and exhale was all Draco needed to calm his thrumming blood.

She was alive, unharmed, and so fucking beautiful.

“You're incredible,” Draco murmured, and she caught his gaze. For the briefest moment, the sharp edge of her exhaustion softened. She smiled faintly, a soft, almost imperceptible curve of her lips that only made her more beautiful. He cleared his throat. “What should we do about the kitsune?”

She trudged toward him and slumped against his side. Her head rolled to rest on his shoulder, and she released a shuddering breath. “Another problem for another month, I suppose.”

Draco closed his eyes and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, needing contact, needing proof that she was alive, and that she was safe. He felt her stiffen for just a second, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned into him, her head tilting just slightly as if she was seeking comfort from his presence, the way he was from hers.

He could feel her breathing steady beneath his arm, and sighed with relief when her once thrumming heartbeat turned soft and sure against his side.

She curled closer to him, both arms slipping around his waist. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Draco inhaled deeply, the warm, familiar scent of her mingling with the musk of old books and tang of lingering magic.

Gods, he hadn’t realized just how much he had missed her these past twelve days.

He tightened his hold and dropped his cheek to her crown. The tickle of her hair brushed against his lips, and he couldn’t help himself.

He pressed a kiss to her hairline.

She didn’t seem to notice, or mind, considering they were both exhausted, their magic nearly depleted.

And yet, Draco couldn’t remember a time when he ever felt more alive.

This was an intimacy they had never shared before, and Draco felt as if he could feel an invisible thread unfurling between them, like a rope of light, a bind of trust, of need—

He held her a little tighter, just for a second longer than necessary until he felt her loosen her grip around his waist. Silence stretched until she fully pulled back, just far enough to meet his gaze, her amber eyes soft, her expression tired but gentle.

“You did well, Malfoy.”

“Are you surprised?" He smirked and tugged on her braid playfully. "I thought you were already aware of how exceptional I am.”

She huffed a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “Don’t be a prat.”

He grinned, and then said, “Can I come out of purgatory now?”

“You were never in purgatory.”

He ignored her, saying, “I saved your life on multiple occasions tonight, it’s only fair.”

She rolled her eyes and made to stand, offering a hand to help him up as well. “Do you think Finnigan’s is still open? I could use a drink.”

He took her answer as confirmation that he was home free from The Silent Treatment and slung his arm around her shoulders once more. She didn’t even try to squirm away.

“How about I feed you first? You look a bit peaky.”

She tched at his teasing but obliged in his request.

They didn't go to Finnigan's. Instead, they got Chinese takeout and headed to his flat, and after they ate, neither said a word when they headed to their respective bedrooms.

Draco hovered at the threshold of his doorway just as she did at hers. “Goodnight, Granger." He wet his lips, hesitating, and then decided the truth was best. "I'm glad you’re home.”

“Me too, Malfoy." She swallowed, and he tracked the movement with far too much interest. "Goodnight.”

Her door closed with a quiet click and upon waking the next morning, Draco noted that he had slept better that night than he had all week.

Notes:

For anyone curious... some of the rules with their adjacent notes that are written before and new scenes/chapters are actually written in the future long after the yokai disaster of '09 hits lmao it's their memoir of sorts... if the title didn't glean that... ok! that's all. I hope you loved this chappie!!!

Chapter 6: The Art of Illusion

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Day Sixty-Two: Friday, 7th of August 2009

Granger’s Fourteenth Rule for Surviving Magical Chaos:

Never Underestimate the Power of Tea.

Sometimes, when faced with the madness of yokai-hunting, cursed artifacts, endless magical anomalies, or just Mafloy’s cranky attitude pre-afternoon kip, the only thing that can soothe your soul is a simple cup of tea.

Because, really, all you need is a hot cup, a moment of peace, and a good companion.

(Malfoy’s note: It’s the one thing I’ve learned to accept from Granger. That and her strange tendency to always know when I need a cuppa.)

(Granger’s note: I do believe it’s my sixth sense.)

(Malfoy’s note: Glad to know your body is attuned to my needs, Granger.)

 

----

 

Hermione stood at the kitchen counter, her hands moving with practiced ease as she set to preparing tea.

She hummed along to the music playing softly from the record player in the hallway, the track distorted and muffled through the walls of his flat.

It was a Bowie album, specifically London Boy which… was surprising he had picked this album over all the other more well known albums.

It was just one of the several dozen new records that now filled the shelf in the hall. Ones that she had happened to mention liking.

She hadn’t yet commented on the fact that he filled the shelves during their lapse in being housemates (she really hoped he would never bring it up and they could just pretend it hadn’t happened), or that he even remembered such trivial details like her taste in music, but alas, the gesture had warmed her more than she cared to admit.

(She’d rather swallow a bezoar than admit that out loud, though.)

The kettle simmered gently on the stove, and the room filled with the soothing scent of dried herbs.

Lavender, chamomile, and the faintest trace of moonblossom petals mingled in the air from the sweet-herb bundle that was hanging from the spice rack. She plucked a sprig of lemon verbena before adding it to her mortar and pestle.

She turned the pestle slowly, grinding with rhythmic circles, letting her mind focus on the task at hand. Or rather, trying to.

Tea was calming.

Tea was simple.

Tea did not flirt with her, annoy her, or hover around her looking unfairly good while doing absolutely nothing helpful.

Draco Malfoy, however, did do the latter three things and right now, she was in desperate need of an escape from the confusing mess of him.

She poured a small amount of boiling water into each cup, watching as the herbs began to bloom and swirl like tiny galaxies in the liquid. Reaching for the honey, she drizzled just the right amount into each mug, stirring with care.

This was a ritual she had come to love for its stability—for the chance it gave to quiet her mind. She was so grateful that Professor Minamoto had taken the time to teach Hermione the art of brewing the perfect cup of tea during her time spent in Japan.

Minamoto had ensured Hermione knew that making tea was about far more than the ingredients. It was practice, a moment to center oneself and embrace stillness. And for someone whose mind never seemed to stop whirring? Making tea was a rare and welcome reprieve, one she desperately needed.

She just wanted her mind to come to a bleeding halt. It was an unrelenting storm of unspeakable things, of emotions stuffed deep and moments she kept reliving like a hopeless fool. His smirks, his maddening quips, his very presence (which had somehow rooted itself into every junction of her life).

She found herself watching him too often, noticing the smallest details—the way he rolled up his sleeves (a kind of quiet, devastating couth), the way sunlight caught the silver strands of his hair (it looked soft, like freshly fallen snow), the deliberate grace of his hands when he worked (mesmerizing), or the way the faint brackets at the corners of his mouth deepened when he laughed (infuriatingly handsome).

Honestly, if she kept this up, she was going to need something stronger than tea.

She stirred, and steam rose in soft wisps, curling like a question mark in the air. It felt oddly symbolic of her life these days that was filled with questions and very few answers.

How had Draco sodding Malfoy, of all people, seem to take up so much space in her mind?

Was it simply because they spent so much time together? She hated to think that it could simply be chalked up to proximity, to the slow erosion of walls when two people were forced into each other's orbit’s day in and day out. She wondered if it something was inexplicable, something terrifying in its intensity.

Hermione was beginning to understand that how she felt about Draco went beyond mere chemistry. Chemistry was the flutter in her stomach when he smirked, the spark that flared when their hands brushed. This wasn’t that. This felt like physiology, like her very body was attuned to him in ways she couldn’t explain. It was as though they were two halves of an ageless equation, her existence quietly, impossibly, completing his.

Being around Draco felt like gravity.

A pull so natural, so undeniable, she hardly noticed it until she was already careening toward him. Like her body had always been the perfect mirror to his, the reflection waiting for its counterpart. They were two magnets, polar opposites and yet irrevocably drawn to each other, incapable of resisting the force that would inevitably bring them together.

No, it wasn’t just chemistry.

Chemistry could be controlled, denied, even ignored. This felt far more profound, far more dangerous. It felt like the stars themselves had decreed it, like they were two celestial bodies fated to collide.

They were an impact that could either light up the universe or leave destruction in its wake.

The faint click of the kettle before it began hissing drew her attention back, and she took it off the stove top. She poured the steeped tea into two waiting mugs, and the soft clink of ceramic grounded her back to the present. Once again, she relished in the sacredness of simplicity.

Hermione inhaled deeply, letting the herbal warmth settle over her like a blanket.

She was glad for this quiet, for the moment of peace after the clumsiness that had hung between her and Draco upon waking that morning. The tension between them had been almost palpable.

Even now her cheeks flushed every time she thought of the way his gaze lingered on her just a moment too long.

She reached for the cup she had just prepared, holding it in her hands as if to anchor herself, and then the calm shattered when a familiar voice cut through the stillness, “Did you make me a cup?”

Hermione shrieked, her heart nearly leaping into her throat. She jumped, tea slipping from her fingers. Draco’s wand was out in a flash, and the cup hovered centimeters from the runner beneath her feet—a runner he had duplicated from her own home and brought to his flat weeks ago after she had complained about how cold his floors were.

“Merlin’s beard, Malfoy!” she snapped, pressing a hand to her chest as her heartbeat thundered in her ears. “Why must you always sneak up on me like that?”

Draco, leaning casually against the doorframe, smirked in that infuriating way of his that made her thoughts drift to a dangerous, illicit place. “You may thank me anytime now for saving your tea, Granger. It would’ve been a tragic loss.”

“Could you at least announce yourself next time?” she huffed, retrieving the cup from midair. “Nosey prat.”

“I prefer ‘charming housemate.’”

“Charming is a stretch,” she muttered, setting the tea on the counter with a bit more force than necessary.

Draco strolled into the kitchen, his smirk softening just a fraction as he reached for what he assumed was his cup. “You wound me.”

“If only.”

Draco took a sip, and her heart began to race at a near deafening pulse when that bracketed smile made its debut. “Tell me again why you’re not brewing this for profit?”

“Because,” she replied, trying to ignore the warmth blooming in her chest at his praise, “I’d rather keep my secrets to myself. And I’m not brewing tea for you to take credit for.”

“Fair enough,” he drawled, and his grin turned shark-like. “Have I ever told you, Granger, that this tea of yours might just be making me a better man?"

She sighed. "Oh, really?"

"Mm, yes. I don’t recall who I was before it. Have you bewitched me with your brew?”

“Yes, Malfoy, I regret to inform you that it is indeed a love potion and not a cup of tea. So sorry you must find out this way.”

“I knew you were after my galleons.”

She couldn’t fight the smirk. “Yes, how did you know? I released the yokai so I might make you fall in love with me, all so I can reap the rewards after we marry because I am planning to take you for all your worth in the divorce.”

Those quicksilver eyes rolled, and she tracked the way he leaned against the counter only feet from where she idled, the way his body angled towards hers, the casualness of his person whenever they stood this close together. He stuffed one hand into his charcoal trousers, forearm flexing in that maddening way beneath the rolled sleeve of his jumper.

She wanted to know what his arms would look like if he had her pressed into a mattress, how they might flex against her jaw when he leaned down to kiss her.

What would it be like to kiss him? Would they fall into each other gracelessly, or would it be a gradual descent towards collision? Would he kiss her softly, or would his teeth nip and tug on her lips, would his tongue lash hers for every crack she ever threw his way?

She swallowed, shifting where she stood when a dull ache of need began to unfurl in her lower belly.

“Shall we finally address the erumpent in the room, then, Granger?”

Her attention snapped up from where she had been blatantly ogling his forearm—blast it all, his forearm of all things—cursing herself for salivating over something so ridiculous as a man’s arm.

“What?”

“The erumpent in the room, Granger,” he repeated dryly, an ashen brow quirking as he took another slow sip of tea, the movement maddeningly nonchalant.

She straightened, blinking several times to reorient her mind. Her gaze drifted to the little red wagon parked pitifully in the corner of the kitchen, silently wishing that to be the topic of discussion rather than their twelve-day Cold War.

(It had taken quite the beating last night, and she feared it might never be operational again.)

“You mean the wagon?”

He snorted. “No, but I am sad to see it in such a state.”

“It is rather pathetic.”

“I had been growing fond of it,” he admitted, his brow lifting as his eyes lingered on the wagon, suddenly contemplative.

“I’ll make a new one, then.”

“Perhaps one that squeaks less?”

“But then what would you complain about?”

His snort was quick and unrestrained, but she hated—loathed, really—to see how his expression sobered. And of course, he noted her attempt at diversion. He always did.

She had been dreading this conversation since last night. She just knew he wouldn’t let it slip into the ether. Not this time. Not when it was a Big Conversation—the kind that clawed its way out of all their other precarious tête-à-têtes, demanding attention.

This couldn’t be ignored and conveniently swept under the proverbial rug. For obvious reasons.

(She was standing in his kitchen making tea, still in her nightclothes.)

Clearing her throat, she straightened her spine. “If not the wagon, then, pray tell, Malfoy, which erumpent might you be referring to?”

He dropped his chin and gave her the driest of glares, one that could desiccate an entire field of crops if he so wished.

Her face heated furiously, but she steadfastly opted to stare at the counter instead. It was easier than meeting the weight of that gaze.

“I think it goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway, just so we can move past this—because, clearly, you’re struggling.” Her attention cut his way, quick and precise, only to catch his smirk fading into something sharper. His voice softened, like silk over steel. “I’m sorry for hurting your feelings, Granger.”

His eyes were so profoundly open and honest, the blue a dangerous hue that threatened to suck her in like a whirlpool.

“You didn’t hurt my feelings.” She said quickly. Too quickly.

“Hm.”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

Why, why, why did he have to bring this up? She just wanted to drink her tea, stew in silence, and ignore the fact that she was becoming entirely too fascinated with one Draco Malfoy, Perfectionist of Hair Charms and Destroyer of Sanity.

“Okay,” she said finally, after a deep breath. “Yes, you hurt my… feelings.” Christ, she did not like acknowledging that. “I thought—I didn’t know—ugh,” she scrubbed her face and groaned into her palms, wishing the heat on her face would just bloody go away. “I know it’s ridiculous to be offended because I don’t actually need your protection at all times. I just… I simply didn’t enjoy that you decided it was unnecessary. Rather suddenly, if I’m being honest.”

Her words tumbled out like a rapidly unraveling spool of thread, and yet he stood there patiently, his attention unwavering.

“I thought we both were well aware that we didn’t need to spend all this time together but were just… ignoring that fact because, well, we somehow get along rather well.” She swallowed hard, the words becoming heavier with each syllable. “And it’s nice to not always be… alone.”

Hermione’s eyes darted to his hands, the way they gripped the edge of the counter. His pale knuckles betrayed the tension simmering beneath his surface and she couldn’t quite tell if it was frustration, or…

“I… um, I understand if you wanted… you know, space. I know I can be rather bothersome and ornery and probably get on your nerves—”

“The last thing you do is get on my nerves, Granger.”

She blinked, mouth dropping open and closed like a fish. Then he stepped closer, close enough she could catch the faint, fresh and earthy scent of him.

Close enough that she could reach out and take his hand if she had the nerve to.

She bit down on the inside of her cheek, then cleared her throat. “Well, I’m glad I don’t get on your nerves.”

“You were saying?”

“I was saying?” she repeated dumbly, the fog in her brain thickening when he smiled at her—that smile, soft and reserved, like it was meant for her alone.

“Yes, Granger. I cut you off.”

“Oh, yes. Right.” She pinched her thigh discreetly, desperate to get her brain to start functioning properly. “I was saying that you—well, you kept looking at me all sad and forlorn, and I didn’t understand why because you were the one who wanted me gone—”

“Potter told me I needed to set boundaries between us because we were too chummy, not because I wanted you gone.”

“What?” she squawked, her jaw falling open.

“He was worried that it would impede the investigation if we were on too friendly of terms.”

Hermione’s gaze sharpened, amber eyes cutting into him like a scalpel. “Harry said that, did he?”

“In… a way,” Draco replied, and for once, his usual sardonic edge was absent. He didn’t even flinch under her scrutiny, though his fingers did twitch ever so slightly around the mug in his hands. “He gave me a long-winded, righteous lecture about professionalism.”

“And you listened to him? You, Draco Malfoy, followed Harry Potter’s advice?”

He scoffed, his lips curling into a wry smirk. “Don’t look so shocked, Granger. Even a broken clock is right twice a day.”

She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or hex him. Instead, she shook her head, irritation swelling in her chest.

“So let me get this straight—you decided to shove me out of your life, make me feel like some unwanted burden, all because Harry said we were too friendly?”

“I thought he had a point. And I didn’t want to complicate things further.”

Her eyes flashed. “Draco, you’ve been my shadow for over two months, there’s nothing complicated about your presence in my life. It’s your job!”

“You are practically shooting flames out of your eyeballs at me, Granger. I’d say Potter’s meddling worked its charm after all.”

Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line as she set her tea on the counter, crossing her arms over her chest. “You should have told me.”

“And risk you storming into his office, declaring our friendship an asset to the case?" He snorted. "No thanks. Potter’s ego is large enough without you inflating it by proving his meddling actually mattered."

“Draco,” she said, her voice lower now, nearly a growl if she were being honest. “I can’t believe you let Harry Potter dictate how you should behave around me.”

“That’s not entirely the truth.”

“Then tell me the full truth. Why—”

“Because I thought he might have a point, all right?” Draco snapped, his composure cracking just enough to reveal the frustration simmering beneath. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing the perfectly groomed strands. “I thought keeping some distance might be better for both of us. I know I’ve been overly accommodating—”

“Overly accommodating?!”

“Yes.”

No.”

“Fine, then call me charming, attentive, and devastatingly attractive.”

Her lips twitched. “Devastatingly attractive wasn’t part of Harry’s complaint, was it?”

“Perhaps not in those exact words,” Draco admitted.

She groaned, throwing up her hands. “This is ridiculous, he doesn’t get to dictate how we—how you—conduct yourself! We’ve been working together perfectly fine and he had to go and muck it up!”

“Potter’s little lecture obviously didn’t stick, so I wouldn’t say he mucked anything up.”

Her nose wrinkled when she lifted it into the air, ignoring him. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t have been so cross with you if I knew the truth.”

“Well, I’m standing here aren’t I? In my flat, while you make me tea in your ridiculous little sock-slippers.”

(Yes, of course, he noticed because Draco was very perceptive and intelligent, and she just knew upon waking this morning that he wouldn’t let their Cold War be a let bygones be bygones thing, sock-slippers aside.)

She glanced down at her feet, the fluffy knitted socks with kitten faces glaring up at her accusingly.

“They're comfortable,” she muttered defensively.

A beat of silence passed; tension stretched thick.

Then he said in a quiet tone, “It doesn’t exactly get more domestic than this, does it?”

Her face flushed again. “This is not domestic.”

“Oh?”

“This is tea!”

“Hm.” His eyes dipped briefly to the steaming cups, then back to her. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“Malfoy—”

“Granger.”

They stared at each other, that thick tension stretching further between them until it became the thinnest thread, ready to snap at any moment.

He took a deep breath and forced a smile before he dropped his empty cup into the sink. Then he strode out of the kitchen. “Shall we crack on, then? I think we ought to figure out why we nearly died last night.”

“What?” she croaked, trailing after him, slipping on the hardwood in her not ridiculous sock-slippers. “Draco Malfoy, get back here. We aren’t done talking.”

He strode towards the dining room, and she hobbled after him, cursing his lack of carpet and Tansy’s smart polishing charm work.

He was poking the kitsune mask with his wand when she walked in after him, one hand drawn behind his back as he leaned over the table. He looked pompous, but in a handsome, speculative sort of way.

“I wonder if we’re going to be bombarded with the rest of them next month. Do you think this little cheeky fucker is going to be a problem?”

She stared at his profile, noting the way his jaw flickered with tension.

“Draco,” she said softly, coming to stand at his side. Her shoulder brushed his bicep, and she reached for his wand. She drew it back and forced his attention to fix on her instead.

“Yes, Granger?”

His jaw feathered again, and she itched to soothe the tension radiating through him, but she didn’t know what to say, how to move. To act.

She parted her lips to speak, but whatever she might have said dissolved into silence as a sharp rapping at the window interrupted her, the tap of a beak cutting through the moment before her thoughts could fully take shape.

 


 

Narcissa Malfoy had impeccable timing—and by impeccable, Draco meant utterly dreadful. He was beginning to think his mother possessed a sixth sense for detecting the exact moments when he and a certain witch teetered dangerously close to muddying the waters of their already complicated relationship.

He had expected his mother’s summons eventually, but not at the most inopportune moment possible.

His nostrils flared as he stared down at Hermione, her hand still wrapped around his. Her skin was warm and soft, her touch radiating the kind of comfort that felt like the first rays of a sunrise, or the quiet hum of a home filled with laughter.

The spell between them broke with the sharp squawk of the Malfoy family owl demanding attention. Reluctantly, Draco stepped away and strode to the window, unlatching it with a disgruntled sigh. He offered Cicero a lone treat, which it accepted with a haughty peck before demanding another. Draco shooed the blasted thing away, locking the window with a snap before turning back to the carefully rolled parchment in his hand. His thumb brushed the velvet green ribbon tying it shut, and he could already sense his mother’s scheming.

“Whose owl?” Hermione asked, her voice curious.

“My mother’s,” he deadpanned, unrolling the letter. His eyes skimmed the elegant calligraphy, snagging on a particular line that had him cursing softly under his breath: Please extend an invitation to Miss Granger; I was so hoping to speak with her when you both originally agreed to dinner. Theodore mentioned that you two are currently working together…

Of course. Leave it to his mother—and Theo, that fucking gremlin—to meddle. He sighed, running a hand through his hair as he re-rolled the parchment.

“She wants me to come to dinner tonight,” he said, glancing at the Muggle wristwatch on his wrist—Hermione’s doing, naturally. She’d given it to him a month ago when she realized his birthday had passed without her knowing, despite them not yet working together at the time. “In two hours.”

“Oh,” Hermione said simply. “Well, I need to go home and feed Crookshanks anyway—”

“Come with me,” he blurted out before he could stop himself.

Her beautiful brown eyes widened, and her rosebud lips parted in a delicate ‘o.’

“I wouldn’t want to intrude…”

“You wouldn’t be intruding,” he said, striding toward her, something wild and unguarded in his tone. “Please. Come to dinner.”

“Malfoy,” she started, looking flustered. “I don’t—I have nothing nice enough to wear here—”

“We’ll stop by your place to feed Crookshanks, and you can get ready there if it’s really a concern, which it shouldn’t be because you look beautiful as you are, but—”

“I’m in my bedclothes, Draco.”

He cast a quick glance over her frame, snagging on the bare skin of her legs beneath the too-large cotton shirt that hung loosely from her petite shoulders. “Yes, and?” (She looked beautiful no matter what she wore.)

She blinked several times, so doe-eyed and shocked as she stared up at him.

He took a deep breath, his desperation slipping through. “Please, Granger. Join us.”

Her hesitation softened at the quiet intensity in his voice. She toyed with the end of her hair, curling it around her finger in a nervous gesture.

“She won’t be... upset?”

He clenched the parchment in his hand, crumpling it slightly. “No. She... actually requested you join us.”

Her brows shot up, and she darted a skeptical glance at the letter in his hand. Before he could react, she snatched it from his grasp and turned away, her sharp eyes scanning the words faster than he could protest. It was too late, anyways. Bloody fast reader, Hermione was.

Oh,” she said, finally turning to meet his horror-stricken expression. “You weren’t lying.”

“I wasn’t.” He winced.

“Well, we ought to get going, shouldn’t we?”

He conceded with a reluctant nod, following her to his Floo. With a flash of green flames, they were deposited in the middle of her little cottage (humble abode, though he often called it a hovel just to irritate her). The place was annoyingly (undeniably) cozy, filled with mismatched furniture and the faint smell of old books and that sweet, sweet scent of hers. He had yet to pinpoint what exactly it reminded him of other than its specific notes (he had an aristocrat’s upbringing, after all. His nose was as good as a bloodhound’s.) but he was sure to figure it out soon.

“I’ll be out shortly,” she mumbled, a deep flush on her lovely cheeks.

Draco nodded and sank onto her well-loved, if alarmingly lumpy, sofa. As he surveyed the room, his gaze landed on a peculiar Muggle object sitting on the coffee table. When had she gotten this? It was a cube, colorful and disjointed, with tiny squares on each side. He picked it up, turning it over in his hands with mild curiosity.

“What in Merlin’s name is this boxy thing?” he muttered to himself, frowning as the cube resisted his attempts to line up the colors.

“It’s a Rubik’s cube,” Hermione called from the bedroom, and he quirked a brow in the direction she had disappeared to change. “Muggle puzzle. It’s meant to be a challenge.”

A challenge, was it? He smirked to himself, rolling up his sleeves. He could take on yokai, disarm hexes, and outwit his fellow Aurors (he wouldn't count Weasley in that line of thinking because that wasn’t exactly a feat, now was it?). A Muggle contraption was hardly going to get the better of him.

He twisted one side, then another, frowning when the squares refused to cooperate.

It wasn’t until he realized the solution involved arithmetic and patterns that things began to click—quite literally. By the time he sensed Hermione’s steps coming down the hall, he had aligned every side to its proper color, the once-chaotic cube now a neatly solved puzzle.

She stepped into the living room, slipping on a pair of earrings, and paused mid-stride when she saw the Rubik’s cube in his hands. “You solved it?” she asked, blinking in disbelief.

Draco twirled the cube with a smug grin, staring at his handiwork. “Naturally. A bit cheeky, this little thing, but not bad once you figure out its tricks. Quite fun, actually.”

He looked up, and his smug smile dropped. The air in the room seemed to shift. He stood up immediately, an automatic gesture he couldn’t quite explain, though the curious look she sent his way made it clear she noticed.

She looked downright sinful, and he nearly began salivating.

The dress she wore was a soft, mid-shin number in a red floral pattern, the fitted bodice highlighting a scooped neckline that teased just enough of her décolletage to drive him to distraction. The delicate spaghetti straps framed her petite shoulders, leaving the expanse of her neck invitingly bare save for the thin matching neck-scarf.

She watched him, curious expression still there, as she wrapped it loosely around her throat before tossing the long, draping ends over both shoulders.

His mind betrayed him, already imagining how the neckline might dip further if she bent forward, and he swallowed hard, very keen to see her do exactly that.

Preferably sooner rather than later.

He wondered what might happen if he tugged on that scarf—if she might blush or gasp or if her eyes would widen and if her pupils would dilate.

His gaze roved down to the skirt that gently flared from her trim waist, swishing as she crossed the room toward him in strappy brown heels, and Salazar save him, he wanted to fall to his knees and beg her to let him worship her. He would gladly dedicate his life to her.

She brushed her hands self-consciously down the dress as she stood before him, her cheeks flushed, and for a moment, Draco forgot how to breathe.

She cleared her throat, then said, “You might be the only wizard alive who would call a Rubik’s cube fun.”

“What?” Draco croaked, staring hard at her waist in the dress, at the bare skin of her chest, her arms—

All the desire pooling in his gut turned molten, curdling into a sickened knot of acid. Because there, on her forearm, was the word he hadn’t dared so much as think in over a decade.

The letters were faint now, mere wisps of white, raised tissue visible only in the right light.

It hit him like a bombarda to the chest. She never left it un-glamoured—not once in the two months they’d spent together. He wanted to smack himself for insisting she come to the Manor. How had he failed to consider what it would mean for her to step back into that place?

Before he could stop himself, his hand reached out, curling gently around her forearm. The warmth of her skin twisted his stomach into tighter knots—a sharp reminder of everything she’d endured. Carefully, deliberately, he turned her arm over, exposing the eight-letter scar.

Draco’s breath faltered. His world narrowed to that hateful slur, etched cruelly into her flesh.

His aunt had done this.

His family had left this mark on her.

They had never spoken of it, and how could they? The weight of that night lingered between them like the aftershocks of the very curse she'd endured. He’d always assumed she glamoured it for her own sake, to shield herself from stares, pity, or whispers. But now, seeing it bared, he understood: tonight, she had chosen not to hide it.

Hermione was walking into the very home where she’d been dragged to the floor, screaming beneath Bellatrix’s wand. Into the house that symbolized everything that scar represented.

This wasn’t weakness. This was defiance.

Draco inhaled deeply, the knot in his chest tightening. Hermione wasn’t just daring herself to walk into that house; she was daring his mother to look at her scar and acknowledge it. Daring him to do the same.

It wasn’t just a scar. It was proof of what she’d endured, of what she’d survived.

And for the first time in years, he felt something sharper than shame.

It was fury.

Fury for what she had gone through. Fury that she had to wear this mark of his family’s sins. Fury that she had the strength to hold her head high while he stood here, frozen, unsure if he could ever make amends for the past.

“Granger,” he rasped, his voice unsteady as his gaze lifted to meet hers. She had gone utterly still, her body taut beneath his touch, her amber eyes wary.

Had she picked the dress as a statement? Did she think his mother needed to see what pureblood ideology had wrought? Did she want Narcissa to confront the legacy of those beliefs in her dining room?

He wanted to tell her it wasn’t necessary. That his family had renounced such ideals. But he knew better than to insult her strength with platitudes.

His grip on her arm loosened, his thumb brushing over the faint lines of the scar, and then finally he released her arm with a sharp breath. He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling the perfectly combed strands.

“Let’s go out to dinner instead.”

She blinked, brows furrowing over the long, dark lashes she had swiped over with some form of pretty cosmetic. Her lips were painted a shade darker than their usual pink, bordering on more of a rich berry hue that made them look even fuller, even softer. Draco’s resolve wavered for a moment as he focused on her mouth, on the way it parted slightly, confused but undeniably intrigued by his sudden suggestion.

“Out?”

“Yes, Granger. Out. Anywhere but the Manor.” His tone was firmer now, determination hardening his features. He gestured vaguely toward the door rather than the Floo. “I’m sure you know of a nice restaurant around here that you’ve been to.”

Her expression softened, the furrow in her brow easing as her berry-lips pressed together thoughtfully. He could see the wheels turning in her mind, could almost hear her internal debate.

“I don’t think that’s an option,” she said at last, though her voice lacked its usual conviction. “Your mother is expecting us. I wouldn’t want to offend her—”

“My mother,” Draco interrupted, his jaw tightening, “can adjust.”

Would she adjust? Would she understand that bringing Hermione to his childhood home, to the very place that had inflicted such grotesque pain upon her person was something he was realizing he was utterly unwilling to do?

Hermione stared at him, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then, slowly, a smile tugged at the corners of her lips, faint but genuine.

“You’re serious?”

“Deadly.”

She considered him for another moment, then glanced down at herself, smoothing the fabric of her dress over her hips. “And what will you tell her? Your mother?”

He wanted to say that he would tell her that he finally grew a backbone and had to take the brilliant witch he was besotted with a place she might actually want to be, but instead he said, “That our plans must change.”

She cocked her head, considering him.

“I’m not afraid to go to the Manor.”

He straightened his shoulders, intending to dislodge his growing tension, but he only felt it now coiling down his spine instead. Annoying, it was, his stress.

“I wasn’t presuming you were—”

“Yes, you were.” She cut him off, raising one brow in challenge.

Draco’s jaw tightened, and he found himself at a rare loss for words. It was infuriating and impressive how easily she could disarm him. He looked at her, really looked at her—at the steel behind her soft exterior, the resolve that radiated off her like a second skin.

“You’re right,” he admitted after a moment. “I was.”

Hermione blinked, clearly surprised by his candor, but she didn’t drop her gaze. Instead, she stepped closer, the heels of her shoes clicking softly against the hardwood floor. She stood before him, close enough that he caught the scent of her. Feminine, sweet, candied…

“I’m not afraid of your mother, Draco.” She said firmly. Her voice was steady, and yet there was a softness to it that caught him off guard. “And I’m certainly not afraid of the Manor. Not anymore.” She paused, her eyes flickering to his hand, which was still clenching the Rubik’s cube. “But if you don’t want me there… if you’re worried it’ll hurt me somehow, that’s different.”

“The Ministry came through to decommission it years ago, the dark magic has been scrubbed away. It’s been also been remodeled, it’s hardly the same—” He swallowed hard, his words pressing against the tangled mess of emotions he hadn’t yet begun to sort through. “Besides that point, it’s not that I don’t want you there… it’s that I hate what that place represents. What it’s done to someone I care about.”

Her brows lifted slightly, surprise flashing across her face. “Someone you care about?”

He cursed internally. Of course, she’d catch on to that slip.

“Yes,” he said, meeting her gaze directly now, daring her to question him further. “You, Granger. I care about you.”

The weight of his confession hung between them, thick and tangible, until Hermione broke it with a quiet laugh—a sound that made his chest ache in ways he didn’t entirely understand but so desperately wished to explore.

“Well, that’s good to know,” she said, her lips quirking into a small, teasing smile. “Because I care about you too, even if you are one infuriating wizard.”

Draco’s mouth twitched, a genuine smile threatening to break free. “Infuriating, am I?”

“Exceptionally,” she replied, and this time, her smile was brighter, warmer. She reached out and placed a hand on his arm, the touch light but grounding. “But I’m not going to let you use that as an excuse to avoid your mother. We’re going to dinner, Draco.”

He stared at her, torn between frustration and admiration. Her determination was maddening, like a thorn lodged under his skin—but also deeply, absurdly endearing.

“You will tell me if you feel uncomfortable?”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, a mischievous glint sparking in her eyes. “Shall we make a safe word?”

“A safe word.” He deadpanned.

“Yes, something subtle but effective. Perhaps… basilisk?”

Basilisk?”

“Well, you are a Slytherin.”

“Granger, that is not subtle at all.”

“…Cucumbers?”

Draco’s face twisted in confusion. “Darling, I think you’ve lost the plot.”

“Fine,” she said, pretending to think it over. “What about… courgettes?”

“Granger.”

“Zucchini?”

Draco froze, his brow furrowing, before a dawning realization hit him. “Wait a bloody second. Are you…?”

She shrugged, biting back a laugh as she studied her nails. “It’s important the safe word reflects a certain… robustness, wouldn’t you agree? Something with some weight to it.”

His jaw tightened as her words sank in, and his ears turned pink. “Merlin’s balls—”

“That is a good one, but what about eggplants?” she interrupted sweetly, flashing him a too-innocent smile.

Granger!”

“Or bananas! Universally understood. Slightly curved. Conveniently—”

“Enough!” Draco barked, pinching the bridge of his nose as his cheeks darkened.

Hermione erupted into laughter, clutching his arm as they stepped closer to the fireplace. “Relax, Malfoy. I’m only trying to lighten the mood. Your delicate sensibilities could use it.”

He groaned. “If we’re not hexed at this dinner, I’ll do it to you myself.”

“Will you now?” she crooned. “Hmm.. what about sausages? I hear they’re a common crowd-pleaser.”

“Granger…”

“Or bratwursts? Something with heft. A bit more… German engineering, if you will.”

“Stop.”

“Fine, fine. Perhaps we stay on the fruit track. Back to bananas? They do have nature’s most efficient packaging.”

His jaw tightened, and that flush creeping up his neck began to burn like hellfire.

“Pineapples?” she suggested, her tone mock thoughtful. “Spiky, a little intimidating. Though, I suppose that could give your mother the wrong impression.”

“Merlin’s sake, witch.”

“Or aubergines! Regal, plump, with a certain je ne sais quoi. Oh, or—”

“I’ve changed my mind. You’re not coming to dinner. I’m leaving you here.”

“Don’t be a bratwurst,” she teased, clutching his arm.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” she said with a grin as they stepped into the fireplace. “Now be a good courgette and smile for me.”

Draco called out for Malfoy Manor and they were enveloped in green flames, Hermione’s tinkling laugh trailing the crackling embers.

 


 

They both stepped into the Floo parlour, brushing soot from their clothes. Hermione turned towards Draco with a slight smile, though it felt a bit wobbly. She hadn’t mentioned that she had to take a Calming Draught, nor that she had another stored inside her sensible evening bag.

He looked down at her, a single ashen brow quirked. There was soot on his face, and so she lifted a hand to wipe it away, and then dusted off his shoulders. The skin contract shot a spark through her arm, and her breath caught. The silver in his eyes honed—had he felt it too?

Christ. She was losing her mind.

“All right?”

She nodded and proceeded to smooth her palm down his chest for whatever insane reason (not because she wanted to touch him more. Certainly not that). He wore semi-formal robes that were sharp and tailored perfectly to his tall frame. The fabric was dark grey, almost black, with a slight sheen that caught the light when he moved. The high collar sat neatly around his neck, with silver embroidery along the cuffs and hem.

Very Malfoy-esq.

Draco glanced down at her touch, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “That thorough, Granger?”

“Just making sure you don’t embarrass yourself with all this soot.”

He gave her a raised eyebrow. “I see. Keeping me in line?”

“Someone has to,” she muttered, brushing off the last of the soot from his sleeve.

Their fingertips brushed, and again—that damned Spark lit off like fireworks in her veins.

“Lucky for me, you’re here.”

Before Hermione could respond, someone cleared their throat, and both she and Draco jerked to attention.

Narcissa Malfoy stood nearby, her painted lips pursed, and a single brow raised in that way only she could pull off. Hermione had always thought Draco favored his father’s looks, but now, looking between mother and son, she could see that he was, unmistakably, all Narcissa.

“Miss Granger,” Narcissa began, stepping forward with grace and offering Hermione a polite handshake. “I’m pleased you accepted my invitation. I feared my son might quash it.”

“I can never say no to you, Mother,” Draco drawled, stepping closer to Hermione’s side. His hand brushed the small of her back as he leaned in to kiss Narcissa’s cheek in greeting.

Hermione blinked, feeling slightly out of body for a moment. The gesture felt unexpectedly intimate. She glanced up at Draco, who smiled down at her with that warm, fond look she was still getting used to, and she very badly, very suddenly, wanted to reach up and stroke his cheek.

Her gaze, thankfully, managed to dart back to Narcissa, who (to her surprise) was observing Hermione with an unreadable expression, waiting patiently for her to reply.

Words, yes. She needed to speak.

“Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Malfoy—”

“Please, call me Narcissa.”

“Of course,” Hermione said, her voice feeling a little too thin. Draco’s hand slid higher up her back, his rough wand-calloused fingers brushing against her skin in a way that sent a jolt of warmth through her. He wasn’t holding her, not exactly, but there was a subtle possessiveness in the gesture that made her heart flutter a bit too fast. He was just trying to make her at ease, but his touch was almost making her feel worse, because now all she could think about was that his hand was on her bare skin, and she wanted to feel the scratch of his callouses everywhere.

“Call me Hermione, then,” she almost choked on the words, trying to focus. Draco took her struggle as a means to almost imperceptibly curl around her as if he were shielding her.

Narcissa nodded, her eyes flicking briefly between the two of them before returning to Hermione with an almost knowing look that made her cheeks flush and her neck prickle. It felt like Narcissa could see right through Hermione.

“Dinner isn’t quite ready yet. Would you like an aperitif while we wait?”

“I’d love one, thank you.”

Yes, Hermione definitely needed something to take the edge off.

Draco gently ushered his mother and Hermione toward the sitting area, guiding Hermione to a tufted brown leather chaise. She sank into it, her legs tucked beneath her as she tried to compose herself. Draco then moved to the bar cart, pouring two glasses of Merlot with practiced ease. He paused, giving Hermione a brief look before pouring a glass of firewhiskey for himself.

Her thoughts did as they always did during bouts of silence—they whirred.

Hermione wondered if she should have worn robes after all. She liked the dress she’d picked out—it was intentional, after all, but she began to feel a bit juvenile about the whole thing—and now that she was here, she felt underdressed despite the fact that the hem hit mid-shin for crying out loud. It was a beautifully tailored piece in Gryffindor red (she had to, given the Slytherin home she was in), but as she glanced over at the Malfoy matriarch, her confidence faltered. Narcissa’s robes were cut in that typical aristocratic evening style, the rich navy silk gleaming under the soft lights, with silver accents that seemed to whisper elegance.

The calming effects of the Draught Hermione had taken before they left seemed to evaporate in that moment. She was glad when Draco sauntered over and offered her a glass first, though a small part of her bristled at the breach in etiquette. Shouldn’t he have served his mother first? But Narcissa accepted her drink with her usual grace, gesturing for Draco to join them as though nothing were amiss.

Hermione blinked when he settled down beside her instead of taking the matching wingback across from Narcissa. His arm draped along the high, curved back of the chaise, dangerously close to her shoulder. His ankle crossed over his knee, posture effortless, though there was a certain intensity in his gaze as it shifted back to her.

She took a sip of her drink, determined to focus on anything but the heat of his arm behind her bare back. He mirrored her, and she caught the faint smirk that played on his lips just before the glass obscured it.

“Hermione, Theodore has told me you and Draco are working together?” Narcissa’s voice cut through Hermione’s scattered thoughts.

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but Draco beat her to it. “When did you speak to Theo?”

His interruption earned him a sharp glare from Hermione, but he ignored it entirely.

Narcissa gave her son a pointed look. “He joins me for breakfast nearly every day.”

“Every day? For what reason?”

“Must there be a reason?”

Draco looked horrified, and Hermione filed the exchange away for later. She’d need to question the nature of Theo and Narcissa’s relationship... later.

“Mother, you’re not…”

“Draco!” Hermione cut in, heat crawling up her neck. Christ almighty, this man has no filter.

He turned his glare on her, though it softened when his fingers found one of her curls. He looped it around his finger, tugging it lightly as his smirk returned. “Hush, darling—don't admonish me in front of my mother.”

Hermione’s scowl deepened as she resisted the urge to swat his hand away, and curtly ignored the way she had to squeeze her thighs together every time his finger wound and unwound the curl around his finger—was he even aware of what he was doing? Was he trying to make her muck her words up?

“We are working together,” she finally managed, trying to keep her voice steady. “And will be for a few more months. Draco is my—”

“I’ve been assigned to Granger as her Protective Detail because she unleashed a horde of ancient spirits on London, Mother.”

“Yes, that,” Hermione said quickly, attempting to sound innocent. But Narcissa merely blinked, her expression unchanging, before a quiet, dry laugh escaped her lips.

“So, that is why there is a travel ban.”

“Very sorry about that,” Hermione began, shooting Draco a withering look, “it will be lifted as soon as we can…” She hesitated, unsure how much she ought to say. Her gaze flicked toward Draco for help.

“My mother won’t rat on you to the Ministry for discussing the case,” he assured her with an insufferable smirk, taking another sip from his tumbler. “Hermione will be promoted to Unspeakable after this case is closed, Mother.”

“You don’t know that!” Hermione hissed, her eyes flashing a silent plea to shut up, shut up, shut up.

Draco’s brows arched in that maddening way that said, make me.

“However, I do think she should be aspiring higher than the Department of Mysteries.”

She nearly hexed him on the spot.

“I like Mysteries,” Hermione said stiffly, clutching her glass a little too tightly.

Decorum, she reminded herself, was the best revenge. But her mind was already spiraling back to their earlier arguments—one Draco was clearly trying to re-kindle.

Why did you decide to work for the Department of Mysteries when you’re the Golden Girl? he had said weeks ago. You’re too intelligent for Mysteries, and besides, you can make a grown man cry with just a glare. Why aren’t you in politics?

Her frustration must have shown because Draco’s grin widened. Bastard.

“Oh, I did read about your transfer into the Department of Mysteries. Three years ago, was it? From the Department of Magical Creatures?” Narcissa said, and Hermione was once again reminded that they were not alone, and she was probably being rude by engaging in a staring match with the host’s son.

“Yes!” Hermione replied, much too brightly.

“I am surprised that you hadn’t transferred into the Department of Magical Cooperation,” Narcissa said, her voice as smooth as silk, but her gaze was sharp, assessing. Ugh. Draco had certainly set this up.

“I… thought about it,” she admitted, glancing briefly at Draco, who was now swirling the firewhiskey in his tumbler with an air of feigned disinterest. Bastard. Tosser. Cretin. Handsome, irredeemable prat. “But the Department of Mysteries offered opportunities I couldn’t pass up. I wanted the chance to travel, to delve into magical research, and to understand magic at its very core.”

“Fascinating,” Narcissa replied, her tone neutral but her eyes alight with interest. “And yet, given your history, one would think the Department of Magical Cooperation would align more closely with your… proclivities.”

Hermione tilted her head, feigning being intrigued because, yes, Draco had certainly put his mother up to this topic of conversation. “Proclivities?”

Draco sighed loudly, as though bracing himself for what was to come (Hermione’s argumentative side).

“Your political inclinations,” Narcissa clarified, ignoring her son entirely. “You have always struck me as someone deeply invested in fostering collaboration, building bridges between worlds. The Department of Mysteries is, of course, prestigious and highly necessary work, but it seems to me your talents might be better suited to a more outward-facing role.”

Hermione straightened in her seat, because, yes, there was her natural defensiveness bubbling to the surface. “I’m perfectly happy with my work, Mrs. Malfoy—”

“Narcissa, please.”

Narcissa,” Hermione corrected herself, though the slip had thrown her slightly off balance. “My focus has shifted, certainly, but I believe the work I’m doing now is just as impactful as any political reform might be. Research and experimentation are vital to ensuring the safety of wizarding kind—”

“Of course,” Narcissa cut in smoothly, her smile as polite as ever. “But imagine what you could achieve with the right platform. The Department of Magical Cooperation has been stagnant for years. It needs fresh perspectives, someone who can articulate both the need for unity and the urgency of progress. Someone with the right… presence.” Narcissa's gaze flickered to Draco for the briefest of moments, and Hermione felt her cheeks warm.

Hermione hesitated, unsure how to respond. The idea of stepping into a political role had crossed her mind before she and Draco had ever even discussed it, but she had always dismissed it as impractical. Why, oh why, had Narcissa opted to bring this up as their pre-dinner conversation?

Her gaze cut again to Draco, who simply raised a single brow in challenge.

“I don’t know if I’d call myself politically savvy…”

“Nonsense,” Narcissa interrupted, her tone firm. “You’ve navigated more political landscapes than most witches twice your age. You’ve negotiated with centaurs, rallied house-elves, and worked to dismantle centuries of bias in magical law. And you did all of that while barely out of school.”

Hermione blinked, taken aback by Narcissa’s recollection of her past efforts.

“That was different.”

“Was it?” Narcissa arched a delicate brow. “You have the conviction, the intellect, and—if I may be frank—the audacity to succeed in a role like that. The magical world needs leaders who understand the value of collaboration and innovation. And you, Hermione, are precisely that.”

Hermione glanced at Draco, whose expression was unreadable, though the slight curve of his lips suggested he was enjoying her discomfort. She turned back to Narcissa, summoning every ounce of Gryffindor confidence she had.

“I appreciate your vote of confidence, but my focus right now is on finishing the task at hand.”

“Understandable,” Narcissa said with a nod, though her eyes gleamed with something Hermione couldn’t quite place. “But do keep it in mind. The magical world will need voices like yours long after your work with my son is finished.”

“I’ll consider it.”

“You should,” Narcissa replied, a small smile tugging at her lips. “And when you do, I hope you’ll allow me to introduce you to a few influential friends who might help you along the way.”

“Mother,” Draco interjected, his voice tight. “Are we plotting Hermione’s political future before or after dinner?”

Narcissa gave him a pointed look. “I’ve always found it best to plan for the future during the aperitif.”

 


 

Narcissa Malfoy was an excellent host, and so Draco knew to expect something ridiculously extravagant, no matter the fact that it was only an intimate dinner for three. The dining table gleamed beneath the soft light of enchanted candles, their flickering glow casting elegant shadows over the pristine china and crystal that adorned the spread.

A centerpiece of freshly cut roses from the Manor’s gardens were on proud display, which Hermione complimented, sending both witches into an in-depth discussion on magical and mundane plants.

The first course arrived in the hands of a bowing house-elf, and Narcissa inclined her head graciously as a delicate consommé was served to each of them. His mother was the picture of composure, her tailored robes trimmed in silver catching the light with every precise movement.

Hermione offered a polite smile and murmured her thanks. Draco watched as her fingers brushed the edge of her soup spoon with a nervous twitch, before picking it up and taking a ginger sip.

“I trust everything will be to your liking, Hermione.”

Hermione returned the smile, though it felt a touch tentative. “It’s lovely, thank you.”

Draco, on the other hand, wasn’t nearly as polite. He picked up his firewhiskey and swirled it with deliberate slowness, letting the glass catch the light. He could feel his mother’s gaze boring into him, all soft smiles and arching brows that practically screamed, Have you finally found yourself a wife to give me many grandchildren? Ones I can spoil rotten, who will fill this drafty house with laughter and finger paintings and knock over expensive vases with their tiny, chaotic hands?

She had been giving him that look for over an hour now, all throughout their four course meal. 

For years, ever since he turned twenty-five, Narcissa had been staging elaborate attempts to marry him off to ‘a nice, respectable witch.’ Apparently, a wizard’s shelf life as a suitable husband plummets dramatically as he approaches thirty. At twenty-nine, Draco had begun to suspect that his mother saw his bachelorhood as a personal insult, one she was determined to rectify with the tenacity of a war strategist.

It had become her hobby, really. An all-consuming quest to launch him into matrimony. And much to her evident dismay, he’d proven maddeningly uncooperative.

Except now.

Now, her interest had sharpened in ways Draco found deeply unsettling. Hermione Granger, of all people, had arrived on his arm, and while he knew they weren’t a couple, his mother clearly didn’t—or wouldn’t care even if they weren’t. Not when she’d surely noticed the way he looked at Hermione.

“Draco, darling, have you returned any of Marseille’s letters? Her mother wrote to me that we should have tea soon, and hoped you might finally join us.”

Narcissa’s expression was nothing short of triumphant as she watched Hermione nearly choke on her wine. It was almost as if his mother had asked that question at the most precise moment for a reason.

Hermione hide a cough with her napkin and then thanked the house-elf for the perfectly plated dessert. Draco sighed into his tumbler, muttering, “And so it begins...”

“What begins?” Hermione asked, glancing his way with a curious tilt of her head.

“My mother is about to bring up her relentless quest to shelf my title as the Wizarding World’s most eligible bachelor. You’re about to be subjected to nearly a decade’s worth of frustration.”

Hermione blinked, her lips twitching as if she were fighting a laugh. “I’m sure it won’t be that bad.”

“Granger,” Draco said flatly, gesturing toward Narcissa with his glass. “She’s been picking out baby names for me to use since I was twenty.”

Across the table, Narcissa gave him the sort of smile that was both loving and insufferably smug.

Draco raised his glass higher. “I’ll have you know I’m a lost cause, Mother. Too surly. Too set in my ways. Terrible at sharing closet space.”

“Oh, yes, he’s absolutely intolerable,” Hermione said, looking Narcissa’s way.

“Completely irredeemable.” Draco added.

“It is lucky that I don’t have to live with him forever.”

Narcissa blinked, and Draco cut his gaze to Hermione who realized what she had said right after the words had come out.

“You are living together?”

Draco opened his mouth, and then promptly closed it.

Narcissa’s sharp gaze darted between them, her lips twitching ever so slightly as if suppressing a smile.

“We’re not living together,” Hermione blurted, her voice climbing an octave. “He’s staying at my place—no, I mean, I’m staying at his! But it’s not like that. It’s strictly professional.”

“Very professional,” Draco deadpanned, swirling his firewhiskey. "Perfectly platonic."

"Yes," Hermione added quickly, and he wet his lips at the pretty blush spreading beneath her sun-freckled cheeks.

“I’m the picture of restraint.”

“Restraint?” Hermione’s head whipped toward him, amber-flecked eyes narrowing. “You ate the last of my treacle tart last week and called it a casualty of war.

Draco shrugged. “Treacle tart doesn’t abide by professional boundaries, Granger. I don’t make the rules.”

Narcissa steepled her fingers, her expression serene, though there was an unmistakable glint of amusement in her eyes. “So, to clarify: you are not living together, yet you spend an inordinate amount of time in each other’s homes?”

“Yes,” Hermione answered, again too quickly, while Draco nodded and said, “Basically.”

“Hmm,” Narcissa murmured, sipping delicately from her wine glass. “How... modern.”

Hermione flushed, visibly flustered, while Draco bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning.

“Mother,” he began, drawing the attention away from Hermione’s mortified expression. “I’d like to visit the library before we leave.”

Narcissa tilted her head. “And what, pray tell, are you searching for?”

“Research materials,” Draco said smoothly. “Hermione and I are dealing with a particularly tricky creature.”

“A kitsune.” Hermione cut in, forcing a smile.

Narcissa’s brows lifted in interest. “Interesting. When did you encounter it?"

“Last night,” Hermione said, recovering some of her composure. "During the full moon."

Narcissa set her glass down, her posture growing ever so slightly more rigid. Her attention flit between Draco and Hermione, then back to Draco. “Were you aware that there was also an eclipse last night?”

Both Draco and Hermione froze.

“An eclipse?” Hermione echoed, her brows knitting.

“Yes,” Narcissa said. “A penumbral lunar eclipse. Rare and often spiritually significant. Draco, come now, you have been raised to know astronomy like the lines of your palm. Did it not occur to you that such an event might heighten the abilities of these entities you are containing—or that of any others you might yet come across?”

Draco cursed under his breath, while Hermione sat up straighter, her mind clearly racing.

“We hadn’t factored that in,” she admitted.

Narcissa’s smile was subtle, but it made Draco’s chest tighten in a way he couldn’t explain. It was warm, and approving, but also a little too sharp, like she was seeing through something. Her blue eyes lingered on Hermione just a bit longer than they should have, and Draco saw his mother and how she was measuring the witch. Assessing her in the way she had taught Draco to assess people.

But the way his mother observed Hermione wasn’t the usual cold, calculating gaze of the Mafloy matriarch. She looked at Hermione with the softness of a mother who knew the witch she spoke to held her son’s affections, known or otherwise.

And that softness—well, it unsettled him.

He realized very easily that his mother liked Hermione, and when her attention shifted to Draco, she smiled at him and he knew in that moment she approved.

He had always known Narcissa was selective with whom she chose to approve of, but he hadn’t quite anticipated how important that approval might feel. But this wasn’t just about his mother’s usual standards; this was different. Hermione was different. He had been thinking lately that if Narcissa had ever approved of anyone Draco wished to properly court, it would be Hermione. Of course it would be her, because Hermione was intelligent, capable, beautiful—a force in her own right. But he wasn't courting her. She was his Principal, so his affections would remain tight-lipped.

Draco took the time to look at Hermione from across the table, and his leg instinctively shifted, his ankle bushed hers. She met his eye and held his gaze for long seconds, the amber in her gaze bright under the soft glow of the dining room. The corner of his lip lifted, and she blushed, looking back down to her dessert.

“Everything alright, dear?” Narcissa’s voice was light, almost too innocent, but there was a glint in her eye that made him stiffen.

Draco cleared his throat, forcing a smile that felt too tight. “Yes, of course, Mother.”

Narcissa’s lips twitched with the faintest hint of amusement, but she said nothing more, her focus returning to Hermione. The two witches chatted some more, their conversation pinging between topics as easily as if they'd been friendly for years. They discussed the latest trends in magical herbology, Hermione’s past research in the Department of Mysteries, and even the peculiarities of Hogwarts’ curriculum, with a natural flow that Draco couldn’t quite get used to.

He found him himself fixated on the way the two of them spoke, how easily they slid from one topic to the next, how comfortable Hermione now seemed compared to the tension that lined her when the first sat down in the parlour. Hermione’s laugh, light and genuine, seemed to bounce effortlessly off Narcissa’s soft, measured tones. It was all so easy, so familiar, like there had never been any bad blood between them.

Draco couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it, but he was thankful—so glad this hadn’t gone up in flames as he feared it would.

Narcissa glanced up at him from across the table, her eyes warm but sharp. She’d caught him staring, and though she said nothing, the slight quirk of her brow told him that she knew exactly what he was thinking. And that made him uneasy, as if she’d already figured out something he hadn’t fully processed himself.

“Draco, you’ve been awfully quiet.” Narcissa said.

“Sorry, Mother. Just enjoying the company.”

He didn’t bother to specify whose company, though his gaze flitted to Hermione.

Hermione gave him a small smile before returning her attention to Narcissa.

There was no pretense between them. Just a shared ease, a mutual respect, and an understanding that felt too natural, too comfortable. There had been no mention of her scar, no lingering glances, and absolutely no fear shone in Hermione’s eyes as she chatted with his mother.

Should his mother address it? Was there to be some grand moment where Narcissa apologized for the past, and Hermione cried, and Draco consoled her, and they all moved on?

His gaze flicked between them, and he shifted in his seat, not entirely sure what was bothering him. Was it the fact that Hermione seemed so at home, so easily accepted by the woman who had once looked at her with nothing but disdain? Or was it something else?

He feared it had something to do with his mother’s approving glances every time Hermione said something worthy of esteem, of the way Narcissa seemed to be cataloguing all the reasons why Draco should choose Hermione.

He leaned back, a flicker of irritation crossing his mind. Why was he being so damned irrational? He couldn’t deny that the sight of Hermione laughing with Narcissa, the way she fit so naturally into their space, unsettled him in a way he couldn’t explain.

It was almost as if... as if she was already a part of their world. No, that wasn’t it. She was part of his world now. And he had allowed it to happen. He had ensured that happened.

Without even realizing it, he had allowed her in. So far in.

The fact that his mother liked her, respected her, made it real in a way he couldn’t ignore.

And that, he realized with a sickening jolt, was what made him feel exposed.

At the Manor, she was in his world. He was no longer just a bystander in hers. They had crossed into a new territory, and his chest became unbearably tight. He hadn’t realized how badly he not only wanted her to stay but needed Hermione to remain at his side.

He reached for his glass of whiskey, the amber liquid swirling in the tumbler as he tried to shove down the feelings bubbling to the surface.

Yes, he was attracted to her. Of course he was, because he enjoyed her company and liked making her laugh and he thought she was the cleverest, most beautiful witch he had ever met… and that, above all else, suddenly felt far more terrifying than any yokai they might face.

Because now it was real. Now he had brought her into the fold with his mother, he had shifted the boundaries so far back that they practically didn’t exist anymore.

Draco realized with mortifying clarity that he wasn’t just besotted with Hermione Granger.

He was in love with her, and godsdamnit, Potter was going to hex him into oblivion for it.

 


 

The library was nothing short of magnificent. Hermione stepped inside, her breath catching as she took in the sight. A vast charmed ceiling stretched overhead, reflecting a starry night sky that twinkled as if the Manor had its own private cosmos. Rows upon rows of towering bookshelves lined the walls, interspersed with rolling ladders that gave access to the upper lofts. Three levels of knowledge to explore, each more enchanting than the last.

Cushioned chairs and polished wooden desks were scattered throughout, and Hermione took a deep breath in, humming in content at the scent of aged parchment, leather-bound tomes and the faint aroma of smoke from the crackling fire in the grand hearth.

“This is…” Hermione began, turning in a slow circle to take it all in.

“Yes?” Draco leaned against one of the ladders, a self-satisfied smirk tugging at his lips.

She scowled, but it didn’t hold.

“It’s beautiful,” she admitted, though she quickly added, “But I’m still mad at you.”

This earned her one of those beautiful, bracketed grins that made her legs feel like jelly.

“About my mother's scheming or the fact that I didn’t show you this library sooner?”

She shot him a sharp look, though there was no real heat in it. “Both.”

Draco chuckled and pushed off the ladder, gesturing for her to follow him deeper into the room. “Come along, darling. Let me show you the good stuff.”

“There’s something better than this?” Hermione gestured to the rolling ladders but followed him nonetheless.

“Of course. It’s our version of the restricted section at Hogwarts.”

“I’ve no doubt there’s something there that will do its best to eat me.”

“I would never let you get eaten by a book, Granger. It would be the dullest way to die… though, perhaps it’s a rather fitting end for you.”

She rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched into the faintest smile as she trailed after him. Her fingers brushed along the spines of books as they passed, each title whispering a promise of secrets, spells, and history. The sheer volume of knowledge housed in this library was intoxicating, and she was struck by the ridiculous desire to devour it all.

When they reached a secluded corner on the first level, Draco gestured to a winding set of stairs leading to a concealed second level. He paused, hesitating for the first time that evening.

“What?” she asked, noticing the way his expression shifted.

He wet his lips, his eyes darting to the stairs and back to her. “There are some books here that you…” He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable with what he was about to admit. “There are some books you won’t be able to touch unless I hand them to you.”

Her stomach dropped, and an old, familiar ache surfaced as her scar itched faintly. Almost unconsciously, her hand lifted to trace the faint, raised edges on her arm.

“Because I’m Muggleborn?”

Draco’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Yes.” His voice was quiet, almost pained. Then he reached out, gently taking the hand she’d used to touch her scar. His thumb brushed over the top of her knuckles, a small, grounding motion.

“When I couldn’t break the curses on them, I wanted to destroy them,” he admitted, his voice raw. “But I also wanted to keep them—to remind myself. Once, that drivel was what my family believed in.”

Hermione stared at him, and his hand tightened around hers.

For a moment, he looked as though he might say something more.

“Draco…”

He shook his head. “I know it doesn’t erase anything. What my family did… what they stood for… it’s unforgivable.”

His chin was tucked close to his chest, his gaze fixed on their joined hands. She was anxious for him to look at her, to meet her eyes. “Do you… wish you could forget what happened?”

His fingers paused for a moment on her knuckles, and then they trailed to her other arm, to the one with the scar she could not be rid of, and not for a lack of trying.

He brushed it with his fingertips, and then made a slow, almost absent-minded glide over the letters. “If I forget,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, “then what was the meaning of it all?”

Hermione’s chest tightened as she watched the barest show of pain flicker over his features.

“There is none.”

He nodded contemplatively, and suddenly grey met brown in a heart-stopping collide.

“Does it hurt when I touch it?”

She shook her head.

His brows twitched together quick enough that if she hadn’t been watching his every move, she would have missed it.

“It wasn’t your fault, Draco."

The cant of his head was slow, and almost felt sarcastic in nature as he said, “And yet I did nothing to stop it from happening.”

“You’ve done a great many things since then to make for your mistakes as a child.”

“It doesn’t feel like enough.”

“Draco,” she began, her voice firm despite the quiet of her tone. “It is enough.”

“Hm,” he supplied, and then dropped her hand and stepped back.

She immediately missed his warmth.

“Do you believe me?”

“Yes,” he said firmly, now staring at the space between them. Then, after a pause, “Do you forgive me?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t.”

Draco’s eyes met hers, vulnerable and unguarded.

He swallowed again, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly.

“For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, his voice low and hesitant, “I am sorry. For everything.”

Hermione blinked, her breath catching in her throat.

It wasn’t the first time she’d gotten that apology, but this felt different than the apology letter he had sent after the war ended.

This felt real. Earnest.

She stepped forward and gave his bicep a gentle squeeze. “Thank you.”

A silence settled between them, heavy but somehow not uncomfortable. The faint crackle of the fireplace across the way echoed through the library, and the charmed ceiling above them shimmering like the night sky.

“Shall we?” Draco finally asked, clearing his throat.

“Lead the way.”

A good time later, hours, perhaps—Hermione had lost track of the time after the first ten minutes of browsing, she opted to ask him the question that had been burning across her mind since the pre-dinner drinks.

“Did you put your mother up to asking me about my political inclinations?” Hermione set another book on the growing pile on the desk they had commandeered and gave him a pointed look.

Draco didn’t flinch. He leaned against the edge the desk, his posture casual, though his gray eyes gleamed. “No, I did not.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He sighed dramatically, as though her accusation wounded him deeply. “You must know that Malfoys have a constitutional need inside of us, Granger, to ensure that those we surround ourselves with reach their fullest potential.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “That sounds suspiciously like a yes.”

“It’s not,” he said, though his smirk betrayed his amusement. “I don’t need to put ideas into my mother’s head. She’s perfectly capable of forming her own opinions, and as you’ve seen, she’s quite taken with you.”

Hermione scoffed, though she couldn’t stop the blush that crept up her neck. “She was trying to push me into politics.”

“And why shouldn’t she? You’d be brilliant at it.”

“That’s beside the point!”

Draco chuckled and crossed his arms, mirroring her stance. “Granger, you’ve spent your entire life fighting for change, for progress. You’d be a natural fit in a leadership role. My mother only said what everyone else already knows.”

Her gaze softened, and she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “I’m happy where I am, Draco. The Department of Mysteries feels like home.”

“I’m not saying you have to abandon it,” he replied, his tone uncharacteristically serious. “But don’t sell yourself short. You’ve got more to offer than you realize.”

Hermione tilted her head, studying him for a moment.

“You’re awfully invested in my future, Malfoy.”

He shrugged. “What can I say? I have a constitutional need, remember?”

She rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips.

“You can be such an insufferable prat.”

“And yet you still put up with me.”

“I must have a constitutional need as well,” she shot back, turning to scan the nearby shelves. She disappeared around a bend, scanning a new aisle.

“Careful, Granger,” Draco said, his low and teasing tone trailing after her. “People might start to think you actually like me.”

She didn’t respond immediately, but when she pulled out a book from the shelf, she found him on the other side, a glimmer of mischief in his quicksilver eyes.

“What’s not to like?”

Draco blinked, caught off guard for the briefest of moments before he recovered with a sly grin.

“Touché, darling.”

Notes:

Another long one, shew. I do hope you enjoyed this week's chapter. I adore you all for supporting me on this journey and do hope you continue to show me love <3 Thank you a million

Chapter 7: Pining and Other Poor Decisions

Notes:

I'm really pushing to get this finished before Christmas, so enjoy another update for this week!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Day Sixty-Nine: Saturday, 14th of August 2009

Granger’s Fifteenth Rule for Besting Mystical Madness:

Acknowledge Your Limits

There’s no shame in knowing you can’t do everything on your own.

Seek help, even when it feels like you're the only one who can fix it.

(Malfoy’s note: I think you popped a blood vessel writing that down.)

 

 ----

 

Hermione lounged on the chaise, absently stirring her tea, a faint frown tugging at the corners of her lips as she considered the wizard sitting across from her. He looked rather studious, engrossed as he was in one of his family’s old books they’d brought back from the Manor library. The glow of the fire cast shadows across his sharp features, darkness dancing between the furrow in his brow.

He had one of her Muggle pens tucked behind his ear, and absurdly enough, she found the sight… endearing. Humanizing almost, midst the irritatingly  otherworldly air to his person.

(If she ever said such a thing out loud to him, he would preen and strut for eternity, and thus, she would be forced to expire and become another casualty of his ego.)

With his ankle perched casually atop his knee, and a faint smudge of ink on his thumb, Hermione found the sight—somehow—somewhat—someway—swoon-worthy.

Dashingly good-looking, Draco was. 

(Bollocks)

He flipped a page, his long finger trailing along the faded text with deliberate care.

The pen made its way from behind his ear to his hand, and he jotted something in the notebook they’d begun to share.

Hermione’s heart gave an annoying flutter as she caught sight of their handwriting side by side. It was unexpectedly satisfying, the way their thoughts melded on the page. As was the neatness of his handwriting.

She took another sip of her tea, her gaze lingering on him just a moment longer than necessary. Her own book lay abandoned in her lap, completely forgotten in favor of her unintentional staring marathon.

(This was a deeply concerning development.)

In Draco’s hands was The Celestial Influence: Cosmological Sequences and Magical Phenomena, an imposing tome with gilded edges and thick, worn pages.

He turned each with deliberate care, slender fingertips brushing the corners in a way that seemed reverent, as though the book itself were a sacred relic. (It probably was, given that it came from the Manor.)

With the firelight, his silver hair became less severe, and the sharp planes of his face softened. He looked more like a scholar than an Auror. The intensity in his expression as he absorbed the text, the faint crease of concentration between his brows all painted a picture of a man far removed from the cocky schoolboy she once knew.

She didn’t think she would ever admit it aloud—not in this lifetime, at least—but she liked this Draco. The one who jotted down ideas with her pen, who debated theory over tea, who made her feel like they were building something together.

She felt as if this version of him belonged solely to her, and she was self-aware enough to admit that she was a selfish witch when it came to him.

He had taken to writing down anything he thought might be helpful, a habit they both had developed as they inched closer to the next full moon.

Twenty-three days—that was all they had until they faced the next yokai. Or worse, several of them at once. (She didn’t like to linger on that particular what-if.)

She also didn’t like the idea of counting down the days, nor was she keen on letting herself spiral before the fight, but her nerves were beginning to fray. What if she and Draco weren’t enough to finish this? Worse still, what if Harry had been right that they were out of their depth?

The thought left a sour taste in her mouth. She chewed on her lip, her gaze lingering on Draco as he flipped another page, still completely absorbed. He looked thoughtful, and she allowed herself just one more quiet moment to study him.

The early evening light filtered in from the large arched windows to their left and pressed against his cheeks, bathing him in even more warm, golden light. (Christ, could the light lay off for a bit?)

She sighed. Of course, Draco wasn’t just good-looking. He was beautiful, like an angel, or a painting come to life.

Something too great for reality, something you’d expect to find immortalized in an old castle portrait, forever watching over a room steeped in history.

One day he would have that portrait, she knew this for a fact. He was the heir to two great Houses in the Wizarding World—he probably already had that portrait. Was it hanging above a grand hearth somewhere in Malfoy Manor? She tried to imagine it. She thought of how he might have posed for the artist. Had he gone for a regal scowl, like a king looking over his dominion, done up in the fanciest robes galleons could buy? Or perhaps he looked like the man sitting before her—quiet, contemplative and perfectly at ease in the presence of a witch so far detached from the life of aristocracy.

Hermione shook herself. Christ, when had her thoughts become so... flowery? It wasn’t as though Draco needed any further ammo to boost his already colossal ego. The man knew he was attractive and made the time to remind her of that fact daily. And yet... and yet she couldn’t deny it now no matter how hard she tried to brush the thoughts away.

She had long since come to terms with the truth that Draco was good-looking in a way that made her stomach twist, made her fingers itch to reach for the notebook and interrupt his focus just to see the way his lips would twitch into a smirk, or how his grey eyes would flick up to hers, alight with exasperation—or perhaps he would look at her with that familiar fondness, and he would give her that lovely bracketed smile that made her neck prickle and her breath catch.

She had concluded that her feelings for Draco had gone from being somewhat ignorable to being utterly undeniable. There were now Big Feelings, and Hermione was not one to slough away in denial. She was someone who took the facts as they were and faced them head-on. She had spent her entire life relying on logic, on reason, on incontrovertible truths.

Magic was real. She survived a war. She had once loved Ron and now didn’t. She had learned to find joy in solitude, and she was proud of her independence. But now, another incontrovertible truth had worked its way into her world, rattling her composure: she was falling in love with Draco Malfoy.

She tried to dissect it the way she approached all problems. She had made a mental list, one full of reasons that supported this bewildering, maddening conclusion.

He was thoughtful, sharp-witted, and his humor (albeit dry and a bit smug) never failed to make her laugh. He challenged her, in ways that were both infuriating and invigorating. He respected her intelligence. He didn’t try to dim her light or overshadow her.

And then there were the smaller things, the ones that, she realized now, mattered just as much after being in a (failed) decade long relationship.

Draco insisted on making their coffee the way she liked it in the mornings even though he claimed hers could strip paint. Draco always found her favorite quill when it went missing. Draco plucked cat hair from his clothes with an exasperated sigh but never actually complained. Draco carried himself well, confident and steady, always prepared to step between her and danger without a second thought.

It wasn’t just his actions, though they were maddeningly endearing.

It was the way Draco looked at her, like she was something remarkable. Like she was extraordinary.

Ron had never looked at her like that. Sure, he told her she was brilliant. He did his best to support her, but at the end of the day... Ron never looked at Hermione the way Draco looked at Hermione, and that revelation was almost world shattering in its tenderness.

Hermione swallowed hard, her heart stuttering as she risked another glance at him. He had just finished scribbling in the notebook, and his fingers tapped idly against its cover as he turned his head slightly, a faint smile ghosting across his lips.

Yes, she thought. These were Big Feelings. Life-altering, ground-shaking, terrifyingly wonderful feelings that felt true and whole to their core.

She rubbed her temple, knowing that these feelings were entirely inconvenient, completely irrational, and absolutely impossible to disregard now that they had presented themselves to her. How had it come to this? When had he stopped being the prat who prowled through the corridors of Hogwarts with his little minions and become the man in front of her? The kind of man who wrote alongside her in notebooks, their thoughts weaving together as naturally as a spell cast in tandem. The kind of man who grumbled endlessly about her coffee being entirely too sweet for human consumption, yet drank it anyway, the corners of his mouth twitching upward every time he took a sip.

The kind of man who made her feel safe. And not just safe in the way that came from his presence as an Auror, his wand always at the ready, but safe in a way she hadn’t felt in years—no matter that the war had long since ended and the horrors of her childhood were just distant memories. Draco had become the kind of man who stood too close, his presence a magnetic pull she couldn’t resist. Who leaned in when he spoke, his voice low and soft, as though sharing a secret meant just for her. Who called her darling with a maddening smirk, but sometimes said it so gently, so earnestly, that it made her chest ache.

Draco had turned her world upside down. He had burrowed so deeply into her life and her thoughts that she couldn’t imagine a version of herself that didn’t include him.

She bit her lip, trying to focus on the fact that she was supposed to be cross-checking her notes with the new books they’d brought home. And yet, she opted to daydream about the wizard sitting across from her. She sighed, and once again tried to force her eyes back to the book in her lap… but then she was looking up instead of down…

She traced the sharp line of his jaw—strong, masculine, a perfect contrast to the softer curve of his mouth. His lips were a constant source of fascination, always set in some expression that betrayed the intricacies of his thoughts. She rather liked that they were so expressive. He was quick to lift them in a smirk, slower to press them into that thin line of exasperation that seemed reserved solely for her antics. And then there were those rare, fleeting moments when they twitched at the corners, betraying a reluctant amusement that made her heart flutter in spite of herself. It was as if, no matter how much she irked him, he couldn’t stop himself from finding her delightful.

His nose, straight and sharp, bore the unmistakable hallmark of aristocracy, as though the gods themselves had sculpted him to be a Malfoy. It could have been pretentious if it weren’t so utterly fitting for him. His features were too precise, too perfect—like a statue in a museum, except for those small, human imperfections that betrayed the truth of him. The faint shadow of stubble along his jaw after a long day, the way forehead sometimes puckered when he was absorbed in thought, or how his eyes drooped ever so slightly when exhaustion threatened to pull him under.

And oh, his eyes. They were a study in contrasts. That piercing, quicksilver hue could cut straight through her, making her feel as though he could see every thought she was too afraid to voice. Yet, they weren’t always cold and calculating. Sometimes they softened when he thought she wasn’t looking, filled with something warm and quiet. They shimmered with mischief when he teased her, glimmered with pride when she bested him in a debate, and burned with raw fury every time she was in danger.

Draco wasn’t just beautiful. He was breathtaking in a way that made her chest ache—a way that felt like both a blessing and a curse. For all his sharpness, there was an undeniable softness to him, hidden in the smallest details. It was in the way his hands cradled a fragile book, the deliberate care in how he made her breakfast every morning, or the quiet hum of satisfaction he made when they solved a problem together.

Draco Malfoy wasn’t a man who minded those he cared for loudly, she realized. He wasn’t a man who made grand declarations or wore his heart on his sleeve. But in the unspoken moments, in the small acts of consideration and kindness, he revealed himself to her in ways she hadn’t expected.

And she was helpless against it. Drawn to him like a moth to a flame, she found herself wanting to lean into the warmth of that fire, even if it burned her.

But she knew deep down that she couldn’t. Not yet...

Not when the stakes were so high, and their lives were so uncertain. Not when the lines between them, blurred as they were, hadn’t yet fully disappeared.

Still, as she watched him now, so engrossed in his book, her heart whispered a truth she couldn’t ignore: she was already lost to him.

She sighed again, so quietly, so contented and bashful at the same time, just trying her best to compose herself. They couldn’t afford distractions, not when there were yokai to bind and mysteries to solve. But the problem with feelings—especially feelings this stubborn and overwhelming—was that they didn’t care about timing. They didn’t care about reason. They simply existed, wild and unwieldy, and no amount of logic or denial could make them go away.

Draco shifted in his chair, glancing up at her with a curious tilt of his head. “Something on your mind, Granger? I think I've heard you sigh about ten times in five minutes alone."

Hermione cleared her throat, feeling her face heat. “Nothing important,” she lied, reaching for her tea and taking a sip to hide her expression.

His lips twitched, but he went back to his reading. “You’re a terrible liar.”

She set her tea on the coffee table and closed the book in her lap, which earned her a maddening quirk of his ashen brow in response despite that he still did not meet her unrelating gaze.

“I was thinking,” Hermione began, tapping her fingers against the hardback in her lap. “I would like to send a letter to the Headmistress of Mahoutokoro.”

Draco didn’t look up from his book, though his lips twitched at the corners. “Oh?”

“That’s all you have to say?”

Still reading, he replied, “What are you hoping? That she’ll know all about the yokai, hand us a tidy how-to guide, and gift wrap the solution for us?”

Hermione scowled. “Of course not, but we’ve hit a dead end. What if the last five are more powerful? What if we’ve just been lucky? The kitsune has already proven to be a nightmare, and we still haven’t uncovered anything on Tetsuya Shrine. That lead on the crates at the shipping yard? Completely useless.”

“Don’t go spiraling out on me now, darling.” He turned a page, long fingers splayed across the spine of the book. She stared at the silver Malfoy signet ring, bathed in shadows on his pinky.

“I am not spiraling.”

Draco finally looked up, meeting her with a thoughtful, mildly exasperated expression. “You really think your Headmistress will have answers? What’s your grand plan—pen a letter explaining we’ve got a rogue set of spirits terrorizing London?”

“It’s not a grand plan,” she admitted, “but when I was at Mahoutokoro working on my dissertation, I spent a lot of time in their archives set aside solely for professors and visiting scholars.”

“And?”

“There were a few texts I hadn’t gotten around to looking through, like the Nihongi.”

Draco arched a brow, his curiosity evidently piqued despite the dry skepticism lacing his tone. “You think the Headmistress will let you root around in her archives again for the sake of unfinished homework?”

“It wasn’t unfinished,” Hermione said with a huff, crossing her arms. “It was merely... deferred. The Nihongi is ancient, Draco. It’s not exactly light bedtime reading, and I didn’t have enough time to go through it properly.”

Draco tilted his head, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips. “So, the almighty Hermione Granger left a task undone. I’ll have to mark this day down as historic.”

She rolled her eyes. “If you must know, I was busy researching an entirely different subject at the time. I didn’t anticipate that rogue yokai would eventually become my responsibility, nor that I’d need to reference texts as obscure as the Nihongi.”

Draco chuckled and set his book aside, leaning back in his chair and matched her stance by crossing his own arms across his chest. “All right, so what’s the ask? Are you hoping the Headmistress remembers you fondly enough to give you access to the archives again?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, lifting her nose in the air. “And possibly grant us permission to visit Mahoutokoro. If there’s a chance the texts could shed light on Tetsuya Shrine or the artifacts, it’s worth pursuing.”

His gaze softened slightly, the teasing edge fading. “You’ve thought about this before."

"I have."

"And you're serious.”

“Of course I’m serious,” she replied, her tone firm. “We need answers, Draco. I don’t like walking into battles half-blind. And if Mahoutokoro’s archives hold even a sliver of insight, it could make all the difference.”

He studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a small sigh, he said, “Fine. Write your letter.”

Hermione blinked, surprised by how easily he agreed. “You’re not going to argue?”

“Oh, I think it’s a mad idea,” he said breezily, reaching for his book again. “But your ideas tend to pan out, so who am I to argue with the great Hermione Granger?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but the corner of her mouth twitched despite herself. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re predictable,” he shot back without missing a beat, then after a moment, Draco raised a brow and said, “I’ve never been to Japan.”

She nibbled her lip. “It's lovely this time of year. A bit muggy, but lovely."

"Is it?"

She hummed, nodding. "We should visit soon.”

“Agreed,” he said, quicker than she expected. “I can talk to Basil in Magical Transportation and arrange a Portkey.”

“Before or after the next full moon?”

“That depends on whether we get clearance to go before, and if your owl is faster than mine.”

Hermione groaned, slumping into the chaise. “Maybe next month, then? That way, we won’t be rushed.”

“And if we face more than one spirit before then?”

Hermione hesitated, knowing which direction this conversation had to go in. "We have to bind the kitsune this month. It’s too volatile.”

“No chance of another 2v2, then?”

Well,” Hermione began, wincing. “I don’t think the others will be as strong as they were last month since there’s no lunar abnormality this time around.”

Draco nodded, but his lips pressed into a thin line. “I’ll talk to Mother about getting more books from the Manor, see if we can find anything useful.”

“That would be a wise idea. What we've read through thus far have been positively hopeless.”

“And dull.”

She narrowed her eyes, knowing the moment had come to finally ask the question she’d been avoiding until now. “Should we...”

“Spit it out, Granger.”

“Should we talk to Harry?”

Draco’s scowl deepened. “…Why?”

“We might need backup.”

“We don’t need anyone’s help, and certainly not Potter's.” he said firmly.

“Draco, I’d like to survive this.”

He straightened. “Have I not done my job so far?”

“You’re doing an excellent job.”

“I’m doing better than excellent.”

“Yes, yes, you’re a stellar Auror, Malfoy. Master duelist, savior from baddie ghosties, etcetera, etcetera.”

He narrowed his eyes at her flapping hands, which punctuated each sarcastic word. “Granger, if we bring a team, it means training that team, wasting time—”

“Just Harry.”

His eyes narrowed further. “Not Weasley?”

Hermione winced. “...And Ron.”

Draco groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “He’s about as useful as a chocolate cauldron.”

“Ron is great at strategy!”

“His strategy is waiting for me to save the day.”

“He told me you had it under control!”

“I was in a full body-bind while tackling a smuggler out a second-story window!”

“See?” She gestured grandly. “Draco Malfoy: competent, brave, and resourceful. You should add it to your résumé.”

Draco shot her a withering glare before downing the rest of her tea sitting on the table. He flicked his wand, levitating the empty cup to no doubt make its way to the kitchen sink, and unfurled form his reclined position. “Better crack on, then.”

“Where are you going?” Hermione asked after him as he disappeared into the hallway. He was back moments later, strapping a cloak around his shoulders.

“Nott Manor.” He said breezily.

Hermione scrambled off the chaise, sock-slippers skidding across the polished floor. “Theo’s? For what?”

“If you’re bringing your survival chums, I’m bringing my own trauma-bonded buddy as well.”

“Draco!” she cried as he grabbed a fistful of Floo powder. “No civilians!”

“He’s a gremlin, Granger. Not a civilian.”

Then he called out for Nott Manor and disappeared into the flickering green flames.

 


 

Draco stepped into the Floo Parlor of Nott Manor and immediately curled his nose at the ever-present reek of dark magic embedded in the manor’s very foundation. Despite several Ministry raids and twice-commissioned sweeps for dark artifacts, the place still smelled like death. Nott Sr. had been a truly deranged bastard.

“Gremlin!” Draco bellowed, stepping into the corridor. He winced as his shoe crunched over shards of a shattered vase in the middle of the hall. The manor’s resident ghosts had clearly been up to no good.

Turning the corner, he entered the grand foyer just as Theo descended the winding staircase from the second level. “Dray?” Theo arched a brow, his expression both bemused and mildly suspicious. “What’re you doing here?”

“I needed an excuse to leave.”

Theo’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Narcissa?”

“Worse—Granger.”

Theo huffed a laugh, clapping Draco on the shoulder as he led them to the drawing room.

“Honeymoon phase worn off, then?”

Draco sighed heavily and sank into a chair near the hearth, flicking his hand to ignite the logs with a touch of wandless magic.

“No.”

“Ah,” Theo crooned, his grin taking on a sharp edge. “You’re in the thick of it, aren’t you?”

“It is a disaster.”

“Have you shagged yet?”

Draco shot Theo a withering glare but took the tumbler of firewhiskey he was offered—never mind it was barely five.

“So that is why you’re tetchy.”

“I am not ‘tetchy,’” Draco muttered, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “I am—”

“Horny? Randy? Lustful? Wanton?”

Ach, stop.”

Theo’s grin widened, smug as could be. “Narcissa says you’re in love with her.”

Draco choked on his firewhiskey, coughing violently and thumping a fist against his chest to clear his windpipe. When his vision stopped swimming, he managed to croak, “I said no such thing to my mother—”

“You didn’t have to, mate.”

Draco squinted at him suspiciously. “You’re not shagging my mother, are you, Theo?”

Theo’s grin turned downright predatory. “Why? Fancy calling me Daddy?”

A wandless stinging hex snapped across Theo’s wrist, sending a splash of firewhiskey directly into his smug face.

“No, Dray, I am not shagging your mother—though Merlin knows I’d—”

“Please, don’t finish that sentence if you value any part of being alive.”

Theo waved a dismissive hand. “Alas, she will never take me into her bed.”

Draco thumped the back of his head against the chair’s back, groaning.

“Why must my friends all be randy for my mother?”

“I will not answer that on behalf of the value I have for my life.”

“Smart man.”

Theo shoved his hand into his pocket and procured two cigars. He used his wand to cast sectum at the ends and Draco accepted the proffered cigar with a muttered, “Cheers,” leaning back in his chair and exhaling a steady plume of smoke toward the ceiling after lighting it.

Theo smirked around his cigar, propping his feet up on the low table between them. “Since I know how obsessive you can be, I also know you wouldn’t leave Granger alone unless it was for a good reason. So, what exactly brings you here, then? Aside from the obvious desire for my sparkling company.”

Draco took a slow drag from his cigar, allowing the smoke to cloud the air between them before answering, his tone clipped and tight. “Granger wants to involve Potter in the case.”

Theo barked out a laugh, nearly dropping ash onto his trousers. “Potter? Oh, that’s rich. I’m sure you’re tickled.”

“And Weasley.”

Theo’s amusement turned into outright cackling, his shoulders shaking as he struggled to catch his breath. “Bloody hell, she’s assembling the Gryffindor Avengers.”

Draco arched a brow. “The what?”

Theo gave him a smug look, leaning back in his chair like he was holding court. “A Muggle comic, Draco. Superheroes. Do try to keep up—after all, your future wife is Muggleborn.”

Draco’s expression darkened, his jaw clenching as he bit down on the cigar. “I’m ignoring that.”

“Because it’s true?” Theo’s grin was all teeth, and Draco wondered for the briefest of moments if he’d regret cursing his so-called best friend into oblivion.

He let the question hang in the air, choosing instead to take another puff of his cigar. The nicotine haze was a welcome distraction from the truth Theo was always too bloody good at sniffing out.

“Anyhow,” Draco muttered, “You are now to become my own token Slytherin to drag along for diversity points, so I am not in a cohort of Gryffindor’s alone. Lest you wish for me to bombarda my own head off.”

Theo snorted. “May I be the brooding anti-hero—or is that a job solely for you alone?”

“Har-har,” Draco muttered, flicking ash into the tray on the table.

“All right, I’ll do it. What’s your plan?” Theo asked, sitting up slightly, his gaze sharpening. “If you don’t want the Gryffindor Dream Team mucking about, what’s your next move?”

Draco hesitated, rolling the cigar between his fingers. “Granger suggested we write to the Headmistress of Mahoutokoro. She stayed there during her dissertation. Thinks the woman might have insight on this Tetsuya Shrine that gave her the crate in the first place. Mentioned some obscure ancient Japanese text, too. Nihongi?”

“Hm, The Japanese Chronicles.”

“How on earth do you know that?”

Theo grinned. “I don't have a job, Dray. I spend most of my days lazing about reading.”

“You… read? For fun?”

“I am thoroughly insulted.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I digress.”

“It’s not a bad idea, Dray. The school’s archives are legendary.”

“Mm, yes.” Draco agreed. “She's getting nervous. I think last month scared her.”

“You haven’t told me the specifics of what happened yet.” Theo mused, flicking a brow up.

“It was… a bit of a mess.”

“I’m sensing a trend here, mate.”

Draco waved his cigar in the air, gritting his teeth. “Yes, well, ancient spirits can be rather peeved when you’re trying to turn them into artifact fodder.”

“So, Potter, Weasley and I are meant to be your backup in the meantime?”

“Yes, unfortunately.” Draco said.

“…Until you make it to Japan and hopefully find more information?”

“That’s the idea,” Draco admitted reluctantly. “Granger’s worried we’re outnumbered. She’s probably right, but—”

“You always have hated the thought of needing anyone’s help.”

“I hate the thought of Granger needing anyone else’s help. She’s been doing just fine with me.”

Theo chuckled, tapping ash from his cigar. “Ah, I see. You don’t want to share your witch.”

Draco froze, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “She’s not my witch.”

“Sure, she’s not.”

“Shut it, Nott,” Draco growled, but the heat crawling up the back of his neck betrayed him.

Theo simply leaned back, smug as ever, and puffed on his cigar. “Consider me on the case, detective. If you’re dragging Potter and Weasley into this circus, you’ll need at least one competent Slytherin to balance it out.”

Draco scowled but said nothing. Truthfully, he didn’t hate the idea. If nothing else, having Theo around might make this whole ordeal slightly more tolerable—or at the very least, more entertaining. If there was one thing Theo handled well, it was chaos.

Draco sighed, letting the smoky haze from his cigar swirl upward, as he tried to collect his thoughts. Theo, however, was far too observant to let the silence stretch for long.

“You’ve got that tortured, constipated look on your face, mate,” Theo said, smirking.

“I have no look about me. Sod off.”

“Hmm, no, you do. Narcissa was right.”

“My mother knows nothing.”

“Let me take a gander at your current philosophical plight: Granger is your principal, you’re her bodyguard, and you can’t figure out if you’re supposed to protect her from the yokai or from yourself.”

Draco flicked ash into the tray with a huff. “It’s not that bloody simple.”

“Oh, but it is,” Theo drawled, lounging back in his chair with an air of exaggerated nonchalance. “You fancy her. She’s your charge. You’re trying to maintain professional boundaries, but surprise—boundaries don’t work when you’re hopelessly in love with the brightest witch of her age.”

Draco shot him a withering glare. “First of all—”

“Fine,” Theo interrupted, waving a lazy hand. “Don’t admit it. Just keep brooding over there like some tragic Byronic hero. It’s very on-brand for you.”

Draco exhaled sharply, setting his cigar in the ashtray and pinching the bridge of his nose. “I cannot stand your meddling.”

“Tetchy, as I said before.”

Draco rolled his eyes and opted to shift the conversation once more. He ignored the heat at the tips of his ears. “I am still irked that she wants to bring Potter and Weasley into my case. Do you have any idea how intolerable that will be?”

“Oh, I won’t have to imagine,” Theo said, his grin widening. “But you’re forgetting one crucial detail.”

“Enlighten me.”

“You’re already in over your head, Dray. Potter and Weasley are just icing on the cake. The real problem isn’t them—it’s you.” Theo tapped his temple. “Up here, where you’re too stubborn to admit you’re absolutely besotted with her and it’s driving you mad.”

Well, he had tried his best to steer Theo away from this topic, but he was feeling relentless, apparently.

“I am… not besotted.” Draco gritted through his teeth.

Why was he even trying to deny it?

Theo raised a brow, his grin downright feline now. “No? Then explain why you look like you’ve swallowed a Bludger every time someone so much as mentions her.”

Draco grabbed his cigar again, muttering under his breath.

“And,” Theo continued, undeterred, “why you’re sitting here sulking about her involving Potter instead of doing the sensible thing and just telling her you’d like to keep her safe all on your own. Preferably forever.”

Draco shot him a glare. “This conversation is over.”

“’Tis not,” Theo said cheerfully. “In fact, I think we’ve only just begun. Tell me—when you go to Japan, are you planning to confess your undying love in a serene bamboo forest, or are you going for something more dramatic? A mountaintop at sunrise, perhaps?”

Draco groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Merlin, save me.”

“Oh no, mate. Merlin can’t save you now. You’re doomed, and it’s beautiful.” Theo raised his glass in mock salute. “Here’s to Draco Malfoy, Lovesick Fool. May you find the courage to stop sulking and finally sweep her off her feet.”

Draco took a deep sip of his firewhiskey, muttering under his breath, “Why am I friends with you?”

Theo only laughed, the sound echoing through the dimly lit room.

 


 

Day Seventy-Two: Tuesday, 17th of August 2009

Granger’s Sixteenth Rule for Defeating Spiritual Folly:

Patience is Vital—Always

(Malfoy’s note: Patience is for saints, not Aurors.)

(Granger’s note: Trust me, Draco. It’s for everyone. Even you.)

 

----

 

Hermione sat down across from Harry and Ron in the Ministry canteen, and slid her tray across the table, neatly setting it in front of Draco as she took her seat. He’d already pushed her chair in for her, a casual, almost dismissive gesture, though the curl of his smirk suggested he knew exactly how unnecessary it was and how much it irritated her.

Draco lounged in his chair beside her, his arm draped lazily over the back of hers, legs stretched out just enough that one boot brushed against the leg of her chair. A toothpick hung from the corner of his mouth, the very picture of smug ease as he glanced across the table.

“Saint Potter. Weasel.”

Harry, ever unflappable, gave a brief nod. “Malfoy.”

Ron, less charitable, muttered under his breath, “Hullo, Ferret.”

Draco’s grin widened, the toothpick bobbing as he leaned back farther. “Always a pleasure, Weasley. How’s the family, Potter? Still eating you out of house and home?”

Harry shot Draco a glare, but Hermione cleared her throat, drawing their attention before the conversation could devolve into the usual round of jabs.

“I’m glad you both could make time,” she began, her tone brisk and to the point. “I need to ask for your help with something.”

Harry crossed his arms, and then sighed, because he knew what was coming, “Taking my advice, then?”

Draco, who had been fiddling with his toothpick, flicked it onto his tray with a snap of his fingers and gave Hermione a stern glare. “I see this topic has been approached before now, darling?”

Hermione’s eyes turned to crescents as she glared at him. “Yes, while you were in hospital.”

Draco snorted. “Ah, so that was what you and Potter had talked about while I was dying.”

“How do you even remember me mentioning that to you? You were high off pain potions.”

“I was not!”

Harry cleared his throat loudly. Draco cut him a sideways snarl before snapping, “Granger thinks she needs backup for the next month because apparently, everyone believes I’m not competent enough.”

“Draco,” Hermione began, exasperated, “we’ve been over this. You are very competent at your job. This isn’t about you—it’s about being prepared. In case the situation escalates. Again.” She turned to Harry, her expression softening. “And to answer your question, yes, Harry, I’m taking your advice.”

Ron snorted, clearly amused, but his grin faltered when Hermione turned her withering glare on him.

“I read the incident report, Malfoy.” Harry began, lips pursuing. “Did you undersell the last mission?”

Draco grabbed Hermione’s takeaway coffee and took a slow sip, ignoring her huff of protest.

“I may have,” he said with a nonchalant shrug.

“What did you say happened?” Hermione demanded, yanking the coffee back from him.

“That we had a grand ol’ time fighting two spirits at once.”

“And what actually happened, then?” Ron asked, frowning as he glanced between Draco and Hermione as they silently bickered over the ownership of her coffee.

“The last one nearly had us both buried in the rubble of a cursed library.” Draco said, grinning when he got the last sip of coffee.

“Don’t be dramatic, Malfoy. It was just part of the library.”

“Just the section with the structural integrity of a wet tissue,” he shot back.

“We have already discussed this at home, Draco.” Hermione huffed, flicking his hand when it began to tap impatient fingers on the table. “Enough.”

“Wait…” Ron stared at Hermione, his blue eyes narrowing. “Why does it sound like you two have been… living together or something?”

Draco’s grin was positively feline as he leaned closer to Hermione, the arm resting on her chair inching toward her shoulder. She watched the way he grinned at her two best friends, shark-like and predatory. “Because we have, Weasel.”

Harry blinked, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. Then his face began to turn beet red.

“Malfoy—”

Potter.”

“Wait—you’ve been living with Malfoy?” Ron asked, his voice rising an octave.

“It’s not like that, Ronald.” Hermione said quickly, her cheeks flushing. “It’s only until this case is resolved. It makes it much easier for us to get things done. I don’t want to take the artifacts back and forth between our homes, and Draco’s wards are much better than mine are.”

“Not for a lack of trying on my part,” Draco muttered. “Your beastie is a wicked little thing who enjoys dismantling my work whenever he sees fit.”

“Crookshanks is a good boy, and he only wishes to go outside without being zapped.”

“He’s a demon, and you know it.”

“Well, I shall bring him to your flat then, so you may complain even more.”

“You are a wicked little witch.”

Harry’s eye actually twitched at that. “Malfoy,” he seethed.

Draco glared at Harry, who glared right back. Hermione only rolled her eyes. “Stop it, you two.”

“This is beyond unprofessional—”

Harry,” Hermione cut in, her voice sharp as a blade. “I don’t appreciate you trying to get in between our partnership. There is nothing immoral going on between us, so please, keep your nose out of my business.”

(She wasn’t technically lying, but she wasn’t about to take this moment to suddenly confess to her Big Feelings, either. Not when she wasn’t sure they were reciprocated. Not when the case was still months away from being resolved. Not when the idea of her, Hermione Granger, falling for Draco Malfoy was as improbable as it was undeniable. It was utterly mad, even by her standards, but gods, she wasn’t sure she’d ever wanted something or someone more.)

“Unluckily for me,” Draco muttered under his breath, earning another sharp glare from Hermione.

“Not funny, Draco.”

“But Granger, you're so fun to rile up with your delicate sensibilities and blushing inclinations.”

Hermione opened her mouth to retort, but Harry beat her to it. “It’s my job, Hermione—”

“You were fine with it before we put up the veil and realized the yokai were bound to the moon.” Hermione lifted her chin, a note of challenge in her voice.

“Yes, well, that was circumstantial—this isn’t! This is you willingly living with Malfoy! You’re his charge, and—”

As I’ve explained,” she cut in, opting to match his glare with one of her own. “Draco’s wards are better. It’s not like he can cast his family’s blood wards on my house! We’d have to be bonded for that, and I’m not marrying Malfoy just for the convenience of his family’s magic—”

“Hermione Malfoy does have a nice ring to it.” Draco interrupted; his grin devilish. “Shall I go to the vaults and fetch you a ring, darling?”

Ach, it would be hyphenated, Draco,” Hermione shot back, rolling her eyes. “I’m not giving up my last name for any wizard.”

“But think of the children, dear!”

Ron slammed his palms on the table, his face turning crimson as several people nearby hushed. “A word, Malfoy?”

Hermione stood before Draco could respond. “Ronald, sit down.”

“I’m talking to the Ferret, ‘Mione.”

You will sit down, Ronald Billius Weasley!”

Draco snickered until Hermione grabbed his earlobe, her furious expression sending him a bit off-balance. To her surprise, Draco leaned into her touch with a smile that was more amused than irritated. “I do like a rough hand, love.”

Ach,” Hermione muttered, her face flushed as she let go of his ear and pushed him away, ignoring his soft laugh.

Harry rubbed his temples, exhaling deeply as Ron finally sat down. "What have I set into motion with this pairing..."

“As I was saying,” Hermione began, sitting down herself. She steepled her fingers together on the table and rolled her shoulders back. “The next full moon is in twenty days, and I’m worried we’re not fully prepared for what’s coming. We’ve hit a dead end on information here, and I’m hoping to take a trip to Japan next month to consult with Mahoutokoro. But until then, we need extra hands—just in case.”

Ron sighed but acquiesced.

Harry glanced at her, concern evident. All traces of fury wiped away with the blanched look on his face. “You think it’s going to be bad?”

Draco’s voice was unusually serious as he spoke, “If the patterns hold, the next yokai will be stronger than the last.”

“Yes,” Hermione agreed. “And quite frankly, it won’t care whether or not we’re ready because all they really want is their artifacts back and I have a feeling if they get ahold of them, we’re—”

“—fucked.” Draco supplied, and she jerked her attention towards him when he tugged on her curl for attention.

“I can speak for myself.”

“Protecting your delicate sensibilities, darling. Principles of being my Principal.”

She waved him off and turned back to Harry and Ron.

Harry eventually nodded, trying his best to ignore Draco and Hermione’s endless bickering. His expression was grim as he said, “All right, Hermione. We’ll help however we can.”

“Yeah, count me in too.” Ron said. “It’ll be like old times.”

“That is not comforting.” Draco quipped dryly.

“We know more about the yokai than we ever did about the horcruxes,” Hermione shot back. “So—hush, you know nothing.”

Mm,” Draco said, sucking his cheeks between his teeth before breaking into a grin.

He was definitely thinking of a randy joke.

 


 

Day Seventy-Five: Friday, 20th of August 2009

Potter’s Seventeenth Rule for Crushing Magical Madness:

Tolerate Teamwork

You must always understand that being a team means working together, even if it means working with a blonde ponce for the greater good.

(Malfoy’s note: Tolerating doesn’t mean liking, Potter.)

(Granger’s note: Harry, I’m not sure Draco even tolerates me some days.)

(Potter's note: You must not tell lies.)

(Malfoy's note: Good one, Potter. Now she's crying.)

(Granger's note: I can't help it. Umbridge was the worst.)

(Potter's note: Small fry compared to no nose Tom.)

(Malfoy's note: She's muttering about you being an orphan and living inside a cupboard. Salazar. You know how hormonal she is right now!)

(Potter's note: I can truly sympathize... sorry, Malfoy. Have you tried pickles and ice cream?)

 

----

 

Hermione sat off to the side of the Auror Training Grounds, watching as Harry and Draco dueled for the better part of twenty minutes. The midday sun beat down on them, and despite the heat, neither seemed willing to relent. Ron, having realized the match wasn’t going to end anytime soon, flopped down beside her, offering a chocolate bonbon with all the subtlety of a bulldozer.

“Wan’ one?” he asked, his mouth full of chocolate, crumbs falling onto his lap.

Hermione blinked, looking at him in mild horror. How had she ever thought—no, no, don’t think about that—ugh, she couldn’t stop it now—how had she ever looked at him and thought, yes, I would love to shag this man for eternity?

With a sigh, Hermione turned her attention back to Draco. His duel with Harry had devolved into something that looked far less like professional Auror training and far more like a juvenile pissing contest. Which, she supposed, she should have expected. Both men were throwing spells with the kind of intensity that screamed unresolved grudges. Though, if she were honest, it was Draco who seemed to be enjoying himself far more than Harry.

And then, because he couldn’t just leave well enough alone, Draco had to take it one step further. Of-fucking-course he did. With a dramatic flourish, he discarded his shirt mid-duel, citing the blistering heat and his dire need to avoid tan lines before their upcoming holiday.

“It isn’t a holiday, you twat!” Hermione had shouted at him.

“Of course it’s a holiday, darling,” Draco had drawled, that maddening smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “We’ll be traveling, seeing the sights, sampling local cuisine. Sounds like a holiday to me.”

She huffed, throwing up her hands, and proceeded to sit on the sidelines.

It was hard to keep her focus on her irritation. Her eyes kept betraying her, dragging themselves back to him. His broad shoulders gleamed in the sun, muscles flexing and shifting with every dodge and spell he cast. His hair, usually so immaculately combed, stuck to his forehead in damp strands, a few falling into his eyes as he moved.

Harry, to his credit, didn’t seem fazed by Draco’s antics. Though his precision casting was getting sloppier, and Hermione suspected it was at least partly due to frustration. Draco, however, seemed to thrive on the chaos, his laugh echoing across the field every time he evaded one of Harry’s spells.

The sight of him with his milky skin glistening from the sweat running down his back in rivulets was a vision Hermione tried her very best not to linger on. The way his body curved, the hard lines and subtle flex of his shoulders, the way his scarred chest expanded with every deep breath. She shuddered a breath—it was all too much. His chest, his arms, the way his skin glowed under the heat. Ach. He was such a prat because this wasn’t just a duel anymore; it was a full-blown display. And he knows it, she thought, though she couldn’t stop herself from stealing another glance.

“Oi, Hermione,” Ron’s voice cut through her thoughts like a blaring foghorn. “Did ya hear me?”

She blinked, snapping out of her stupor. “What?” she asked, looking at Ron with a slight frown.

“You didn’t answer. Want one of these or not?” He waved the bonbon in front of her face, the sticky chocolate smearing on his fingers.

Hermione blinked again, mentally shaking herself free from the image of Draco’s chest. “No, Ron,” she said, her voice a little too clipped. “No thanks.”

Ron gave her a confused look but shrugged, popping the bonbon into his mouth with a nonchalant grunt. Hermione, however, found it increasingly hard to focus on anything other than Draco.

He dodged another one of Harry’s jelly-legged jinxes, laughing as he shot back one of his own that Harry deflected with his protego.

“What’s he got to laugh about?” Ron muttered beside her, chomping on—you guessed it—another bonbon. “He’s not winning.”

Hermione didn’t respond. Winning didn’t seem to be Draco’s goal here, not in the traditional sense. No, this was indeed a performance. He was preening, and Hermione hated how much she was paying attention. The way his chest rose and fell with exertion, the faint sheen of sweat tracing the lines of his abs, the arrogant ease with which he moved.

Christ. It was almost mesmerizing.

Get a grip, Hermione.

“I think he’s enjoying himself more than Harry,” she said instead, keeping her tone casual, though she avoided looking at Ron directly.

“Mad, that one,” Ron replied through a mouthful of chocolate, oblivious to her distraction. “Can’t believe you’ve been putting up with him for months.”

Neither can I, she thought, though it came with far less irritation than she would have liked.

Another bout of laughter from Draco drew her gaze back just in time to see him duck and roll to avoid Harry’s Expelliarmus, then leap back to his feet with a flourish. He tossed a wink her way, and Hermione’s stomach did something she was not going to acknowledge out loud.

Internally? Oh, she squealed like a lovestruck fourteen-year-old.

She hadn’t even felt this way around Viktor Krum, and he was—well, he was Viktor sodding Krum!

Ron groaned. “Merlin’s beard, he’s such a show-off.”

“Yeah,” Hermione said, her voice quieter now. “He really is.”

But that tug in her chest was there again, stronger this time, something that felt too much like... what? Longing? Frustration? A dangerous mix of both? Ach, no, no! She knew better than to label it again. Her Big Feelings were to be avoided at all costs until further notice. She wasn’t going to entertain this nonsense, and certainly not in the presence of Ron.

Another bead of sweat caught the summer sun on Draco’s skin, and she watched, transfixed, as if slid down the length of his throat. She fanned herself with her stack of notes, knowing, factually, that this feeling betraying her body was lust. She was lusting after Draco, in public, beside her ex-boyfriend, and Christ, how the times had changed.

Now that she had officially acknowledged her plethora of inconvenient feelings (internally, and only to herself. Only ever to herself at this point in time.) all she could think about was the various ways he might look in certain contorted positions above her in a similar state of undress. Would he grin like that? Or would his face soften when he spread her legs? Would his hands move in that gentle, curling way against her quim or would he be abrasive? Would his callouses scrape like sandpaper over her breasts as he tugged her nipples between his fingers?

She frowned, watching Draco intently as he expertly dodged one of Harry's curses, and somehow, he turned and managed to shoot her a cocky grin.

As if he knew she was watching.

“Merlin,” she muttered, shaking her head.

“Something wrong?” Ron asked, the slightest edge of concern in his voice.

Hermione immediately regretted that she’d even spoken.

Hermione quickly composed herself. “No. Just... wondering if you had a drink in that bag of yours?”

“Of course,” Ron said, leaning back and rummaging through his things. He handed her a bottle of water and she took greedy gulps.

The last thing she needed was for Ron to see that she had turned into some lovesick fool because she thought Draco was attractive. And charming. And intelligent. And funny—ugh. No. She was not going to spiral into these thoughts again. She had already gone through all the reasons her Big Feelings existed. There was a time and place for them, and now was not it.

Her cheeks flamed as Ron stuffed his face with another bonbon, blissfully unaware of her inner turmoil. No matter that he sat beside her, Hermione’s brain would not stop whirring. How had it come to this? She was supposed to be the sensible one. The rational one. The one who absolutely would not fall for her partner on a dangerous case.

Hermione had hoped she would be strong enough to quash these obviously asinine feelings, but as the days passed, and their time together grew more familiar, she realized no amount of self-reassurance could convince her she wasn’t the type to get distracted. The quiet mornings, bleary-eyed beside him; the nights curled up with books, their shared space more and more comforting. It was impossible to ignore the pull.

She never thought she’d become one of those witches, so tangled in her emotions that she’d lose sight of the bigger picture.

But Draco was proving to be a very Big Distraction.

She wanted to hate it—but she couldn’t—she just couldn’t.

Her gaze lingered on him, and for one brief, maddening moment, she let herself imagine it. She let herself feel the weight of his presence, the heat of his touch, the way he seemed to burrow into the very marrow of her bones as if they were two pieces of the same puzzle, always meant to align. She imagined more slow mornings with him, with touches that spoke to the devotion she spent her nights dreaming of with her legs tangled up in the sheets, fingers tucked inside her knickers as she pretended it was his hands on her body and his fingers that greedily played at her quim.

The dream was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

She didn’t have the strength, or maybe the will, to quash it anymore. Not when every day with him felt like an inevitability. Not when they stood on the cusp of danger every month, when stress loomed over them like a shadow, or even the fact that Harry was glaring daggers at Draco as he dodged a Stunner with infuriating grace.

Her Big Feelings for Draco were not to be ignored. They had become unavoidable.

And she was damn near ready to admit defeat.

She huffed out a breath, forcing herself to look away, but her heart wouldn’t stop whispering something far less rational. The ache inside her grew, and for the first time, she realized she was nervous.

What if he really didn’t feel it too?

The thought hit her like a wave. The uncertainty that had always lingered at the edges of her feelings for him now came crashing in, pulling her under. She knew what she wanted, what she was beginning to feel, but she couldn’t ignore the small, terrifying fear that maybe she was the only one.

Maybe this whole thing was just one-sided.

What if she was only setting herself up for heartache?

 


 

"Expelliarmus!" Draco cried, and when Potter’s wand hit his palm, he grinned like a fiend.

“You’re a cheat!” Potter snarled, storming up to Draco to snatch his wand back. Draco chuffed a laugh and handed it over easily. He bent to grab his shirt off the grass and used it to wipe the sweat off his face and the back of his neck. “You’re the one who fell for it!”

“You told me Ginny was behind me!”

“Why would your wife randomly show up to the training grounds, Potter?”

Potter had the mind to look sheepish and scratched at his stubbled jaw. “…Good point.”

“Unless you’ve done something that warranted that look of fear in your eyes?”

“I’ve done nothing!”

The crack of apparition sliced through the air, and Draco's eyes immediately snapped to the sound, catching a flash of brown curls. But the hair wasn’t the right shade. It was only when he glanced back at where Hermione had been sitting that he saw it—his best friend’s arm slung around Hermione’s shoulder, his hand tangled in her hair.

Nott…” Draco snarled, his jaw tightening as he stalked across the grounds. Weasley gave him a queer look as they passed each other—Weasley on the way to duel with Potter, and Draco on the way to commit murder.

A rush of heat flooded Draco’s chest, burning through the calm he had been riding just moments ago. It was irrational, this surge of anger, but there was something about Theo acting so... familiar with Hermione. Why did he think he had the right to touch her like that, when Draco hadn’t ever even dared to get so close?

His breath hitched as he stormed over, not even bothering to hide the tension in his movements. Theo was sitting too close, a casual smile on his face as he played with Hermione’s hair. The sight of his hand so easily tangled in her curls had Draco clenching his fists, the muscles in his arms tightening as if in anticipation for a fight.

Salazar, when had he become so positively neanderthal?

“Hiya, Dray,” Theo grinned up at him, squinting against the sun. “Aren’t you just a vision.”

Draco’s gaze was steely as he responded, his voice dangerously sharp, “You’re late.”

Theo raised an eyebrow, completely unfazed by Draco’s irritation. “I’m sorry, did you have somewhere to be after this?”

“You were supposed to be here half-past noon to practice dueling. It’s—”

“Three,” Hermione supplied, her voice a little too tight. She avoided his gaze, and Draco noticed her cheeks were flushed bright red.

Theo shrugged nonchalantly and jostled Hermione’s shoulder in the process. “Had breakfast with your mother.”

Draco’s patience snapped. In one swift motion, he grabbed Theo by the collar of his shirt and yanked him up, pulling him away from Hermione’s side. “You little fucking gremlin…”

Theo’s blue eyes widened as Draco's grip tightened, but there was a strange glint in his eyes, like he was more amused than anything else.

“Kidding, lover. Just kidding!” Theo laughed; his voice high-pitched with mock fear.

Draco pulled Theo in close and whispered, “Leave my witch be, Theodore.”

Theo, seemingly unbothered by Draco’s outburst, smirked as he brushed off the wrinkles in his shirt. “Your mother, or…”

Draco ignored him, sitting down heavily on the grass beside Hermione, all but throwing himself onto his side. He propped his head up on his palm, his gaze dragging over Hermione, focusing on the way the light hit her tanned skin, the flush on her cheeks… and the way she seemed to shrink from him. He knocked her calf with his knee and quirked a brow at her when she turned to glare at him.

“What?”

“Mad at me, are you?”

“No.” She said too tightly and lifted her nose in the air.

A brisk wind blew by, bringing with it her scent. Saffron. Sugar. Strawberries. It wafted from her hair as he leaned closer. His lungs filled with it, the sweetness swirling in his chest. It was intoxicating, overwhelming. His mind wandered to dangerous places, imagining what else she might taste like.

Would her quim be just as sweet, as tantalizing? He swallowed hard, as if the thought itself might suffocate him.

“I was only protecting your soft heart from the gremlin.”

“Oh, were you?”

“I can be very charming,” Theo quipped, opting to sit down next to Draco rather than Hermione, lest he wished to become fodder for the crows. “Quite a heartbreaker, I am.”

“Hm,” she canted her head to the side, and gave Theo a good once over. “Not my type.”

Draco tossed his head back and laughed for many long minutes, until Hermione asked, “Are you quite finished?”

Draco, still laughing, managed to say, “For now,” he leaned in a little closer, his shoulder brushing hers. Her hair tickled his cheek, and he shoved his nose into it like a deranged loon as he asked, “What is your type then, darling?”

“Oooh,” said Theo. “Tall, blonde—”

“Sod off, you two!” She sputtered and shoved Draco away.

Draco laughed again and flopped onto his back. He crossed his arms behind his head, and closed his eyes as the summer sun beat down on his bare torso and face.

“I’m only curious.” He drawled, taking care to flex his stomach as he stretched out his sore legs.

“It’s not like I have the time to date.” She huffed, and Draco found himself most pleased by that acknowledgement.

“Not when you live with Draco.” Theo added in cheekily, which earned him a glare from both the blonde wizard and the brunette witch.

“Well, we can cross gingers off the list—” Draco mused, turning his head towards Theo with a conspiratorial grin.

“Hm, I don’t know—Charlie is quite handsome.” Hermione mused, and Draco’s attention lurched in her direction.

“Who’s Charlie?”

“Charlie Weasley.” She supplied.

“Ahhh,” Theo said, grinning. “He tames dragons, doesn’t he?”

“He does,” Hermione said with a sigh—a drawn out, dejected sigh. “He lives in Romania.”

Good fucking thing, Draco thought.

The idea of Hermione being even remotely interested in a Weasley, let alone one who spent his days charming dragons, made Draco’s blood run hotter than it had while he dueled Potter.

He forced himself to take a breath, but it didn’t help. His irritation simmered beneath the surface as he glanced at Hermione, trying to ignore the way her lips twitched as she chatted with Theo about the dragon tamer.

“Good thing, huh?” Theo asked abashed, blinking his thick lashes in that way of his that usually had witches and wizards alike falling to their knees before him. Draco only offered a dead glare in return as he lifted himself up to sit.

Theo was very clearly enjoying the tension in the air.

“What are you on about now?” Draco finally asked.

Theo gave a cheeky little snort. “That Charlie Weasley isn’t around to sweep Hermione off her feet.”

“I think he’s gay,” Hermione mused, chewing on her lip in thought. “Your type, Theo?”

Theo grinned like a shark that caught the scent of blood. “I don’t have a type, pet.”

“Maybe when he comes around our neck of the woods, I’ll get Ron and Ginny to drag him to Finnegan's so you can meet?”

“Oh, you are just brilliant, Granger.” Theo drawled, waggling his dark brows. “I can see why Draco is so taken with you.”

“Go duel or something,” Draco muttered, shoving Theo’s shoulder with his own. “You came here to brush up on your skills, not flirt with Granger.”

Theo grinned. “You’re the one who brought it up. If Granger wants to help a fellow dragon enthusiast get shagged, I’ll not say no.”

“Stop being a prat, both of you,” Hermione snapped, though there was a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. She seemed less bothered than Draco, but Draco noticed her subtle glance his way, and was pleased when he noticed her gaze dragging over his bare chest.

Theo sighed and rolled over to stand. He dusted off his trousers and saluted the two of them before he sauntered over to the dueling Potter and Weasley. He shot a stinging hex at their backs, laughing like a loon when they turned their attention towards him rather than each other.

“That should occupy him for some time,” Draco mused, plucking a dandelion out of the ground to twirl it absently in his fingers.

“He’s quite good at dueling,” she agreed after a few minutes, cocking her head to the side to watch the three wizards battle it out. “Bit of a cheat, though.”

“Nott always has played dirty.” Draco surmised, and then because he was a heartsick fool, he tucked Hermione’s curls behind her ear to place the little yellow flower in her hair.

Hermione froze for just a moment, but then she let out a quiet breath and turned her gaze back to Theo, who was now clearly enjoying himself by making Harry and Ron chase him in a dizzying circle. The stinging hex had done its job, distracting them from their duel long enough for Theo to make a mockery of their competitive spirit.

Draco watched her with a half-smile, the dandelion a pretty shade of yellow against her caramel-brown curls. His eyes lingered a bit too long as his fingers brushed against her temple, then twirled a curl around his finger before slowly releasing, watching as it sprang back into a tight coil. His fingers itched to do more than just play with her hair, but he kept himself in check. His gaze lingered a little longer than necessary, tracing the curve of her neck, the softness of her lips, and the subtle way her body seemed to lean just a fraction closer when he spoke. He wanted to revel in the way she reacted to him, but he had no time for indulgence. (Certainly not with their present company.)

“You know,” Hermione began, her voice quieter now, “I think this is the first time I’ve seen Theo actually trying to behave.” She cast a knowing glance in his direction, where Theo was now pretending to offer an exaggerated apology to Harry and Ron, who were both glaring at him.

“Don’t be fooled, Granger. He’s only pretending to be charming because you’re here.” At her raised brows, he shrugged. “Pretty witches always force him to be on his best behavior.”

She glanced up at him, whiskey eyes narrowing just slightly, and for a moment, Draco thought she might challenge him. But instead, she gave him a playful smile. “I don’t know. He’s quite charming when he wants to be.”

Draco leaned back slightly, a teasing glint dancing in his gaze. “More charming than me?”

Hermione fiddled with the grass by his hand, playing coy, and when her fingertips brushed against his knuckle, a subtle touch, it sent an electric jolt straight through him. He held his breath, unwilling to make a move, but his body was far from calm. She didn’t pull away, but neither did she lean into the touch. He wanted to say something, to break the moment, but her words came before he could.

“Mm, yes,” she replied, that glint of mischief in her eyes, her voice low and teasing. Salazar. “You can be quite rakish, you know.”

“Excuse me, but I consider myself a reformed rake.”

A short laugh burst out of her, and it had his chest swelling. He would spend his entire life trying to make this witch laugh. If she’d let him, that is.

“Oh, my, shall I write to your mother with the good news?”

“Yes, I think that would do well. She’s been positively bereft for years knowing that her only son and the heir to the Malfoy estate is a rake.”

“I will do you one better. I’ll write to the Prophet so all of Wizarding England knows to now refer to you as Draco Malfoy, Reformed Rake.”

Draco leaned in, his voice dropping an octave as he met her gaze. Honey, and amber, and sweet chocolate pools met his gaze and damn near drew him to breathlessness.

“Perhaps we shall add that I am now Draco Malfoy, Reformed Rake and Charmer of the Golden Girl?”

We? Are you writing this letter?”

“It will be a joint expose, darling,” he replied with a grin. “I cannot let you tarnish my good name with such wild feminine wiles on the nature of my rakishness.”

Her brow quirked, and a slight smile tugged at the corners of her rosebud lips. “I thought you were reformed?”

“One is never reformed when one is a rake, darling,” he said, his grin widening. “Our attentions just end up falling to one instead of many.”

Hermione was quiet for a moment, that sparkle in her eyes dimming slightly. She leaned back, arms crossed as if to put distance between them, but Draco didn’t miss the way her lips twitched down as she studied him.

“What?” he pried, unable to help himself.

“Nothing… I just…” she chewed on her lip, and he zeroed in on the motion. Gods, what he would give to lean in and kiss away that tension. “I take up so much of your time.”

Draco’s brows furrowed, and he tilted his head, his voice soft but edged with incredulity. “I’m not complaining, Granger.”

Her gaze snapped to his, surprise flashing in her amber eyes. For a heartbeat, neither of them said anything. The words hung between them, tangible, heavy.

“Potter tried to take me off the case, you know,” Draco added, jerking his chin toward Harry, who now had Theo in a headlock. He chose to ignore whatever nonsense Theo was yelling and kept his focus on her.

Hermione blinked, startled. “Was this after the meeting with Shacklebolt?”

“Yes,” he answered quickly.

Her lips parted slightly, but no words came. She only nodded; her expression faraway and cloudy.

“I wasn’t going to let that greasy red-headed knobber take my witch.” The words tumbled out before he could stop them, and Draco immediately braced for a scolding.

Instead, Hermione laughed, the sound unexpected but rich, full of life. It bubbled out of her, sweet and genuine, and Draco found himself transfixed. That laugh, her smile… it was like something cracked open inside him, leaving him raw and exposed.

The urge to close the gap between them became overwhelming. He shifted closer, just enough to inhale the faint scent of strawberries and saffron that clung to her. It was maddening, addictive, and it hit him like a sledgehammer how badly he wanted her.

“Draco,” she said softly, her voice pulling him back to the present. Her gaze had softened, her arms uncrossing, fingers brushing lightly against the grass between them. She didn’t move further away this time, didn’t retreat. Instead, she leaned just a little closer. “I would have refused if he tried to take you off the case.” She murmured, a faint blush coloring her cheeks as her eyes darted downward, breaking the intensity of their locked gaze.

His chest tightened, the vulnerability in her tone slicing through him like a curse. He couldn’t resist the small, self-assured smirk that tugged at his lips as he tilted his head. “You fancy me or something, Granger?”

Her head snapped up, eyes widening, and for a moment, Draco thought she might scold him, might deflect with her usual sharp wit. But she didn’t. She stared at him, lips parting slightly as if she wanted to say something—anything.

The moment stretched between them, a precarious balance of unspoken truths and undeniable chemistry. Then, mercifully or maddeningly, Theo’s loud yelp shattered the silence. Both Draco and Hermione turned toward the scene, Theo now dangling upside down, held by Harry’s wandless magic while Ron laughed uncontrollably.

“Why does he always get himself into these situations?” Draco muttered, though he didn’t make to move away despite Theo’s hollering for help.

Hermione’s lips quirked. “Aren’t you going to help?”

Draco grinned, rakish in nature. “Nope.”

“Draco!”

“Yes, darling?” he asked as he flopped back, and was pleased when she followed him down.

He reveled in this moment. In lying flat on his back next to Hermione, feeling the warmth of the earth beneath him and the slight breeze rustling the tall grass. His arm was relaxed beside hers, their fingertips brushing, a connection so subtle it might have been accidental if not for the way his skin seemed to hum at the contact.

Hermione turned her head to look at him, her curls tumbling across her shoulder into the summer grass like a cascade of dark caramel, and he found her brown eyes already fixed on his face. There was a softness to her gaze, a quiet curiosity that always seemed to unearth something raw within him.

“You’re terrible,” she said, but her words were more amused than accusatory, her voice light as the summer breeze.

Draco hummed in response, the sound low and teasing as he tilted his head closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Why would I want to leave this view?”

He felt her inhale sharply, a faint tremor passing through her hand where it brushed against his. He didn’t look away, couldn’t, his silver eyes locked with hers as if the rest of the world had dissolved.

Above them, the sky was a brilliant expanse of blue, streaked with clouds that drifted lazily like ships on a serene sea. The scent of wildflowers billowed through the faint smokiness of the dueling grounds, but Draco only cared about the faint hint of strawberries and saffron coming from her. The heat pressed against them, but it was a comfortable warmth, steady and grounding, nothing compared to the molten feeling building low in his chest.

Hermione’s fingers twitched against the grass, brushing his more intentionally now, and Draco’s heart clenched. There was something settling between them, something that stretched beyond the teasing words and light laughter. Something big. Something undeniable.

For once, Draco didn’t feel the need to speak, didn’t feel the urge to fill the silence with wit or sarcasm. Instead, he let the moment linger, let the stillness carry the weight of whatever was blooming between them.

Looking into her eyes, framed by the sweep of her lashes and lit with life, Draco thought he could stay like this forever. The world—their mission, their deadlines, their dangers—could wait. For now, it was just her. Just this.

Notes:

Next chapter will be their encounter with another yokai with Harry, Ron and Theo in toe so I hope you enjoyed some sweetness before that chaos unfurls.

Chapter 8: The Great Plunge

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Day Eighty-Three: Saturday, 28th of August 2009

Malfoy’s Eighteenth Rule for Conquering Magical Madness:

Be Prepared for the Concept of Too Many Potters

This isn’t so much a rule for survival as it is a cautionary tale.

Unless, of course, you count the very real possibility of being mauled to death by children.

In that case, take heed.

(Granger’s note: They’re children, Draco. Not feral beasts.)

(Malfoy’s note: They’re Potter’s offspring. They are absolutely feral beasts.)

 

----

 

It wasn’t every day that Draco Malfoy found himself surrounded by sticky-fingered, wide-eyed children… but he supposed such a day was inevitable.

(He just hadn’t expected it to be today!)

The chaos unfolded in front of him like a poorly presided circus: Ginny Potter, her flaming red hair escaping its ponytail in every possible direction, wrestled an actual, red-faced demon (or so Draco was convinced). The baby (demon), a screaming, writhing bundle of rage and red hair, thrashed wildly in her arms. Beside her, two freckled boys (also demons) were using their mother as a climbing frame, tugging at her sleeves and shrieking with laughter as she tried (and failed) to corral them.

“Really, I am so sorry, ‘Mione,” Ginny panted, glancing at Hermione with a frazzled but grateful look. “You were wise to come with backup, but” —her gaze flicked to Draco, narrowing in what could only be described as suspicious disbelief— “Malfoy?”

The incredulity in her voice was so sharp Draco almost winced.

Baby Potterette, as Draco had mentally nicknamed her, chose that moment to renew her screaming fit, emitting a sound so piercing it might have rivaled a Howler. Ginny bounced the child on her hip, shushing and cooing in vain. The green-eyed menace locked onto Draco with a glare so fierce it could have melted ice. He couldn’t tell if she was crying or planning his imminent demise.

Hermione, ever the picture of calm amidst chaos, gave Ginny a reassuring smile. “It’s okay, Gin. Go on and help Molly with Fleur. You promised to be there for the birth, remember?”

Ginny hesitated, her gaze darting between Hermione and the still-silent Draco. “Are you sure? I really am sorry; you know I wouldn’t have asked if this wasn’t an emergency.”

“Even if it wasn’t an emergency, I’d still come.”

Ginny sighed, “Harry’s a right git for taking off on that stake out mission with Ron—it’s beneath his position—”

Draco snorted loudly before he could stop himself. It earned him a round of synchronized glares from the entire Potter clan, including the baby. Bloody hell.

Right,” he drawled, his fingers brushing his throat as if checking for signs of pending decapitation. Thankfully, their synchronized glaring did not sever his neck. (He would not be relieved until he left the Potter’s den of demons—because frankly, anything could happen and there was still a chance someone cut his head off. His galleons were on Baby Potterette. She had been eying a rather nefarious looking knife on the kitchen worktop not too long ago.) “Well, far be it from me to critique Saint Potter, but I do recall a time when Auror’s were expected to, you know, actually go on missions.”

Ginny’s eyes narrowed. “You think it’s easy for me? Managing three kids while Harry’s off being a hero? I’d like to see you survive an hour in this madhouse.”

“Ginny,” Hermione interrupted, her voice laced with gentle authority (she was also cutting in before Draco could point out that Ginny was indeed expecting him to survive an hour in this madhouse). “We’ve got this. Go. Fleur needs you.”

Ginny hesitated a moment longer before surrendering. (She hadn’t hesitated for long, which he supposed he understood why—cue the screaming.)

“Fine,” Ginny muttered, pressing a quick kiss to the baby’s head before depositing her—yes, still wailing—into Hermione’s arms. “Good luck.”

As Ginny Disapparated with a sharp pop, Draco stared at the chaos left in her wake. There was much to take in. The boys had already taken to poking their fingers into the jars on the kitchen counter. Presumably filled with some sticky substance he didn’t want to investigate. The baby, still red-faced and furious, seemed determined to wrestle her way out of Hermione’s grip.

Hermione actually had the decency to look a bit peaky.

“How long must we be here?”

Hermione adjusted the baby on her hip and smoothed her red hair down the back of her head. “For as long as we need to be.”

“That sounds suspiciously like forever.” He muttered. “Are we expected to inherit these demons if something happens to Saint Potter and Potterette?”

“Draco, they are not comparable to furniture in the liquidation of an estate—we would adopt them—why would you even—never mind.”

“She made it sound like I’m some sort of soldier shuffling in for the change on the frontlines.” Draco pointed out.  “I will remind you that I am a Malfoy. I don’t do sticky, shrieking, or—”

“—babysitting?” Hermione finished, raising an eyebrow as she expertly maneuvered the baby onto her other hip. Squirmy little bugger, Baby Potterette was. “Well, consider this your trial by fire.”

He could admit she looked good holding a baby, which was a thought he had never had before in any context about any witch. He cocked his head, staring at the demon child wriggling in Hermione’s arms. Now, if that baby was blonde instead of ginger—nope. He was most certainly not going down that route.

Draco sighed, eyeing the baby warily as she let out another eardrum erupting wail. “She’s possessed, isn’t she?”

“She’s teething.”

“Same thing.”

Before Hermione could respond with some form of snark , one of the boys tugged at Draco’s robes with sticky hands. “Are you a bad guy?” the second oldest asked, his blue eyed wide and marble-like. Draco recalled that his name was Albus, which he supposed now that he was getting a good look at Potter’s offspring, he was rather Albus-looking. (Such a ridiculously sentimental wizard, Potter was.)

Draco opened his mouth, but Hermione beat him to it.

“No, James. Draco isn’t a bad guy,” she said firmly, giving Draco a warning glare.

“Don’t listen to her.” Draco smirked, leaning down to meet the boy’s gaze. “That answer depends on who you ask.”

Hermione groaned.

“Bad guys wear all black, don’t they?” The other Potter spawn asked.

Draco grinned outright. “Why yes, Albus—”

“That’s Albus, I’m James.” Spawn Two said, crossing his arms with all the might a five or six (???) year old could muster.

It was exactly nine-thirty-four in the morning, and Draco was acutely aware that Potter had been gone since Thursday with Weasley, chasing a lead on a vampire coven. Apparently, this particular group had a peculiar penchant for Muggle spleens. A weird kink, sure, but not the strangest thing Draco had encountered as an Auror.

The department gossip was that the mission was dangerous, but Draco knew better. Vampires were all drama and no substance, at least the ones in England. Now, if they were in Transylvania, yeesh. Potter would have been dead by now, and then his nightmare would have really begun because he would be forced to live on some compound with these children and Hermione and by proxy, the children’s mother. So long as Potterette survived her sister-in-law’s birth, which Draco wasn’t too sure would happen, given that Blaise had barely made it out alive during Pansy’s labor.

Alas, his mental daymares were just that. The only real danger was probably Saint Potter’s tendency to throw himself into trouble face-first, dragging Weasel along for the ride.

Which in Draco’s eyes, meant business as usual.

Still, the timing was inconvenient, to say the least. He had no great plans, aside from staring at Hermione and then perhaps doing some more staring—after tea and tarts, of course.

He glanced at the clock again, silently wondering how long the universe planned to punish him with Potter-related duties. Births, as he'd learned in recent weeks, could take hours. And hours. And hours.

The mental image of Pansy’s labor horror story came unbidden. Blaise had recounted every excruciating detail of the forty-six-hour ordeal with the reverence of a man who had survived yet another war. Draco had originally thought birth couldn’t possibly be as bad as a battlefield.

That was until Draco learned that Pansy had, apparently, screamed for three days afterward about how it was Blaise’s fault and threatened to hex his bits into oblivion if he ever so much as looked at her suggestively again.

No, thanks. Draco grimaced at the thought. If it ever came down to it, he’d rather invent a new spell to Accio his own child out than endure that nightmare.

He was distracted from his thoughts by a loud crash that came from the sitting room, followed by the high-pitched giggles of Potter’s spawn. Hermione’s sharp voice carried over the din, scolding James and Albus for Merlin-knew-what mischief.

Draco sighed and leaned back against the kitchen counter, staring at the chaos unfolding in the other room. A small dark-haired boy—he really couldn’t tell which one it was, seeing as how they were both small and annoying and very Potter-esq—had somehow gotten ahold of Hermione’s wand and was trying to cast what looked suspiciously like a jelly-legs curse on his brother.

“Granger!” he called, folding his arms as he waited to see if the kid would be successful. “Your side of this babysitting experiment is out of control.”

Hermione appeared in the doorway a moment later from wherever she had gone with the baby—perhaps a nappy change, given that the once wailing child was now happily babbling in a new outfit, decidedly less offensively pink. She was balancing Baby Potterette on one hip and brandishing a wooden spoon like a weapon. Where had she gotten the spoon? Draco’s attention swiveled to the wand in Spawn Two’s hand—and then back to Hermione.

The spoon made sense now. He must have switched them out of her back pocket… but how on earth had he managed that?

 “My side?” she asked, her brow arching in that infuriating way that always made him feel like a misbehaving schoolboy. “You’re supposed to be helping, Draco.”

“I am helping,” he retorted, and glanced to the now wrestling cretins. The baby demon began to wail again when one of the boys rogue lovey's plonked her on the head amidst their battle for dominance. “I haven’t hexed anyone. That’s a huge improvement over my usual approach to feral creatures.”

“Draco!” Hermione hissed, shooting a pointed glance at Baby Potterette, formally known as Lily, who had mercifully stopped crying long enough to glare at him with an expression eerily similar to Ginny’s.

(What was with this family? Were their faces perpetually set into glares?)

“She doesn’t even understand me,” Draco muttered, waving a hand at the toddler.

Hermione’s narrowed eyes suggested otherwise. “Fine. Then make yourself useful and stop James from either hexing Albus or setting the sofa on fire with my wand.”

“Why does he even have it?”

“He’s quite sneaky,” she hissed, and pointed the spoon in the direction of the two boys. “Behave or I will take my wand back, James!”

She strode past him into the kitchen proper to presumably cook the demon’s breakfast, judging by the clattering sounds of cookware and Hermione’s considerable choice of curse words. He thought to offer his help, but when she gave him another withering glare as he ambled into the kitchen, he knew better. Draco groaned, but still, he listened to his witch and strode into the sitting room with all the enthusiasm of a man walking to his doom.

Draco entered the sitting room just in time to see James, Hermione’s wand still in hand, aiming at the corner of the sofa. Sparks were already crackling at the tip of the wand, dangerously close to igniting the threadbare upholstery.

“Oi!” Draco barked, startling the boy into dropping the wand. James looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes, the picture of guilt.

“I wasn’t gonna do it!” James protested, his tone a touch too defensive for Draco’s liking.

Draco arched an eyebrow and crossed his arms. “Right. Because every pyro starts their career with, ‘I wasn’t gonna do it.’” He bent to retrieve the wand, inspecting it as if James had personally offended him by using it irresponsibly.

“You’re mean,” James huffed, crossing his arms in defiance.

“And you’re reckless,” Draco shot back. He stood up and strode to where Hermione had materialized in the doorway, Lily still perched on her hip. He placed her want into her palm with a pointed look “That one needs a muzzle and a license for trouble. Perhaps he will be a future Undesirable. Could you imagine the irony?”

Hermione ignored Draco’s rambling insults towards Spawn One and gave him a stern look instead. Draco was pleased that she hadn’t contradicted him, but then came her shrill, matronly voice as she scolded the boy, and his glee was promptly quashed.

“James Sirius Potter,” she said, still shrill, but somehow terrifyingly calm, “what did we say about using wands without an adult supervising?”

James squirmed under her gaze. “Not to.”

“And?”

“And I’m not supposed to try magic inside,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a mutinous mumble.

“Good. Now, apologize to Draco,” Hermione instructed.

Draco sniggered. He quite liked hearing her demand someone apologize to him, child or otherwise.

James looked up at Draco, and Salazar, he was Potter through and through. His expression was defiant and downright uncanny. “Sorry, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco smirked, ignoring Hermione’s warning glance. She knew exactly what Draco was going to say.

He did not heed her warning.

“Technically, it’s Lord Malfoy.”

James merely blinked. “Like God?”

“Oh, yes. Just like God.”

The spoon hit the back of his head with a hard thwack, and Draco jerked around to seethe in Hermione’s direction. “Salazar, darling, beat me a little harder next time, will you?”

She only lifted her eyebrows and pointed the spoon at James before stomping away.

Draco sighed. “I digress, your apology is accepted, young Potter. But if you set anything on fire while I’m here, I will tell your father.”

That earned him a genuine flash of fear in the boy’s eyes. Good on Potter for not being a wuss of a father. James muttered something under his breath and stomped off toward Albus, who was now trying to balance precariously on the armrest of a chair.

(They were demons—definitely demons.)

Draco took the chance to sneak away, back to his witch, and the sight of a baby in her arms. (He would be blaming the need to witness the latter on some inherently male instinct.)

Hermione sighed when she heard his footsteps. He came to hover by the worktop, close enough he could feel the warmth of her body and the heat emanating from the stove.

“You really don’t have to antagonize him.”

“Who was antagonizing? I was teaching. The fear of consequences is an important lesson.” Draco leaned against the counter; arms folded as he watched the miniature chaos machine that was Potter’s progeny from a safe distance away.

Baby Potterette had somehow, someway, fallen asleep. Right there against Hermione’s shoulder, her tiny fist gripping a handful of Hermione’s hair. Draco lifted a finger to touch the baby’s chubby knuckles. (They were smooth and very squishy.) It made him want to squeeze her, for some strange reason. Until he noticed Hermione’s wince as the baby tugged in her sleep.

“You’re better at this than I expected,” Draco said, and gently tried to pry Baby Potterette’s teeny, tiny little fingers from Hermione’s curls. He lost the fight after fifteen seconds. (She started to whinge, and it was really rather sad and adorable at the same time.)

Hermione hummed and tossed him a rueful smile. “It’s not so different from managing you.”

Draco snorted but didn’t argue.

Just as he began to think it was suspiciously quiet, he should have known something was afoot. A loud crash echoed from the hallway, followed by one of the Spawn’s shriek of, “It wasn’t me!”

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose as Hermione laughed, a soft, sweet sound.

“Merlin help me. How does Potter do this every day?”

“Welcome to parenthood, Draco.”

“I had a nanny,” he muttered, and then she waved him off. He sighed, resigned to his fate as the chosen disciplinarian. Of course, it would fall to him to deal with them. How old were they, anyway? Six? Five? Four? Did it matter? They had the destructive capabilities of a herd of hippogriffs.

Striding toward the hallway, Draco found the two criminals already standing in the aftermath of their crime scene—a toppled vase, shattered into what looked like a million pieces. Both boys had their hands in the air, as though surrendering to an Auror raid.

Draco paused, tilting his head at the oddly synchronized gesture. “What is this?” he asked, folding his arms. “Some sort of Pavlovian response to authority?”

James and Albus exchanged a guilty glance but said nothing.

“Which one of you did this?” Draco prompted, his gaze narrowing as he pointed at the remains of the vase, then to the Bludger down the hall, and back to the boys, and then again down to the vase.

“It was him!” they both shouted in unison, pointing at each other.

Draco sighed deeply, shaking his head. “Brilliant. Potter’s offspring are not only feral but also professional liars.”

For a moment, he considered leaving them to their own devices but then he remembered Hermione’s trust in his ability to help. Ach, why did he care about that?

“You know,” Draco began, his tone calm but laced with danger, “if neither of you tells the truth, I’ll have no choice but to let Aunt Hermione decide your punishment.”

Both boys paled. Clearly, Aunt Hermione’s reputation as an enforcer of justice preceded her.

“I might be able to convince her to go easy,” Draco continued, glancing nonchalantly at his nails, “if the guilty party confesses now.”

Albus broke first, his bottom lip trembling. “It was me,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible.

James glared at his brother, clearly annoyed at the betrayal.

Draco sighed, and then he flicked his hand, casting a wandless Reparo, and then Accio’d the Bludger into his awaiting palm. He didn’t really care to punish them.

“See? That wasn’t so hard,” Draco said, smirking. He crouched down to their level, Bludger still in hand. “Now, here’s the deal—you boys ever play Quidditch?”

 


 

Around noon, Draco’s whole perspective on children had radically changed. He now found them quite entertaining, and not only because when he played against them in Little Legend Quidditch, he always caught the snitch.

Somehow, some bloody way, Potter’s spawn had grown on him. After their initial demon antics had all but disappeared, they were really rather polite, intuitive little creatures. A bit ornery, but he would blame that on Potterette. She was a Weasley, after all.

Draco flopped onto the sofa, his robes slightly disheveled, as the boys sat cross-legged on the floor watching a strange cartoon about a man with claws and an absurd amount of chest on display.

“What is with the deep V?” Draco frowned at the television, tilting his head.

Hermione, perched in the armchair with Lily snoozing against her shoulder, squinted at the screen before snorting softly. “Perhaps so all the baddies know he’s strong?”

“He’s a sodding apex predator, darling. I think it’s a given that he’s strong.”

“Aesthetics, then. Very superhero-y.”

Draco smirked, settling deeper into the cushions. “Should I start a new style trend of deep V robes?”

“Quite possibly your best idea yet.”

“I think so.”

“It’ll show off all your cool baddie-fighting scars.”

“You have scars from fighting bad guys?” Albus asked, whirling around so quickly Draco almost laughed.

Draco’s grin widened. “Yes. Want to see?”

The boys abandoned the television entirely, their wide eyes fixed on Draco as he unbuttoned the high collar of his robes, pulling them back just enough to reveal a jagged scar cutting across his collarbone.

“Who gave you that?” James breathed, awe-struck.

Draco leaned forward, his grin turning mischievous. “Your dad.”

“Draco!” Hermione hissed, her tone equal parts warning and disbelief, as James and Albus both gasped in unison.

“Our dad?!” James asked, his voice an octave higher.

“The one and only Harry Potter,” Draco confirmed.

“Why?”

“Well, he was quite the wank—ouch!” Draco winced as Hermione’s stinging hex hit his ankle. “Your dad and I didn’t always get along,” he grumbled instead.

“But you do now? ‘Cause you’re married to Aunt Hermione?” James asked, his expression entirely too earnest.

Draco choked, sputtering like he’d inhaled water.

Hermione laughed awkwardly, her cheeks flushing crimson. “No, honey—we aren’t married. Draco is... my friend.”

Draco wasn’t sure what hit harder: James’s innocent assumption or Hermione’s hesitation before the word “friend.” Either way, he’d be crying in a corner later.

“What spell did Dad use?” Albus piped up.

Draco’s grin returned, sharper this time. “Who says it was a spell?”

James frowned. “Dad’s a wizard.”

“Could have been a knife,” Draco countered, savoring the moment before Hermione’s second hex hit him dangerously close to his bollocks.

“He used sectu—GRANGER!”

“Do not tell a five-year-old that spell! Are you crazy?” Hermione whisper-shrieked, clutching Lily tighter to avoid waking her.

Draco didn’t answer immediately, distracted once again by the sight of Hermione holding the baby. That dangerous daydream bubbled back into existence, stinging bollocks and all.

Hermione, at the Manor, with a baby in her arms. Their baby. His mother would be delighted, and the elves would dote on their son—yes, it would obviously be a boy. Malfoy blood magic ensured that. Would they continue the Black family tradition and name him after a constellation? He wondered if she had any favorites. Probably Leo, but that was just too on the nose, and he didn’t fancy naming a Malfoy heir Leo—it was positively overdone and quite dull, and not to mention gauche. It would send his mother into a tizzy.

He blinked, realizing he’d been silent for too long. Giving Hermione a lopsided grin, he drawled, “For you? Possibly. In general? Definitely.”

Hermione didn’t care for his not-a-joke-joke, and only rolled her eyes.

 


 

Hermione stared at Lily, who had somehow wiggled her way onto Draco’s chest in the guest bedroom where they were currently lying. It was half past ten, and the boys had long since gone to bed. Lily, however, had proven more difficult to settle. She didn’t fancy being away from Hermione—and, apparently, Draco.

In a fit of desperation (and mild exasperation), they had awkwardly agreed to lie down in the guest bed together until Lily fell asleep. The plan had backfired spectacularly when Draco fell asleep first, and Lily decided his chest made for a much better resting place than the perfectly fine mattress.

Now, Hermione couldn’t stop staring.

Lily clutched a little dragon-shaped lovey in her small hands, courtesy of Draco’s surprisingly deft transfiguration skills. It still baffled Hermione that Draco Malfoy of all people, had taken to conjuring a toy with all the care and precision of a doting uncle.

She had to admit he’d done a remarkable job. The lovey was soft, detailed with tiny wings and embroidered eyes that shimmered faintly under the glow of the bedside lamp. It had soothed Lily immediately after her earlier meltdown, which, to Hermione’s astonishment, Draco had weathered with uncharacteristic patience.

Now, the baby’s cherubic cheeks were flushed pink, her pouty lips slightly parted as she snoozed. Her head was tucked against Draco’s neck, her brow pressed so closely to his pulse it was as if she needed to feel the rhythm of his heartbeat to stay at peace.

The sight had Hermione feeling a heady mix of longing and warmth. She hadn’t ever thought she wanted children. But watching Draco curled up like a protector, with Lily Potter nestled against him, Hermione felt a pang of undeniable yearning for what Draco had once derisively called Harry’s “paltry domestics.”

She had never envisioned herself as the maternal type. Yes, she had heckled Harry and Ron with a certain maternal energy during their adolescence—and even now—but that had always been different. That had come from love born of friendship, not the instinctive, unfamiliar yearning she felt now, sitting in the Potters’ guest room.

Hermione’s life had been a series of carefully constructed plans, each step designed to avoid the derailments that parenthood seemed to promise.

Ron had wanted to get married as soon as she had finished her N.E.W.T.s, but she had always found a reason to delay. Another excuse. Another dream.

Let’s wait until we can afford a bigger house. Let’s wait until we’re twenty-five. Twenty-eight. Thirty.

I want to focus on my career. I have goals that children would derail.

Marriage is just a formality. No, I don’t want a magical bond.

The justifications had come so easily, rolling off her tongue with polished logic that even she could believe. But somewhere, deep down, she’d always known the truth: it wasn’t just about her career or their cramped flat or the impossibility of balancing everything. It was about fear.

Fear of failure. Fear of settling. Fear of losing herself. Fear of tying her life too tightly to someone else’s.

And now... now she lay in the dim light of the Potters’ guest room, watching Lily’s tiny chest rise and fall against Draco’s. The little girl’s hand clutched a dragon lovey with all the trust and certainty of someone who had no concept of fear.

It was unsettling. Unexpected.

For the first time in years, Hermione found herself wondering if she’d been wrong.

Draco’s chest rose and fell steadily, the soft tufts of his platinum hair brushing against his temple. The faint shadows beneath his eyes and the day-old stubble on his jaw softened his usually sharp features, making him look... grounded, even gentle.

Hermione hesitated before reaching out, her finger tracing the curve of his jaw until it brushed against Lily’s temple. The baby sighed contentedly, her tiny hand clutching the little dragon lovey like it was her greatest treasure.

She still hadn’t gotten over how willingly Draco had transfigured it with a flick of his wand from one of James’s stuffed lions. He had muttered with exaggerated disdain, “She’s clearly discerning in her taste, Granger. Potter’s offspring deserve quality.”

The memory made her smile, but it also unraveled her, pulling her back to the thoughts she’d been trying to suppress.

What would it be like to have this? To wake up every day in a house alive with warmth and chaos, where the sound of little voices filled every corner, shouting about dragons, spilling pumpkin juice, leaving trails of mismatched socks and sticky handprints in their wake.

A life where mornings were messy and loud but impossibly full, where laughter echoed off the walls, and tiny hands tugged at her robes, demanding her attention.

She imagined the two of them navigating the ups and downs together. Draco teaching their child to fly a broomstick, insisting on proper technique with mock seriousness while their little one giggled uncontrollably. Her mediating their inevitable squabbles, only to watch Draco cave with a smirk, defeated by a cheeky grin and an innocent pair of eyes.

Would he smirk at her when their children inherited her stubborn streak? Would he secretly delight in their mischief, even as he pretended to be the disciplinarian? Would he sit with her in the evenings, the two of them worn out but content, exchanging knowing glances over the tops of their books or cups of tea as the house finally quieted for the night?

The images came so vividly, so relentlessly, that her chest ached with the longing they stirred.

It was madness. Dangerous madness.

She shook her head sharply, pulling herself back from the edge of that fantasy.

All of this—the fluttering in her chest, the treacherous warmth pooling in her stomach, the relentless what-ifs—it was happening because of her Big Feelings. The ones she refused to confess to.

Because confessing them would mean acknowledging their existence to Draco.

And acknowledging them would mean letting him in. It would change everything.

But then Draco shifted slightly in his sleep, his arm coming up instinctively to cradle Lily closer, and Hermione’s breath hitched. She forced herself to look away, her cheeks heating.

“Stop it,” she muttered under her breath, chastising herself. “He’s just good with children. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Lily stirred, letting out a soft murmur as her little fingers flexed against the dragon lovey. Hermione froze, watching as Draco’s eyes fluttered open. For a moment, he looked completely disoriented, blinking slowly as if trying to figure out where he was. Then his gaze landed on Hermione, and something soft flickered in his silver eyes.

“She finally out?” he asked, his voice low and rough with sleep.

She nearly came undone, but managed to pull herself back together, thread by thread until she managed a tight smile. “Yes, though you seem to have become her preferred mattress.”

Draco raised a single brow down at Lily, and his expression grew fond. Hermione’s chest clenched painfully tight as he gently ran his palm over Lily’s back, and gave her a little pat. “Clearly, I have superior cushioning.”

“Clearly,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. Bollocks, her eyes were watering.

“It’s a burden, really.” He said, still staring down at Lily. He smiled a new smile, this one so soft and full of wonder.

“Should I try to move her?”

“Don’t bother,” he murmured, adjusting slightly without disturbing the baby. “She’s got a vice grip. And if you think I’m risking waking her, you’re out of your mind.”

Hermione swallowed and she felt like a stone had gone down her throat. It settled painfully in the pit of her stomach. “I can’t believe you’re good at this.”

He continued to smooth his hand up and down Lily’s back, and then he was brushing her little red curls away from her eyes—Christ. She was done for.

“Good at what?” he finally asked, and when his gaze lifted to meet hers—she knew there was no escaping this. No walking away, no changing or crushing her Big Feelings. They were here to stay, and they would either ruin her or transform her.

“Children.” She managed to say. “I didn’t expect you to fit into this.”

He gave her a pointed look, though it lacked his usual bite. “What, you thought I’d actually punt the little terrors out the door?”

“No, but I didn’t think you’d be… well…” She gestured vaguely to Lily, who snuggled closer to him in her sleep. Her cheeks heated furiously. “This.”

Draco sighed, his expression softening as he looked down at the baby again. She would hoard this moment for eternity. She would think of it and let the warmth of the memory take control of her consciousness whenever she needed cheering.

“I suppose even I have layers, Granger.”

Hermione hummed, not trusting herself to respond. The quiet stretched between them, and she noted that it was comfortable, and warm. After a moment, Draco glanced at her again, and that look of wonder crossed his features.

“Do you want children?” Draco asked. His tone was soft, and open.

She blinked, her heart hammering in her chest. His silver gaze didn’t waver. It remained steady and patient—waiting for her to speak, to open up in a way she never had before. The vulnerability in his eyes was disarming.

Hermione felt exposed, like he could see every thought racing through her mind. And maybe he could. Maybe he was using Legillimancy on her right now. She felt like should Occlude.

She didn’t.

But what was she to do? Was she to lie? Could she lie to him now? Or would she confess everything—all her heartsick feelings—right here, right now? She could almost hear her own voice, telling him the truth she hadn’t dared to admit even to herself.

Yes, Draco. I want children. I want a life with you. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I think I love you. I’ve never felt this way before. I’m scared, Draco. Are you scared?

But the words felt foreign, like they didn’t belong to her. They were too fragile, too full of possibility. Saying them aloud would make them real, and she wasn’t sure she was ready for that kind of truth. They didn’t have time for whatever was unfurling between them.

Her chest tightened, and she opened her mouth, the words struggling to form.

“I’m not sure.” She finally managed to say.

Draco studied her for a moment, grey-blue eyes unreadable in the dim light. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he asked softly, “Why not?”

Hermione let out a shaky breath. She wasn’t sure if it was the question or the tenderness in his tone that made it so difficult to answer.

“It’s not that I don’t like children,” she began carefully, flicking her attention to the sleeping Lily who still seemed so at ease on Draco’s chest. “I obviously adore them, but… it’s just that I always thought they required a kind of certainty I’ve never had. Certainty that you can give them a good life. That you can protect them from—” She broke off, her throat tightening.

Draco’s expression didn’t shift. He was still watching her, but there was no judgment there, only patience.

“From the world,” she finished, the words falling between them like a confession. “It’s a scary place. And I’ve seen how much damage it can do.”

He nodded slowly, his hand still moving in gentle circles on Lily’s back. “The world is a scary place,” he agreed.

“What if I were to have children, and then what happened to us happens to them? I couldn’t—I can’t—”

“I get it,” he murmured, frowning now. “It’s a game of chance.”

Hermione inhaled sharply. “Yes, it is.”

“You don’t think it would be worth it? To take that chance?”

She stared at him incredulously.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he whispered, his lips quirking into the ghost of a smile. “I’m not saying it would be all rainbows and unicorns.”

“Obviously not. You saw how frazzled Ginny was.”

He smirked. “I’m just saying that you’re a fighter, Granger. And if anyone could protect their children from the worst of it, it’d be you.”

“I don’t know if I would be strong enough to do something like that again.” She admitted.

“You defeated one dark wizard, so what’s another in the grand scheme of things?”

For all her overthinking, all her carefully constructed plans and justifications, no one had ever said it so plainly.

“And you?” she asked before she could stop herself. “Do you want children?”

Draco’s gaze dropped back to Lily. For a long moment, he didn’t answer, his hand resting still on her tiny shoulders. Then he brushed his fingertips against the little dragon lovey still clutched in her tiny fingers. “I didn’t think I would,” he admitted finally, his voice quieter now, almost reflective. “Not for a long time, anyway. But I don’t know, now. I guess it’s different being here with her, with...”

Hermione felt her chest tighten, her pulse quicken.

He glanced back at her, his expression still open in a way she wasn’t used to. Still vulnerable in a way that seemed so unlike the man she was beginning to know like the back of her hand.

“I think I might, someday.”

She wanted to speak; to tell him how much his words stirred a tenderness deep inside her, but her throat closed up. Instead, she gave him a small, tentative smile.

“Someday,” she echoed softly.

The quiet settled over them again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt like the kind of quiet where things grew. Ideas, possibilities. His admission allowed her to hold space for the dream of a life she hadn’t dared imagine before.

“Don’t overthink it, darling.”

Hermione huffed a quiet laugh, wiping at her suspiciously damp eyes. “Easier said than done.”

“Maybe,” he said, his gaze returning to Lily.

Her breath caught, and she stared at him, her heart hammering. But Draco didn’t look at her again, his attention on the sleeping baby sprawled across his chest, as if he hadn’t just shattered her world with a single, quiet truth.

 


 

Day Ninety-One: Saturday, 4th of September 2009

Granger’s Nineteenth Rule for Overcoming Spiritual Mischief:

Expect the Unexpected

Whatever you think is going to happen, assume it’s going to be a hundred times worse.

(Malfoy’s note: Always so dramatic.)

(Granger’s note: Are you talking about me, or yourself?)

 

----

 

Hermione had always liked September nights. They reminded her of Hogwarts, of autumn and new beginnings. The smell of books and her mother’s baking. But tonight, standing at the mouth of an abandoned tube station with the wind howling past her, Hermione found herself longing for warmth, safety, and books that didn’t involve cursed objects.

Behind her, the Thames churned noisily, its inky waters reflecting the city’s glow. She tried not to think about what else it might be hiding. (Best not to imagine the skeletons, metaphorical or otherwise.) 

Before them the station entrance loomed like a void, framed by crumbling red bricks and rusted gates.

The enchanted map floated in front of her, its flickering marker cast red light across her features. She shuffled uneasily, staring at the dot pulsing deep within the station. Something felt... off.

“What’s wrong?” Draco’s voice was low, cutting through the wind as he stopped just behind her.

Hermione glanced over her shoulder to meet his sharp, assessing gaze. “Does the marker look different to you?”

Draco frowned and peered at the map. “No, it looks the same.”

“It was flickering.”

“It’s not anymore. Are you sure you didn’t imagine it?”

“Of course I didn’t imagine it,” she said curtly, lifting her nose in the air.

“Well, if the kitsune wants to play games, we’re wasting time up here. Let’s go,” Draco said, his wand illuminating as he grabbed her elbow and started toward the stairs.

“Draco, wait—”

“I am waiting—for you lot to hurry up,” he quipped, not slowing down.

“Draco, we need to be careful—”

“All’s well, darling. Afterall, we have Chosen Chump and Carrot Top Crusader with us.”  (Had she been mad to think that the three men closest to her might get along for the sake of this mission? Probably.)

“And me,” Theo added as he came up from behind to sling an arm around Hermione’s shoulders. He then proceeded to shove Draco with that same hand.

“And the Gremlin—get your greasy hands off her, Nott,” Draco snarled, shoving Theo’s arm aside and earning an indignant laugh. “We are as safe as safe could be.”

She rather felt like a ragdoll they were squabbling over.

Further back, Ron called out, “Oi, Ferret—why’s it okay for you to call us names, but we can’t do the same?”

Draco sneered. “Because my insults are clever, Weasel. Yours are tired and rely on exploiting deeply personal childhood trauma.”

“Deeply personal trauma?” Harry repeated flatly, raising a brow at Hermione, who stifled a laugh.

Draco shot Harry a long, pointed glare. “Let’s not forget you bullied me, Potter.”

“Harry—the bully?” Hermione blurted incredulously, her voice echoing down the stairwell.

Draco’s smug smile was dazzling. “See? Even Granger agrees.”

The air grew colder as they descended. Hermione’s wand cast pale, flickering light across the damp walls, which were streaked with grime and jagged cracks.

“Bloody hell, it’s grim down here,” Ron muttered, kicking a loose pebble that clattered into the void.

“They really ought to seal this place up.” Harry agreed.

“But then where would the wayward Muggle youth go to partake in their deplorable naughtiness?” Draco asked, and Hermione thought she might hex him for sport.

“That is a horrible assumption,” Hermione hissed, scanning the map. “Keep your voice down. We don’t want to scare it away.”

“Oh, yes, because the big scary fox spirit will turn tail and run if it hears us coming,” Draco drawled, his wand flicking toward the ceiling to highlight a crude scrawling of graffiti. “Though perhaps it’ll be intimidated by the artistry of Muggle youth.”

Hermione followed suit and she grimaced just as her Lumos lit up a crude rendering of—yes, that was indeed a scrotum and bollocks drawn on the wall. Hermione sighed as she caught sight of the squiggly lines following the length of the graffiti. “Is that...?”

“Avant-garde genitalia and it’s randy fluid?” Theo quipped, shining his light on the crude sketch. “Truly the height of artistic expression.”

“Focus,” Harry snapped, his tone sharp as his wand swept in a wide arc, casting faint shadows that seemed to dance on the cracked walls. “You’re all worse than my children.”

“Shall we remind him that his spawn are in fact demons?” Draco whispered against the shell of her ear, leaning just close enough for her to feel the radiating heat of his body.

“It’ll only make him grumpier,” she whispered back, grinning when his jaw brushed against her cheek as he chuffed a low laugh.

The sound of their footsteps echoed ominously, each scuff against the stone reverberating like a distant drumbeat. A damp, musty smell lingered in the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang of rust.

Somewhere in the darkness, water dripped intermittently, an irregular rhythm that set Hermione’s nerves on edge.

“Gross,” Ron muttered, his voice low. He kicked a loose pebble down the steps, the noise clattering into silence far below them. “You don’t reckon there’s going to be spiders, do you?”

“Well, Weasel, considering we are entering into an abandoned tube station, I would reckon there is all manner of things down here. Spiders. Rats. Cockroaches. Perhaps a plague or two.”

The walls on either side of the group were streaked with grime and jagged cracks, and yes, the occasional spider skittered out of sight. Hermione valiantly resisted the urge to shudder. (If it jumped, all bets were off that Ron wouldn't turn tail and run away screaming.)

“I still don’t understand why the Muggle Ministry never shut this place off entirely,” Ron continued, ignoring Draco. He held his own wand aloft. The faint glow from its tip illuminated a web of jagged cracks in the ceiling above. “Feels like we’re walking into a bloody tomb.”

“That’s because we are,” Draco said flatly, barely a step behind Hermione. “Most of these stations were abandoned during the Muggle’s second World War and left to rot. Perfect nesting ground for dark magic.”

“It’s not called the Muggle Ministry, Ronald—it’s Her Majesty’s Government,” Hermione hissed, irritation evident in her tone. “This station was closed because its structural integrity was too corroded, so they opted to build a new one since repairs would have cost more. Draco is partially right, though—it was used as a bunker by Winston Churchill during the war.”

“That is the strangest name I’ve ever heard,” said Draco with a faint sneer.

“You’re named after a constellation,” replied Hermione, rather dryly.

“And you’re named after a character from Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale,” Draco shot back, arching a brow.

Hermione sniffed, lifting her chin. “It is a very good play, actually. One of the earliest to feature Time as a character. Shakespeare uses it to leap sixteen years in the story—an elegant narrative device, if you ask me.”

Draco’s silver eyes darted toward the shadows, then back to Hermione. “Why must you always remember the most obscure facts?”

“Those are hardly obscure—”

Harry snorted. “I was raised with Muggles, and even I didn’t know that.”

“That’s because you don’t read, Potter.” Draco snapped, his tone defensive.

Hermione opted to ignore the jab and continued to lead the group down the winding stairs, her eyes fixed on the enchanted map floating in front of her.

The glowing lines shifted as they walked, forming an intricate web of magical markers. At the center, a bright red dot pulsed faintly, marking their target.

She frowned, tilting the map for a better view.

“It has to be here,” Hermione said, more to herself than anyone else once they made it down the first flight of stairs. She held her wand up, lighting the darkness surrounding. She spotted a door and headed towards it. “The markers are all pointing in this direction. The kitsune’s residual magic aligns with what we saw last month.”

“Is it toying with us?” Harry asked, coming up to Hermione’s side to take a look at the map. He pushed up his glasses and squinted at the glowing red mass of magic displayed not to far from where their own magical markers flared in contrast.

Draco then came to her other side and shot Harry a glare. “Toying with you, maybe,” Draco muttered. “I don’t see it playing games with me.”

“That's because you’re not the one being forced to lug this ridiculous crate everywhere,” Theo interjected from behind, his tone casual, though his grip on the wagon’s handle was tense.

“We pulled straws.” Draco said, lifting his chin in the air.

“Maybe the kitsune just likes Granger better.” Theo gave her a cheeky, conspiratorial grin. “Can’t blame it, really.”

Draco shot him a sharp glare. “Keep talking, Gremlin, and you’ll graduate from pack mule to bait.”

“Dray, don't act like you don't know that being used and abused is my favorite past time.”

“We could even add 'resident water boy' to Nott's illustrious résumé.” Ron laughed, which earned a synchronized glare from both Slytherin's.

“Can you all just be quiet? Please?” Harry sighed, rubbing his temple.

Hermione stopped abruptly in front of the rusted door, ignoring the wizards behind her. The markers on the map flared brighter as if urging her forward. She reached for the handle, only to find it locked and covered in layers of grime.

Ron muttered, “Here, let me—” but he stopped moving once Hermione glared his way and cast Alohomora herself. The lock clicked open, and the door creaked, revealing a dark corridor that stretched into the unknown.

A faint, bone-chilling draft greeted them, carrying the metallic tang of rust and decay. Hermione’s wandlight illuminated crumbling tiles, jagged cracks in the walls, and more graffiti etched by long-forgotten hands. She stepped through the doorway, leading the way as the rest followed. (She sort of felt like an underpaid schoolteacher at this point.)

Draco's hand brushed against the small of her back when he noticed her breath begin to catch at irregular intervals at ever faint sound. She thought the walls might just close in around them, and continued to grow uncharacteristically queasy when the sound of dripping water echoed even louder the further they strayed into the darkness.

The air grew colder with each meter, the light from their wands casting long, eerie shadows that danced with every movement. Eventually, the passage widened into a cavernous station platform. Broken tiles littered the ground, and rusted metal beams jutted out at precarious angles. Hermione cast Lumos Maxima, sending an orb of bright light up to the ceiling. It illuminated ancient fixtures, some of which she charmed to life. Dim, flickering lights sputtered into existence, casting a sickly glow over the derelict space.

She took stock of their surroundings, the drop into the tube tracks, the rusted railings, the chalky, grime covered tiles—

And there, sitting on a small, raised platform, was a woman.

Hermione’s heart lurched. The woman's back was to them, her long, dark hair cascading down in uneven strands. She wore a threadbare kimono with embroidered lotus flowers that shimmered with every movement of her raised hands, shifting as though she were playing an instrument. There was nothing in her hands, though, but still, her shoulders swayed to a rhythm only she could hear.

Though Hermione swore she could hear the faintest whisper of a melody. It seemed to hang in the air, just out of reach.

“What the hell is that?” Theo whispered, his voice breaking the stunned silence.

Hermione’s eyes darted to the map. The red dot was still pulsing steadily, its position unchanged, now feet from their own magical markers.

“That would be the yokai, Theodore.” Hermione informed him. She steeled her spine, lifting her nose in the air.

The woman’s movements were unsettling, her hands still plucked at the air, unperturbed by their arrival. Hermione frowned, resisting the urge to rub her arms. (No one warned her that yokai might moonlight as musicians.)

“What is she doing?” Ron muttered. “Why isn’t she attacking us?”

Hermione squinted, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. The other yokai hadn't waited for them to attack.

“Perhaps it's a gentle spirit?” Harry asked hopefully, his voice barely a whisper.

Hermione shook her head, staring at the flickering red mass on the map, then back to the woman. “It has to be the kitsune. The marker is the same color, same shape. All the other's have been different—”

Draco stepped in front of her, his wand raised defensively. “Granger, that’s not the kitsune.”

“No, it has to be—” Hermione’s voice faltered just as the air around them seemed to suddenly vibrate with an unearthly hum. Before anyone could respond, the woman’s head tilted slightly, as though she’d finally heard them. Her movements stilled, her hands freezing mid-air.

Then that melody Hermione could have sworn was hanging in the air grew louder, sharper.

“I hear music, but…” Theo whispered, his voice trembling. “Where’s the instrument?”

At that moment, the woman’s fingers moved again, and the haunting, dissonant pluck of a string resonated through the air. The sound was wrong, as though it carried a thousand whispers and screams folded into a single note.

The ground beneath them quaked, tiles shattering as cracks spider-webbed outward.

“Move!” Hermione shouted, her hand yanking Draco back as the ground beneath his feet crumbled into nothing. The team scrambled, their spells igniting the surrounding darkness, as chaos erupted in the blink of an eye.

A faint, chittering laugh echoed from the shadows, slithering through the air like an omen. Hermione’s heart skipped a beat as silver fire shot from the gloom, crashing into the wagon. The crate tumbled to the ground, its contents spilling out in a burst of frantic motion.

The biwa slid across the floor.

Before Hermione could react, she lunged for the artifact, but Draco’s grip was on her, his arms pulling her down, slamming them both to the ground just as the biwa was snatched. The kitsune’s teeth glinted silver, its form a blur of movement as it bounded toward the woman.

In an instant, the biwa was dropped into the woman’s waiting hands. Her fingers wrapped around it like a lover’s caress, and Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. Whatever control they had, whatever plan they had formulated—was now shattered.

She watched, helpless, as the woman plucked a single string from the biwa. The note that rang out was lilting and haunted. A sound so pure it seemed to slice through reality itself. It echoed around them like a call to some old, dark magic.

The ground beneath them disappeared, crumbling into nothingness, taking the station with it.

And then they were falling.

Through time. Through space. Through walls and voids and endless, shifting dimensions. The tube station was gone, swallowed by a disorienting chasm of pale light and endless white tiles that flickered and reformed as they tumbled. The air warped, and the rushing sound of their descent grew louder, a relentless roar of vertigo and chaos.

Hermione’s scream sliced through the chaos, raw and terrified. She was below Draco, tumbling endlessly, her hair flying in all directions as she clawed at empty air.

 


 

“Hermione!” Draco shouted, his voice almost lost to the rushing sound of their descent. He reached for her, his hand outstretched. “Grab my hand!”

But before she could respond, Hermione was jerked sideways with a violent force, her body flung into the gaping maw of an opening corridor to his right. She hit the ground hard, skidding across white tiles as Draco watched helplessly, still falling. He lifted his wand to propel himself towards her, and then he saw the yokai, and time slowed to a dangerous crawl.

Its grinning, blood-red mouth stretched unnaturally wide, and Draco watched as it lifted its pale hand to hover over the strings of the biwa, taunting him. Hermione tried to scramble to her feet, but another note rang out, deep and resonant like a gong. The sound echoed, and a wall of gleaming white tiles slammed into place, cutting her off from Draco’s view.

“No!” Draco roared, twisting midair.

Above him, Potter was also falling, his wand raised, shouting at Draco, but his voice was drowned out by the chaos of the rushing air flooding Draco’s ears. Potter had his wand raised as he tried—and failed—to cast a spell that would stabilize him.

The void around them seemed to ripple in response, shifting the angles of the tiles like a horrifying kaleidoscope. Ledges appeared, and then disappeared. Corridors stretched and then collapsed. Walls and floors crumbled and reassembled. Draco was still falling, further and further from Hermione.

He gritted his teeth, casting Levicorpus in Potter’s direction, and used all his strength to yank Potter back up towards the blocked corridor Hermione was trapped in with the spirit.

Bombarda!” Draco bellowed, sending the blast toward the wall Hermione was behind. He created a tangle of wreckage, and just a brief enough perch for Potter to land on.

Potter tumbled onto it gracelessly, narrowly avoiding a plunge into the abyss.

“Keep up, Potter!” Draco snarled, before glancing to his left.

Weasley was plummeting fast at his side, his face a mask of panic. Draco whistled sharply to catch his attention, gesturing upward as he calculated their trajectories.

And then Draco made the mistake of looking down.

The white tiles were rushing toward him, gleaming and unforgiving, the gut-wrenching certainty of impact making his chest seize. He couldn’t Apparate mid-air, he had no traction to spin, and even if he tried, he could feel the anti-Apparition wards pressing in around them, locking them in. He tried Arresto Momentum again, but the spell fizzled into nothing, useless.

That was when Draco realized this wasn’t just a rogue spirit having its way with them.

Someone was controlling this—a wizard. A very dark, and dangerous wizard. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

The moment before impact stretched impossibly long. Draco braced himself for the bone-shattering collision, his heart hammering, his mind racing. But at the last second, his body jerked to a halt, suspended midair just centimeters from the tile. He hovered there, his feet skimming the ground.

Weasley hit the ground beside him with a sickening thud, skidding onto his side with far less grace.

“Bloody hell,” Ron groaned, clutching his shoulder. His face was pale, his temple bleeding. “Thought I was about to watch you become a pancake, Malfoy.”

Draco heaved a shuddering breath, his pulse still pounding. He pushed himself upright, glancing around. The corridor stretched infinitely in every direction, sterile and haunting in its clinical uniformity. White tile walls, white tile floors, the occasional flickering light casting eerie shadows.

“I couldn’t get my charm to work,” Draco muttered, staring down at his wand as though it had betrayed him. “What the fuck is happening?”

Ron winced as he shifted, trying to sit up. “Pretty sure I popped my shoulder out of its socket,” he muttered grimly.

Draco ignored him, his attention snapping upward to the vast, endless void they’d fallen from. His voice sharpened as he demanded, “Where’s Theo?”

Ron, now sitting upright with his wand in his good hand, scanned the expanse. His lips tightened as he glanced at all the twisty, distorted empty corridors stretching out before them.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice a raspy wheeze. “But wherever we are...” His blue eyes narrowed as the sound of another note echoed faintly, unnervingly close. And then the chittering laugh of the kitsune trailed in the wake of that note. “We're not alone.”

 


 

The biwa's note lingered in the air, a haunting resonance that made Hermione’s skin crawl. Her palms scraped against the cold, slick tile as she pushed herself upright, her body trembling from the violent fall. She gasped for breath, her heart pounding like a drum in her chest.

The corridor was oppressively bright, the sterile glow of the white tiles stretching endlessly around her. There were no seams, no doors, no breaks—just a suffocating expanse of mirrored white that reflected the faintest shimmer of her frantic movements.

“Draco!” She cried, crawling in a circle, wand raised. Her voice cracked as she cried out for him again. “Draco!”

Her hand trembled, and she felt the sting of tears pricking hotly at the back of her eyes when she caught sight of the yokai orchestrating this ordeal.

The yokai stood at the far end of the corridor, its twisted, ethereal form impossible to fully comprehend. Its blood-red mouth curved into a grin that stretched far too wide, its lips painted as if with fresh blood. Pale hands moved delicately over the strings of the biwa, its head cocked at an unnatural angle, watching her with unblinking, milk-white eyes.

Hermione staggered to her feet, her wand clutched tightly in trembling fingers. Her mind raced, sifting frantically through defensive spells, counter-curses, anything that might give her an advantage. But the magic Hermione felt radiating from the yokai was overwhelming, pressing down on her like a lead weight. The air itself felt thick with the tang dark magic. It was as suffocating as it was inescapable.

Where was she? What had happened to Draco? To Harry and Ron? Theo?

She looked around again, but she knew the irrefutable truth was that she was utterly alone.

This wasn’t supposed to happen—how had it come to this? Spirits of this magnitude weren’t just rare; they were impossible. Unheard of. Unprecedented.

Panic clawed at her chest, raw and relentless. She gripped the strap of the bag slung across her chest, forcing herself to calm down and take stock of the situation.

She was alone. She had her wand. She had her bag.

Her hand plunged inside, fumbling past the clutter until her fingers closed around familiar objects: the parchment seals, the enchanted chalk. Relief flickered faintly in her chest. They were still with her.

But Draco was not.

Draco, Draco, Draco

The yokai plucked another string, and Hermione was blasted backwards. Her spine slammed into the wall; her head cracked back against the tiles. She hit the ground hard and gasped for breath. The yokai cackled and the sound echoed around the corridor, trailing behind the reverting tune of the plucked strings.

They had yet to face a yokai who wielded their artifact like a weapon. What was she to do? She hadn’t planned for this—neither of them had set in any sort of contingency plan for this sort of situation. Hermione’s breath caught as the panic began to creep into existence. How was she supposed to retrieve the biwa alone? How was she supposed to duel and bind this creature at the same time? She was a bright witch, the brightest some said, but this was water she had never treaded in before.

The thought of trying to bind it to a different object briefly crossed her mind, but logic crushed the idea as quickly as it came. Each yokai was intricately tied to its specific artifact, a bond as immutable as the magic that had forged it—not to mention that the crate with the other artifacts was long gone.

For all their preparation, it all fell laughably short. There were now too many variables, too many unknowns. And in the pit of her stomach, Hermione knew the truth: she would not make it out alive if she didn’t bind the yokai back to the biwa.

Her fingers tightened around her wand as the yokai tilted its head, the grin on its blood-red mouth widening as if it could sense her spiraling thoughts. What kind of spirit was it? She wracked her mind for an answer, but none came. This was not one she had ever come across in her research.

A single pluck of the biwa's string sent a ripple through the tiles, the sound warping the space around her. The corridor twisted, the walls bending inward like the ribs of a beast preparing to crush her. Hermione stumbled backward, barely avoiding the collapsing tile.

Protego!” she shouted, casting a shimmering barrier around herself. The tiles crashed against the shield, shattering into jagged pieces before dissolving into nothingness. She needed help, she needed Draco.

She cast her Patronus, and the silvery, lanky otter swam into existence, slipping between her legs, awaiting her command. “I’m with the yokai—I’m not sure where! Need backup!”

The yokai chuckled, a guttural, unnatural sound that echoed through the endless space. It plucked another string, and Hermione’s shield faltered just as her Patronus disappeared into the tiles. The music vibrated through her bones and sent her stumbling.

“Stay focused, Granger,” she whispered to herself, her grip tightening on her wand. She lifted her arm, aiming at the creature’s chest. “Confringo!

The blast of fire erupted from her wand, hurtling toward the yokai with searing speed. But before it could strike, the yokai plucked another note, and the air rippled again. The flames twisted mid-flight, diverted into a spiral that dissipated harmlessly into the tiles.

Hermione cursed under her breath. She adjusted her stance, readying another spell. And then a blast hit the wall behind her. She gasped, lunging forward to avoid any shrapnel.

“Hermione!”

She turned just in time to see Harry sprinting towards her through the hole in the tiled wall, his face etched with urgency, his wand already raised. Relief and dread surged through her at once. Harry was alive—but he was not Draco.

The yokai snarled and plucked another string, and the wall began to reform. Shuffling together like dominos fell. Harry cried out to Hermione, hand outstretched. She reached for him, and time seemed to crawl as she watched as tiles continued to rebuild the gap between them. Just when Hermione thought he might not make it, Harry leapt through the small opening in the wall. She grasped his hand and yanked him through just as the wall finished stitching itself back together.

They fell against each other in a panting heap; Hermione choked on a sob at she grabbed his shoulder and pulled him in for a fierce hug. Thank the gods, he was all right. Harry yanked her against him for just a second before he shoved her back to cast a curse the yokai’s way.

“Harry!” Hermione cried as she scrambled to her feet behind him. “Be careful—it’s controlling the space!”

Harry didn’t hesitate. “Stupefy!” he yelled, the jet of red light streaking toward the yokai.

And suddenly, Hermione was eighteen again.

They were deep in the forest, the smell of damp earth and dying leaves clinging to her senses. Their breaths came in panicked gasps, sharp and cold in the winter air. She remembered how Harry had thrown himself in front of her without a second thought, his voice ringing with the same unyielding determination as he cast spell after spell. Snatchers had been closing in from every direction, the dark figures slipping through the trees like hunting hounds.

Her mind was pulled to the moment she had been dragged forward, her wand snatched from her grip, and how Harry had screamed her name—his voice breaking as if it could shatter the world.

Protego!” Harry’s voice brought her back to the present, the shield charm erupting between them and the yokai’s retaliating strike, its sound rippling like a warped gong.

Hermione blinked, and she was back in the corridor, back in the endless, gleaming labyrinth of pristine white tiles.

She was not powerless. She was Hermione Granger. She had magic in her veins. She had her wand. She had the chalk and seals. She had Harry.

Hermione raised her wand and steadied her breath. “Harry, I need bind it to the biwa before things get worse.”

“Things could get worse that this?”

“We might not be the only ones in this labyrinth.”

His green eyes darted to her, fierce and resolute. He gave a curt nod, knowing exactly what she meant. He sent out a horde of Patronus', alerting the DMLE and Shackelbolt. They would need contingency's in place in case they didn't make it out of this alive.

“Just tell me what to do.”

The yokai grinned, its fingers twitching over the strings of the biwa. A deep, otherworldly hum began to build in the corridor, vibrating through the tiles like a living heartbeat.

“We need to keep moving,” Hermione rasped, her mind racing for a plan. “It’s obviously trying to keep us separated.”

But even as she spoke, the walls shifted again, the tiles twisting and spiraling in impossible patterns. The floor beneath them rippled like water, and the biwa's mournful notes rang out, each one tugging at the edges of her sanity.

This was no forest. There were no trees to hide behind, no open skies to promise escape. This was a weaponized nightmare of sound and space. Hermione knew they would only survive if they worked together.

Hermione’s knuckles were white around her wand as she lifted it, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The tiles beneath her feet trembled, responding to the biwa’s malevolent notes like a living thing, threatening to fracture entirely.

Harry launched a flurry of spells at the yokai, his voice a relentless barrage of incantations. “Stupefy! Expulso! Reducto!” Each one flew true but was intercepted mid-air by the yokai’s discordant plucks of the biwa. The sound twisted and warped around them, shattering Harry’s magic like fragile glass.

“I need time to create the binding circle!” Hermione shouted; her voice strained as she forced herself to focus. She dropped to one knee, her bag already open, pulling out the enchanted chalk with trembling fingers. “Keep it distracted for as long as you can but don’t go far from me.”

Harry nodded just as the floor beneath him suddenly lurched. Tiles cracked and groaned under the yokai’s control, forcing him to leap aside to keep from falling again. He barely managed to regain his footing, shifting into a defensive stance. “What the hell is this thing? Is this what you and Malfoy have been dealing with this whole time?”

“No,” Hermione replied, glancing at him briefly before returning to her work. She drew the first arc of the circle with quick, precise strokes, ignoring the sweat dripping down her brow. “This is... worse. Much worse.”

Hermione chanced a glance up. The yokai grinned in response, its blood-red mouth stretching unnaturally wide as it plucked another note. The sound rippled outward, a low, vibrating hum that shook the walls and made the tiles beneath Hermione’s knees tremble.

“Damn it,” she hissed, steadying herself. The cracks were spreading, inching toward the circle she had barely begun. She needed to act fast.

Duro!” she shouted, her wand slashing through the air. The tiles hardened instantly, their glossy surface transforming into unyielding stone. The cracks halted, the surface beneath her now reinforced.

The yokai’s grin faltered, its pale hand hovering over the strings. Hermione didn’t waste the moment.

She didn't have time to cast boundary wards, so her shield charm would have to do. “Protego Maxima!” she cried, her voice sharp and clear. A shimmering golden dome erupted around her and the half-formed circle, shielding her from the vibrations and stray magic.

The yokai hissed, its grin twisting into a snarl as it plucked another string. The sound slammed into the dome like a battering ram, but the shield held firm.

“Harry, it’s going to target me,” Hermione said, her voice shaking but determined as she sketched the intricate lines of the binding circle within the dome.

“I’ve figured that out on my own, thanks.” Harry snarked.

Hermione’s hand was steady as she began the incantation, her voice firm despite the chaos surrounding them. She focused on the kanji, each stroke of the chalk imbued with her intention as she drew the symbols around the circle, anchoring the binding circle with precise markings. She cast another Duro at the tiles, solidifying the foundation beneath the chalk

She needed to begin by targeting the physical domain. Her chalk slashed down the middle of the circle, carving the rune for one spirit. Next, she drew two mirrored triangles, one facing up and the other down, the rune that represented the aspect of time. As her hand moved, she drew a hollow cross for gravity, ensuring that the binding would contain the yokai's ability to manipulate space. She then traced half a line from the top of the circle down to its center, creating an axis. With a sharp angle, she lashed the lines to form three halves within the circle, representing the separation of elements that would keep the spirit contained.

She heard Harry’s duel faintly, but there was no time to look. Every second counted.

Hermione’s concentration deepened as she moved on to the spiritual domain. She drew the rune for the spirit's sense of self—a curvy diamond shape—and then the rune for memory, a diagonal rectangle with the rune for time running through its center. The yokai’s laugh echoed through the space, but Hermione didn’t flinch. She continued drawing with purpose, her movements now quicker, but still precise.

Next, she drew a half-circle with three divots beneath it for transformation, the rune solidifying as she felt the energy of her intentions grow stronger. Finally, she finished the spiritual domain runes with the rune for movement—two arrows crossing vertically through the circle, representing both action and control.

“Hermione!” Harry’s voice rang out, harsh with strain. She jerked her attention upward, her heart skipping a beat as she saw him stagger to one knee, panting heavily. He managed to cast another explosive spell near the yokai’s feet, forcing it to leap back with unnerving grace. But the yokai retaliated immediately, its dissonant note slicing through the air like a sharpened blade aimed directly at Harry.

Hermione bit her lip and returned to the circle, her breath quickening. She couldn’t afford to be distracted. The circle was nearly complete. She was so close.

Frantic now, Hermione moved on to the magical domain. She drew the oval symbol with two vertical lines and three horizontal lines within it—representing arrest, sealing the yokai’s movement and magic. As her chalk swept across the floor, she added a circle at the edge of the original circle to further reinforce the containment.

Her fingers trembled as she traced the rune for spirit: a small circle with four lines mirroring at the top and bottom. With one final stroke, Hermione finished the magical domain, adding the rune for bind. It was an X across the entire circle, with another cross at its tips, signaling the yokai’s power would be contained and sealed.

Harry’s breathless voice cut through the mounting tension. “Hermione, hurry—!”

She didn’t need to look at him to feel the urgency in his words. She took a deep breath, gathering all her focus for the final moment. She was nearly there, but every inch of the circle now required all of her attention.

The tiles around her began to crack again as the yokai’s energy shifted, but Hermione barely noticed. She reached into her bag and pulled out a parchment seal, drawing the kanji for Hibiki and Oni—Resonance Demon—and she rose from the ground, holding the seal.

Salvio Hexia,” she whispered, casting the ward directly into the circle to ensure it couldn’t be tampered with by the yokai’s magic. The air shimmered briefly, the magic anchoring itself into the protective barrier.

“Harry,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I need you to step behind the circle.”

“Hermione—what are you doing?” Harry croaked, stepping after her as she walked towards the yokai. He fell to his knees, holding his side.

“I have to get the biwa back, Harry.”

“Hermione, no! Do not take another step, I’ll figure out how to destroy it!”

Hermione steeled her spine and lifted her wand, her heart pounding. She would only have one chance to bind the spirit. “I told you that it’s tethered to the biwa, Harry. The biwa is its anchor. Destroying it could unleash something far more dangerous.”

Her words were cut off by another pluck of the strings. This time, the sound was a high, keening wail that reverberated through the corridor. The tiles beneath them splintered and reformed, creating jagged, uneven ground that forced them both to leap aside. She cast another Duro towards the tiles beneath their feet.

“How do you expect we do that?”

She canted her head, chest rising and falling in rapid succession. Christ, she needed Draco. She looked around the endless void of white tiles around them, already knowing the look would be done in vain. She and Harry were alone—Theo, Ron… Draco… they were gone. Was he dead? Had he fallen to his death and she simply didn’t know? Her heart began to ricochet in her chest, throwing itself against her ribs.

Draco wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be. She would know.

She would know if he had died, and the conviction she had for that truth steeled her spine.

Hermione,” Harry snarled, and another streak of red light flew from his wand. “I need to know what you’re thinking so hard about right now!”

“I’m not thinking!” She admitted, because truthfully, she wasn’t. Her head hadn’t been clear this entire battle.

Harry shouted out another curse, barely dodging a spike of tile that shot up where he’d been standing from the yokai’s retaliating tune.

Hermione gritted her teeth, her thoughts scrambling as she cast another Protego to block an incoming wave of shrapnel. “Okay, okay—” she would formulate the plan out loud, she would talk to Harry, she would get them through this. She would get her best friend out of this alive even if she didn’t make it herself. Harry had Ginny, and James, Albus and Lily. Sweet baby Lily, who still had the dragon lovey Draco had made her, who had shown Hermione that one day she wanted a family, children, a life—

“We need to separate her from the biwa.” Hermione stated.

“Right.”

“If we can somehow cut her off from the biwa—”

“Hermione—”

“No! Listen to me, Harry Potter.” Hermione snapped just as her magic began to crackle beneath her skin. “If we can get her away from the biwa, even if it’s just for a moment—I will be able to do the binding ritual.”

“We have tried Accio—”

“What about Expelliarmus?”

Harry’s head whipped in her direction, “What?”

“Listen, wands for us are magical conduits, yes?”

“Yeah,” he agreed, ducking as a shard of tile flew right through the place his neck had just been. Understanding seemed to dawn across his face. “Bloody hell, yeah.”

“I believe for some of the yokai, the artifacts are a magical conduit of sorts. Like our wand. She plucks the strings and creates spells just like we use incantations and motions for our spells.”

“We disarm her with Expelliarmus—”

“Then we control the environment.” Hermione nodded vigorously to herself. Yes, this would work. Yes, yes—it had to work. “I’ll keep her distracted while you come around from behind to disarm her, Harry. You’re the best at the spell.”

“I’m the trained Auror—I should be the one dueling—”

Before he could protest further, she disillusioned him and was already moving, firing a rapid series of spells at the yokai that she had learned from watching Draco over the months. Hermione’s heart clenched as she narrowly dodged another ripple of warped tiles, the yokai’s laughter echoing mockingly through the corridor. Hermione was faintly aware of Harry moving towards the yokai, but she kept her attention focused solely on the spirit not even ten paces in front of her. She did not think of Draco, she did not think of the future she wanted so badly with him being ripped away from them. It was just her, her magic, and survival.

She understood those three facts far better than anyone. She had spent so much of her life with those three truths zipping around in her mind. My name is Hermione Granger. I have magic in my veins. I will survive.

The yokai’s laughter grew louder, more frenzied, as if it could sense her mental mantra.

“Hermione!” Harry shouted from across the corridor, his voice cutting through her concentration. She looked up just in time to see the yokai’s grin widen, its pale fingers poised to strike another note—a note that might end them both.

“Do it now!” She screamed and cast Finite Incantatem towards Harry.

Harry’s disillusionment melted away and the yokai turned, and Harry raised his wand—

A string was plucked, and then Harry was gone, falling through another hole in the corridor.

Notes:

Heeeehhhhh, my first real cliffhanger. What did you guys think of domesticated Draco? I've read so many fluffy daddy Draco fics in my time as a Dramione shipper which has meant that this scene has been floating around in the ether of my mind for years.

I am so blown away by everyone's support and love for this fic. In just a week alone, TGMSGTMAM has gotten over 2k hits.

I didn't even expect to reach 100 hits, so to be close to 5k hits is madness. Seriously, I am speechless.

Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU! I hope you enjoyed this long 17k+ word chapter.

(For any of my readers familiar with the manga/anime series Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba, part two of this chapter was inspired heavily by the Infinity Castle Arc.)

Chapter 9: The Strumming of Soliloquies

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Day Ninety-One: Saturday, 4th of September 2009

Granger’s Twentieth Rule for Conquering Mystical Malice:

Adapt to Survive

Sometimes, the unexpected will strike at the worst moment.

Be resourceful, think on your feet, and never forget that even the best-laid plans can go
sideways.

It’s how you recover that counts.

(Malfoy’s note: By “adapt,” she meant go rogue, put yourself in mortal danger, and leave the rest of us to panic. Bloody Gryffindors.)

 

----

 

The silence after Harry’s fall was a roar in Hermione’s ears: a cacophony of rage and grief that threatened to swallow her whole. There was no scream, no thud, no confirmation of life or death—just the absence of him. The world felt suspended, frozen in that moment. The hole where Harry had stood was still split open, and then the tiles reshuffled, and the hole was gone.

Harry was gone.

Her heart thundered in her chest, wild and frantic, but it was not fear that clawed at her insides. It was something far fiercer, far darker.

Her wand trembled in her hand, the wood slick with the cold sweat of adrenaline. She felt the tendrils of rage begin to seep into her veins. It burned through her like a furnace, searing away every trace of hesitation or fear. She could feel the fury rising in her, boiling beneath her skin, a fire that had been stoked by the very sight of the yokai's insufferable smile.

The milky white eyes of the creature before her gleamed like pools of cold, unforgiving moonlight. This was not just a spirit, but a predator, toying with its prey.

Hermione Granger would be no one’s prey. She would not let this creature, this beast, rip away those closest to her for sport. She lifted her chin, defiance hardening her features. This was personal now, and the anger that had taken root deep in her chest surged to the forefront, searing away all the fear, all the doubt.

The yokai’s smile twisted, a sneer of triumph.

It had no idea who it was dealing with.

Hermione was alone in this moment, but it didn’t matter. Alone didn’t mean powerless. She wasn’t just a witch. She was a force, a storm that would be stirred into existence time and time again by loss and betrayal, by the need to protect those she loved. The pain in her chest was now a sharp, unyielding blade, cutting through the fog of her mind.

Her grief would become her weapon, her anger the strength to wield it.

Her fingers tightened around her wand, and she could feel her power building, the magic humming through her like an electric current. The yokai might have had the advantage of surprise, but Hermione had something far greater: the fury of a woman scorned and the will to survive.

She took a step forward; eyes locked on the yokai’s cold smile and whispered the incantation. The words were sharp, precise, a promise of destruction. “Fulgere.”

Lightning zipped through the corridor, snapping and twisting around the yokai. It crackled against the spirit’s magic, disrupting the flow of its energy as it plucked another string.

Impedimenta Musica!” Hermione cast next, taking another step forward. “Protega!” she yelled, and her lightning crackled against the shield and bounced back towards the yokai. “Expelliarmus!”

Hermione’s disarming spell hit the biwa straight on… but did nothing.

Accio biwa!” She tried again.

The yokai’s smile widened, just for a moment, and that was all Hermione needed to know her next course of action. So long as the yokai had it’s music, it had protection.

Hermione’s determination hardened as did the hum of her magic, and then the battle began.

She blocked out the biwa’s haunting melody as much as she could, narrowing her thoughts to the immediate problem: the yokai and the artifact. The biwa was the key, she knew that much. The artifact was vital for binding the spirit, and yet, it was also the yokai’s conduit. That connection had to be severed first.

The yokai opened its mouth, exposing twisted and gnarled teeth as it began to yodel, it’s voice a grating, harsh bellow that bounced off the surfaces of the corridor. The melody twisted around Hermione like invisible chains, making her limbs feel heavy. The influence of its magic threatened to stifle her entirely, but Hermione shook herself free, focusing instead on the way the yokai’s fingers plucked at the invisible strings. She tuned out the singing, and took stock that each note plucked seemed to ripple through the air, tethering the yokai further to the biwa.

Direct attacks wouldn’t work, that had long since been obvious by the futility of their earlier spells. She needed to disrupt the tether, to weaken the connection between yokai and artifact.

Circling slowly, Hermione’s gaze darted around the expanse of the corridor. Her thoughts raced, piecing together fragments of lore from their research. She remembered something Draco had said days ago as he pored over The Celestial Influence: “Magical tethers are often two-way; disrupt one end, and the flow collapses.”

Disrupt the tether.

With a flick of her wand, Hermione cast another Protego around herself, the shimmering barrier deflecting the immediate assault of the biwa’s sound magic. The yokai’s milky eyes narrowed, her fingers plucking faster, her voice growing more fervent, the melody growing more aggressive.

As the yokai’s song began to crescendo, the air within the corridor seemed to vibrate. The tiles began to crack in spiderweb patterns, splitting rapidly across the floor towards Hermione, along the walls, and then they transversed the ceiling. The yokai’s smile grew wider with it’s singing as its hand began to move faster and faster, plucking, strumming, mocking. Shards of the tile rose in the air, hovering around the yokai, pulsing with every pluck of the biwa’s strings, twisting with every resonant note she sung.

Then, the yokai bellowed, and the shards shot forward. Hermione gasped, ducking as she cast a Protego Maxima, but it had come up around her a split second too late. She felt heat slash across her cheek, her temple. She grabbed at her face, and blanched when she noticed a short lock of her hair had been severed from the attack.

(Not to be dramatic, but she quite literally would not stand for an assault on her hair.)

Two could play this game. Hermione’s magic crackled beneath her skin.

She wasn’t about to let this creature play her like some pawn.

Hermione’s eyes flicked to the biwa. The strings shimmered with ethereal light with each plucked note, and the corridor slowly threatened to collapse all around her.

Hermione needed to stop it, and she needed to do it fast.

She quickly cast a flurry of wards and shield charms around the binding circle, then reinforced the tiles beneath her feet with every step forward she took. With a flick of her wrist, Hermione shouted, “Silencio!”

The room was still for but a moment as the incantation echoed in the air—but then the yokai’s music continued, undisturbed once more, now slipping into a haunting, soft lullaby. The yokai tilted its head as if considering Hermione’s next move, and the dark tendrils of the yokai’s hair slipped over its shoulders like a stream of ink. It grinned, and Hermione staunched a shudder at the split of its red lips.

Hermione reiterated the facts of the situation once more.

One—the yokai wasn’t just playing an instrument. The biwa was its conduit; this was how it weaved magic.

Two—this was a force that went beyond the simple sound of music.

Three—Hermione needed to distract and disarm the yokai at the same time.

Hermione needed to be clever, and so clever she was.

Repello Musica!” Hermione cried; her voice laced with fury. A pulse of blue magic surged outward from her wand, a barrier of force slashing toward the yokai. The biwa’s notes faltered for a moment, a ripple of dissonance running through the air as if something had struck the very core of the melody.

The yokai’s smile faltered, just slightly, but the music quickly regained its strength. It was clear the yokai had no intention of yielding. Hermione’s pulse quickened.

Sonorus Revertus!” Hermione bellowed, reversing the amplification of the music.

The effect was immediate.

A thick, buzzing sound filled the air, clashing with the melody, creating a cacophony that made Hermione’s teeth ache. The yokai paused, its milky gaze suddenly growing clear. Two dark eyes revealed themselves to Hermione, but in a blink they were gone, and the music was back.

Hermione couldn’t just fight the magic; she needed to break its foundation. Hermione looked to the biwa again, glowing under the dim light, and her fingers flexed. A sudden idea sparked in her mind. With a deep breath, Hermione twisted her wand, shouting, “Vibratio Fatum!”

A burst of magic shot from her wand, sending a wave of raw, chaotic energy toward the biwa. The strings of the instrument shimmered wildly as the magic reverberated through them, shaking the instrument and throwing the yokai off balance. The melody faltered, turning into a discordant, chaotic noise that seemed to tear the air apart.

The yokai snarled, its white eyes flashing with fury as it desperately tried to regain control.

Hermione wasn’t done.

With another determined step forward, she called upon every ounce of the rage burning in her veins. “Desilencio!” Hermione screamed, wand slashing—the air crackled with the force of her spell. The biwa’s strings vibrated violently, and then the music silenced in an instant.

The silence was deafening, broken only by Hermione’s heavy breathing. She stared at the yokai, her wand still aimed with unflinching precision.

“You thought you could break me,” Hermione’s voice was low, but full of conviction. “But you didn’t account for the fact that I’ve been broken before.”

The yokai’s sonnet turned into a snarl, but it no longer had the power to control the air around them. Hermione had disrupted the flow of its music, shattered its magical foundation.

Now, it was Hermione’s turn to play conductor.

 



Draco and Ron sprinted through the warren of white-tiled walls, their breath sharp and quick as their boots pounding against the floors. Every corner they turned seemed to present another endless stretch of sterile, gleaming tile, the walls stretching up higher than either of them could easily see. The architecture of this hellscape felt more like an enigma than a building, like they were in some sort of maze built for an entity that lived outside the bounds of normal space.

Not long ago, Hermione’s Patronus had burst into view, its squeaky voice delivering a chilling message: she was with the yokai and needed backup. That was all it took to send them sprinting through the ever-shifting maze. Hermione’s life depended on it.

Draco would not lose her like this—he refused to even let that thought become a tangible thread. He banished it as quickly as it had begun to form. Hermione would not die. He would find her, he would end this—even if it meant stepping into the line of fire to ensure her safety.

Draco understood that this was why Potter had threatened to pull him from the yokai case with Hermione. Draco knew that Auror’s who muddied the lines were more susceptible to egregious mistakes that ultimately led to lethal situations.

But now was not the time for such ruminations.

Together, they conjured stairs to ascend crumbling ledges and leapt over gaps in the floor that appeared without warning. Every time the ground threatened to collapse beneath them, they found new ways to push forward. Weasley, ever the Bludger, charged ahead, while Draco’s quick thinking and sharp reflexes kept them both moving at a decent clip.

The muffled sound of the biwa’s strings being plucked seemed to come from above them, interspersed with the occasional crackle of spells being cast. And with each note, each magical vibration, the space around them shifted. A new dimension, a different dominion, all falling into place in this eerie, unrelenting maze.

In the half-hour since they had nearly fallen to their deaths, he and Weasley had somehow become a well-oiled machine, working in tandem without even thinking about it. In fact, the unlikely pairing was a bit of a surprise to Draco. He’d never imagined that the two of them could actually be capable of finding a rhythm that suited both of them. But, when it came to Hermione, the witch they were both clearly desperately trying to reach, Draco forced himself think only of the next spell to cast or the next decision to make as to which corridor they should take.

All that mattered was getting to her.

A harsh, biting tang of dark magic hit Draco’s nostrils, so thick and pungent it made his stomach churn. It clung to the back of his throat, making him gag. He hadn’t felt anything like this since the war, when the Manor was steeped in malevolence so thick it seemed to soak into his very skin. His nose wrinkled in instinctive distaste, and he transfigured his handkerchief into a mask to at least shield himself from the worst of it.

It took him back to a time when his entire life had been drenched in this kind of nefarious power—when Voldemort had occupied his home, and Draco woke up every morning with the press of dark magic closing in around him. It was one of the reasons he had moved out of the Manor after completing his N.E.W.T’s, despite its multiple curse-breaking sweeps and decommissionings. Even now, years later, when he stepped into the wing Voldemort had claimed as his own, he swore the dark wizard’s magic still clung to the paneling, stuffed between the beams and braces that held the walls of his childhood home together.

“Dark magic,” Weasley rasped, casting a detection spell ahead of them. It pinpointed the source, half a mile due south. They thundered in that direction.

“Keep moving, Weasley,” Draco huffed under his already ragged breath, urging his fellow Auror forward as they sprinted down another stretch of winding white.

They came to another ledged corridor, the walls narrowing and the air dropped near to freezing temperatures. As they rushed forward, the ground beneath them shifted again, crumbling and falling away into nothingness. Draco didn’t think twice as he reached out for Weasley, casting a levitation charm to carry both of them over the gap. They soared for a moment, adrenaline pumping, before landing soundlessly on the other side.

Ron exhaled sharply, his breath coming out in ragged bursts. “Bloody hell, Malfoy, you ever think we’ll make it out of here?”

Draco didn’t respond immediately, scanning the corridor with his wand. His stomach twisted. Somewhere out there, Hermione was fighting for her life, and he wasn’t about to fail her now. He cast his own detection spell, and it picked up the sparks of dark magic in the form of dark purple runes along with a secondary magical marker. It couldn’t be Theo or Potter—which meant that whoever was orchestrating this was here with them.

Draco’s resolve hardened. They would get this fucker and nail his arse.

“No one’s dying today.” Draco said, and shoved Weasley forward. “Let’s go, I picked up a secondary source.”

The cold air wrapped around them, the shifting corridors beginning to distort again. The space felt almost alive, reacting to their presence, as if the walls themselves were watching. Draco felt a shiver crawl up his spine, but he didn’t let it show.

They rounded yet another corner, their breath ragged, and Draco skidded to a sudden halt. He barely stopped in time to avoid Weasley colliding with him, who was so close behind him, he could feel the heat of the other wizard’s body. Draco’s eyes widened as he saw the figure ahead.

Standing in the middle of the corridor was not a mysterious dark wizard, but Theo—a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. His wand was lazily gripped in one hand, and the other was tucked nonchalantly into his pocket. And opposite him?

The fucking kitsune.

Its fiery tails flicked lazily as it circled Theo, the two of them locked in what could only be described as a strange dance. The kitsune’s glowing eyes watched Theo with an eerie intensity. Draco threw his arm over his face, nearly choking from the smell. The dark magic was practically thick enough to taste, and Draco suddenly understood the source he had detected with his spell wasn’t the wizard orchestrating this disaster, but his best-fucking-friend.

He was going to bloody well kill him.

Theo, for his part, seemed entirely unfazed by the danger or the fact that he was casually using dark magic in his duel. He flicked his wand idly, dodging a sudden flare of silver fire from the kitsune, and grinned at Draco and Weasley as they stepped into sight.

“Ah, Dray! Weasley!” Theo greeted them with that infuriating, carefree smirk of his. “Glad you could join the party.”

Draco’s eyes flicked between Theo and the kitsune, disbelief flashing across his face. “What the hell are you doing, Theo?” Theo grinned in response, and then sidestepped a burst of silver fire. Draco threw up a shield and pulled Weasley back several paces. Draco sent a serpent made of ice lunging towards the kitsune. “Have you been here the entire time?!”

“Yes, unfortunately. I’ve be a bit occupied.”

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose as Theo and the kitsune resumed their dance.

When Theo released an unhinged sort of chuckle, Draco strode forward to aid his friend.

“Nott, it’s time step back—you’re not trained for this!” Weasley called out, coming forward with Draco as they began to flank Theo.

Theo merely resigned to antagonize the yokai instead of heeding to Weasley’s advice, crooning to the kitsune: “Come now, love, don’t be so coy.”

Theo cast a flurry of hexes at the kitsune. It skittered back, chittering, and then bound across the tiles and lunged, teeth gleaming. Theo turned, dipping backwards to avoid its bite. Draco watched with stunted disbelief as Theo reached out a hand and ran his fingers along the kitsune’s fiery spine as it leapt away.

Then Theo cast another round of spells, all of them ridiculous in nature. He set forth a horde of fireflies that exploded into bursts of light when they hit the hind of the kitsune, and then the wave of water he conjured turned into shrapnel of ice that hurtled fast and hard against the kitsune’s wall of fire.

“Must you be so cheeky?” Theo mused, pouting. “I’m only trying to cool you down.”

Draco gaped, his gaze looking for the next exit, his body thrumming with the need to move, to go, to find her.

“We don’t have time for this fuckery, Gremlin.”

Theo waved him off, and then Ron asked, “...Are you playing with it?”

“Am I?” Theo wondered aloud, and then waved his wand lazily, casually casting, “Ferrocalx.

A streak of purple light exploded from his wand, and the kitsune shrieked as the dark magic hit its back legs. It sidestepped, and its legs dragged with the movement.

“Theo, do not force me to restrain you!” Draco snapped, casting his own barrage of offensive spells.

“Step back, Nott!” Ron demanded, throwing up a massively impressive shield charm of his own making. (Draco supposed if anyone were to be good at shield charms, it would be Weasley.)

“How long have you been at this?” Draco asked.

“Hm, I’m not sure. I’ve been to busy having a chat to keep track of time.” Theo answered nonplussed, and then a field of flowers rose up around the kitsune through the cracks in the tiles, vines and greenery slipping around its paws. It hissed, and fire singed the greenery to ash in a matter of seconds. “Potter and Granger not with you?”

“Obviously fucking not.” Draco snapped. “While you’ve been having a chat with an ancient, malevolent spirit intent on killing you, we’ve been looking for them!”

“Granger can hold her own. She deals with you on the daily, after all.” Theo shrugged, casually flicking his wand to deflect a swipe of the kitsune’s claws as it had overcome the curse Theo had cast long enough to lunge at his neck again. “Foxy here is quite the conversationalist, actually. Intelligent, too. I’d say more than most witches I’ve met—Granger aside. Bloody brilliant, that one is.”

Ron gaped at Theo as the kitsune lunged again and again, its movements blindingly fast. Theo sidestepped all of its attacks gracefully, his wand trailing a stream of dark magic that forced the creature back.

“Are you insane? It’s trying to kill you!” grunted Ron, his shield taking another hit of silver fire.

“Eh,” Theo replied, twirling his wand absently. “More like maim. She hasn’t gone for a fatal strike yet. I think she likes me.”

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. They didn’t have time for Theo’s antics.

“Theo, we need to go. There’s a dark wizard behind all this—”

“Yes, I gathered that from my delightful little chat with Foxy here.” Theo cast a disarming charm, which really did nothing more than force the kitsune back a few paces. “She doesn’t seem overly fond of him, by the way. Typical ‘bound against her will to serve’ scenario. Very tragic.”

“Bound against—” Ron spluttered. “How can you even understand it—you know, never mind. I don’t want the answer to that question.”

Theo finally turned to glance at them, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Don’t be so uncultured, Weasley. She’s clearly not a mindless beast. There’s nuance here. She’s annoyed.” The kitsune growled low in its throat, and Theo tipped his head, as if considering something. “Fine. Very annoyed. But who wouldn’t be? I’d be cross too if some posh tosser trapped me in a crate and shipped me halfway across the world.”

Draco stepped forward; his wand raised. “Theo, for the love of Merlin, stop trying to bond with the homicidal spirit and let us subdue it already. We need to find Granger, she’s with the batty yokai that put us in this hellscape.”

“Dray, you wound me,” Theo said with mock offense. “I was just getting to the good part.”

“What part is that?” Ron snapped, gripping his wand tightly.

“The part where I offer her a deal.” Theo grinned, sidestepping another swipe from the kitsune’s silver fire. “You help us, Foxy, and we’ll free you. No more dark wizard, no more bound to your mask, and certainly no more stuffy magical crates surrounded by the endless screaming of your spiritual brethren. Sound fair?”

The kitsune froze, its many tails flicking in agitation. Its eyes glowed brighter, locking onto Theo with an intensity that made Draco’s stomach twist.

“You’re bargaining with it?” Draco hissed.

“Better than all of us dying and you losing any chance you have to live out a fruitful and matrimonial life, isn’t it?” Theo shot back, still grinning madly.

“What is he even going on about?” Ron asked, his face screwing up with his confusion.

Draco waved him off, and then stiffened when he noticed the way the kitsune tilted its head, as if considering the offer

And then it lunged again—straight at Theo’s throat.

Draco swore under his breath, his wand already moving. A streak of red light flared across the corridor; flickers of silver fire sparkled against the tiled corridor as it went flying backwards. It twitched on the ground for a moment before hopping back up, lips pulled back from its teeth.

“Theo, if you die, I’m telling my mother it was entirely your fault.”

“Noted,” Theo replied, his voice far too cheerful as he deflected the kitsune’s attack. “If I do die, be a darling and tell her that I will wait for her in the afterlife.”

“Not happening.” Draco snarled and lunged into action alongside his moronic best friend.



The yokai staggered, its once-steady grip on the biwa faltering as the silence stretched taut between them. Hermione’s heart pounded in her chest, the adrenaline still crackling through her veins like wildfire. The yokai’s face contorted in fury, her pale, white eyes narrowing as it regained footing. The silence she’d forced upon it was no longer a victory; it was a challenge.

The yokai’s lips curled into a snarl, and with a hiss, it wrapped its fingers around the neck of the biwa. Hermione’s stomach churned as the air around the biwa hummed once more with that magical, ancient energy, and a pulse of sound surged, but this time, it felt different. This was no mere song. This was to be a manifestation of pure, raw power.

It crawled under Hermione’s skin, testing her resolve.

She wasn’t going to let it win. Not like this.

With a determined breath, Hermione steadied her wand, focusing on the overwhelming rage that had been building within her. For all the countless moments where she had stood on the brink of something terrible, always surviving, always fighting.

She had survived far worse than this.

Impedimenta Musica!” Hermione shouted for the second time, twisting her wand with a sharp flick. Her voice echoed. The air around the biwa vibrated once more, a magical barrier pushing against the energy it had summoned. The music faltered, flickering like a dying flame in the wind, and the yokai screeched in frustration, its grip loosening.

Hermione still wasn’t done.

Vibratio Fatum!” she cried, more forcefully this time. The spell shot toward the biwa with the force of a thunderclap, and the strings of the instrument screamed in protest, their resonance warping and unraveling under the onslaught. The yokai staggered backward, but Hermione didn’t give it a moment to recover. Her eyes burned with resolve.

Desilencio!” Hermione spat, the spell cut through the air like a blade. The grip the yokai had on the biwa faltered, its connection to the instrument momentarily severed.  “Repello Musica! Confringo!” she cried, unleashing the spell that slammed the yokai backward, sending it skidding across the ground.

The biwa clattered to the ground, and Hermione quickly summoned it to her awaiting palm.

The yokai scrambled to its feet, but the once-terrifying creature was now disoriented, weak.

The magic that had flowed through it with ease was fractured without it’s conduit.

The yokai’s form wavered, its connection to the biwa weakening. It had underestimated Hermione. It had underestimated the depth of Hermione’s rage, the depth of her resilience. And now, it would pay.

Hermione advanced, her wand raised, her voice cold and cutting. “This ends now.”

With a languorous, sweeping motion, she cast another Fulgere.

The surge of lightning burst from her wand, crackling through the air, striking the yokai’s body and sending it reeling. Right towards the binding circle. The creature’s scream echoed in the stillness as Hermione slapped the parchment seal against the biwa and lunged forward, slamming the body of the instrument into the yokai’s chest.

A sound of defeat and desperation was keened into the corridor, and as Hermione began to incantations to bind the yokai, its form began to unravel. Minutes passed and sweat beaded along Hermione’s brow. Her arm trembled with the force she exerted to keep the yokai in check.

As Hermione’s last line of incantation was spoken, the yokai dissipated into the air like smoke and disappeared into the body of the biwa—leaving nothing but the faintest trace of lingering magic in its wake.

For a long moment, there was only silence.

Hermione breathed, her lungs expanding and contracting rapidly as she tried to catch her breath. The rage that had fueled her slowly began to ebb away, leaving behind a stillness of her own making.

And just as Hermione collapsed to her knees, sweat streaking down her temples, the floor beneath her vanished, and she felt like she was being tugged through time, like she had touched a Portkey. She spun, and spun, and then her back slammed against concrete, and her head cracked back against something fleshy and warm. She groaned, squinting up towards flickering sconces. The same sconces she had charmed to light in the platform where this entire ordeal first began.

“Hermione?” Harry rasped, and Hermione suddenly bolted upright, only for a rush of lightheadedness to take over her senses. She lurched to her side and dry heaved.

Christ, Hermione, I thought I’d lost you—” That was indeed Harry’s voice. She crawled towards the direction it came from. Her hands met his, and she choked on her sob of relief.

“Har…ry…”

She was being pulled upright, and Harry’s face was in front of her’s. She met his bespeckled green eyes, tight with worry. He gripped her shoulders as he took stock of her person. “What happened?”

“I bound it,” Hermione croaked, and waved a tired hand towards the sealed biwa not even a step away from where she half-laid, half-sat. There too was the crate and the wagon, still on its side.

“Used… musical charms… made variations… lightning… mmphh,” she mumbled, feeling the burn out creeping in. “Magic… depleted…”

She swore she heard Draco yelling her name, but that was silly, because he never said her name. Was that thunder? Or footsteps? Hermione had the faint sense of being lifted, of her cheeks being squished together with two familiar, calloused palms. Quicksilver pools swam into her line of sight.

Everything was very fuzzy. And warm.

“Granger, look at me.”

It was Draco’s voice. Low. Tight. She felt her pulse quicken, but it wasn’t fear that sent her heart racing.

Her eyes fluttered open and met Draco’s. His pale face was inches from hers, his ashen brows furrowed. He cupped her cheeks, his thumb glided beneath her eyes. His touch was warm, and gentle.

“You’re… alive?” she murmured, her voice just barely above a rasp.

“Are you?”

“I… I think so?” She rasped, her eyelids fluttering. The callous on his thumb scratched against the swell of her cheek, and she leaned heavily into the touch. “Mm, yes. Alive.”

“Yeah?” His laugh was a short, dry chuff. “Salazar, what happened?”

“I used… everything,” she mumbled, blinking up at him, trying to focus. “Used every bloody spell I could think of. I bound it, Draco. The yokai. It’s done.”

Draco’s eyes flicked briefly to the biwa and back to her. Then, without warning, he pulled her into a firm embrace, right there on the ground. He was kneeling before her, and the heat of his body radiated against her cold, trembling frame. She tensed for a second, surprised by the force of his hug, but then she let herself sink into it, as if it were the only thing keeping her from turning to dust.

“Gods, Granger—” he mumbled, and then all but pulled her into his lap. She shifted awkwardly until she felt the muscles of his thigh beneath her bum, and the pressure of his chest against her shoulder, and the subtle, familiar scent of him that flooded her senses. She melted into the embrace, into him, into this moment.

His hands moved with purpose, stroking down her spine in slow, soothing motions. Each pass of his palm seemed to smooth out the frayed edges of her mind. One hand slid up into her curls, tangling lightly as he smoothed them back from her face. His touch was tender, careful, and Hermione felt a shiver run through her. It was such a fine intimacy, to touch someone like this.

He pulled back just far enough to search her face, to check for any injuries, any spot of blood or the purple of a bruise. His shoulders seemed to settle when he found nothing suspect, and then, without a word, he dropped his face into her neck.

His breath was hot against her skin. His stubble a perilous tickle that had her belly unfurling with warmth. He inhaled deeply, as if he were trying to memorize the scent of her, the feel of her, as though he might never take another breath again if he didn’t. His exhale was a low, trembling thing, and Hermione could feel the subtle hitch in his chest as he held her closer, burying his face in the curve of her shoulder.

For a long moment, they stayed like that. Still and quiet. His grip on her never loosened, and Hermione found herself instinctively curling closer to him, seeking out the warmth of his body, the steady thrum of his heartbeat. It was the most intimate moment she had ever shared with someone. This was the closest they had ever been. There was a soft, almost desperate way in which he held her, and Hermione was keenly away of the vulnerability that seemed to pour from him in the silence that stretched.

She against her cheek between the juncture of his shoulder and neck. She shuddered, and her breath came out choppily. Draco held her tighter, his body a tether to kept her afloat, even in the face of the exhaustion that threatened to overtake her—mind, body and soul.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” Draco’s voice came, rough and raw, as if speaking the words themselves had cost him something. His lips brushed against the side of her temple as he spoke, and Hermione could feel the tremor in his words. “If anything had happened—”

Her hand found its way to his chest, bunching the fine fabric of his robes into her fist. She could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against her knuckles.

“S’fine,” she mumbled. “I’m fine.”

They allowed themselves one more moment of uninterrupted intimacy, and then they both pulled away, sheepish and awkward like two fumbling teenagers.

Christ. All they had done was hug for a minute or so—but the blush that seared across her face was hotter than a cauldron fire.

“You’re a bloody fool.” Draco said as he pushed himself to stand, and then helped her up as well. He kept his arm around her waist as she stumbled, and the magical exhaustion seemed to seep back into existence. “But fuck, Granger—I’m proud of you.”

Hermione managed a weak, breathless laugh, her fingers curling into his robes once more as she leaned her temple against his chest. “I wasn’t going down without a fight.”

“Bloody Gryffindor through and through, aren’t you?”

“Mm,” she murmured, and then the fog in her mind shifted again, the dizziness threatening to overtake her. A dark swirl of confusion clouded her thoughts, and the edges of her consciousness felt like they were slipping further away.

The cacophony of echoing footsteps was the first thing that pulled Hermione halfway back into awareness. The sound was sharp and rhythmic, like a drumbeat, amplified by the acoustics of the tunnel. It was followed by the clipped barks of orders, and then the blur of figures swarmed the corridor. The Aurors Harry had summoned stormed in, their wands alight and raised, scanning for threats. A flurry of Medi-witches trailed behind them, their sea-green robes catching the dim glow of the sconces as they hurried toward the scene.

“Whoa, there, Granger,” Draco murmured, keeping her upright. “Stay with me.”

She shivered, teeth clacking together. She might have mumbled a curse, but her vision was starting to blur. She was jostled, and then the world was swimming, or perhaps she was falling? Steel cables snaked their way beneath her knees, and she realized rather belatedly that was being carried. Cradled, more like it. “Oh.”

“Should we take her to St. Mungo’s, sir?”

She peeled her eyes open long enough to glare at Harry as he considered the Medi-witches question.

“Don’t—don’t you dare.” Hermione croaked.

Ron and Harry awkwardly huddled around her in Draco’s arms, as the Medi-witch looked between her and Draco. Hermione waved her away. “I’m fine. They’re fussing.”

The Medi-witch nodded, though she looked hesitant to acquiesce. She guided Ron over to run diagnostics over him, which he didn’t seem too keen about, either.

“You’ve got anything helpful in this wildly illegal bag of yours?” Draco asked, shifting her in his arms to hold her more securely against his chest.

She took a deep breath and nodded. “I’ve got replenishing potion—magenta bottle—”

“Hiya, Hermione,” said Theo, ginning. His mess of brown curls swam into her line of sight.

“Theo—are you all right?”

“Right as rain, pet.” He chimed and then he unclasped her bag from her chest. He dug around in it, elbow deep. Her head began to lull over Draco’s forearm. Draco lifted his wand and cast a warming charm over her.

“Stop fussing,” Hermione mumbled, though the heat passing over her tired limbs felt wonderful. A potion bottle was pressed against her lips, and she opened her mouth to take greedy swallows until she finished the entire thing.

She hummed contentedly as more warmth seeped into her being, and then she was pushing against Draco’s chest. “S’fine, now. Put me down.”

“Not happening.” Draco muttered. “Theo, grab that blasted wagon and crate. Potter—I trust you’d be willing to write up the case notes on this one?”

Hermione closed her eyes, content to let them solve the rest.

She’d done the hard part, hadn’t she?



Draco hadn’t intended to fall asleep in Hermione’s bed—Merlin, he wasn’t even sure how he’d gotten to the point of slipping under the covers. He’d Apparated them home, guided her exhausted body to the guest bed, and ensured she was settled before he reluctantly left her there to send Theo off.

That was all he’d meant to do, but then he’d stood there, staring at her small figure tucked beneath the quilt after Theo had returned to his Manor. He watched the way her chest rose and fell with the even cadence of deep sleep. He’d told himself he was just going to stay for a few minutes to make sure she didn’t wake up from her much-needed restorative slumber.

And then he’d told himself he’d linger just a bit longer, just in case.

His boots were the first to go, shucked off and set neatly by the door. His outer robes followed, draped over the chair by the vanity. He drew the line there—or so he thought. Before he even realized it, his body moved of its own accord, slipping under the covers beside her, the warmth of her bed an unspoken invitation he couldn’t deny.

The room was silent save for the occasional whisper of wind against the windowpane and her steady breathing. Draco turned onto his side, propping his head up on his hand as his gaze drank her in. Her curls were splayed across the pillow like a halo, the soft lamplight catching in the wild tendrils. His eyes roamed over the delicate curve of her nose, the freckles dotting her skin like constellations, the subtle swell of her lips, parted and utterly relaxed in sleep.

A pang struck him then, sharp and insistent in his chest. How could someone look so impossibly serene after the chaos they had just endured?

Draco lifted a hand, hesitant, and brushed his knuckles along her temple in the lightest of touches. Her skin was warm beneath his fingers, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

He knew this was completely improper of him, and he figured she’d probably lash him in the morning for it, but propriety be damned. He couldn’t bring himself to leave her. Not tonight.

He thought he’d lost her. He truly had convinced himself during his fight with the kitsune that she had been dead. It had never felt like such a real possibility before tonight. Yes, he understood the risks of this case, the lethal edge of the yokai they hunted, but deadly? That had been an abstract concept. A threat to prepare for, but never to face.

For all his concise planning and careful composure, Draco was not someone who allowed his thoughts to spiral easily. He dealt in logic and precision, in analyzing situations with a ruthless clarity that had kept him alive through his darkest days. But tonight, when he held Hermione’s pale, trembling body in the abandoned platform—and now, watching her as she slept in his guest bedroom—her bedroom—all manner of reason abandoned him.

Just before he Apparated them home, she had been nearly motionless in his arms, her breath shallow, her magic depleted to the point where it had felt like holding a hollow shell of the fierce witch he couldn’t imagine life without.

For an agonizing, eternal moment he had convinced himself she would fall to the fates in his arms.

The idea of a world without her… a world where her brilliance was snuffed out… it had clawed at his throat, leaving him gasping for air. Even now, as he laid here watching the soft rise and fall of her chest, the reassurance of her survival was not enough to quell the storm within him. He clenched his hands into fists, his nails biting into his palms as he replayed the how she had been yanked through the air in his mind, searching for the exact moment things had gone wrong.

He reached out, hesitant, and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “You’re not allowed to do that again. Do you hear me? Not ever.”

She didn’t stir, but the faint hum of her magic brushed against his, soft and steady, and it was enough to make him exhale the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Draco knew without a doubt he would throw himself into the fire before he let it take her again.

He let his head sink into the pillow beside her, his heart thudding in rhythm with her steady breaths, one truth settled heavily in his mind: He was indeed Draco Malfoy, Lovesick Fool.

And there wasn’t a single thing he could do about it.


 

Day Ninety-Two: Sunday, 5th of September 2009

Granger’s Twenty-First Rule for Conquering Spiritual Insanity:

Sweets are Essential

When facing overwhelming uncertainty, embrace the discomfort instead of fighting it.

By accepting the lack of clarity, new insights and paths may emerge.

And if all else fails, chocolate is a perfectly valid coping mechanism.

(Malfoy’s note: Chocolate’s the only thing in life that doesn’t disappoint, Granger.)

(Granger’s note: Sweets can’t solve everything, but they sure make it easier to think clearly.)

 

----

 

Hermione stirred as the first blush of dawn seeped through the curtains, painting the room in soft hues of lavender and gold. Her body ached in places she didn’t even know could ache, and she groaned as she rubbed her temples. Her mind felt battered and bruised.

She blinked slowly, her lashes brushing against the pillow, and turned her head.

Her breath caught at the sight of Draco lying beside her, his face inches from hers.

She thought she might be dreaming, so she rubbed her eyes, and when they opened again, she met the depth of two silver pools staring back at her. His gaze was unmoored, and the slight rise and fall of his chest was steady against her own. One of his hands were curled under her pillow, the other wrapped around her waist. She wiggled her toes, and found his feet tangled with her own.

She swallowed, unsure whether to move closer or further.

“Good morning,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.

Hermione blinked at him, her brain still catching up. “Good morning? Draco, why—” She glanced down at the quilt covering them both, and their noses brushed against each other’s. She cleared her throat and wiggled back far enough that she didn’t feel the heat of his body so thoroughly. “What … what are you doing here? In my bed?”

Draco’s lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smirk. The grip he had on her waist didn’t relent—if anything, it tightened, fingertips pressing hard into the divots between her spine, palm splayed against the expanse of exposed skin from where her shirt had risen up. “You were half-dead last night. I didn’t think it wise to leave you alone.”

Her cheeks flushed; the warmth of his body suddenly impossible to ignore. “So, naturally, you decided the best solution was to crawl into bed with me?”

“I didn’t crawl,” he said, his tone maddeningly calm.

“No?”

“I… slipped?”

Slipped.” Hermione narrowed her eyes, but there was no real heat behind it. Truth be told, she didn’t mind waking up to him. It felt like one of her fantasies coming into fruition, though she knew it could only be that. No more, no less.

They fell silent for a moment, the memories of the previous night creeping back in. Hermione looked away; her eyes fixed on the window. “Last night…”

“I know,” Draco said softly. “It shouldn’t have gone that way. I’m sorry—I was rushing us and should have considered the possibility of it being a set up.”

“A set-up?”

“Granger,” he said, and his tone grew serious. All traces of sleep left him at once—though his hold on her body remained tight. She found her hands moving on their own accord, reaching for him. She pressed her palms against his chest and awaited his words. “There’s a dark wizard—or witch—behind this. The crate was dropped on purpose, perhaps as a hit on you—”

“On me?” She asked incredulously, snorting. “No—whoever dropped it off knew I had thorough knowledge of Japanese magic. That’s all.”

“Granger, no—that’s not all.” Draco said, and his fingertips dug in. His eyes grew distant and stony. “There were anti-Apparition wards in place, and someone was casting magical blockers as we fell. I’m telling you that there is someone else involved in this, orchestrating it from the sidelines. Theo—Salazar, this is going to sound insane—had been with the kitsune the majority of the evening, while you were with the biwa yokai. Somehow, they communicated.  It confirmed my theory that there is a dark wizard behind this.”

“Why would they give me the crate in the first place? Why not come directly for me?” She moved one of her hands to rub at her temples. “That doesn’t make any sense. What if I couldn’t even get it open?”

“What if they couldn’t get it open, and they used you to get to the bound spirits?”

“That doesn’t mean they’re trying to take me out… Draco, that sounds ridiculous.”

He grabbed her wrist, and her eyes flew open, meeting the storm of his gaze. “We’ve only ever encountered a max of two yokai at a time, but what about the others that are loose during the full moon while we’re occupied?”

“Well, the Oblivation task force team still has to be deployed every full moon, so I do suppose that what you’re saying does have some merit… but still…”

Some merit? Granger, there have been plenty of signs that while we were busy dealing with the yokai we’ve bound, there was someone out there potentially using the others to do their bidding.”

“But how would they control the yokai if we have their artifacts? Imperius doesn’t work on them—”

“I don’t know,” Draco cut in. “But I will find out.”

“I still don’t buy it.” Hermione sighed and made to get off the bed. “I think you’re being paranoid.”

“I’m telling you, Granger, this isn’t sitting right with me.” He yanked her closer, keeping her from getting off the bed like she intended. “Especially not after last night.”

Hermione stared at Draco; her brow furrowed. “You really believe someone orchestrated this whole thing?”

Draco’s lips thinned, and he pushed himself upright. He sat cross-legged, and so Hermione followed suit. He reached for her hand, and held it in his lap, thumb idly brushing against her knuckles.

“Spirits don’t lay anti-Apparition wards; they don’t block magic. And they certainly weren’t the ones to give artifacts tied to lethal spirits directly to the one person in Britain who knows how to open them.”

Hermione’s heart sank. She had no rebuttal for that. She bit her lip, her hand still wrapped up in his. She gave it a solid squeeze, steadying herself against the storm brewing in his eyes. “If someone wanted to target me, why now? And why use the yokai? There are simpler ways to kill a witch, Malfoy.”

He let out a humorless laugh. “Do you think this is just about killing you? Think bigger, Granger. What if the goal isn’t just your death, but using you to unlock something no one else can? These yokai—it’s become rather obvious that they’re not just spirits. They’re ancient magic, primal forces. They can’t be controlled easily, but you’ve found a way to bind them. That knowledge, that ability… it’s valuable. To the wrong person, it’s priceless.”

She shifted, settled to sit on her calves. She grabbed his shoulders and lightly shook. “But I don’t know everything. I’m figuring it out as we go. Half the time, I don’t even know if the binding will work.”

“You’re underselling yourself,” Draco snapped. “You’ve done what no one else has probably been able to do for centuries. You told me that the art of binding rituals is ancient and hasn’t been recorded as successful in centuries, Granger. And you bound that bloody thing by yourself last night!”

She chewed on her lip, hands falling away from his shoulders to fiddle with the hem of her shirt. Still, they laid precariously close to one another.

“Say there is an ulterior motive behind the crate being dropped off to me—what about the note that said do not open?”

He gave her a flat glare. “That might as well have been a big red bow that said ‘please open’ to someone like you.”

She winced, because Draco wasn’t exactly wrong… if she had seen it before opening the crate, it would have certainly given her even more incentive to want to open the crate in the first place.

“Whoever’s behind this isn’t just watching. They’re leveraging you.”

 “But why use yokai? If they know so much about me, why not…” She trailed off, her voice faltering. “Why not just come for me directly?”

“Because they don’t want you dead yet,” Draco said, his gaze unflinching. “They need you alive, at least for now. And they’re making damn sure to keep you busy and distracted while they enact whatever plan they’ve got going.”

Hermione’s breath hitched. “You’re saying we’ve been playing into their hands this entire time.”

“Exactly,” Draco agreed, his tone sharp. “Every time we’ve dealt with a yokai, we’ve been distracted from what else might be happening. What if releasing these spirits isn’t just a side effect of the artifacts but part of their plan? A smokescreen for something bigger.”

Hermione’s mind raced, piecing together the implications. “They could be using the yokai to cover their tracks…”

“We’ll need to look into anything and everything that has been reported to the DMLE since June.”

“Something big enough to warrant these levels of misdirection.”

“I bet if they’ve gone to this much trouble, they’re close to whatever it is.” Draco muttered. “Salazar, Granger—this is so much bigger than we originally thought.”

The room fell into a heavy silence. Hermione felt Draco’s gaze on her, intense and unyielding, as if daring her to argue further. She didn’t. She couldn’t.

Finally, Draco spoke again, his voice softer now. “I haven’t asked in a few days, but… any word from your Headmistress?”

Hermione glanced up at him, and the expression he wore nearly wrecked her. It was dread—genuine dread.

She shook her head and her hair tangled around her face, brushing her cheek. She went to tuck it back absently, but Draco’s hand moved faster. His fingers caught the unruly strand, pushing it gently behind her ear.

The act was fleeting, but it lingered in her mind, sending a shiver down her spine. She held her breath as he brushed his knuckles against her jaw, almost reverently, and then let his hand settle lightly against her throat. His palm rested just over her pulse, and Hermione was sure he could feel how wildly it was pounding beneath his touch.

“I won’t let anything happen to you, Granger.”

Draco’s voice was thick, and she took a sharp breath to steady her mind, but it was in vain. He was looking at her again with those hellfire blue eyes—like he meant every word of his vow, as if he would destroy the very foundations of the world to make good on it.

As if he would burn it all to ash, devour it whole, just to keep her safe.

Hermione’s breath hitched, and for a moment, all rational thought fled her mind. She should say something—deflect, argue, anything—but all she could do was stare back at him, caught in the magnetic pull of his gaze.

Her Big Feelings surged forward.

“Draco…” she began, her voice unsteady, but the sound of his name on her lips only seemed to embolden him.

His thumb grazed the line of her jaw, lingering for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. For a moment, she thought he might kiss her. His eyes flicked to her lips, and the tension between them was almost palpable. He leaned in, she mirrored. Her heart was a thunderous beat that echoed throughout her mind. Her gaze flicked between his eyes and his lips, and she tilted her head just so, catching his gaze one last time—

Then, as if realizing the moment had stretched too far, he pulled his hand back abruptly, raking it through his hair. He quickly slid off the bed and turned his back to her, shoulders tense, knuckles blanching at his sides.

Hermione exhaled shakily, her cheeks warm and her heart still pounding in her ears.

“We head into to the Ministry and call for a meeting. Shackelbolt needs to hear this.”

Hermione cleared her throat and slid out from under the covers. “Right. You’re right.”

Draco strode towards her open bedroom door but paused at the threshold. His hand lingered on the doorframe as he glanced back at her. “I’ll… give you a few.” She tracked the bobbing swallow in his throat before he gave her a curt nod. “Meet me at the Floo when you’re ready.”

“Draco?” She called out just as he pushed away from the doorframe. He didn’t turn, but he did stop.

“Do you really think we’ll get ahead of this?”

Draco tilted his head over his shoulder at her, and his usual arrogance seemed tempered by the sincerity in his gaze. “If anyone can outmaneuver a dark wizard, it’s you, Granger.”


 

Day Ninety-Four: Tuesday, 7th of September 2009

Granger’s Twenty-Second Rule for Defeating Mystical Mischief:

Breathe.

Pause and take a moment when everything feels overwhelming.

Clarity often comes after a breath of calm.

(Malfoy’s note: Granger could use more of this.)

(Granger’s note: Malfoy’s just as bad—he hides it better.)

 

----

 

They had worked tirelessly over the past two days, well beyond sane working hours, and Draco was beginning to realize that Hermione had been right all along in wanting to reach out to the Mahoutokoro Headmistress. The British Ministry’s resources had proven to be far too flat for a case as intricate as this and that only continued to be the truth the further they dove into the tangled web of clues surrounding them.

Shackelbolt had decreed shortly after they had arrived that past Monday morning after the biwa yokai incident that this case could no longer push off expansion. Thus, their task-force team was born consisting of Draco, Hermione, Potter and Weasley (And unofficially Theo, but no one dared tell Shackelbolt that a civilian had bombarda’d his way into being a member of their team.)

Weasley had cleverly dubbed it S.P.I.R.I.T. (Specialized Paranormal Investigations and Response for Interdimensional Threats), though Draco would never admit he thought the acronym to be smart. He would stand by his words that Weasley was, “A nitwit who needs to stop smirking because his brain worked long enough to string together a coherent thought.”

They learned that there had been a string of break ins throughout England all on the nights of the full moon, save for the last.

The Auror’s that had responded to the calls on the break-ins had compiled an envelope of reports for S.P.I.R.T, containing the locations, the items that had been taken, and what types of wards had been breached to do so. Once Draco had those reports in his hands, he learned they were dreadfully dull and short: museums, magical archives, and just two private collections belonging to influential wizarding families. Among the latter were claims of stolen heirlooms and broken blood wards from the Greengrass and Parkinson families.

None of the reports pointed them in any real direction—given that half of the break-ins hadn’t been successful in snatching anything of significance. (Some gaudy amulet of the Greengrasses and kind of magical binding rope, likely to incapacitate Muggles considering it came from the Parkinson estate).

Regardless of what had been taken, or the lack thereof, one thing gleaned most auspiciously above all else.

Each heist had been meticulously executed with barely any trace left behind except for one consistent detail—the complete absence of triggering magical interference alarms, suggesting advanced ward-breaking techniques.

It was both a good and bad thing. Good, because it meant their veil had worked in terms of keeping the yokai within the bounds of London, but bad because their veil clearly did no such thing when it came to stopping a dark wizard from his break-ins beyond he and Hermione’s magically made border around London.

So thus, to set the scene, they were nearing day three of their countdown to their next yokai encounter, and still, no less close to figuring out who had given Hermione the crate in the first place, what their intentions were, and what would happen once they had sealed all the yokai—and whether or not the yokai were truly the intended outcome or merely catalysts for distractions.

Draco deposited Hermione’s coffee on her desk with a pointed glare. She hadn’t moved in the twenty minutes he’d gone to the canteen to grab them caffeine. His glare swiveled over to Weasley, who had fallen asleep with chocolate wrappers strew across his chest. Draco’s face automatically screwed up in disgust.

“Where’s Potter?”

Hermione ignored him, her dainty pointer finger lining the text as she read, mumbling to herself.

“Oi, Granger—” he kicked her wheeled desk chair, sending it rolling away. “Where’s Potter?”

She sighed and scooted her chair back to its proper place. He definitely did not look down the scalloped edges of her blouse, nor at the swell of her breasts above the neckline as fucking bounced as she scooted her squeaky chair back towards her desk. “Home for lunch.”

“What a tosser.”

Hermione glared. “Lily’s cutting molars.”

“Ah,” Draco said. (As if this information would help him better grasp Potter’s absence.)

“In other words, Ginny is losing her mind and called for backup.”

“I see.” (The concept was thus promptly grasped.) “So, growing teeth—not fun?”

“Precisely.”

He nudged the coffee towards her, as well as a bar of chocolate. She snagged both off her desk with a semi-scowling, semi-appreciative glance. “Thanks.”

“Get anywhere?” Draco asked as he conjured himself a seat, seeing as how Weasley had stolen Draco’s, which brought Draco around to the thought that Hermione really needed her own office.

Gods, he was growing to despise this department. He was going to get her out of here one way or another. She deserved so much better than a shoddy cubicle.

“No,” she said dejectedly, taking a bite from the chocolate bar. (He was not in fact transfixed by the slip of her pink tongue as she licked melted chocolate from her lips. Not at all.) “Nothing aside from the few break in locations, and nothing in the archives is helpful. I really don’t think we’re going to find anymore answers on British soil.”

“Well, we’ve got four spirits locked down.” Draco jerked his chin towards the crate where it sat on the replacement wagon. (Still cherry red, but wonderfully less squeaky.)

They resigned to start bringing the artifacts to the Ministry for extra added protection anytime they left the flat, and also because Draco did not want Potter and Weasley in his den of peace for extended periods of time while their task force… tasked. “Four more to go.”

“Yes, I suppose there is something positive about that, isn’t there? Halfway point, and all.”

“Shite can either hit the fan or settle down.”

She gave him The Look, which usually meant she found whatever had come out of his mouth annoying. “After Sunday, I hardly believe anything is settling down. The artifacts left have the potential to be tied to even more powerful yokai, and not to mention in December there are two full moons and one of them is a Blue Moon—and now the aspect of the break-ins potentially being tied in—”

“Breathe, darling,” Draco cut in, keeping her from descending into a mad spiral.

“I am perfectly capable of breathing without your reminder—”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Yes, fine. I get it. But once we hear back from the Headmistress, we’re greenlit to go. Shackelbolt contacted the Japanese Ministry, and they approved our travel plans, which means Basil can secure us a Portkey as soon as we get Minamoto’s approval to visit the school.”

“If Basil has an adequate enough time to do so.” Hermione grumbled. “We might be better off using the International Floo.”

Draco made a face. It wasn’t that he disliked using the International Floo—it was just that it tended to take longer to get to any intended location.

“Maybe I should fire-call her.” Hermione mused. “I just don’t want to be annoying…”

“I’d say this wagers as a moment you can be annoying.”

She groaned. “Ugh, I wish she had a mobile.”

Draco made another screwed up face. “Not this again.”

“Fire-calling is so archaic. And uncomfortable. Shoving half of my body into the Floo makes me queasy. I feel like I’m going to get sucked in two different directions and ripped in half.”

“You hardly can get that thingy to work at the flat—you think in the Japanese mountains your Headmistress will be able to hear the ringing?”

Hermione blinked at him, and then started to slowly laugh until there were tears in her eyes.

Draco did not like that at all.

“Stop it.”

“A mobile phone, Draco. It’s called a mobile—not a thingy—”

“Right, I get it. Come off it, will you?”

“The ringing—” She started laughing again. “The ringing means an incoming call or message; it’s not a sign of service.”

Draco scowled and looked away petulantly. “We are not going over the concept of interwebbing again.”

She broke into a fresh round of hysterics. “Internet—and it’s so easy. It’s underground cords and conductors and conduits. It’s just electricity!”

Draco mumbled about cruel witches and his ego being in a constant state of bruising under his breath, and snagged reports off her desk. “Get back to work, Granger.”

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t argue.

Draco was secretly very pleased.



Day Ninety-Six: Thursday, 9th of September 2009

Granger’s Twenty-Third Rule for Overcoming Spiritual Mayhem:

Let the Walls Down.

Sometimes the only way to make sense of the chaos is to stop holding everything in.

Vulnerability doesn’t make you weaker—it makes you human.

(Malfoy’s note: You’ve said this, but when do you plan to actually do it?)

(Granger’s note: I could ask you the same thing.)

 

----

 

The letter arrived at precisely four in the morning, a time Draco considered both wildly inconvenient and oddly specific. Hermione, however, seemed unfazed, though her nonchalance might have had more to do with the fact that the blasted witch had been awake since three, which meant he had also been awake. She’d been pacing the length of the dining room and muttering under her breath about all manner of things for well over an hour now.

The tawny owl perched impatiently on the edge of the windowsill, its feathers ruffling anytime Hermione’s cat passed too close. The bird let out a sharp, disgruntled hoot, and Draco shot it a glare from the chaise before snapping, “Even the owl has no respect for my sleep schedule.”

Hermione gave him the driest of looks. “He’s nocturnal, Draco.”

“I’m well aware, darling,”

Hermione took the scroll from the owl’s leg and sent it off with a gentle pat to its head and a rather large treat. It hooted softly in appreciation, but before it swooped out of the open window, it shot Draco a rather scathing look. (Hermione noted aloud that she found it quite funny to see Draco being put in his place by a bird.)

“It’s from Headmistress Minamoto!” Hermione exclaimed when she recognized the wax seal of Mahoutokoro. She broke the seal with a practiced flick of her thumb and scanned the crisp parchment quickly, her lips forming a wide smile as she began to read the letter aloud to Draco.

“The headmistress would love to host us, and we’re invited to come at our earliest convenience. Students will be returning for term soon, so...” Her voice trailed off, and she glanced at Draco expectantly.

He raised an ashen brow, leaning against the back of the chaise with his arms crossed. “So, we're going now, aren’t we?”

Hermione gave a decisive nod, and he could see that she was already making a mental checklist of everything they’d need. (Her eyes had that manic sheen to them.)

“We need to. The more time we have with the school while it’s empty, the better our chances of getting what we need without any further disturbances. Do you think Basil will be able to make a Portkey in time for us to leave by seven…?”

“Definitely not.”

She tapped her chin. “International Floo it is.”

“This holiday is off to a shoddy start.”

Ignoring him, she asked, “Should we bring the artifacts?”

Draco gestured dramatically toward the pile of cursed objects neatly packed in reinforced cases near the dining table. (After Theo had nearly broken the music box one night while fiddling with it, Hermione summoned the wood and glass cases to keep Theo’s sticky fingers to himself.)

“Yes, darling, let’s take the most dangerous collection of dark artifacts currently in Britain on an international field trip. Excellent idea. What could possibly go wrong?”

She shot him a glare, completely undeterred by his sarcasm. “I obviously meant that we should bring them for our research purposes—not to parade them about. It would be helpful for Hotaru to look at them—she’s the professor of Magical Theory at Mahoutokoro. It would do us well to see what she thinks, as well as Headmistress Minamoto.”

“Can you not show them pictures on your mobile?”

She considered this for a moment, and then he knew she ultimately decided that no, she could not simply show them pictures. (She would later tell him that she needed them to feel the magic.) “No, we need to take them.”

“Granger—if we haul ancient, cursed artifacts into a foreign country, no matter that it’s the country of their origin, it’s most certainly going to set off alarms at the Japanese Ministry.”

“I’ll Floo Kingsley for clearance from the Japanese Minister—”

Draco let out a theatrical sigh and sank into the chaise, draping one arm over his eyes. “Can I at least sleep for an hour before you drag me halfway across the world? I am on the verge of passing out.”

Hermione tilted her head at his display, then she snorted when he peaked a glance at her through his elbow.

“You’re not going to pass out, Draco.”

“I very well may expire at this rate.”

“I’ll make coffee before we go.”

Draco groaned, again, rather dramatically. “You are one relentless witch.”

“We must make haste. It’s time to get your lazy bones off the chaise. Don’t give me that look—no, stop pouting.”

“Twenty minutes to nap.”

“No.”

“Fifteen.”

“Draco—”

“ARRGGGHHH!” He yelled into the chaise cushion, muffling his scream. Hermione raised a brow when he took a deep breath and gave her that glacial glare of his. “Fine. If I’m to be dragged across the globe on your mad quest, I demand a shower first,” Draco declared as he stood, already halfway to the bathroom before Hermione’s wand summoned him back with an indignant tug at his sleeve.

(Draco decided that sort of wand work in the bedroom would make for an interesting escapade—but alas, no dime to dawdle on such dreams.)

“You are not. You’re helping me pack all of this up.”

He lifted his chin in challenge. “I'll be the one carrying all the scrolls and reports you insist we need—I should not have to pack them if I am to be the mule.”

“Of course you’ll be carrying them.”

“And the crate?”

She lifted her nose. “You're stronger than you look.”

“Darling, that is not a compliment.”

Ignoring him (her specialty), she began summoning items from various corners of the flat—books, maps, her travel cloak, their battered notebook crammed with meticulous notes. “Tut, tut, you poor darling—the international Floo opens at six, and we’re going to be the first in line.”

Draco groaned. “What happened to teamwork?”

“I'm delegating.”

“I don’t like your delegating. I’d prefer to be the one delegating for a change.”

“Denied.”

“You’re cruel.” Draco pouted, and then muttered something about tyranny under his breath but begrudgingly strode over to the pile of parchment, brushing past Crookshanks, who had been perched at the window ever since the owl had taken flight. “If I pass out in the middle of the Japanese Ministry, I’m blaming you.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Hermione said briskly, already scrawling out a list of last-minute details to check. This witch was so meticulous, but Salazar, he did adore her for it.

“Your ego would never allow for such a display.”

“Ha! My ego? I might just pass out for the fun of seeing how mortified you’d be.”

“You can embarrass yourself if you wish.”

“The only one who has a habit of embarrassing themselves is you, darling.” Draco said smoothly, but she only haughtily lifted her nose in the air.

“My skin is much thicker than you think.”

“Really?” Draco brushed a knuckle over her cheek, and grinned when she stuttered. “Quite soft, really.”

She swatted his chest and strode out of the dining room. “I’m Flooing Kingsley. No messing about!”



At seven sharp, they were striding through the atrium of the Ministry. Hermione’s enchanted bag was slung across her chest with all their luggage shrank down inside, sans crate with the artifacts within it. That was Draco’s responsibility. He was thankful it trundled noiselessly behind him, though they did get a few odd glances as they neared the International Floo’s.

Draco had acquiesced to Hermione wish to bring all of the artifacts, including the ones with recently bound yokai, in hopes that they could either find Tetsuya Shrine and return them (AKA figure out why and how they had even been taken from the location to begin with) and in the happenstance the Mahoutokoro staff would be able to glean anything worthy from the objects.

The International Floo departure was bustling, a constant swirl of green flames accompanied by witches and wizards stepping in and out with hurried efficiency. Draco looked around the lot of those who made up the queue in a single unimpressed sweep as Hermione led the way to the line for the Japanese Ministry of Magic international Floo connection in Tokyo

“You have yet to mention how exactly we are getting to the school from Tokyo,” he muttered, eyeing a witch ahead of them struggling with an oversized trunk. “Are we to Floo-hop across the archipelago?”

“Well,” Hermione began, handing over their stamped Floo travel authorization to the clerk. “I had hoped we could do that… but Mahoutokoro still isn’t on the Floo network. Minamoto is rather traditional.”

Draco’s nose wrinkled. “She considers Floo travel progressive?”

“When compared to flying? Yes.”

That had Draco perking up as they waited for their turn. “Oh, she fancies flying? I should’ve brought my broom. Shall I go back for it?”

The clerk waved them forward. “Next in line for the connection to the Japanese Ministry of Magic, Tokyo. Step in when the flames turn blue.”

Before Draco could retreat, Hermione grabbed his arm and pulled him forward. “No, you won’t need a broom. They use… carpets.”

Draco stopped short, incredulous. “Flying carpets?” A grin tugged at his lips. He’d heard the stories of Mahoutokoro’s unconventional transport methods, but he’d assumed it was nonsense.

“Yes, unfortunately.”

Draco smirked and gestured for Hermione to go first, lest she thought him ungentlemanly and his overarching plan to officially woo Hermione on the trip utterly flopped. Potter be damned—he wouldn’t fire him. Draco was certain of that. Draco was also certain that he would be much more competent in the assignment once his feelings were known, because then he could stop grappling over them like a lovesick teenage git and be wholly focused. Well, half-certain. It was a running theory.

Hermione shot him a warning look but stepped into the fireplace without hesitation, her chin held high. Draco followed suit, offering her his arm. She accepted it with a brief nod, sidling closer as the flames flared blue, then green, engulfing them in a whirl of magic. The journey was long—seven spinning, stomach-churning minutes of flashing green light.

They emerged in the immaculate marble atrium of the Japanese Ministry of Magic. Draco strode out first, unruffled, while Hermione stumbled after him, her face decidedly green and her composure less intact. He took a moment to take in their surroundings. Where the British Ministry had a grand fountain, this atrium was dominated by a massive, enchanted cherry blossom tree in eternal bloom.

“Are those… fairies?” Draco asked, squinting up at the delicate, glowing creatures flitting between the branches.

“Yes,” Hermione croaked, patting down her robes and brushing off residual soot before flicking her wand over her person. She straightened with a modicum of pride in her new robes, though her expression betrayed her lingering Floo-induced discomfort.

Draco’s gaze flicked to her attire and raised a speculative brow. Hermione now wore traditionally styled Japanese magical robes. They were the soft pink of cherry blossoms fading into a warm, sunset orange—and they were silk. This had Draco grinning. True, they weren’t the kind of silk Draco wished to see her in, but he wouldn’t get picky. He brushed a finger over the wide, flowing sleeves inlaid with golden tracery at the hems, and then tugged at the intricate golden obi tied at her waist.

The whole bit gave her a rather polished and distinctly magical appearance.

“Very traditional, Granger. You look very smart.”

Hermione glared, tugging at the edge of her sleeve. “I thought it was respectful,” she muttered. “Is it too much?”

“No,” Draco murmured and bent down to pick up a rogue cherry blossom that had settled by the toe of his dragonhide boots. He brushed her hair back and tucked the flower behind her ear, knuckles skimming over her jaw as he pulled his hand away. “You look perfect.”

Her face turned a furious shade of fuchsia, and he enjoyed the way she opted to clear her throat before asking: “Shall we crack on?”

Draco chuckled, following her as she led the way through the foreign atrium.

Where the British Ministry of Magic was moody and dark, all cold, hard edges and sharp green and black stone, the Japanese Ministry of Magic was its contrast in every way. High ceilings stretched skyward; their sweeping arches carved with intricate patterns that spoke of traditional Japanese latticework. Natural light poured into the vast atrium from enchanted skylights, their charms shifting with the sun’s movement, which led to a divine glow about the place. Everything was bathed in soft, golden light—including Hermione.

She bowed slightly to witches and wizards as they passed, murmuring well wishes and greetings that had Draco blinking. Salazar, had they transcended into another dimension? He tried to fix his face, to smooth away the perpetual scowl, but he felt his English blood almost rebel at the prospect.

He had expected odd looks—after all, he towered over the majority of those they passed, his pale blond hair and jet-black robes marking him as unmistakably foreign among the sea of soft colored robes undulating around him.. Yet, no one openly stared. Either they didn’t notice him, or they were far too polite to gawk.

He adjusted his high collar, feeling more self-conscious by the moment. Perhaps he’d ask Hermione to transfigure his robes. He did look rather fetching in blue…

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Hermione sighed wistfully; her gaze fixed on the gently swaying branches of the cherry blossom tree at the heart of the atrium.

Draco, who had been watching the way her curls bounced down the slope of her spine, murmured, “Beautiful.”

They were very clearly talking about entirely different things.

The floor beneath their feet was a mosaic of polished wood and stone, arranged in precise, harmonious patterns. Hermione explained that they reflected the balance of magic and nature, and then gestured to the delicate streams of water that trickled through narrow, embedded channels in the floor.

“Lends to a rather tranquil melody to the air, doesn’t it?”

“It does.” Draco agreed.

“The cherry blossom tree is thousands of years old—a testament to the Japanese Ministry’s intention to remain connected to nature.”

“Did it come with the building?” Draco asked, sniggering. This earned him a hard thwak to the shoulder from a fan she had pulled out of the depths of her billowing sleeves.

Heat flooded through his groin, and his cock stirred awake—wonderful. He was now half-hard walking through the Japanese Ministry.

“Har-har, you’re hilarious.”

Draco just couldn’t help himself. “Hit me with the fan again and we’ll see how funny I am.”

She made a face, because she knew his tones and innuendos well.

“You’re vile.”

Draco shrugged, cavalierly. “Anything involving you makes for a delightful fantasy, darling.”

Hermione hesitated, though her whiskey eyes were bright with mirth. “Don’t tell me you have a degradation kink, Draco.”

He grinned fiendishly, and leaned close enough his lips brushed the shell of her ear. “Tell me I’m a good boy, darling.”

She flushed crimson and began a brisk pace away from him, her robes swaying as they passed under the tree’s sprawling branches. Draco followed behind, slipping his arms behind his back as he took a leisurely stroll, the wagon rolling at his back, He glanced at her bum, but frowned when he realized the layered, flowing robes hid it from view. That was a rather sad fact.

His favorite pastime was staring at her bum.

(Draco hoped she would bring those Muggle jeans with her. He loved the ones that flared wide at the hem—they made her arse look positively delectable.)

There was buzzing in his ear, and then a fairy whisked past him and flit between the blossoms. Its delicate wings caught the light from the ceiling in prismatic shimmers that cast rainbows across Draco’s face. He paused, gazing up at the enchanted tree. For a moment, he forgot where he was—or why they had come. All he could think of was how utterly captivating magic could be when wielded with purpose and beauty.

Or perhaps, it wasn’t just magic.

Draco, for once, found himself at a loss for words. His gray eyes swept over the expansive atrium, lingering on the ornate bridges arching gracefully over the larger streams. Softly glowing lanterns cast warm light across a wall of paper screens that lined the towering four floors flanking the atrium, each level fitted with balconied walkways. Even the Ministry staff moved with unhurried precision, their robes a harmonious palette of blush, gold, and soft blues, blending seamlessly with their serene surroundings.

Hermione led them toward the reception desk that curved gracefully around the back of the cherry blossom tree. Behind the desk stood a witch in robes adorned with subtle patterns of cranes in flight, her dark hair swept into a sleek bun at the nape of her neck. She bowed as they approached.

“Welcome to the Japanese Ministry of Magic, my name is Sakura Ito.” She greeted them with a soft, kind smile. “May I see your papers, please?”

“Yes, hello,” Hermione inclined her head in return and handed over both her and Draco’s papers.

“May I ask why you are visiting, Miss Granger and Mr. Malfoy?”

Hermione brightened immediately, as if this were her moment to shine. “We’re here to travel to Mahoutokoro for research—Mr. Malfoy is an Auror with the DMLE, and I work within the Department of Mysteries as a researcher. He is here with me as my protective detail.” She gestured toward Draco, who opted to look far too bored to be anyone’s bodyguard, protective or otherwise. He didn’t wish to raise any alarm bells with the foreign official.

The witch’s gaze moved from Draco to the wagon with the crate, her dark eyes scanning the kanji burned into the wood. “I see. And the crate?”

“The origin of our research,” Hermione said with enthusiasm that seemed boundless.

“May I ask what is within the crate?”

Hermione’s grin did not falter, and she launched into an explanation. “Edo Period artifacts! Fascinating pieces, really.”

“Are they dark or cursed objects, Miss Granger?”

“Oh, no. You may cast a detection charm if you wish—you’ll find that they’re all different pieces with significant magical signatures, much like fingerprints—so interesting, really. But no active magic radiates from them—it is the most fun mystery—really, it’s been quite the puzzle. They were brought to me at the British Ministry to be unsealed, and what I ended up finding out was that the best approach seemed to combine Eastern and Western magical traditions while studying them. I believe they could be connected to ancient esoteric magi practices we haven’t seen recorded in hundreds of years—” She didn’t pause for breath, her hands now gesticulating wildly as she tried to explain the research in finer detail.

The witches polite smile began to falter as Hermione veered into theories about ancient deities, ley lines, and the potential cross-cultural magical exchanges during the Edo Period. Her gaze flickered uneasily to Draco, whose expression suggested he was quietly enjoying Hermione’s academic flood, especially given how she failed to notice the witch’s discomfort.

(Watching his witch in her element always made for rather stimulating imaginings.)

“I see,” the receptionist finally interrupted, holding up a hand. “Your papers are in order.” She reached for her stamp, pressing it firmly on their travel documents before sliding them back across the desk. “I will mark you as cleared. Please proceed to the East Departure Hall where you may exit the Ministry through the Torii Gate into Meiji Shrine if you wish to enter Maguru Tokyo.”

“Oh, thank you!” Hermione said brightly, taking the papers. “Before we go, could you please tell me the hours of operation for Shinsei Kin'yuu?”

“The bank is open until six today, Miss Granger. If you wish to exchange your currency, please exit through the Otemon in the West Departure Hall to enter Hōjō tsūro.”

Hermione bowed slightly. “Thank you. Would you also happen to know when the next ferry from Takeshiba Pier to Chicihijima is? Is there a boarding for this evening?”

The receptionist smiled apologetically, though it was a bit tight-lipped. “The last ferry to the Ogasawara Islands left at four—the next departure will be on Sunday the 12th at five a.m. Would you like me to request a Portkey for you to travel beforehand? I’m afraid there is no way to Portkey you directly to the school—you’ll need to take the flying carpets from Chichijima—but I’m sure you’re aware of that fact.”

“Why doesn’t Japan have Floo connections beyond the main island?” Draco cut in, suddenly curious.

“We believe it best to experience Japan without haste, sir,” the receptionist answered smoothly, smiling faintly at Draco. He offered a rakish grin in response, which made the witch blush—Hermione stomped on his toe, and that grin quickly turned into a grimace.

“Right,” he choked out.

“Thank you for the offer, but we’ll wait for the next ferry.” Hermione glanced sheepishly at Draco. “Unless you really want—”

“No,” Draco cut in quickly. “We can wait.”

He wasn’t exactly nonchalant, but he hadn’t excited tried very hard to bury his excitement at potentially having two whole uninterrupted days with Hermione, and his faint smile was proof of that. Merlin favored him, it seemed. (That running theory on there not being any serious hazards to wooing Hermione was beginning to solidify at the edges.)

Hermione nodded, and a twin flash of excitement to his own flared bright in her whiskey eyes. She turned back to address the receptionist, still smiling. “All righty, then. Thank you again!”

The witch bowed. “Enjoy your stay.”

Hermione responded in kind with her own short bow, and Draco followed suit. A lot of bowing was happening here—he’d have to ask Hermione about that later.

Draco began to step away from the desk, but Hermione stayed rooted to her spot. “If you ever want to discuss the significance of proto-magic practices, I’d be happy to—”

“Next in line, please,” the receptionist called, already looking past them.

Hermione turned with a sheepish smile and headed in the direction of the West Departure Hall. Draco, trailing after her, seized the moment to tease her.

“Did you just lie to a foreign government official?” He whispered in her ear, chuffing a laugh when she shoved him away.

“Of course not,” Hermione replied briskly. “I simply omitted a few key details.”

“What, pray tell, exactly is your definition of ‘not dangerous’?” Draco asked, glancing at the wagon he had charmed to follow them without needing to pull it himself. There was a certain lack of dignity he found in pulling a little red wagon—after watching Theo do so during their last expedition into battle with the batty biwa spirit. (Draco hated to think he looked as simple as Theo had when he was the one in charge of the wagon.)

Hermione lifted her nose in the air rather primly. “I suppose I could use you as an example for such an adjective.”

“That’s not the same thing.” Draco said, though he felt the tips of his ears prick with heat for the most absurd reason. Had she thought Draco the dangerous sort? Hm, that oddly thrilled him.

“The artifacts aren’t necessarily dangerous—only once a month.”

“That sounds like a lie rather than a simple omission.”

“It’s diplomacy, Draco.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’ll remember that the next time Potter accuses me of lying. ‘I was being diplomatic,’ I’ll say.”

“Do let me know how that goes,” she quipped, quickening her pace.

They weaved through a small crowd of witches and wizards to reach the gate. It was a rather imposing structure, with two dark wooden pillars built into a stone wall that supported the gate, standing well over six meters tall. It had a gabled roof with dark ridged tiles that gleamed beneath the charmed skylights. As they neared, Draco took note that between the pillars, a shimmering ward was in place, casting a soft, ethereal glow.

Hermione’s pace didn’t falter, and so Draco followed suit. He cast glances about and found his perusal satisfying—no immediate dangers or side-eyed looks were cast their way. Just before they stepped through, Draco resigned to take hold of the wagon’s handle when Hermione gave him a pointed glare.

Together they stepped through the gate and Draco noted there was a faint tugging sensation along his person as they pressed against the ward, like his shoes were stuck in tar. And then they were through, and the tugging ceased. He blinked, somewhat disoriented and took in their surroundings.

“This is the Diagon Alley of Magical Japan,” Hermione explained as they walked, her face alight with pure joy as she took in the street unfurling before them.

It was vibrant and humming with activity. The main thoroughfare was alive with the cacophony of voices, the clink of coins, and the occasional burst of magical sparks from various carted vendors. The scent of street food filled the air—steamed buns, grilled skewers, and sweet, warm confections—while witches and wizards in bright robes hawked enchanted trinkets, magical herbs, and shimmering fabrics from their carts.

There was fluted music curling in the air, growing louder the deeper inside the district they walked. Beyond the lively market stalls there were glass-fronted shops, nestled between the chaotic magic-filled bazaar, their windows displaying elegant, well-crafted magical goods. From what Draco could make out, there was many shops similar to those in Diagon Alley. Robes, wands, quidditch gear, flying carpets and brooms. There were even a few restaurants and cafes, and Draco was pleased to see there were no less than four bookshops. (That had Hermione’s eyes twinkling like stars, and she went on to exclaim that there being two more bookshops than there had been the last time she visited was ‘very stimulating’.)

He somehow managed to hold his tongue on what else could be stimulating, deciding to save that commentary for a more opportune moment when he could actually see it through.

 Draco’s boots clicked almost soundlessly on the cobbled but smooth streets, and everywhere he looked there was something new to take in. Colors exploded all around them—an array of crimson, azure, and gold. Shop display banners glittered with enchantments, shifting between different lines of text as they gently swayed in the September breeze. The sky was a beautiful expanse above them, warm with the approaching sunset, awash in pink, orange and lavender behind fluffy, white clouds.

As Hermione led them around a corner, Draco’s face slackened. They were greeted by hundreds, if not thousands, of round red lanterns charmed to gently bob midair. Some had kanji, others had different animals painted on them, both magical and mundane. As they passed beneath them, they began to flicker to life, one after another, their red glow warm and radiant.

“They’re called chochin—paper lanterns with bamboo frameworks. The pictures are charmed to move. Oh, look! That one has a dragon on it. Such a lovely bit of magic, don’t you think?”

“Hm,” Draco hummed in agreement as he gazed up at the lantern Hermione pointed to, and he found himself smiling at the slithering dragon above them. Its tail snapped as it let out a great plume of fire that made Hermione squeal with glee.

She was busy pointing out other animals—a Gryffindor, and then a monkey, and ‘Oh, Draco. It’s a Hippogriff!”—but Draco was too busy staring at Hermione to hear anything beyond his own pulse thundering in his ears. His torso began to tingle like a million tiny needles were pressing into his skin, and he felt himself enraptured by her joy. It was spilling out of her, undiluted and pure, and Draco wanted very badly to take her face in his hands and kiss her dimpled cheeks.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, stepping close to her side. His chest was tight, and he found himself nearly breathless. He inhaled deeply, needing oxygen to cease the lightheadedness. It only made him dizzier when he caught her scent. Saffron. Strawberries. She smelled of dreams, and happiness, and everything good in his world.

“They are, aren’t they?”

(Again, they were talking about two very different things.)

Hermione sighed wistfully and resigned to move along, stopping at various windows to gaze inside at the many different wares on display, musing aloud that they needed to come back after they visited the bank to exchange their currency so they could secured lodging.

Draco wished to tell her he would buy her anything she wanted—every lantern, every sweet, every little knickknack. He would gladly allow her to fill his arms with bags upon bags of goods if it made her light up the way the lanterns had.

Hermione led them down another side street, gesticulating wildly about an itinerary they should formulate. Draco nodded along, lost to his thoughts and his feelings for her and how they were wildly starting to spin out of control. He had thought he had a firm grasp on them, but Hermione’s joy was infecting his psyche, and all the suave planning he had to woo her were starting to feel very rather rocky.

In the near distance, Draco spotted a massive temple-like building. It had bold red wooden beams and very thick columns, and despite its size, it appeared to rise gracefully over three or four levels, tapering slightly as it ascended towards the sky.

Each level was adorned with ornate railings and intricate fretwork painted in gold accents, and the tiered roofs were crowned with sloping black gabled roofs, their corners curling upwards. Gold finials perched at the peak of each roof, catching the last bit of the sun’s rays as it descended behind it.

They stopped before a wide stone staircase that led up to the main entrance, where large vermilion doors seemed less than inviting.

(Draco asked if this was Japan’s version of Gringotts, and Hermione confirmed it was.)

“I feel rather ashamed of our soil’s counterpart.” Draco mused, cocking an ashen brow.

“We are a somewhat dreary lot, aren’t we?”

“Yes, quite.” Draco agreed. “Is that why the English are so depressed—because we ignore the concept of color entirely?”

Hermione laughed, and it was a beautiful, tinkling sort of sound. It was a new laugh—a softer, more feminine sound. Salazar, his bollocks were growing tight again.

Slyly, he adjusted his trousers and followed Hermione’s quick ascent. He held open the ridiculously heavy door for her and was pleased to note that the interior was similar to Gringotts.

This, for once today, was familiar territory.

They made quick work exchanging their currency with the goblin that had called them forward, checking their papers, and then their wands to confirm their identities. Draco had withdrawn a significant number of galleons before their trip. And when he placed his coin purse on the desk for the goblin to exchange, he gave Draco a dry glare.

He returned twenty minutes later with kinban, ginban, and dōban. The kinban were oblong gold pieces with square cut outs in the center, and the silver and copper pieces followed suit in style, save for the fact that they grew smaller to reflect their value.

Hermione’s exchange was briefer, and he received an equally dry look from the witch as they made their way out of the bank. Draco merely shrugged, and then she called him a rich prat, to which Draco only grinned and asked her what she wanted him to buy for her first.

A room for them to stay in for the next two nights was what she wanted, and so after a few questions for directions from locals, they were eventually directed to a very swanky hotel.

Upon arriving, they were informed the hotel only had one room left, but it was a suite on the top floor—we are so very sorry, there is to be a festival tomorrow in Tokyo, we have been booked up for months—Draco waved off the apology and said they would take the room. He paid for their stay and asked for dinner to be sent up, and together he and Hermione made their way to the lift, little red wagon still in toe.

They arrived on the eleventh floor and walked down the corridor towards their room numbered 222, which Draco admitted aloud seemed like a good sign. (He was rather fond of even numbers.)

Upon opening the door, Draco immediately noticed two things.

First, it was bloody massive—which he supposed shouldn’t be surprising since the concierge told him it was a suit, but because Draco thought the cost of their stay was cheap, he worried they might have been duped.

Second—there was only one bed.

Hermione stopped short and blinked. “Oh.”

“Yes.” Draco said, his voice more akin to a rasp.

There was a faint blush beneath Hermione’s smattering of freckles, and her mouth was a pursed pink line. She took a step towards the single, king-sized bed and cast a weary glance back to Draco. It was now well past eight—they had spent much of the early evening walking through the massive district searching for adequate room and board. (Draco’s fault, really. He had insisted on something nicer than the few places they had originally been directed towards.)

She chewed on her lip, and Draco thought he should ask if she wished for him to transfigure the chaise into a small bed for himself. A sensible, respectable wizard would outright offer the bed to the witch before him—but when it came to Hermione, Draco found he was neither sensible nor respectful. (His thoughts, mainly.)

“It’s all right.” She finally said after the many long seconds they had spent staring at one another.

He almost breathed a sigh of relief, but instead he smoothed his features into a neutral position and slipped his hands into his pockets. (If only to hide the nervous twisting of his signet ring, because Salazar—sharing a bed with Hermione was among the top five things he fantasied about, platonic or otherwise. He already had a taste of it once, and it was not even close to quenching his thirst.)

“Are you sure?”

She chewed on her lip, and he zeroed in on the action. Yes, there it was again—all the blood in his body shifting to his groin and making his cock half-hard at the simplest of things.

“Yes… it’ll be fine.” She lifted her nose in the air and crossed her arms. “We can share the bed.”

Draco scarcely breathed, and she noticed his stiffness and took it for discomfort.

“Unless—”

“No.” he interjected, much too quickly. Gods, what was it about her that made him act like a teenage git? Where was his suave? “I’m fine with it if you are.”

“Right.” She said, just as quickly as he had spoken his refusal. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

His palms grew annoyingly clammy inside his trouser pockets, and so he took them out from beneath his robes. Then they just awkwardly hung at his sides, and he desperately needed to do something with them, so he removed his cloak and tossed it on the back of the chair at the breakfast nook. Now his hands were empty again, and so he was back to fiddling with his signet ring.

Right. Suave. (It obviously no longer existed.)

“Yes, okay.” She affirmed, but she seemed to be talking to herself more than Draco. “It’s fine.”

Her firm tone had him blinking, but he wasn’t going to argue. Not when it meant he got to share a bed with the witch he wanted more than his next breath.

The knock on the door saved both of them from any more awkward stumbling over their choice of sharing a bed. He was quick to answer it, and found a trolley with two trays of food, a chilled bottle of rice wine, and a lit candle in the middle of a vase full of purple wisteria. He stared at the dinner tolly for a hot second, and very suddenly the concierge’s wink at Draco before handing over the keys made quite a bit of sense.

The wizard had thought Draco and Hermione were a couple. On holiday. For… romantic… purposes. (Which, if all went to plan, they sort of were—aside from the fact that they were actually here to solve mysteries of ancient Japanese artifacts and what-not, but that was a problem for the future—one Draco would not be thinking about for exactly two days.)

Hermione appeared at his side, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. She peered up at him with a quizzical expression. “Oh, I forgot you ordered dinner. Well—it’s really more like lunch, isn’t it?”

Draco grunted (his capability for speech and thought had left his body then moment he opened the door) and pulled the trolley inside. They settled at the round table near the kitchenette—Hermione gracefully, Draco stiffly. Hermione sat in the tufted booth in the corner, Draco in the knobby wooden chair opposite her. She levitated the trays down, and that soft smile bloomed once more when she noticed the flower arrangement with the candle, and instead of ignoring it like Draco had opted to—she settled to place it down as a centerpiece.

Well, then.

They ate in relative, companionable silence—mainly because Draco was starved and was scarfing down his food like a beast, and Hermione had taken to looking out the glass doors to their suite’s terrace. The rice wine was sweet, and so he drank heavily from his glass and poured himself and Hermione a second glass each when he noticed her’s was also nearly empty.

“Shall we go down and explore?” Hermione asked once they had both vanished their trays and taken their drinks to the terrace. There was a soft breeze floating past them, and together they looked out towards the twinkling horizon, and then down to the bustling streets far below. “There appears to be a little party happening.”

“The concierge mentioned a festival happening tomorrow,” Draco said absently, twirling the wine in his glass. He leaned his forearms on the railing and gazed down at the passerby’s. “Though the lot of them appear to be starting early.”

Hermione huffed a laugh and joined him in his leaning. Their shoulders brushed, then their pinkies. She didn’t pull away, so neither did he.

“It’s probably for the Sanja festival. It’s traditionally held in the Asakusa district at the Asakusa Shrine and the locals call it Sanja-sama. It means Shrine of the Three gods.”

“Which gods?”

“It’s a long story,” Hermione mumbled. “You’ll probably find it silly since it’s a Muggle tale.”

“Tell me the story, Granger.” She turned her head and looked away from him, but he caught the faint blush rising on her cheeks. Draco knocked their shoulders together. “Please?”

“Fine,” she mumbled, and took a long pull of her wine before she settled into swot mode. “So, sometime around 628 CE—”

“Rather specific date.”

“Hush.”

“I’m just saying, if you’re going to begin a story with ‘sometime around’ I expect a less specific date.”

She glared at him and his teasing sent her into a full swot mode. “In 626 CE, during the Asuka Period, two fishermen brothers, Hamanari and Takenari, were fishing in the Sumida River.”

“Where’s that?”

“It flows through central Tokyo.” She answered smoothly. “Now, please refrain from asking anymore questions until my lecture is concluded.”

His eyebrows shot up, and he had a brand new hot-for-professor fantasy churning about in the deprived recesses of his mind.

“Yes, darling.”

“As I was saying…” she cleared her throat with one more pointed glance. “There were two brothers out to fish one day and as they cast their nets, they pulled up an unexpected catch: a small golden statue of the Bodhisattva Kannon.”

Draco opened his mouth and then promptly shut it when she gave him a glare that should have shriveled his bollocks into blueberries—it did no such thing. The opposite, in fact.

“Before you ask—she was the goddess of mercy.” Hermione paused, expecting Draco’s barrage of questions, but he lifted his fingers to gesture that his lips were sealed and locked. (He even threw away the key.) She rolled her eyes and continued: “The brothers were confused by the discovery and so they took the statue to Nakatomo, a wealthy and influential local who was well-versed in Buddhism. Nakatomo recognized the significance of the find and encouraged the brothers to enshrine the statue to bring blessings and protection to their community. Nakatomo himself converted to Buddhism and devoted his life to spreading the teachings of Kannon. So, together, the three men built a small temple to house the statue, which eventually became the foundation of Senso-ji Temple, the grand Buddhist temple that remains one of Japan’s most iconic landmarks.”

“So… why are they gods?”

“They were recognition for their contributions towards preserving Buddhism and thus deified after their deaths because of it. Then they were enshrined as kami—Shinto deities—in Asakusa Shrine sometime in the 1600’s by Tokugawa Iemitsu, the third Tokugawa shogun.”

“And now people party for them?”

“Yes, but it’s more than just a party, Draco. The festival is a religious expression of gratitude and a community celebration of cultural heritage.”

“How do you know all of this?” Draco then queried, because honestly, he was intrigued. It was a lot of knowledge to clack around in one person’s head, enlarged brain or otherwise.

“I’ve been fascinated by the culture since I was a child.” She said with a soft shrug that had her brushing up against him again. “My dad loves history, and thus so do I.” He could feel the warmth permeating off her person, and the silk of her dress ticked his elbow where it rubbed against his skin. “As you know, I also spent a good chunk of time in Japan researching for my dissertation so… I learned a lot.”

“Fascinating.” Draco admitted, his voice thick with more than mere admiration. The wine was settling into his veins, lightening his head, and his skin felt warm from more than just her closeness. He turned his head to look at her, finding her attention already fixed on his profile. “You truly are a brilliant witch, Granger.”

She blushed, and it was such a pretty color beneath the flickering light from the sconce above them. Subtle and soft, like the cherry blossom tucked behind her ear. It hadn’t wilted yet, so Draco reached out and brushed his fingertips against its silky petals.

Her hand instinctively reached up, their fingers tangled together, and they both gasped softly at the zap of electricity that pulsed between them. Neither of them pulled away. They stayed suspended like that, their fingers barely touching, their breaths staccato, eyes locked.

A sharp boom echoed in the distance, followed by the cacophony of laughter as a firework whizzed past the terrace and exploded into the night sky. A dragon and a lion, ironically. Their green and golden flashes reflected in Hermione’s wide brown eyes.

Beautiful suddenly felt like such a small adjective—such a weak word to describe Hermione.

She was beautiful in a way that should be revered, and Draco believed that she should be worshiped like the goddess in her story. She would be a goddess of wit, of charm, of beauty and knowledge, of bravery; resilience and joy. Hermione was all of those things. She was everything.

She was more.

The feeling hit him again, as it had at dinner at the manor, as it had so many other moments both big and small, but this time it rocked through him harder. It was a full-body experience. His skin tingled, the hairs on his arms stood on end, and every muscle screamed at him to act on this truth. His love for her was pure and overwhelming.

He still wasn’t sure when exactly this feeling had slipped into his being, but it was there now—everywhere. In his mind, his bones, his flesh, and sinew. It was in his heart and soul, and he wondered how he had ever lived without it.

And then, with a sudden clarity, he realized he didn’t want to live without it.

“Hermione—” He began to say, but all the suave in the world couldn’t have prepared him for the next moment. His words stopped when she grabbed the back of his neck and pulled his face down to hers.

He might have blamed the three glasses of wine they had for what happened next, or the exhaustion of travel, or the fact that there were unspoken feelings between them that only seemed to grow more fervent the longer they spent in nearness. But he wouldn’t.

The fireworks boomed beyond the terrace, a kaleidoscope of color and sound, but Draco sensed nothing but the pliant and soft body against him. Her lips were hot, and insistent, and she tasted of sweet wine and joy.

He drew her hard against him, palms splaying around her back, slipping down over the curve of her bum. He groaned at the feel of the firm flesh in his hands through the silk of her dress, and when he squeezed, he nearly came undone at the breathy moan she released into his mouth.

He kept waiting for her to draw back, to gasp and demand they forget it ever happened—but she did no such thing.

Her fingers slipped into the threads of the short hair at the nape of his neck, tugging him closer, kissing him harder. There was no softness to this kiss. It felt rather like a claiming, one Draco was very happy to comply with.

He had thought he might find some mountain to wax some long, thought-out poetic soliloquy, perhaps a bit of Shakespeare—shall I compare thee to a summer’s day, thou art more lovely and more temperate (well, she wasn’t very temperate, but the precedent stood as it was)—and then he would take her in his arms and kiss her tenderly.

It was becoming very clear that Hermione did not want such tenderhearted romantics.

Nails dug into his scalp, her breathy moans mingled with his own, and the way she grasped and gasped against him had such a raw, aching need unfurling low in his gut.

He lost all suave and simply became something more akin to a sublime being.

He lifted her off the ground when his neck began to ache from ducking down so far to reach her lips. Her feet dangled in the air, and her mouth slanted over his in such a devastating way that all he found himself capable of doing was to sweep his tongue into her mouth.

From there, tongues danced, hands roamed, and Draco began the short walk back into their suit. He set her down gently on the bed, and he stood between her parted thighs, slowly making his way  to cage her in beneath him. The bed dipped under his knees, and his palms splayed on either side of her bum.

Their lips never left one another’s, and that was more than fine with Draco—he would rather suffocate than let this feeling slip away—but alas, the need for oxygen had both of them drawing apart long enough to look at each other.

Her eyes were two dark pools of chocolate, molten and hungry as she stared into his guarded grey gaze. Was he to say something? Or were they to simply exist, to share their bodies and their breaths and save the barring of souls for a less heated moment? He swallowed, gaze flicking down to the yellow silk, embroidered dress she had slipped into after dinner. It was high-necked, tied with a simple bow at the top of her spine, leaving her shoulders and arms bare. It went to her ankles, but there was a split on either side up to the middle of thighs.

He stared at the exposed skin of her knee, of her calves, then back to the expanse of inner thigh peaking out as the slit widened with the spread of her legs. He groaned, and his attention snapped up to meet hers.

He watched, enraptured, as she took a hard breath and lifted her hands. He tracked the slow rise of her fingers to where they disappeared beneath the swathe of curls spilling over her shoulders and down her back. The bow was pulled free, and Draco held his breath as the top of her dress fell down, exposing her full breasts as her dress became nothing more than bunched silk at her waist

He wet his lips, salivating at the sight of her so exposed—and became wholly undone when her pert, blush pink nipples hardened under his gaze. They both shuddered, and then met for a soft, delicate joining of lips as he laid her down upon the mattress.

He kissed a trail of fire down the column of her neck, relishing the way her chest rose in fell in rapid succession from his ministrations. Her fingers made quick work on the buttons of his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders as he drew closer to her breasts. He kissed between the valley of them, and licked the hallow of her sternum before making his way back to her breast, where he kissed one, and then took the other into his mouth.

A balmy breeze swept into the suite from the open terrace doors, and as they slowly undressed, the flashing lights of fireworks danced with their shadows in the faint light of the room.

He swirled his tongue around her nipple, lapping at it hungrily. He lifted a hand to palm her other breast and pushed her dress past her hips with his free hand. She writhed beneath him, nails digging into his scalp, dragging over his shoulders, his biceps.

Draco…”

His name on her lips was a hymn he would never forget.

His shirt fell to the ground, the sound just a soft swish of fabric as it met carpet, and she pulled his belt free from his trousers. She pushed his trousers down to his knees with her feet with much impatience, and then her hands brushed against his erection through his pants.

She palmed him, and he moaned, for he was aching and hard, and he felt heavy in both mind and body.

She whined when he grazed his teeth across her throat, and then soothed the bite with a soft kiss.

She was bare save for her knickers beneath him, squirming as he dragged his palm over her taut stomach. He ran his fingertips along the juncture between her pelvis and thigh, playing with the delicate lace of her knickers. A slight smile rose on his lips against her throat when her hips bucked.

His kisses became hot and heavy as he dragged himself down her body, nipping with teeth and then soothing the sting with flicks of his tongue. He ran his nose against her hipbone and dropped his face down between her thighs. He inhaled deeply, moaning when he met the sweet, musky scent of her cunt. He kissed her through the lace and began to tug her knickers down. She lifted her hips, and then the lace joined the pile of clothing on the floor.

He pressed his mouth against her cunt and found she was wet, and warm. He tasted her, a slow, laborious pass of his tongue between the gorgeous folds, and he bucked his hips against the mattress. His cock was aching to be inside the heat, to feel her cunt clench around him as he coaxed her over the edge, but he had other plans first.

He pressed a finger into her, humming as she gasped and writhed. She was tight and soaked, so he suckled and lapped until she was pliant. He added another finger, and then together they found a steady rhythm of fingers and tongue and the undulating of her hips.

He palmed her breasts, pinched her nipples, tugged on her waist as he devoured her, savoring every flick of his tongue, every breathy, harsh moan he elicited from his ministrations.

She came with a hard, gasping exhale, quivering as he lapped up every drop from her cunt as she contracted and bucked and thrashed against his face and his fingers.

He kissed his way back up her body, taking his time, memorizing every dip, every curve, every divot. She had a mole on the left side of her stomach, just below her ribcage, and freckles on her chest and shoulders from the sun. He kissed every mark, and then he was above her, his mouth meeting hers.

She was sweet, and he was salty, but this only made her kiss him harder as she palmed his cock and brought him closer to the apex between her thighs.

His fingers, still sticky and wet from her release, twined into her curls. She didn’t seem to mind.

They drew apart to watch their joining, and he flicked his gaze to hers a moment before she guided him home. Still dark, and full of desire.

He pushed as she lifted. Then he was half-enveloped in her tight, wet, heat. His restraint was thin as a thread.

Her knees fell wide, her thighs opened further, and Draco sank to the hilt, enchanted by how well their bodies melded together so seamlessly.

There wasn’t space for words—there was just this, the gentle glide of hips, the soft cadence of breaths and the brush of lips and tongues as they became one, their hearts a steady rhythm inside of their chests.

His forehead dropped to hers, and their eyes locked and stayed that way. Her mouth fell open, and he kissed her gently, sweetly, until they could no longer take such soft intimacies.

Then it was hard, and rough. It was a claiming, a devouring, a marking of wants and the memories of long-winded fantasies coming into fruition. Slapping of skin and the grating of teeth. Low-bellied moans and gasps, and “Draco, Draco, Draco—”

She clenched around his cock, and he groaned into her mouth, finding that same edge, tumbling over it with her. He emptied himself inside of her, hands holding her face, lips crushing her own, and then his hips slowed their fervent pace until they were both spent and spineless.

Their laborious breaths were all that remained—for the fireworks had stopped, but the light between them was far from extinguished.

Notes:

Holy! Moly! 8.4k HITS! You guys did that! Wowowowow!

Thank you all for your continued support! The comments/kudos and subs seriously make my day and give me so much inspiration to keep writing!

I hope you enjoyed this chapter, I seriously could not hold out any longer for the last scene, I was chomping at the bit to finally be able to post it!

What do we think? Are we tickled pink that Hermione was the one to initiate it? What about Draco’s mad dash of overthinking/humor even while snogging the daylights out of Hermione? Lol I just had to keep his wit in there.

A bit of an update beyond my rambling: So, bad news—my laptop has decided to abandon me after a faithful five years of being my loyal writing partner.

Good news, hubby is an IT wiz and is working on fixing it so I can get back to writing for you all! I’ll be doing my best to edit the next chapter on my phone (I’m rather squirrelly when it comes to editing and writing on my phone so we shall see how far I make it with this endeavor.)

With that said, I don’t believe I will be able to finish this story before Christmas, buuuuut I guess that just means I’ll end up tagging on another 50k words (on top of the 100k I have mapped out already) for you dolls for the inconvenience.

Thank you for your patience, your love, and your support. Endless cookies and music and yummy goodies this holiday season to you all in the meantime! Hoping to be able to get the next chapter out before the New Year BUT if I do not succeed, I’m looking forward to seeing all those lovely, familiar icons and handles in the comment second next year! (Heh heh)

Wishing you a season filled with warmth, joy, and love! Whether you’re celebrating Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, the New Year, or simply enjoying the magic of the winter season, may your days be bright and your nights full of peace. Feliz Navidad, Happy Hanukkah, Joyous Kwanzaa, and Happy Holidays to all!

Toodles!

For anyone wanting to hear about future updates or just wants to know how my writing is going OR has any questions, head to my tumblr page! I'd love to chat! <3

Chapter 10: The Sixth Code

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Day Ninety-Seven: Friday, 10th of September 2009

Granger’s Twenty-Fourth Rule for Surviving Magical Chaos:

Consider Every Option

Mistakes made in the field can be deadly—so, try not to make any.

(Malfoy’s Note: Comforting, darling.)

 

----

 

Slivers of pre-dawn light touched the darkest corners of the room like knives of cyan and pale pink. Hermione squinted at the dust that danced in the shafts of soft light—it looked like glittering sand, reminding her of holidays with her parents in Australia, bare feet racing through the sand as she ran from her father, shrieking with laughter. She felt her eyes grow heavy again at the memory, smiling drowsily until the beginnings of a headache pulsed at her temples.

Christ, she’d forgotten how strong the wine was here. What a wild dream—

The sheets rustled, and Hermione’s eyes flew open. She stiffened when she felt petal-soft kisses tracing the curve of her shoulder. Slowly, she turned her head, and those kisses brushed up the side of her throat. Brushing against the cut of her jaw, the curve of her chin, and the swell of her cheek.

Her breath hitched as Draco’s warm hand skimmed over her waist, his touch possessive and intentional. A shiver traced her spine, anticipation curling low in her belly. She blinked rapidly, head turning further to look over her shoulder. Gunmetal-grey eyes met her head on, and she felt sleep evaporate away like morning dew beneath a blazing sun.

“Good morning,” his sleep addled voice wrapped around her like a cocoon. He dipped his head, and she lifted hers, meeting him for a soft, chaste kiss.

(If she had been unsure whether or not last night had been a very nice dream, that kiss certainly cleared up any misconceptions.)

“Good… morning.” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper, as though speaking any louder might dissipate the haze that was very clearly shrouding her psyche.

Draco ran his stubbled jaw over her temple, bunting her like Crookshanks did whenever he fancied a pet, which was… peculiar but endearing. She didn’t think Draco would be one for such affections, but when he pressed slow, peppered kisses down her neck, she no longer had a firm grasp on reality, or better yet, who the bloody hell Draco Malfoy really was.

His grip tightened around her waist as if sensing her rapidly spiraling thoughts, and when his fingertips dug into the soft flesh of her belly, she squeaked.

She had imagined this exact scenario many times over in her mind on the nights she couldn’t sleep, knowing he was lying in bed in the room next door. She just hadn’t expected it to come to fruition—and she wasn’t entirely prepared for fallout that was sure to come.

Draco hummed, as if utterly content. He pressed another kiss to her temple.

“You’re going to self-induce an aneurysm if you think any harder, darling.”

She blinked, looking away, finding the slivers of light and the many dust particles still floating throughout it. She opened her mouth and blurted the first thing that came to mind. “How do you know what an aneurysm is?”

His chuckle tickled her neck. “It’s early. Go back to sleep.”

He pulled her tighter to his chest, which only made her grow stiffer. She felt her thoughts unravel at a rapid rate, the memories of last night shuffling through her mind like dominos fell, one after another.

“Hermione, go to sleep.”

Her mind continued to spin, trying and failing to grasp the reality of their situation. They had sex last night. Draco had seen her naked, had made her come on his tongue, had fucked her so thoroughly that she didn’t even remember falling asleep in his arms. But she had, and now here she was, wondering if he would soon pull back with regrets on his tongue. She swallowed, and her saliva tasted like ash.

Draco’s fingers rubbed soothing circles on her skin, and so she wriggled, unsure if she should get comfortable or should try to escape. She thought maybe she should get up—should ask if they could talk about what had happened. She shouldn’t have kissed him; she was reckless and stupid for doing it in the first place. She needed to apologize and promptly rectify the situation.

Hermione opened her mouth, searching for the words to convey her regrets but found… none.

She wriggled again and Draco yanked her back, chest flush with her back, the curve of her arse slotting nicely against his pelvis. Hermione felt a twitch between her legs, and gasped when she felt the undeniable feeling of his hard length pressing against her folds.

Draco hissed in her ear, fingers spasming on her hips, digging in for purchase.

“Sorry,” she squeaked.

“S’fine,” he grumbled, palms skirting over the fronts of her thighs. She bit her lip to hold back the gasp when he squeezed the soft skin on the inside of her thigh, dangerously close to her—

Hermione made a sound she could not intelligently articulate or categorize. It was a new sound, born from surprise, shock and most of all, pleasure.

Draco cupped her cunt in his hand, the heel of his palm pressed flat against her clit.

“Stop wiggling,” his breath was hot on her skin when he let out a ragged breath. “It’s distracting.”

“S-sorry.”

“Don’t,” His palm pressed down harder against her clit, and Hermione instinctively bucked her hips. “Apologize.”

She made another one of those unintelligible sounds when his hand remained there. He settled but she remained tense. After a few minutes, Draco sighed. It was obvious he caught on that neither of them would be going back to sleep anytime soon. It was his fault, really.

He was the one touching her.

“How did you sleep?”

Hermione had never been asked that question in such circumstances before. (Specifically: naked in bed with a man cupping her cunt.) She gripped his forearm, nails biting into taunt cords of muscle. How could he expect her to answer such a benign question when she was clearly in duress? Long seconds ticked by where she struggled to form a coherent thought, and then his hand shifted, dipped, and bloody hell

Her eyes fluttered as she threw her head back, meeting his shoulder. “Draco—”

“Hm?” She felt his smile against her cheek when he kissed her jaw.

This was—this was not what was supposed to happen. She was supposed to set things straight between them, but, honestly, she wasn’t exactly sure what way was up from down at this point. Not when his finger slipped inside her and crooked just so

She moaned, arching, pushing back against his pelvis with her arse. Draco was pleased with this reaction and decided to reward her with a second finger. He pumped his hand slowly, gliding through her folds, twisting his wrist when she cursed. (His laugh was a husky, sexy sound that had her bones turning to useless goop. She subsequently melted into a puddle of desire-induced-delirium.)

She rolled her hips in time with his fingers as they worked her, the heel of his palm brushing in time with his ministrations. She felt every brush of the sheets against her skin, every wisp of hot breath against her neck. She sighed, arching, and he kissed the length of her throat, murmuring filthy, beautiful words like, “That’s a girl, darling,” and “Just like that, love. You get so wet for me—I can hardly wait to taste you again,”

His hips shifted against her, rutting against her arse in time with his pumping fingers. He moaned when the head of his cock brushed against her entrance when he pulled his fingers out before thrusting them back inside.

That—he—ugh. She couldn’t think—it was too difficult comprehend anything but the feel of Draco, the smell of him, the heat, the taste—Hermione moaned, feeling her womb tighten, her cunt clench. The strain inside her built, rising higher, a crescendo of pleasure a second away from rapture.

“Fuck,” he grunted in her ear, hips snapping against her arse. Her walls fluttered in response, growing tighter, wetter. “Come for me, darling.” His fingers sped up, crooking inside of her, brushing that one spot— “Be a good girl and come on my fingers.”

She cried out his name, hips bucking, walls clenching. There was a burst of light behind her eyes as she climaxed, and as her heart began to slow on the descent, her worries seemed to wash away in the afterglow of her orgasm.

Bollocks. He’d done that on purpose.

When her breathing had somewhat settled, Hermione opened her mouth to insist that they had the case to worry about first and foremost—that they couldn’t in good conscious do this while they were technically working

“Should I be flattered or concerned that you’re still thinking this hard after I’ve made you come for perhaps the twentieth time now, in what, twelve hours?”

She choked on the spiel she had just mentally half-formed, and once again, gibberish became her primary language.

Draco chuckled softly, the vibrations low and warm against her skin as he pressed another kiss just beneath her ear. His fingers, still sticky from her cunt, spread over her stomach, and then he pulled her taut against his front, biceps caging her breasts tight. “Sleep, darling. It’s too early.”

His cock was still hard where it pressed against her, his skin soft and hot. She blushed furiously and swept her gaze to the curtains drifting in the breeze from the open terrace doors. Willowy and opalescent as the sun continued to rise higher in the sky beyond, its rays bleeding through the fabric in soft, golden hues. The air carried the faint scent of smoke from the city beyond, mingling with the warmth of morning and the lingering traces of him on her skin.

She felt surreal, suspended between the dreamlike haze of the night before and the stark reality of the daylight cresting at present. The bed was a tangle of linens, their clothes strewn carelessly across the room, evidence that could not simply be denied.

Her fingers drifted to the hem of the sheet draped over her body, pulling it tighter as if to shield herself from the exposure of it all. Draco shifted beside her, his hand trailing lazily over the curve of her hip. Gooseflesh rippled across her skin, and Draco hummed delightedly when he felt her breasts pebble.

“I can’t go back to sleep.”

“You’ve hardly tried.” She felt his smile against her throat, and she just knew if she looked at him it would devastate her.

“My brain is… braining.”

He kissed her neck, soft and reverent. “Eloquent.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder and found his brows twitching together as he gauged her mood based on the pinch of her features. His fingertips brushed over her side, trailing invisible patterns that set her nerves alight. Silence stretched between them, wrapping around them like the sheets tangled between their legs. It wasn’t awkward. Charged, rather, like the moment was holding its breath alongside them.

“What’s wrong?”

She swallowed the knot in her throat. “Nothing, I guess.”

He frowned, fingers stilling the patterns they were just tracing. He stared at her, contemplating. His fingers eventually began drawing circles on her skin again as he asked, “You sure?”

Hermione wriggled, turning to face him fully. Draco made no move to adjust to make it easier on her, only watching with a faint, bemused smirk tugging at his lips. When she finally settled down with her cheek smothered against the pillow, she found that he was watching her every move.

 Hermione stared at him, at the way the dawn light kissed his pale skin, turning his platinum hair almost translucent. She knew, in her heart, that what they’d done wasn’t a mistake. Mistakes were things one regretted, things that felt wrong in hindsight, and there was nothing wrong about the way he’d touched her, held her, or looked at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

No, it hadn’t been a mistake. It had been inevitable.

But inevitability didn’t make it simple.

She could still feel the bulk of it pressing against her chest—the questions, the uncertainties, the threads of their fragile working relationship tangling in a knot she wasn’t sure they could untie. They were supposed to be partners, bound together by necessity, not by stolen kisses and heated whispers in the dead of night.

And yet, how could she even begin to try and smooth over the way he had looked at her, unguarded and raw? How could she wish away the way he made her feel—alive, desired, seen? The thought of walking away from that, trying to pretend like it hadn’t happened, made her stomach twist. Their dynamic had already been delicate, balanced on a knife’s edge of lingering looks and stolen touches. Now, it felt like they’d thrown that balance into chaos, leaving her to wonder how they’d ever find their footing again.

But perhaps the worst part was that she didn’t want to forget it. Not a single moment. And that terrified her because it only confirmed what she already knew to be true.

Hermione loved Draco like the trees loved the sky. There was no undoing anything—there was an irrevocability to it, as natural as the tides meeting the shore. She loved him with a ferocity that frightened her, a love that had crept in quietly, weaving itself into her every thought until she couldn’t tell where he ended and she began.

These feelings were not solely borne from desire, from the bone-heavy wanting that had plagued her for weeks now. This was deeper, more enduring, like roots tangling beneath the earth, unseen but impossible to unbind. The thought of relegating what they had done to a drunken mistake was unbearable. Hermione wanted to tell him that she loved him in spite of the risks, in spite of the impossibility of their circumstances, in spite of every warning bell screaming at her to stop, to slow down, to think this through until there was no stone left unturned. She wanted to ask him if he knew how she truly felt about him—wanted to make sure he understood that what she felt for him wasn’t a choice. It wasn’t something she could turn on and off like a switch. It was as much a part of her as her heartbeat.

She felt like admitting how she felt was akin to stepping into a storm without knowing if there was shelter on the other side. Vulnerability bubbled up inside her, tangling with her fear. What if he didn’t feel the same way about her? What if he had just taken her lead and accepted the terms she’d laid out before him when she undid the tie of her dress last night? It was… possible.

Draco shifted beneath the sheets, drawing his hand up to cradle her cheek in his palm. The callouses on his thumb brushed over the swell of her cheekbone, tracing the smattering of her freckles. His entire expression turned into one of soft reverence. She closed her eyes, leaning into his touch despite herself. The warmth of his palm threatened to pull her deeper into the dangerous waters she had no business wading into. It would be so easy to stay here, to let herself sink into the quiet solace he offered, to ignore the weight pressing in from all sides.

Her fears slowly shifted, falling away into the recesses of her mind. How could she deny the truth that was right in front of her? He clearly wanted her as much as she wanted him. A man didn’t look at a woman the way Draco looked at Hermione if he felt nothing but baseline attraction. That would be sociopathic, and though Draco had questionable morals at times, she knew him well enough to know he wasn’t that crazy.

Right?

“Hey,” he said softly, and Hermione came back to the present. She blinked, clearing the haze. Draco’s brows twitched together, and then he tensed “I’m sorry, shit—I shouldn’t have—”

Hermione clawed at his retreating form, pulling him close. “No—no. It’s not that. Please, don’t go. Stay.”

Draco paused, looking at her cautiously. Like she was fragile. The heat in his eyes from last night lingered like a memory she never wanted to fade. Last night he had made her feel seen, truly seen, in a way no one ever had.

He eased back down, laying close, holding her—but not too tight.

“Do you… want to talk?”

His jaw tensed, like he suddenly understood why she had just been so cagey. Would he understand that wanting each other wasn’t enough to justify any of it? Her fear returned as reality did, rushing over her like a winter tide.

“If you want.”

They were in the middle of a case that could unravel everything if they lost focus. Their work mattered—lives very well depended on it. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t let her feelings, her selfish, foolish desires, endanger everything they’d fought so hard for since June.

The excuses tumbled through her mind, one after another, wrapping around her like armor. Their partnership was too important to risk. Their lives were too different to reconcile. This was a fleeting moment, a weakness that couldn’t stand the test of reality. They would only hurt each other in the end.

But even as the reasons stacked up, she felt the cracks forming in her resolve. They all felt like superficial excuses with no substance. He’d see right through them and call her out on it, which was… fine. He could call her a liar. She’d let him.

She opened her eyes and found him watching her and those stacked up excuses, that flimsy little wall—all of it came crashing down.

“Draco,” she whispered, her heart tripping over itself.

His thumb swept over the swell of her cheek idly. He sighed and leaned closer to press a kiss to her lips. It felt like a goodbye.

She scrambled forward, kissing him harder. Despite knowing she needed to pull back before it was far beyond the point of no return. She pulled back, breathless, and what came out of her mouth wasn’t exactly words after. “Erm…ah…um…”

Draco chuckled. “Is that English?”

Heat bloomed across her cheeks, and she shoved her face into the pillow when he smirked. She mumbled another slew of incoherent words in his general vicinity.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

He brushed the hair away from her face, and his palm ghosted hesitantly over her arm. His thumb paused at her wrist, tracing the faint ridge of bone beneath the pillow she was attempting to suffocate herself with.

She turned her head just enough to glare at him. “I said, shut up.”

Draco grinned, his eyes sparkling like liquid silver in the soft light of dawn. Gone was the goodbye, the resigned look that had slowly leeched the light from his eyes just moments ago. She almost breathed a sigh of relief. Almost.

“Knowing I’ve rendered your ability to speak is quite the ego boost.”

Her glare deepened, and she shoved the pillow between them, attempting to create some distance. It only made him laugh, the sound soft and warm as he leaned in again, ignoring the barrier entirely.

“I jest, darling.” He murmured, pressing a kiss to her blush-heated temple.

(She needed him to stop kissing her. It was making it entirely too hard to think properly.)

“Don’t be crass.”

“I would never dream of it.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Quit smirking.”

The smirk only widened, and those brackets she adored so much deepened.

“I’m not smirking.”

“You are.”

“And if I am?” he mused, dropping his head onto her pillow. She huffed when he shoved the pillow between them down past their legs. They were close enough now that their noses touched.

“It makes you look smug,” she muttered, growing quieter with each word spoken

Draco ran his fingers through her hair, knuckles catching on the tangles of her curls. “Why shouldn’t I be smug?”

Before she could form a reply, his lips pressed to hers in another soft, slow kiss. He took her bottom lip between his own, flicking his tongue over it with a deliberate languidness that sent a bolt of heat through her.

Hermione didn’t have an answer to his question, so she welcomed the distracting reprieve of his lips. They could stay here for a little longer, that would be fine. She was tingly and warm, and his lips were the softest thing she’d ever felt—like the finest silk. His grip tightened on her waist, pulling her impossibly closer, and her hands slipped around his neck. This was fine. Their bare chests became flush, and when he deepened the kiss, her breath hitched again, the world narrowing down to the feel of him against her.

His palm smoothed over her thigh, and he dragged her leg to rest over his hip. Hermione gasped into his mouth when she felt him prod against her cunt, deliciously hard and eager to please. This man had the sex drive of a bloody stallion. She told him as much, which made him laugh. Then he swept the swollen head through her slick folds, which promptly rendered her speechless. He did this several times, swirling his cock around her core, teasing her, drawing her closer to the edge once more with every swipe he made against her clit.

She was trembling, moaning his name like it belonged to an ancient ritual. There was no real intention to her incantation other than to claim the consonants and vowels of his name, to hold them in this space they shared that was neither night nor morning. Her hips bucked when the head of his cock just barely brushed against her entrance. His response to her nails biting into his shoulders was a husky, throaty moan.

Draco kissed her deeper, harder. Teeth clacked; tongues tangled. He nipped her bottom lip, and she answered in kind with his top. Their tongues lazily swirled, twisting and curling, a susurrus of whimpers and moans and breaths that all got swallowed between the two of them.

She was vibrating with need—close to imploding by the time he pulled back, leaving her breathless and flushed. His eyes searched hers just as she shifted closer and pressed her heel against his bum. He huffed a laugh and annoyingly, did not comply with her silent request.

His hand skirted between her legs, and he used his knee to push her legs open, and then his fingers were there, stroking her again. Her head fell back to the pillow, and she whimpered when his fingers found her clit, swirling, teasing. Testing. She screwed her eyes shut tight, hips jerking towards his hands. She needed friction, she needed more—

“Tell me,” he whispered, his voice soft against her throat. He pressed a chaste kiss over her thundering pulse. “Tell me you want me as bad as I want you.”

She shook her head, not because she disagreed, but because she simply was not fit for speech. She wasn’t ready to admit to anything other than the blooming heat in her belly, in the need that unfurled through every fiber of her being. Her teeth sunk into her bottom lip as she undulated against his featherlight touches.

“Mm,” he tutted, “You’re usually such a good girl,”

She keened when his fingers brushed her inner thighs, pulling away from her cunt.

“Dra—Draco—”

“What do you need, darling?” His mouth hovered over her ear, and she shivered when his breath swept against her temple. “Do you need me back inside of you?”

Her eyes opened when he pushed her gently into the mattress. He swept over her, hovering just inches off her body. Sunlight exploded into the room, casting away the shadows and her doubt, sweeping in her desire for nothing to change, for everything to remain just like this. Light cloaked him in golden hues, and his pupils blew, turning into wide, black pools. The grey of his irises turned dark like storm-laden seas.

With that, gone were her thoughts on negotiations and the faculties of reality—all that was left was him.

“Yes,” she whispered, and for some reason, this admission had her trembling. “Yes, yes. Yes.”

His gaze flicked to her mouth, swollen and parted, and then back to her eyes. He held her there, watching her as he drew his hand back to her cunt. He teased her for only a moment, and then slowly, so slowly, he plunged two fingers inside of her.

It was so easy to forget the world when he touched her.

Hermione arched when his finger curled against that tender spot between her walls, thumb swirling her clit lazily, worshipfully.

“I could do this for eternity.”

She whimpered. He was to the knuckle, slowly pumping in time to her twisting hips. His other hand splayed around the side of her throat, curving around to the back of her neck.

“Do you know how many times I’ve dreamt of touching you like this?”

He held her there, watching every small twitch of pleasure on her face, the way her mouth dropped open, how wide her eyes grew when he added a third finger.

Fuck, Hermione.” He grunted, pulling his hand from her neck to stroke himself. “You’re perfect. You know that, right?”

She mewled, jerking her hips off the bed when he moaned. Biting her lower lip, she stared with a deep sort of longing as his hand stroked him, pulling, twisting at his head. She felt saliva pool in her mouth. She was not familiar with this side of Draco Malfoy, and she had a feeling he was eager to rectify that.

When his three fingers curled inside her, she gasped, clawing at the bed. He chuckled, and the sound that belonged purely to a sinner. He pressed the flat of his thumb to her clit and she arched up beneath him again, grappling at his shoulders for purchase. She made a sound from deep in her throat as she ground against his hand.

“Just like that, darling.”

(How the hell had they gotten here? Again?)

She could admit she was fucking his hand in earnest now, growing wilder with every passing thrust. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t even close. She needed more, wanted it all, wanted him—

“Please,” she cried out, and for once found the word easy to say when it pertained to getting her what she wanted. Namely: him.

Please, what?”

“Draco,” she gasped, writhing against the sheets. “you’re teasing.”

“Hardly,” he murmured, and that smirk was back.

She pulled his face down hard with one hand and dragged his bottom lip between her teeth. She used the other hand to draw between their bodies and take hold of his cock. She ran her thumb over the swollen tip, ghosting over the slit. She gathered his pre-come with a single swipe.

“Fucking—fuck—” he hissed against her mouth when she tugged in time with his gliding fingers.

She couldn’t hold back her smirk, twin to the one he had just been wearing.

Her smugness didn’t last long, not when he pulled his fingers away. She properly howled in protest, which earned her a chuckle as he wrapped his slick fingers around her own. He squeezed and pumped himself with her hand beneath his, then guided himself closer to her entrance. He brushed the head through her folds but made no move beyond that.

Their eyes locked.

“Hermione,” he wet his lips, and prodded her entrance. She nodded vigorously and let go, feeling as if she were half delirious from desire. She barely registered that he had said her name. She wanted him to say it again. “Hermione.”

Had she said that out loud?

It didn’t matter.

Draco took over, pressing into her. He was so hard, and she was tight, and he was stretching her, pushing inside of her. She clenched around him and gasped his name. He swallowed her moan with a hard kiss. Gone was the softness from the night before, gone was the slow, undulating thrusts. This was desperation in its truest form. It was hard and possessive, and she wanted more, more, more

His arms slid around her shoulders, and he pulled himself to his knees, never leaving her. His palms ran a trail of fire down her spine and he gripped her hips, lifted them. She watched him, dazed, slack jawed. The light loved him. It pressed against his hard edges and softened them until he looked like he was the sun’s golden prince, all gilded angles and molten warmth. The sight stole her breath, made her chest ache in a blend of longing and fear, of wanting to hold onto this moment forever and knowing that she shouldn’t.

His mouth was pressed into a tight line as he watched the way their bodies melded together. His brows furrowed and then the sunlight caught in his hair like a halo. She felt the hot prick of tears in her eyes. She reached for him as she whispered, “Beautiful,”

His gaze snapped to hers.

Draco slowed his thrusts and dropped down onto his forearms, caging her with his limbs. His hips rolled in time with hers, and her fingers ghosted over the small of his back, drawing him flush, holding him close. He kissed her softly, and in that kiss was his acceptance.

“Draco…”

“I know,” he whispered, and kissed her again. And again. “I know.”

 


 

Draco had decided that throwing himself off the terrace might hurt less than the conversation he had stumbled through not even an hour ago. He ran a shaky hand through his damp hair, gripping the cool metal railing as though it might anchor him to reason. Right. He could do this. He could be professional about this.

He dropped his head between his elbows and breathed deeply, preparing to recite the first five lines of the Code of Conduct for Auror’s and their Principle’s for what felt like the millionth time in the last minute alone.

1.) Professional Boundaries Must Be Maintained: Aurors are required to establish and uphold professional boundaries with their assigned Principle to preserve the integrity of their mission and working relationship. Emotional entanglements are strictly prohibited as they may compromise judgment and decision-making.

2.) Prioritization of Mission Objectives: The safety and success of the mission must remain the primary focus of both Auror and Principle. Personal relationships or actions that could distract from the mission are considered breaches of conduct.

3.) Prohibition of Physical Relationships: Any form of physical intimacy between an Auror and their Principle is forbidden to prevent conflicts of interest, emotional bias, or unnecessary risks that may jeopardize operational outcomes.

4.) Preservation of Trust and Respect: Both parties must act with mutual respect and professionalism, refraining from actions that could erode trust or disrupt the dynamic necessary for effective collaboration and mission success.

5.) Transparency and Accountability: Should any lapse in judgment occur, it must be disclosed to the Auror Office’s Department Head immediately to allow for reassignment or disciplinary measures, ensuring no further complications arise from personal entanglements.

6.) Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck—FUCK.

Draco had never been forced to look at the face of failure in such a drastic, yet humanizing way before. It wasn’t some abstract defeat, something he could rationalize or excuse. No, it was wrapped in soft brown eyes and unspoken questions, showering in the steamy bathroom just beyond the terrace doors.

The worst part—no, the truth—was that he wasn’t even remorseful. Not in the least.

What he was, however, was utterly unprepared for the fallout.

Draco let out a sharp exhale, the kind that scraped his lungs raw, and tightened his grip on the railing until his knuckles turned white. The morning breeze kissed his face, as if mocking him. Everything felt so fragile now, precariously balanced on the edge of his own poor decisions.

Up until this point, Draco hadn’t truly broken the rules. He had merely… skated around them, taking liberties that weren’t exactly afforded to him. Sure, he’d made slippery excuses to himself when his moral compass had spun, but now… well, there was no denying that he was completely fucked in every sense of the word.

Merlin, what a mess.

Draco, being someone who embraced the art of self-reflection and realization (Thanks to his two-month stint in Azkaban while awaiting trial), understood that he wasn’t remorseful in the least. Which was not great and certainly did not earn him many points with the Almighty himself, whoever he may be. Granger had yet to flesh that philosophical idea out its entirety.

Anyways.

Though difficult to admit, it was an easy thing for Draco to comprehend—simply because regret did not even register as an option on his theoretical scale of culpability vs morality. How could he have any sort of remorse when all he could think about was her moaning his name, the tight clench of her core around his cock, and the way her hair spilled over the pillow when she threw her head back in ecstasy?

Exactly—he couldn’t!

He also understood that made him a fucking moron. (Cheers.)

The delicate balance they’d managed to maintain between professional detachment and whatever this was had been irrevocably shattered, and therefore, would be impossible to piece back together without leaving behind glaring fractures.

Draco groaned, pressing his forehead harder against the cool metal of the railing. He was a professional. A very professional, professional. The most professional wizard to ever wizard. The damn best. Better than anyone in his department, better than Potter—okay, sometimes better than Potter. There wasn’t exactly a way to contend with the idiot that had somehow managed to save the world and become everyone’s darling Chosen One.

Draco was the gold standard, or close to it—if wizarding professionalism was considered an art form and gave out those sort of awards to any who deserved them.

(They were called Order of Merlin’s, and he just kissed his goodbye. Brilliant.)

Draco straightened, pulling himself away from the railing and squaring his shoulders like he could physically bear the weight of his spiraling thoughts. He very much wanted to wrap his hands around Potter’s throat and shake him until he was purple in the face. Never in Draco’s life did he think that Potter could have the foresight to see such a disaster on the horizon, but it was glaringly obvious that The Chosen One had foreseen this exact scenario like he bore Sight.

Focus. Draco had to focus.

They had a job to do, and Hermione had made that very clear in her post-orgasm pillow-talk concessions. (Frankly, he was a bit sore that she had been able to pull herself together so quickly while he had laid there prone and boneless, unable to form a single coherent thought.)

She had reiterated that they were here to work, what happened last night would never be spoken of again, and that the tangled mess of their lapse in judgement could not—and would not—get in the way.

Draco could come to terms with that; he grasped why she had made those points. He was a very Logical Human Man. At least, that’s what he told himself as he pushed off the terrace railing and turned back toward the suite. But inside his Logical Human Man brain bloomed a truth he did not dare utter while Hermione had gone on her twenty-minute-long tirade of retaining professional boundaries in a very McGonagall-esq fashion: there was no going back.

Not now. Not ever.

Hermione was drying her hair, scrunching the wet curls with a fluffy white towel when he stepped into the room. Her cheeks were pink from taking a shower, and he tried not to focus on the way she tugged at her lower lip, swollen and flushed as her cheeks. She quickly averted her gaze when she noticed him staring.

He cleared his throat. “Hungry?”

Seconds ticked by as she stared at ridiculous yellow wellies. Draco took a step forward but before he could reach her, Hermione dashed back into the bathroom.

That obviously could have gone better, but there was plenty of time to repair the widening chasm that was slowly destroying their synchronicity. Plenty of time. They were set to return to London on Wednesday the 15th, which meant Draco had exactly five days to patch things over before they got home.

He could manage that. Gold standard, remember?

Besides, the last thing he needed was the fucking spirit squad realizing how much the dynamic between them had shifted while on their research trip. (He really didn’t want to suffer through another tongue lashing from Potter, nor did he want to get pulled from the case and put on Administrative Leave for fucking the Golden Girl senseless.)

Scrubbing his face, Draco resigned to sit at the foot of the bed. The sheets had been replaced not long after they had awkwardly rolled away from one another after their Professional Talk on Professionalism and within minutes of the absence of their bodies, the sheets had magically peeled away. Replacing them with fresh linens free of any bodily fluids. (A shame, really. He might have liked to keep those as a souvenir—fuck. Right. He needed to stop having these sort of thoughts.).

Draco couldn’t help but smooth his palm over the laundered duvet, searching for evidence of their mutual undoing despite knowing he wouldn’t find any. As he petted the bed like a love-sick freak, Draco continued to tell himself that moving on from their sexcapade was the best course of action, but try as he might, it didn’t change the fact that it was the hardest lie he’d ever been forced to grit through his teeth.

When Hermione emerged nearly five minutes later, she schooled her face into one of detached neutrality. Draco eyed her carefully—a quick glance to ensure her readiness for the day ahead. He most certainly did not do more than silently admire her impeccable choice of attire. His attention snagged on the curve of her bum only briefly when she turned to hang the towel up on the door. It did not in any capacity remind him of how her arse felt in his hands.

(Glorious: that’s how it felt.)

Once his less respectful reminiscence passed and his Logical Human Man brain kicked back into gear, he took care to lend a more deferential air to his thoughts. Mainly, how far Hermione had come from the girl he once knew at Hogwarts. Which was a perfectly respectful and normal thing to think about. A safe zone he could wander into without triggering some cruel Pavlovian need to pinch himself every time a Hermione-induced fantasy surfaced.

Her clothing choices during their years at Hogwarts had been, quite frankly, abysmal. She wore oversized jumpers, scuffed trainers, and jeans perpetually marred by ink stains or frayed hems. It wasn’t like he had fancied the idea of taking a handful of Hermione Granger’s arse in her Muggle jeans when he was fourteen. Wait. No, he did. A specific wet dream happened to pop into his mind from fifth year. Finding her in the restricted section. Tugging her to him with those flimsy denim belt loops. He pinched his thigh. (So much for the safe zone—he was obviously in no man’s land.)

Draco sighed when he finally allowed himself to look at her and then sighed even louder knowing there would be no escape from noticing how bloody beautiful she was.

It grated on him, just a little, that she appeared utterly unruffled, as though she hadn’t spent the better part of the last twelve hours in his arms, murmuring his name like a prayer. Couldn’t she have tried to look more—maybe, perhaps—heartbroken?

He pouted internally, a far cry from the professionalism he was attempting to project. Clearly, at some point during her second stint in the bathroom, she had mastered the art of appearing unmoored. (Draco felt as though the stitches in his collar threatened to strangle him every passing second they spent in silence.)

Her blouse was a long-sleeved cotton piece, the fabric soft yet structured, and Draco’s gaze trailed the length of the tapered sleeves to her dainty wrists, the cuffs buttoned neatly. The neckline, though modest by most standards, dipped just low enough to make him grit his teeth. Her blouse was tucked into a pair of tan trousers, high-waisted and tailored, all sleek lines and firm edges that hugged her figure without a hint of impropriety.

Smashing.

(He briefly had the urge to find the nearest wall and bash his head against it until he died.)

He dragged his gaze back to her face, lest he once again slipped into thoughts that had no place in this delicate space where duty and desire skimmed a fine line. He would be an adult about this. He would not smash his head against a wall or throw himself off the terrace. He was more than capable of putting on a brave face. (Her moans were echoing in his mind. Totally normal.)

All throughout his sneaky ogling, she still did not speak, which was beginning to make Draco incredibly nervous. He was not one to get nervous, but clearly, the witch was changing him.

Eventually, Hermione propelled forward. She stopped before her overnight bag where it lay on the floor, rifling through it for many long seconds. It gave Draco another exceptional view of her bum that he was most certainly not looking at. Again.

She was elbow deep when she pulled free an umbrella, pressing the point to the floor as she leaned on it like a cane. She still did not look at him.

Draco rose from where he still sat on the edge of the bed, moving slowly when he noticed the whites of her eyes growing far more prominent the closer he came. Hermione looked like a deer caught out in the open of a field. Really, he tried not to prowl, but it was hard when he fancied the idea of himself being predatorial in nature. When she shuffled back half a step, he promptly stomped on the fantasy before it could fully form.

Draco stopped short just a few steps from her person, noting the way she fiddled with the curved handle of the umbrella. He tapped the toe of her wellies to gain her attention, and when she looked up, he met brown eyes that were full of uncertainty.

There was so much he wanted to say—so many words and promises he wished to make but knew he couldn’t. She had made it clear that there was no space for the possibility of them becoming something more. He hated how badly he still found himself wanting to ask about the future of that sort of possibility, even while knowing where Hermione stood. She might care for him, but she cared about the case more. As she had so eloquently put, she ‘didn’t have the mental fortitude for such entanglements.’. Her focus ‘had to be on the case, and so should his.’.

Draco, of course, had agreed with quick head nods and pursed lips. The case was important. Very important. Binding the yokai, finding who was orchestrating this ordeal, and in turn, saving London from murderous spirits was far more crucial than any feelings between them. (He considered it a miracle that he held his tongue on that particular subject.)

Draco straightened and reminded himself that he was capable of understanding the complex and precarious nature of their situation. More than capable. It was just… not as easy to follow through when she looked at him like she wasn’t sure where they stood anymore.

Draco wanted nothing more than to take her into his arms and whisper all the reckless, selfish things he’d held back for months now.

I love you. Let me give you the world. Don’t worry about the case. I don’t need this job—I’m obscenely wealthy. We can hide out in France for the rest of our lives. Let the world burn. Spend forever with me. Let me kiss you whenever I want. Look at me the way you did this morning. I’m scared you’ll come to regret what we did. Tell me you love me, too.

Obviously, he hadn’t said any of that. Instead, he had gritted his teeth and nodded, agreeing with her logic. Because he was logical. Logical, but stupidly in love.

Draco slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers and cleared his throat. “Would you like to go get something to eat?”

Hermione inhaled sharply, and Draco noticed the way her lashes fluttered, blinking away the subtle glossiness in her eyes. It made him wonder—had she somehow heard every chaotic thought tumbling around in his head? Had he become that bloody transparent? Or, more likely, had Hermione just become adept at reading him?

“I suppose I am quite…uh… famished.”

He arched a brow, a hint of smugness flickering across his features, which only served to deepen the tight line of her mouth. He promptly smoothed his expression to one of cool detachment.

“Shall we venture into the city?”

Hermione drew a deep breath, her shoulders straightening as though fortifying herself for battle. Draco followed suit, silently chanting his newfound mantra: Adults. Logical Human Man. Professionalism. Boundaries. Etcetera, etcetera.

“The festival is today,” she said, slinging her crossbody bag off the back of the chair and over her torso.

Draco was doing perfectly fine at acting aloof until her blouse rode up when she adjusted the straps of her bag, revealing a sliver of soft skin above her trousers. His brain short-circuited for half a second before she tucked it back in, cinching her belt with a sharp tug.

(What a shame.)

“We could go to Asakusa and visit the shrine? There will be food stalls.” she suggested.

He nodded—a single, curt slice of his chin. Relief washed over him at the idea of being surrounded by crowds rather than sitting across from her in an intimate restaurant, pretending he hadn’t spent the better part of the past twelve hours fucking her senseless.

(He would never forget the way she sighed his name. Not even in death.)

They took the Floo from the hotel lobby to a wizarding tea house tucked away in a nondescript alleyway in Asakusa. When they stepped outside, the enchanted door closed behind them, bricking over as if it had never existed. Unfortunately, the grey clouds that had been rolling in earlier decided to unleash themselves upon the two of them. Fortunately, Hermione was prepared and opened her umbrella as the rain began to sprinkle down from the slow-churning overcast sky. (Rather reflected his mood, the weather.)

“Let me hold it,” Draco said, already reaching for the handle.

She resisted at first, lifting her chin in defiance. Lips pursed, she radiated stubbornness, and for a fleeting moment, Draco had to suppress the urge to kiss her just to make her stop being so bloody difficult. (He was a gentleman, and he was a professional—he could suppress his urges, thank you.) Draco promptly informed Hermione with the smoothest yet respectful tone he could muster that he was raised to do things like hold a lady’s umbrella, and really, she mustn’t fight him. She wouldn’t win. Thankfully, she relented with a huff.

(Draco might have smirked—just a little—as he took the umbrella from her hands.)

With the umbrella held high above their heads, they stepped into the bustling street. The sound of festival music mingled with the chatter of the crowd, distorted and widespread as it carried through the air. Draco slipped his arm around Hermione’s waist—not because he wanted to feel her warmth or the curve of her waist, but because he was obviously just a considerate protector ensuring his principal’s safety from a horde of unruly children splashing through puddles nearby.

Dry remained Hermione’s trousers—his however, weren’t so lucky. The street water seeped through the fabric, soaking his leg and filling his boots with water.

Ah, yes. Back to his regularly scheduled program of hating children.

He shook out his leg with a muttered curse, which had Hermione rolling her eyes. (Was that a chuckle she tried to disguise as a cough?)

“Don’t laugh at me,” he scowled, lips pressed into a frown that would have made a portrait sneer in solidarity. “It’s rude. Clearly, I am in distress—”

With a flick of her wrist and a mumbled incantation, his trouser leg and boots were bone dry once more. Draco gaped and seized her shoulder with his free hand, shaking her as he cast a frantic glance around. “Are you bloody mad, woman?!”

She dismissed his concern with an infuriatingly casual wave of her hand. “What, did you expect me to suffer in silence as you carped the rest of the morning about your trousers and how they’re made from some irreplaceable fabric that your seamstress tracked down in Paris?”

Draco physically revolted. “I would never send my seamstress somewhere as pedestrian as Paris.”

Oh, I would never send my seamstress somewhere as pedestrian as Paris,” she mocked, rolling her eyes. “Christ, Draco.”

“That is not how my voice sounds.”

My poor trousers, whatever will I tell the Mademoiselle.”

“Granger!”

She crossed her arms, one delicate brow flicked up as she surveyed him. “What?”

“I do not sound that posh.”

“You are that posh.”

“I am not—stop it—don’t look at me like that—” Draco stepped closer, glowering down at her. He could feel the warmth of her body radiating off her this close. He could even taste her breath. His nostrils flared, and when she smiled up at him, sickly sweet and full of faux innocence—it was all teeth.

(He was not having randy thoughts about that cheeky little grin. Not at all.)

“What are you going to do, Draco?” She lifted her chin higher, lashes fluttering as her voice took on a tone that had his bollocks growing heavy. “Arrest me?”

His waterline twitched as yet another fantasy flew away into the ether at the prospect of retaining boundaries. (The twitching went on for several seconds, long enough for Hermione to ask if something was wrong with his eye, to which he responded: “No, I’m fine, just having an existential crisis, that’s all.”)

On one hand, he was glad to see that her awkward, standoffishness had subsided. But on the other hand, now that she was back to being more like herself—his ability to remain on his side of their drawn line grew weak and watery.

Hermione promptly turned on her heel and all but forced Draco to follow behind her like some over glorified manservant. He widened his strides to keep up with her quick pace, ignoring the squelch of her wellies with every step she took. They bobbed and weaved through the crowd, forcing Draco to drag her out of the way too many times from passerby’s that shuffled a bit too close for his liking. They got a few glances, likely from his glowering, and as they happened upon the heart of the festival, Draco’s steps stalled alongside Hermione’s.

There was much to take in—more than he was prepared for, honestly. As if sensing his hesitation, Hermione began a rapid-fire spiel of all her knowledge on the festival. Which, he would begrudgingly admit, was comforting. They passed by many people wearing light-weight kimonos—Hermione told him they were called yukatas, then when she gestured towards the line of vendors, his attention followed, tracking the many food stalls sprawled out in all directions.

Each enthusiastically called out to passersby from their vibrant yatai, banners of all colors and shapes billowing above in hopes of luring customers in with deals. Grilling meats, sweet soy, and the tang of vinegar permeated his senses, and Draco grumbled that he needed caffeine before they ate. (Or perhaps two fingers of whisky. He wouldn’t complain if he happened upon someone selling the latter.)

Sensing his darkening mood, Hermione led them to a nearby tea stand and ordered two matcha lattes when he fumbled to decide what to order. Draco was not a fan upon his first sip, but Hermione seemed so pleased with her take-away drink that Draco allowed her this small pleasure and refrained from telling her it tasted like chalk and grass. He remained mute as they continued their trek around the festival in the streets leading up to the Sensō-ji temple, content to listen to Hermione as she fluttered on and on about the festival. He ignored the way his pulse thundered every time he caught her not-so-subtle glances in his direction when he took too long to respond to a question.

They walked beneath the rows of paper streamers that looked like vivid strokes of watercolor against the sky that was growing bluer and clearer as the morning went on. Drums began to beat, and delicate, high notes from flutes weaved between the drumbeats.

Draco closed the umbrella once the rain stopped and together they followed the music, drawing them closer to the massive gate standing tall and proud just outside the temple grounds.

Symbols clanged together in the air behind them, and they turned to search for the source of the sound. Hermione clapped her hands together, chirping with excitement. Draco followed her line of sight and cocked his head when he noticed a massive wave of people heading towards the gate from down the street.

“The Mikoshi Processions!” She squealed, grinning wildly. “Oh, how fun! I didn’t think we’d get to see this. Oh, they’re coming this way, let’s get out of the way. Come on!” She pulled him by his sleeve, and Draco all but stumbled after the witch.

Hermione tugged Draco toward a nearby corner store with a few steps leading up to double doors. She hopped onto the second step to get a clearer view over the bustling crowd, and Draco followed at a more leisurely pace. He leaned casually against the hand railing, crossing one ankle over the other and draping his forearm just so, the picture of effortless charm. Naturally, this wasn’t by accident—suave didn’t simply happen. It required careful curation, like fine art or a well-mixed cocktail. And Draco Malfoy was a master of both.

Draco cast Hermione an expectant glance, blinking when he realized she wasn’t paying him the slightest bit of attention. She was too captivated by the parade, her eyes glued to the procession like it held the secrets of the universe. Annoyed, he squinted into the crowd, trying to decipher what had so thoroughly absorbed her.

A throng of men and women strained under the weight of what appeared to be a gilded palanquin. Draco, loath to be ignorant on any subject—especially one apparently worthy of Hermione’s undivided attention—cleared his throat. “What exactly are they carrying?” (He was aiming for a casual inquiry but winced when his tone landed firmly in prat territory.)

Hermione shot him a look she reserved for moments where the line between educating and throttling him grew perilously thin. His charm, it seemed, had once again failed spectacularly.

(He felt rather like a beat dog and wished to scamper off to lick his wounds in private. Obviously, there would be none of that today.)

“It’s a mikoshi,” she said patiently, though her tone was starting to fray at the edges.

The mikoshi bobbed and swayed down the street, its gold panels catching every fragment of the sun’s light, still high and bright in the sky. Ornate carvings of mythical creatures twisted and curled around the structure—dragons, phoenixes, and other beasts Draco couldn’t particularly see well enough to identify. It was a rather impressive bit of craftsmanship, if not a bit overdone. It reminded him of a Gringotts vault taking a stroll about town—Hermione, to his dismay, did not think that last bit was as funny as Draco had. (Cue: dog-like whimpering.)

“It’s a portable shrine that carries a deity through the streets during festivals.”

Draco, still being a prat, simply did not know what came over him as he drawled, “Why bother making a pilgrimage when you can have the divine hand-delivered to your door?”

Hermione’s irritation was volcanic, bubbling under the surface. He was pressing his luck with her mood, and it was more than obvious. Keen for a change in subject, he gestured to the white paper seals fluttering from the shrine’s edges. “What are those?”

Shide,” Hermione supplied. “They're meant to purify and protect the space.”

Draco could think of a few places that could use a bit of purifying. His brain, for starters.

He did not say this out loud because he was a good boy and instead followed her gaze to the bearers struggling under the weight of the shrine, sweat gleaming on their foreheads despite the spirited chants they shouted to the crowd. Dark plum-colored ropes—shimenawa, Hermione had called them—framed the shrine in thick twists that moved like undulating rivers with every step the bearers took. The contrast between the deep purple and gold was striking, which Draco admitted. Hermione’s smile was timid, and she caught him off guard as she said, “It reminds me of George.”

Draco did not like anything reminding her of any wizard aside from him, and when she noticed his silence and his stormy expression, she clarified with a roll of her eyes. “He always wears purple robes and his ear is gold, Draco.”

He bit his tongue to refrain from asking what colors reminded her of him.

For Draco, it was the color of firewhisky when light reflected through a glass, the soft pink of dawn, and the emerald canopies in the forest that unfurled outside the walls of Malfoy Manor.

Hermione pulled Draco down the steps without so much of a warning, dragging them through the crowd when a few women dressed in elaborate bird-like costumes stopped in the middle of the street. Cymbals clanged in time to the wheeling notes of a flute, and Draco cocked his head when the women spread their arms in a slow, arching sweep. White wings unfurled to the sides of their billowing white robes. In time with the cymbals, they swayed gracefully with each careful step they took. They wore headdresses shaped like heron crests, and with each sweeping gesture they made, Draco became enraptured. Their dance mimicked the flight of a bird gliding across water.

Beyond the dancers, attendants clad in traditional attire carefully stepped between the dancing herons, some holding staffs, others fluttering fans as if they were the ones who controlled the wind.

“It’s called the Shirasagi no Mai—it means White Heron Dance. It’s famously done during the Sanja Mastsuri every year, but they preform at other festival’s too.”

“Have you seen it before?” Draco asked, still watching the dancers as they glided through the street.

“No—it’s my first time.” She smiled fondly, hands clasped in front of her chest. “I’ve read about it, though.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it.” Draco admitted, casting another quick glance Hermione’s way. His ears pricked with heat when he found she was looking up at him with a soft smile.

“It originates from the Heian period—see those men?” She gestured to the one who swept right past the two of them. Draco nodded, gaze catching on his tall hat. “He’s wearing what’s called a Tate-eboshi. It was worn by high-ranking court nobles, so he probably comes from a family that once was a part of the ruling class.”

Draco wanted one of those hats, and Hermione swatted his arm when he said as much.

Soon, the dance ended, and the procession continued on. Together they pressed deeper into the throng, and the once peaceful and serene music shifted into something livelier. Drums boomed in rhythmic cadence; their reverberations felt deep in Draco’s chest. Around them, people cheered as one of the passing mikoshi, this too, gilded in gold and lacquer, swayed precariously atop the shoulders of its bearers.

“Why does it look like they trying to drop it?” Draco asked, his eyes wide as the shrine lurched again with a shout from the crowd.

“It’s intentional!” Hermione explained, craning her neck to get a better view. “They jostle the mikoshi to entertain the deities and invite blessings.”

He frowned. “That seems dangerous. They could get hurt.”

“Oh, hush,” she chided, and Draco tried to hide his grin when she looped her arms through the crook of his elbow. Draco’s stomach decided to make an audible growl at that precise moment, which had Hermione laughing. “Come on, time to eat.”

Hermione pulled Draco back towards the street vendors and he let her, unwilling to sacrifice the feel of her body pressed against his despite disliking how easily she tugged him along. They passed by too many vendors to count, and Draco looked longingly in the direction of what Hermione called yakisoba and sweet taiyaki. Draco’s stomach gave another loud growl, which earned a knowing look from Hermione.

“You promised food and have starved me for the better part of two hours,” he muttered, sniffing the air as his gaze wandered to a vendor expertly flipping some sort of mushy, soup-like-food on a hot griddle. “What’s that?”

Monjayaki. Want to try some?”

Draco squinted at the food, and the vendor called out a cheerful greeting towards them. It smelled good but looked positively foul. “Do you suppose it’s… safe?”

“It’s like okonomiyaki, but a bit… runnier, I suppose? You cook it directly on the grill.”

Draco arched a skeptical brow, and opted out of telling her that he didn’t know what the bloody hell okonomiyaki was. “It looks like someone upended a soup onto a hotplate.”

She rolled her eyes. “Trust me, it’s delicious.” Tugging his sleeve, she led him to the stall, arm still laced through his. (His heart did not give an annoying flutter.)

The vendor greeted them with a warm smile and began preparing their monjayaki. Hermione requested salmon and shrimp for them both, and Draco watched in silence, his arms folded, as the vendor poured the batter onto the grill, deftly spreading it out. He added a plethora of toppings: cabbage, fried noodles, and what suspiciously looked like mayonnaise.

When it was ready, the vendor handed them small spatulas for eating, and Hermione demonstrated by scooping up a bite. “You eat it directly off the griddle—oh, you’ve got to try this.” She held out her spatula toward him, her eyes daring him.

Draco hesitated, then leaned in, taking the bite from her spatula. His expression shifted subtly—an eyebrow raised in surprised approval. “Not bad,” he admitted, taking his own spatula to try more.

“Told you,” Hermione said with a smirk.

They finished half of it, paid, and moved on—Draco did not design to mention his fear of food-borne illness, especially not when her smile was as bright as the late morning sun making its way across the sky.

They moved through the festival, stopping at stall after stall. The more they ate, the happier Hermione became. At one stall, they sampled karaage—crispy, golden-brown bites of fried chicken served with a wedge of lemon. At another, they tried freshly grilled ika-yaki, the sweet and savory glaze of soy caramelizing on the skewered squid.

Draco surprised her by stopping at a sweets stall and purchasing a few dorayaki—fluffy pancakes filled with sweet red bean paste. He handed her one with a nonchalant shrug.

“For all your lecturing about trying things, I thought you deserved a reward,” he said, though his smirk betrayed him.

Hermione took a bite and sighed in contentment. “This is heaven.”

As the morning unfurled into afternoon, they wandered closer to the temple itself, eventually finding themselves standing before the imposing red gate again. Just beyond its threshold, the temple loomed, pagoda illuminated against the sky—a clean, bright blue beacon above them.

Draco found it overall a very strange sight. How could such a magnificent and ancient piece of architecture blend so seamlessly through a modern city? He tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he gazed up at the gate in quiet admiration. He was beginning to understand Hermione’s fascination with the culture.

“It’s called the Kaminarimon, or the Thunder Gate.” Hermione supplied when she noticed his interest. “Breathtaking, isn’t it?”

He hummed his response. It was indeed a breathtaking sight. Towering and wide, it was painted in that same rich vermillion hue he’d seen all throughout the morning. It reminded Draco of Gryffindor red. The sturdy wooden beams gleamed under the sun, as if intent on refracting the light in order to stand out. At the center of the gate hung a colossal paper lantern, its size dwarfing the people bustling beneath it. The bold black kanji painted on its surface declared the name of the gate, and Draco commented that it was a fitting moniker for such a striking structure. Hermione agreed wholeheartedly.

Flanking the lantern were two fearsome guardian statues encased in protective grilles. The statue on the left one wore a wild expression and flowing garments, as if in eternal motion. The statue on the right clutched a drum as if ready to summon a storm. Draco tilted his chin toward them, a silent inquiry that didn’t go unnoticed. Hermione’s lips quirked with barely contained delight, her expression practically glowing at the opportunity to dredge up yet another gem from her seemingly bottomless reservoir of knowledge.

“Fujin, the god of wind, and Raijin, the god of thunder.”

“Standing guard?”

“Yes, exactly! They’re meant to ward off evil spirits.”

Her smile was as white and bright as the sparkle of snow, and he stomped back the need to touch her. (He so badly wanted to brush his knuckles over her rosy cheeks and kiss her until she was breathless.)

Draco swiftly looked away and cleared his throat. “Sort of like the gargoyles in the Great Hall at Hogwarts, yeah?”

She rolled her eyes, but he knew she was pleased with his comment. He did not let his thoughts linger on all the other ways he now knew how to please her.

They strode through the gate and headed toward the main temple, gilded accents sparkling and bright. On the curved roofs were intricate carvings and lacquered tiles, rippling like inky waves. They meandered closer, still locked arm and arm. Draco tried to ignore the feel of her fingers as they absently played with the cuff of his sleeve. He was failing spectacularly.

They neared the temple steps, and drifting through the air was the aroma of incense burning from a giant bronze cauldron. Draco made a face when visitors paused to waft its purifying smoke over themselves. He just knew what was coming next.

“No,” Draco stated. “I don’t want to smell like incense the rest of the day.”

She rolled her pretty brown eyes. (He was a goner.) “You already do. Come on.”

Draco didn’t put up much effort to refuse her request—Hermione was, after all, very good at getting what she wanted.

Hermione stopped in front of the cauldron, her gaze lifting to meet his with quiet expectancy. The soft hum of the festival buzzed around them, but in the moment, everything seemed to narrow to just the two of them. A gentle breeze swept through the air, ruffling Hermione’s wild curls again, sending a few stray locks across her cheek.

Before Draco could think better of it—before logic had a chance to interject—his hand lifted of its own accord. With a tender touch, he tucked the errant strands behind her ear. His fingers lingered longer than they should have, skimming the curve of her neck in a gesture far more intimate than professional.

Hermione didn’t pull away. She didn’t remind him about boundaries or shift to break the tension. Instead, she held his gaze, her expression softening. His heart thundered in his chest, a drumbeat against his ribs.

It was like a dance, this new dynamic between them. The waltz made him dizzy.

Hermione waved her hand over the incense smoke in his direction, and Draco responded in kind. Draco knew the gesture was purely ceremonial—but he swore he felt a kernel of warmth unfurl along his spine when the smoke wafted past his face.

They wandered for another ten minutes before she declared it was time they returned to the hotel to plan their next outing, much to Draco’s vocal dismay. She treated him to mochi to stop his pouting (he accepted with requisite amount of fuss), and once his sweet tooth was satisfied, they found a secluded area to Apparate from.

With a dizzying crack, they landed in the hotel lobby and made their way to their room. Hermione wasted no time transfiguring the breakfast nook into a sprawling workspace. Her wand moved with precision as papers shuffled midair, drifting neatly onto the table in an impossibly orderly arrangement. Next, she levitated the crate and began unsealing the binds. One by one, she placed the artifacts on the table behind their corresponding research stacks.

Draco flopped onto the chaise; arms draped dramatically over the sides. Watching was much better than helping—he’d only earn a lecture if he tried to intervene. Soon enough, the corner of the room that was once the breakfast nook looked more like their dining room back home, complete with a corkboard full of notes that Hermione had transfigured from a painting of a bridge over a pond full of water lilies.

“That could’ve been a real Monet, you know,” Draco drawled, tilting his head over the edge of the chaise. His neck cracked loudly, and Hermione winced.

“Stop doing that—it’s awful for your cartilage. And it wasn’t real—it was a print. Don’t act like you didn’t know that already.”

“You’re not trying to insult my cultured knowledge of fine art again, are you?”

Her eyes narrowed, crinkling with irritation. “Monet was not a wizard, Draco.”

“Yes, he was.”

She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut, clearly unwilling to indulge him. Turning back to the table, she shuffled through the papers. “Before it closes for the day, we should head into Hōjō tsūro.”

Draco stared up at the ceiling, feeling a wave of drowsiness come over him. “We’ve been up since the crack of dawn, darling. A kip would be nice.”

She didn’t say anything, and Draco recognized his slip in the silence that stretched. Right. She had asked him to stop using the pet name this morning, citing it would only make things more complicated.

“Sorry,” he muttered, glaring at the ceiling. “Slip of the tongue.”

“It’s fine.” Her voice was high and tight, and when Draco dropped his chin, he saw her shoulders had drawn up to her ears.

He sighed and dropped his elbows to his knees, clasping his hands together. He toyed with the signet ring on his pinky, glaring at the stretch of wooden planks beneath his feet.

“Hermione, look—”

“I said it was fine, Malfoy.”

The quick breath he took punched through him, shredding his lungs. His head snapped up, a twisted sneer on his lips. She hadn’t called him by his surname in months. She hadn’t all day, in fact, but Hermione had clearly learned a thing or two from him over the course of their partnership, and one of those things was being employed right now.

Draco didn’t enjoy the way it felt when she weaponized his own bloody name—as if she had done so with the sole intention of getting back at him for his mistake.

It was just a pet name.

A thought crossed his mind, an impulse, really. He felt the frost of Occlusion call to him, a promise that the cold would keep his hurt at bay. That impulse turned into action. It was easy to summon the walls, to let them stack one by one around his lovesick heart.

“Yeah, all right.”

Hermione stiffened and then quickly snapped her attention over her shoulder. He could have sworn he saw hurt flickering like candlelight in her eyes. But then the frost spread, crackling over his vision. When he blinked, gone was the flame, the feelings, the hurt. She was just a woman—just his principle.

He did not like the thought of that at all.

Hermione fully turned, taking slow steps his way. She was focusing on his eyes, but her gaze darted around his entire body, too. Noting his posture, his blank expression. She came back to his eyes, squinting. Then she gritted her jaw.

“You’re Occluding.”

He simply stared at her.

“Stop it.”

Draco bit his tongue between his front teeth and unfurled from the chaise, towering over her. Hermione glared up at him, and through the frost, he saw the fire behind her eyes, pushing back some of the cold that had slithered through his veins.

“Draco, stop it. Right now.”

“Back to using my first name, are you?” His voice was flat, but there was a tremor skirting along his mental walls. “Think it’s a convenient tool to use in order to get you what you want?”

Her mouth popped open, and that fire inside her blazed brighter. The cold receded immediately, and his emotions rushed through him like a flashflood. Draco blinked, and then he was back to square one—to feeling hurt and used.

“Are you actually cross with me right now? For using your surname?!”

He hesitated.

They had a good day together and he was ruining it. He was already demolishing the peace they had managed to uphold.

Draco brushed past her and headed toward the door, swiping his cloak from the press on his way. He had to get out of this room. He had to walk away before he said something stupid because all he could think about was fact that they had spent the entire night wrapped up in one another in the very bed behind him. A flash of skin danced through his mind, and he swore he felt the whisper of his name on his neck. Draco stalled in front of the door and took a steady breath.

“Where are you going?”

“Out—I need air.”

His hand was on the handle, but then she was there, fingers curling around his elbow, pulling him back.

“You’re cross with me.”

Draco stared at the door, jaw clenching.

“Let go, Granger.”

He wouldn’t ruin this. He wouldn’t succumb to his unreasonable feelings right now—not when he had carefully ensured that everything would smooth over between them at the festival.

Another thought niggled in the back of his head, a dangerous one. She was the one who’d kissed him first, after all. She was the one who had started them down this path.

He had a right to be cross with her, didn’t he?

His logic swept in like a wave full of brine and sand. It stung, but it was the truth. He was the Auror. He knew the Code. He should have stopped it. He shouldn’t have taken her to bed. He shouldn’t have done any number of the deliciously immoral things he’d done to her last night—and again, this morning. But he hadn’t wanted to stop. If anything, he wanted to do it again.

Right now, even.

Draco didn’t want to make this an argument, but… he was cross, in a way. He was cross for many reasons, but none of them directly were her fault. If anything, it was his fault. He was the one who had clearly fallen first. He was the one who teased, who flirted, who brought her to his ancestral home to have dinner with his mother. He was the one who had been courting her all this time, while pretending he wasn’t. It wasn’t courting if there wasn’t a contract, but—that wasn’t true, now was it? Potter had warned him off weeks ago and yet… and yet…here he was, looking down the barrel of their mutual destruction and trying to accept that she was willing to chalk it up to a one-off. As if this morning’s hushed apologies and half-promised plans to not repeat their transgressions hadn’t changed anything.

But it had. It changed everything.

Draco dragged a hand through his hair, ruffling it into disorder. “I’m not cross.”

“You are.” She dropped his arm, and Draco just knew—even without looking—that she had planted her hands on her hips. “Draco, you know why—”

He spun on his heel and stepped into her space, gaze burning up the space between their faces. “I am well aware of every fucking reason why we can’t.”

She froze, her posture as rigid as the temple statues they’d passed by earlier.

“That doesn’t change the fact that I am incredibly selfish,” Draco continued, his voice low and fervent. There was no stopping his next words. “That doesn’t change the fact that I want you with every fiber of my being.”

She flinched again. He hated the sight. “Don’t—don’t tell me that.”

Draco abruptly stood. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because—it—you—it makes it harder!”

“Good!” Draco snapped, stepping even closer now. His body was thrumming. He wanted to grab her and kiss her. He wanted to press her against the wall and touch her until she was begging for him. “This should be hard! You shouldn’t have kissed me if you weren’t prepared for the fallout!”

Hermione released a scathing laugh that had a sneer twitching down his mouth.

“Oh, right. My fault entirely.”

“Yes, it is.”

Hermione stepped close enough that her heaving chest brushed against his stomach. Her scent curled around him, soft and sweet. Strawberries. Saffron. His head spun.

“You were going to kiss me anyways.”

His waterline twitched. “And if I was?”

She lifted her chin in that infuriatingly haughty way of hers. He had to ball his hands into fists at his sides to stop himself from grabbing her.

“You can’t blame me for something you were going to do anyways.”

“You can’t argue that.”

“I can.” She insisted, a smirk rising. His smirk. This bloody witch… “You were going to kiss me the morning after the last full moon, too. Weren’t you?”

“I didn’t.”

“You wanted to.”

Draco hesitated, mulling over his words. Best not to mince them.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you a great many times. Your point is moot.”

Her eyes became wide pools until then narrowed, amber flecks sparking to life.

War, then, was on the horizon.

Splendid.

“For how long?”

“Elaborate.”

“How long have you wanted to kiss me, Draco?”

Draco’s breath hitched, sharp and uneven. His exhale was long and resigned.

“That isn’t relevant.”

“It is incredibly relevant.”

He jerked his chin toward the table. “I thought you wanted to work.”

“You were the one who was about to leave me here.”

Right. He’d forgotten about that. As if sensing his intention to follow through on that thought, she gripped his elbow hard enough her nails left divots in his skin.

“Tell me how long.”

“Why should I?” He jerked her hold on his arm, straightening his cuff. “It wouldn’t change anything. You’ve made that point abundantly clear.”

Seconds ticked by.

“You’re right. It wouldn’t.”

Draco recoiled—actually, truly recoiled. He would have preferred it if she had struck him instead. Draco took half a step back, but she was persistent as always and followed him.

He would not be leaving anytime soon.

“How long, Draco?”

Draco spun the ring on his pinky with his thumb, as if it might offer him a modicum of comfort. It did no such thing. Not when she was staring at him in that way of hers, like she would peel him apart, layer by layer, until she reached his ribs and plucked the bones from his body just prove that his heart beat solely for her.

“June.”

Hermione blanched. “What?”

“The seventh, to be precise.”

“That was the first full moon—the first day we started this case—”

Draco shrugged, feigning disinterest. “Your point?”

“You didn’t even like me then.”

He shot her a dry look. “Doesn’t matter. I still wanted to kiss you.” Draco’s voice dropped, softer now. “Truthfully, I’ve wanted to since school. But obviously, I never tested the theory because—well, you know—I was a prat and then… the war.”

Hermione turned and ran both hands through her curls, ruffling them in agitation.

He could leave now. He had answered her question. She had turned her back. It would be easy to leave, but Draco stopped running away from his problems a long time ago. He wouldn’t be that man anymore.

“You can’t just tell me that and—and not expect me to be baffled.”

“It’s a very simple concept to comprehend.” He slipped his hands into his trousers. He stepped after her, unable to fight the pull. “You were pretty. I was a teenage boy.”

“This is not helpful information.” Hermione pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes. “This is—I am—I think I’m short circuiting. I think my brain is broken. You’ve broken my brain.”

“I tried to tell you it wasn’t relevant.” Draco’s chest brushed her shoulder, and she spun, staggering. A zap went down his spine when she looked at him. “Don’t push me for answers unless you can handle them.”

She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, chewing. He let her think, content to feel her warmth, to let her gaze flicker over every inch of his face as she worked through whatever problem was zipping through her mind.

“Since school? Really?”

“I thought about it a time or two.” He shrugged. “You’re gorgeous.”

It seemed the safest response—a logical explanation that did not force him to stray into the dangerous territory of exposing his feelings more than he already had thus far. He just hoped she wouldn’t stomp him to bits with her ridiculous yellow wellies. She moved towards the table and scowled at their notes. Her fingertips brushed the glass dome over the fan.

Then she said, “We’re in the middle of a very dangerous case.”

That… was not what he had expected her to say.

“Yes?”

“This entire ordeal is being orchestrated by an unknown dark wizard.”

She was redrawing the lines, and so Draco put on a brave face and opted for sarcasm in order to shield himself. “Why are you regurgitating facts right now?”

“You’re my Protective Detail who must at all times follow the care plan set in place by the Minister and adhere to the Auror’s Code of Conduct.”

“Yes.” Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, wincing as his heart turned into a little black blob. “Thank you for the reminder.”

“Even with all of those facts, you kissed me back.”

Draco dropped his hand and saw that she was staring at him the way she had last night—right before she had grabbed him and pulled him down to her lips. His throat clicked as he swallowed. “I… did.”

“Why?”

Draco sucked on his teeth, his frustration bleeding into his tone as he said, “Well, Granger, because I wanted to.”

“And now?”

“Now, what?”

“Do you want to kiss me now?”

Draco closed his eyes and took a measured breath. He bent over the table and splayed his hands over the papers. “Don’t ask me that.”

She did not heed his warning.

“Answer the question.”

His nostrils flared as he tried to breathe through his annoyance.

It did not relent.

“Obviously I want to kiss you. Salazar, woman, why must you ask questions you already know the answers to?” Draco shoved away from the table and stormed towards the terrace. He stared out the glass doors, back tense, hands trembling at his sides. “I want to do a great deal more than kiss you, which you’re bloody well aware of, so please, do stop torturing me unless you plan to soothe the hurt you insist on inflicting upon me with this inquisition.”

“This is why Harry wanted you off the case, isn’t it? Not because we were too chummy but because—” She blinked several times, as if realizing the facts for themselves. It was wonderful and horrible at the same time to watch her mind work at slotting all the puzzle pieces together.

Draco wondered if she realized how dangerous this conversation was. If she understood that in having it, there would be no returning—no going back to their polite yet hasty agreement that they should remain professional and never again speak of what had happened in this very room.

He wanted to beg her to stop as badly as he wanted her to keep pushing—to utterly destroy the precarious equilibrium they’d sustained for all of seven hours.

“It’s just… I’m surprised you continued to work with me while being compromised in such a way.”

Draco could not stop his jaw from falling open. That was what she had decided to close her argument with? It was absurd. It was insulting. It was fucking uncouth.

He was out of patience.

Compromised,” he seethed, turning on his heel. When he looked at her, his skin grew hot. “I have never let my feelings for you incapacitate any aspect of this case. If anything, the way I care about you has made me be that much better at my job.”

“Your feelings for me?” She sputtered, her features flickering between fury and doubt.

“Yes, Hermione. My feelings for you.”

“That’s—you—”

In any other scenario, having a witch resort to blithering nonsense would be an ego boost. This had the opposite effect. It made him angry—angrier than he had been in a very long time.

“Do you really think I would have slept with you if you meant nothing to me?”

“Well, I wondered but—I didn’t think—”

Draco stared down at her, nostrils flaring. “Did you not hear anything I said to you this morning?”

Her chest flushed and he watched with rapt attention as crimson spread up her neck and over her cheeks. A moment flickered through his mind, one of slick heat and fluttering walls.

“I was a little preoccupied, Draco.”

Fair point, but he kept the thought to himself.

“So, you’ve just decided to submit me to this inquisition in order to confirm whether or not I care about you, rather than just outright asking me?”

“Well, it would be nice to know, yes!”

“Obviously—yes, you bloody infuriating witch. Of course, I care! A great deal in fact!”

His breath was tight in his lungs, and his skin was hot, and his spine tingled as if he were in danger. They stood in silence as his admission settled between them. Outside the terrace doors, the afternoon sun cast golden streaks across the polished floor, but it felt distant, inconsequential compared to the storm brewing in the room.

His lips twitched into a frown. A question was on the tip of his tongue. A silly, insecure question. He tried to bite it down, but it was no use. He tasted the metallic tang of his blood when he spoke. “And you?”

“M-me?” She squeaked.

“What of your feelings?”

“I mean—we—I shouldn’t—it’s not—”

His laugh was humorless and absolutely scathing. Cold began to creep over his skin as the desire to Occlude grew stronger once again. “You’re right, we shouldn’t. But we did. We are.” Draco stepped closer, body brimming with tension. He knew she felt the same. There was no possible way she didn’t feel the same way about him. He just needed to hear it for himself. “You started this argument, now finish it. Present me with all the facts so we may come to a conclusion and move on with our fucking day.”

She looked at his chest, but he wanted her eyes. He wanted her to look at him if she was about to rip his heart from his body. Draco tilted her chin up with a single finger. He couldn’t tell if he was the one trembling or if it was her.

She slowly met his gaze. Draco hated to see that the fire in her eyes was dim.

“It’s your turn to tell me the truth, Hermione.”

“Do you regret it?” She blinked back tears, and he shrunk into himself at the sight. “Last night. This morning.” She clarified. “Do you regret it?”

His nostrils flared as he exhaled sharply. Obviously, he didn’t regret it. They wouldn’t be having this argument right now if he did. How could she ever think he would regret her?

Did she regret what they’d done?

“I don’t regret a single second of it.”

Her lips trembled, but her voice was steady as she said, “I don’t either.”

Draco hesitated before dropping his fingers from her chin. “Then why are we arguing?”

She chewed on her lip, fingers twisting nervously together as she tried to come up with a response. When two minutes passed, Draco turned away, stalking back to the terrace doors. His reflection stared back at him, pale and drawn, a ghost of the man he wanted to be.

“I’m sorry.”

He felt his limbs lock up at the words, and then he spun around, the intensity of his gaze pinning her in place. “You’re sorry? That’s it?”

“What more do you want me to say? We agreed that we should remain professional—”

“Fuck the agreement, Hermione!” He shouted, which only had her hackles rising in response. “I don’t accept it! I reject it, in fact. You are so bloody intelligent—the smartest person I have ever known—but you’re telling me you really believe that when we shook hands like good mates and blathered nonsense about boundaries and professionalism that it would somehow erase the fact that it is impossible to walk back over a bridge that has already collapsed?”

“You said you thought it was best—”

“Because that’s what I thought you wanted!” He pulled at the roots of his hair, pacing in front of her like a caged animal. “So, what is it that you do want, Hermione? If it’s not me, then what is it?”

“Well, for you to stop shouting for starters!”

Draco squeezed his eyes shut and supplied a quick apology.

“It’s fine,” she crossed her arms tightly, two steel cables protecting the heart he so desperately wished to own. “I’m sorry, too.”

They awkwardly stood there, breathing the same air, yet Draco felt they were on opposite sides of the world.

He curled his fingers into tight fists as he tried to gather his wits back about him. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to fight the urge to ask her once more if she returned his feelings.

But he was sick with love—terminally ill, in fact.

He just had to know. Even if it destroyed him.

“I have to know, Hermione. I’m sorry.” He said quietly, eyes still tightly closed. “Please, just—tell me.”

He felt her warmth first, and then her fingers as they grazed the curve of his jaw. He opened his eyes and found her staring up at him like he was the moon. He feared that she was the sun, and they would be forced to orbit each other for eternity.

“I’m afraid if I say it, everything will fall apart.”

She was afraid—his Gryffindor witch was afraid? He felt the last vestiges of his sanity begin to fray. She was so bloody impossible to read sometimes.

“Nothing will fall apart.”

“Everything could, Draco.”

He sucked his cheeks between his teeth and bit down.

“I won’t let it.”

Seconds ticked by full of hellish stillness.

His heart was beating too fast. Panic ebbed and flowed, rose higher, great as a mountain, vast as a tsunami wave. Then, the panic receded just as the sun broke into the room in a wide arc of golden light, kissing her skin, turning her curls into a fiery halo of gold and caramel and bronze.

“How could I not care about you?” She said softly, cupping his cheek.

He should have fallen to his knees and wept, but for some reason, a stone lodged itself deep in his gut, weighing him down. Doubt set in.

“That—” He carded a shaky hand through his hair. “—isn’t as helpful as I thought it would be. Fuck.”

He had wanted so badly for her admit it, but now that she had… he wasn’t sure if it would only hurt him more in the end. She was looking at him like she was sorry—like she needed to comfort him. Why would she be looking at him like that unless she was planning to break his heart?

“It’s not?”

He glared at the tip of her nose. Looking into her eyes was too hard right now.

He gritted his teeth, molars grinding. “If it changes nothing, that is.”

Tension stretched taut between them.

“We have to…” Hermione knuckled her temples. She gave an audible groan that bordered on a whine. “We need to close the case. We have to finish binding the artifacts. We have to find out why this is happening—the yokai—not—not us. I mean. I know why that’s happening.”

He tried not to tremble, but it was fruitless. His entire body was jittery.

“What about after?”

Merlin. He sounded desperate. He wondered if he looked as unhinged as he felt.

She wet her lips, cast her gaze around the room before finally coming back to him. Always. She always found him.  “Is that what you want?”

“More than anything,” he answered immediately. “And you?”

Her brows twitched together not in confusion—but in awe. “Yes, Draco.”

“Yes?” Draco grazed her pinky with his fingers. It twitched in response. “You’ll let me—after?”

She gave him a curious, yet open expression. “Let you do what exactly?”

“Make you mine in every way that counts.”

Her breath caught, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath with her. “Draco…”

“I’m selfish, Hermione. I told you this. Many times,” he said, his tone softer now but no less intense. “I want you, and—well, frankly—I don’t care about the consequences if we pursue this right now.”

“You should.”

“I don’t.” He insisted. “But if you want to wait, that is—” He took her hand in earnest now. He would get down on both knees and beg if she asked him too. Only if it meant she would just say yes. “—fine. I will. I’ll wait. I’ll be patient.”

“You’d wait?”

“For however long.” He cradled her face in both hands now. “Weeks. Months. Years.”

Years?”

He narrowed his eyes, catching the soft, radiant smile that curled the corners of her rose-bud lips. A smile he swore belonged only to him. “If you insist, then… yes, I suppose. I would wait.”

(He would drag his naked body across a bed of hot coals if that’s what she wanted him to do. He really hoped she didn’t, though.)

“The last full moon of the year is in December,” she said thoughtfully, “which means—theoretically speaking—that’s when we would bind the last yokai.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. “Are you mentally drafting a timeline?”

She blushed, trying to turn her face away, but he didn’t let her.

“Are there stipulations?”

She considered for a moment. “Such as?”

“Kissing you.”

Draco.”

“I just had to ask.”

She rolled her eyes, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “One kiss.”

“One?”

“A day,” she clarified. “At home only.”

His stomach flipped at the sentiment that she considered his flat home.

Their home.

“Ten.”

“One,” she insisted.

“Seven.”

“Draco.”

“… Five?”

“Three.”

Three,” he agreed, grinning like a fool. He lowered his head, brushing his lips gently against hers. Sweet. Reverent. “That doesn’t count. Today is washed.”

“You can’t just wash a day.”

“I can.” He kissed her again. And again. “I will.”

She giggled, trying in vain to push back against his mouth. She met him kiss for kiss regardless. “This is—” she nipped at his lip, laughing when he playfully snapped his teeth in retaliation. “—not what I intended.”

“And yet, you’re not stopping me,” he pointed out, tugging her against his chest. His palms smoothed along her spine, resting low on her back. He leaned down to brush his lips against the spot beneath her ear that made her toes curl. “Technically, we’re on holiday.”

She released a shaky breath. “We are not on holiday.”

He ignored her, inhaling the scent of her shampoo into his lungs. Strawberries. He dragged his nose down the slender curve of her throat. Saffron. He kissed her pulse where it thrummed hard and fast. His.

“If we’re on holiday, there’s no need for timelines or contracts or stipulations. I have free will.”

She gasped when he bit down on her delicate skin, then moaned softly when he soothed the bite with a flick of his tongue. “That concept…” She struggled for breath when he took her arse into his hands and squeezed. Draco hummed contentedly. “Completely contradicts… the entire discussion we just, ah… had.”

“It’s not a concept.” He lifted his head to meet her gaze. Her eyes were dark and hazy, mirroring his own. “It’s like—what do the American Muggles say again? About staying in Pegasus—bollocks. Lost it.”

He couldn’t help but grin when she threw back her head laughing.

“I think you mean, ‘what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas?’”

He dropped down to press a kiss to her cheek—just because he could. “Yes, precisely. You’re bloody brilliant, darling.”

Notes:

I'm back! My computer is fixed! I am so incredibly sorry for the long wait, I hope this chapter was worth it. (Did I have you in the first half? Enter Hermione 'Chronic Overthinker' Granger and Draco 'I Am Not Manic, Just In Love' Malfoy. I really debated holding back on the last scene but... the idiots yelled at me and I really do hate the miscommunication trope sooo... I had to let them be happy.)

Now... I just want to say thank you all so much for your comments, kudos, subscriptions and overall love on this story. You have taken this story far beyond anything I ever imagined. I'm mind blown because 11.2k hits! Christ!!!

I'm not entirely sure how my originally planned short story turned into this massive thing but *shrugs* here we are.

This chapter was originally 30k works... so I cut it in half. Which means yay! another update sooner rather than later!

I am also happy to announce that we are now entering the final leg of this fic!!!! All of your questions will soon be answered, and of course, smut. A lot of it. All of it.

XOXO ryn

(It's a full moon tonight. Heh.)

For anyone wanting to hear about future updates or just wants to know how my writing is going OR has any questions, head to my tumblr page! I'd love to chat! <3

Chapter 11: The Warden of the Veil

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Day Ninety-Seven: Saturday, 11th of September 2009

Malfoy’s Twenty-Fifth Rule for Surviving Magical Chaos:

Beware of Friendly Locals.

If someone offers cryptic advice, they're probably hiding something.

If they laugh mysteriously, definitely run.

(Granger’s note: Not all mysterious laughter is sinister.)

(Malfoy’s note: Were you forced to live with a dark wizard when you were sixteen, darling? No, you weren’t, which means I am far more qualified to tell when laughter is sinister or not.)

(Granger’s note: You were glaring at him. It was nervous laughter.)

(Malfoy’s note: Regardless, it was unsettling. Who bursts a vessel in their eye laughing like that? Certainly not someone sane.)

 

The energy of the crowd thrummed around Hermione, shifting and flowing like a living current. The press of people maintained a respectful distance as she and Draco wove through the throng of Hōjō Tsūro. Polite nods followed in their wake, subtle acknowledgments from strangers who, like them, were simply there to enjoy the quiet charm of a Saturday shopping trip.

It was an overcast day, with a thick sort of humidity that crept through the air, promising a late summer storm. Lantern light flickered overhead, casting warm, golden hues on the sea of faces they passed by. They had set off in search of a curio shop after grabbing a quick bite to eat, the name and general location given to them by a local witch they had met while in line to order.

Hermione desperately hoped this curio shop would be able to offer them a nod in the right direction, especially after last night’s failed attempt at securing new information.

The narrow, cobblestone street twisted and turned like a labyrinth, lined with shopfronts whose names shimmered in kanji illuminated by the floating paper lanterns. None of them listed the name of the shop they were searching for.

They rounded a corner and Hermione blinked, sensing the shift in atmosphere almost immediately. Draco’s palm ghosted the small of her back, stalling at her side. “I see why that witch laughed so nervously while giving us directions.”

Steam slithered out from beneath a circular grate in the middle of the alleyway, hissing and curling like a living beast. It smelled faintly of sulfur, and Hermione wondered if there was someone brewing illegal potions beneath the very cobblestones they stood on.

“Well,” Draco sniffed and casually flicked open the button on his holster for his wand, thumbing the wooden handle before pulling it free. He tapped it against his thigh three times, ticking in time with his jaw as he considered the lay of the land. “I have yet to see any hag’s, so, we’re off to a good start.”

“I hadn’t thought we would need to visit the Kage no Kōji, but I suppose I should have expected it,” Hermione mused, glancing around the dimly lit street. Like Knockturn Alley to Diagon Alley, the Kage no Kōji was the dark counterpart to Hōjō Tsūro—a place where whispered deals and hidden magic thrived in the shadows of the bustling marketplace.

Hermione pursed her lips as her gaze landed on the wooden sign hanging limply from a single bolt, swaying with a faint, grating squeal. It dangled precariously above a door with chipped green and gold paint.

She pointed toward the shop, gesturing at the sign. “That’s our place.”

Written in faded, curling kanji was Tsukiyo no Kottō—Moonlit Night Curiosities.

“It looks abandoned.”

Draco ran his tongue over his teeth, a gesture she’d come to realize meant he was considering his next words carefully. His gaze flicked over the shop’s front window. It was smudged with soot and dust and a single square pane in the bottom left corner was busted. The broken glass that lay forgotten in a pile beneath the window had Hermione wondering if the shop was abandoned. She tried to ignore the disappointment prickling along her nape at the thought.

“It’s our only lead.” Hermione groaned, glancing nervously up to Draco. “It can’t be abandoned. It just can’t.”

Draco dropped his mouth to the shell of her ear, his laugh a puff of hot air that left goosebumps in the wake it its absence. “I admire your determination, Granger.”

She stomped, which earned her another illicit sort of laugh. Hermione trudged on toward the small shop, taking in the row of dangerously topsy, turvy buildings it was nestled between.

From what she could see past the filth on the windowpanes, the display was cluttered with peculiar objects: a lacquered chest that seemed to pulse faintly with its own light, a tarnished mirror that reflected not the cobbled street but an eerie, mist-shrouded forest, and a pair of delicate jade chopsticks resting atop a faded scroll.

“I don’t think there is a soul inside that building, darling.”

Hermione pointed her wand and cast Homenum Revelio, indicating that yes, there was at least one human being inside the shop, thank you. She gave Draco a smug look whilst tapping the glass where a barely legible open sign hung from inside with a sticking charm.

Draco dropped his head back, groaning to the sky. “Gods-fucking-damnit.”

“You shouldn’t have bargained with me.” She said in a sing-song voice, turning on her heel to walk toward the shop backwards.

“I didn’t think you would actually withhold simply on the principle that you enjoy snogging me.”

Hermione shrugged, still grinning in triumph. “A deal’s a deal, darling.”

Draco licked his lips, strolling after her retreating form. (Prowling, more like it.)

“I didn’t quite catch that last part. Care to repeat yourself?”

“You’ve already had your allotted three kisses for the day.” Hermione said, ignoring him. She was still walking backwards, attempting to mimic Draco’s graceful strides. (Based on his grin, she was failing spectacularly.)

When she went down hard on her arse, she was thankful that Draco had the foresight to cast a cushioning charm on the cobblestones right before she landed.

“And that’s why you should never let your ego control your feet,” Draco drawled, standing over her with a smirk. His brow arched, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Tragic, really.”

“Oh, sod off.”

He tsked, shaking his head. “Such a brilliant mind, taken down by something as simple as coordination—hey!” She kicked at his calves, landing a hit on her third attempt. “Those are my money makers, you blasted witch.”

She glared at him, still sitting on the ground, clearly unamused. Draco lifted his trouser leg, inspecting the area where she'd kicked him, tutting dramatically. “Look what you’ve done, darling. You’ve bruised me.”

“Are you going to help me up, or not?”

Draco slowly shifted his attention from the nonexistent bruise to her, his gaze steady. She made a ‘well?’ gesture, prompting a long, exaggerated sigh from him. Dropping his trouser leg, he extended a hand with mock reluctance.

She huffed but took it, unwilling to risk looking too scrappy if she tried to get up on her own.

Draco helped pull her to her feet, his fingers brushing a few stray curls from her face. Then, with surprising tenderness, he leaned down and kissed the corner of her mouth. Hermione preened slightly, the corners of her lips curling in a pleased smile.

“Not a kiss,” he whispered as he pulled away.

“Not a kiss.”

The bell above the door jingled as they entered, the sound surprisingly low and resonant, like the tolling of a distant gong. It was a cramped and shadowy place, with shelves packed so tightly that it felt like the walls were closing in. Glass cases displayed cursed jewelry, charmed figurines, and other dubious relics. A thin layer of dust coated everything, and the air smelled faintly of old parchment and mildew, among a decaying scent Hermione knew very well from her years working in the Department of Mysteries.

Draco wrinkled his nose. “This place reeks of Dark magic.”

He was right. It did. Cloying and sharp, the tang of the Dark magic had Hermione wincing. She swept her attention around the shop, noting the pricing on various baubles and strange looking pieces of jewelry. Astronomically expensive.

“There is something distinctly Borgin-esq about this place.” Draco muttered, using the tip of his wand to lift a suspicious looking necklace. It had gold filament and a scattering of teardrop pearls that gleamed despite the lack of light in the shop.

Suddenly, a hunched figure emerged from behind the counter, dark robes sweeping the floor. The shopkeeper’s face was obscured by the deep hood of their cloak, but their voice was soft and lilting. “Travelers from far away...?”

Hermione stepped forward but stopped short when Draco pulled her behind him and cleared his throat. “Afternoon.”

She glared at the back of his pretty blonde head and then popped around from his side with a small wave. “Hi, there.”

The shopkeeper dropped his hood and Hermione blinked when he grinned at her, clapping his hands. He had a round face and rosy cheeks, with long, inky hair that swept past his cloaked shoulders. “Good afternoon! Welcome to my shop! How can I be of assistance? Perhaps I could direct you towards some lovely jewelry for your wife this day, sir?”

He was… rather chipper. Draco gave Hermione a pinched glare when she opened her mouth to correct the shopkeeper. She promptly closed it.

Draco turned back toward the man and offered a polite, polished smile. He swept to his full height and lifted his chin, flicking his brow up in that exact way he used to when we they were kids. Ah, yes. Ponce Draco. Her least favorite. (He expected her to be married to him in this bit of work-related role play? Embarrassing.).

“Thank you for the offer, but my wife has more jewelry than she could ever hope to wear in this lifetime.” He turned back and gave Hermione a rakish grin. She shuddered.

The shopkeeper flicked his attention warily in Hermione’s direction, casting his gaze over her body subtly, taking stock of the quality of her clothing. He frowned, noting her (sensible) boots that laced midcalf, her tight, black trousers, and the blouse that buttoned up the side of her torso to her clavicle.

“Eyes up north, mate.” Draco growled.

“Curious,” the shopkeeper said (utterly unperturbed by Draco’s warning, mind you). His dark gaze snagged on Hermione’s curls, which were a bit unruly from the humidity. She struggled not to pat them down. “Your wife looks familiar.”

“I’m sure that’s what you’d like to think.” Draco cut in, stepping in front of Hermione.

(She wasn’t exactly sure if she was supposed to be a kitten or a bull right now. Was he the bad cop or was she? Was she even a cop in this situation? Hermione had many questions that would not be answered anytime soon.)

“Have we met before?” The shopkeeper asked. Hermione knew he wasn’t talking to Draco.

Hermione squinted as she lifted to the tops of her toes to look over Draco’s shoulder. She tried to place the man, but no, she didn’t recognize him. Not that she really could when she had a tree of a man blocking her line of sight.

She tried to step around Draco, but he shuffled to block her view. Determined bastard.

She sighed, staring at Draco’s cloaked shoulder. “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of meeting before.”

Hermione shuffled to the right, pinching Draco’s side as she moved. He whipped his head in her direction, scowling. Hermione turned back to the shopkeeper and grinned.

He looked between the two of them with a very queer expression. Then he shrugged. “Ah, well. Friend new or old is still a friend to hold.” He scuttled closer to his counter, leaning over the glass top. (This man really reminded her of a beetle with all his scuttling about.) “What are you in the market for?”

“We’re looking for information about a few artifacts we have recently come into possession of.”

The artifacts in question were currently inside the crate again, which now was inside the duffle bag Draco carried. It took quite a bit of charm work from the two of them to fit the crate inside the bag, and after the fifth failed attempt at getting it to fit, she had debated on bringing it at all. Draco, not being one who enjoyed failure, made it work on the sixth try by enlarging the duffle, levitating the crate inside the bag, and then shrinking the bag back down to its normal size. (He added the featherlight charm when he nearly pulled his arm out of his socket attempting to lift it one handed.)

Hermione had decided they could denounce the little red wagon of its field work and Draco agreed that it had fought a good fight and that the best thing for it was to retire and become Crookshanks new bed back at the flat.

“Artifacts, you say?” The shopkeeper flicked his attention to the duffle in Draco’s hand, clearly sensing what lay inside.

“Yes, sir.” Hermione said, pushing Draco forward. He rolled his eyes and approached the shopkeeper. Draco settled the duffle on top of the counter and eyed the man warily. He made no move to open it.

The shopkeeper pressed himself flush to the counter; hands outstretched. “You have them with you?”

Draco pulled the bag back and rested a heavy palm on top of the black leather. “We do.”

“Curious…” the man said, cocking his head at the bag. “Might you tell me what sort of artifacts they are?”

 “They’re not for sale.” Draco said, gauging the man’s interest.

The shopkeeper straightened. “Oh, of course, of course. Mind my manners, very sorry, Mr…”

“Black.”

“Lovely to make your acquaintance, Mr. and Mrs. Black.” The man bowed, and Hermione and Draco returned the action. “My name is Saito Renjiro, but please, call me Sai.”

“Thank you, Sai. Lovely to meet you.” Hermione said, smiling tightly.

“Well… if you are not in the business of selling anything to me today, shall we discuss what exactly it is you have come to my shop seeking?”

“Information.” Draco supplied.

“I see,” Sai glanced at the duffle bag, then flicked his attention toward Hermione. “You have questions, then perhaps we can see if I can answer them.”

“Have you ever heard of Tetsuya Shrine?”

The shopkeeper tilted his head, the motion birdlike. He did not blink as he stared at Hermione, but his waterline did twitch. “Where have you heard of such a place before?”

Draco placed a stack of coins on the counter and pushed them toward Sai.

Sai huffed a small laugh. “I see.”

(Clearly he had no true moral dilemma on taking their money, considering he swept it into his palm and shoved it down the sleeve of his robes.)

“Tetsuya Shrine... is a place seldom spoken these days.”

“You know of it, then?” Draco asked. The muscle in his jaw jumped.

“It is a very dangerous place. One ought not to meddle in such matters.”

“Respectfully,” Draco cut in, his voice sharp. “We didn’t come here for cryptic warnings. Do you have any information, or should we take our business elsewhere?”

Sai’s brown eyes flickered slightly, then he smiled brightly. “The truth, gentlemen, lies not in what you think you know, but in what you have yet to learn.” He cleared his throat. “The place you seek is not easily found. It is hidden, and for good reason.” Sai looked back at the duffle, shuffling closer. “Tell me, might these artifacts you have come into possession of happen to be linked to such a place?”

“And if they are?” Hermione asked, her voice steady.

“Well…” Sai’s smile widened, a gleam in his eye. “Then I would say they are not mere curiosities for collectors, young witch. They are tethered to power beyond your understanding.”

Hermione hesitated, her mind racing. Sai’s grin grew as if he could read her every thought. “But you knew that, didn’t you—Brightest Witch of Her Age?”

Hermione gasped, stumbling against Draco’s side. He wrapped an arm around her waist, fingers splaying over her hip as he righted her. And then swift as wind, he had his wand brandished with lethal precision, the tip pressed between Sai’s brows before the man could blink.

Sai merely gave an unsettling grin, his gaze never faltering from Hermione.

“How do you know who we are?” Draco bared his teeth, a feral gleam sharpening his gaze.

“Fear not, Draconis,” Sai said smoothly, a strange lilt to his voice as his attention swept over Draco’s face. “I don’t wish to bring harm upon your Golden Girl.”

Draco’s eye twitched, his grip tightening on his wand. His expression was an unreadable mask, but Hermione saw the flicker of something dark in his gaze. Frost seemed to crackle across his grey eyes, sweeping the blue away until they were a sharp, cold silver.

Hermione fumbled for a solution. They would never hear the end of it from Shacklebolt if Draco harmed a citizen while on mission. There was not a single excuse in the world that would cover their arses.

“Draco,” Hermione said coaxingly, wrapping her fingers around the crook of his elbow. She squeezed, beseeching him to look at her. “Let’s not do anything brash.”

“Your wizard wishes to see inside my mind.” Sai said, almost taunting.

Wait, what?

Draco lifted his chin, a silent challenge in the movement.

“Very well. Look your fill, I have nothing to hide.”

With a whisper, Draco muttered, “Legilimens.”

Hermione could do nothing but watch.



The room around Draco shifted, bending in on itself as the connection formed. The air seemed to thicken, the light dimming just a fraction as Draco’s mind stretched forward, reaching into Sai’s consciousness. It was like sinking into a river of thoughts—fluid, ever-moving, and impossible to fully grasp. But Draco was precise and focused. He didn’t need to see everything, just what he needed to know.

His mind slid past the surface of Sai’s thoughts, brushing against layers of awareness, until he reached something deeper. The man’s memories were buried beneath a dense fog, like a collection of secrets locked behind a maze of twisting corridors. Draco could almost taste the secrecy—dark, pungent, and old. He didn’t waste time. With a sharp snap, he forced his way further in, pushing against the resistance like a blade cutting through a cloud.

Suddenly, fragments of images began to unfurl before him—a scene in a dimly lit room, heavy with the scent of incense, an ancient tome open on a worn wooden table. A group of hooded figures, their faces hidden in shadows, murmuring in a language Draco couldn’t pinpoint. The air hummed with power, and in the center of the room, a stone altar, cracked and stained. Just as he began to prod at the memory, coaxing away the fog with a thread of intent to see what was settled atop the altar, the scene shifted.

Draco’s pulse quickened, memories flickering past him like lightning. The flashes were erratic—brief moments of betrayal, of whispered deals struck in the dead of night. Draco heard the passing lilt of a voice he thought he recognized. He pulled on that memory with a chill in his gut, but then Sai redirected Draco to another memory—his own.

Draco paused, then doubled back. He hovered there, watching his own memory unfurl before him. Fourth year at Hogwarts, staring at the back of Hermione’s head during Potion’s. Snapes condescending tone as he docked points from Gryffindor. Draco’s sniggering. She turned around in her seat, glaring.

“Something to say, Malfoy?”

Draco had gone still in his seat. Her hair was wild, her eyes bright with that fire he knew so well. She smirked at him when he said nothing, too focused on the press of her pink lips, the slight flush on her cheeks, the freckles scattered like stars.

Another cloud of fog appeared, and Draco hastily wove his thread toward it, slithering like a snake. He propelled forward. It was hazy, images shifting on top of each other, a moment not yet fully defined. There was chanting, and smog, and the glowing light of purple runes hovering midair. Draco swept around the runes as they flared and flickered, and then the smog whisked back for half a second. Draco froze, ice sluicing through his veins.

Hermione was on her hands and knees, choking on smoke, clawing at something on the ground in front of her. She opened her mouth, lips moving with words he couldn’t hear.

And then Draco was being yanked back as the connection severed with a sharp, almost painful jolt. His breath caught for a moment, his hand tightening around his wand as he steadied himself.

Draco’s eyes narrowed as he returned to the present, his grip on his wand never loosening. He met Sai’s gaze, his expression cold, unreadable.

“You have Sight,” Draco said softly, the words more of a statement than a question.

“Perhaps,” Sai said, holding Draco’s attention.

Hermione scoffed, but Draco ignored it, still focused on the black pools staring back at him, bold and unblinking.

The warmth of Hermione’s hand curled tighter around Draco’s elbow, tugging. “Draco,” she whispered against his shoulder. “Enough.”

Draco adjusted his grip on his wand, fingertips tight on the worn grooves. Hermione tugged again, forcing him to relent.

Sai looked to Hermione with twinkling eyes, the sight akin to clusters of stars evaporating into two black holes. “It is good to have a dragon, is it not? Such fierce, loyal creatures.”

Hermione exhaled, no doubt struggling to take the man seriously now that she knew he dabbled in Divination. She never cared for the subject, and obviously still did not. “We’re trying to stop something dangerous. I would appreciate it if we moved past such circuitous discussions.” Her brown eyes sharpened, darkening. “If you know anything, now’s the time to speak.”

For a long moment, Sai was silent, the air in the shop thick with tension. Then, with a creak of ancient joints, he reached beneath the counter and withdrew a faded parchment map.

“This will lead you to what you seek.” Sai said, smacking his lips as he slid it across the counter. “But tread carefully. The path to the Tetsuya Shrine is treacherous, and those who walk it often do not return.”

Draco exchanged a glance with Hermione, his jaw tight. “Sounds delightful.”

Hermione carefully took the map, her fingers brushing against the brittle edges. “Thank you,” she said, her voice sincere.

As they turned to leave, Sai’s voice followed them, a whisper that sent a chill down Draco’s spine. “Beware of the Blue Moon, Draconis. The shadows grow longest in its light.”

Once the door to the shop clicked shut behind them, Draco exhaled a ragged breath and pulled Hermione tightly to his chest. He shoved his face into her curls and inhaled deeply, trying to dispel the tremors in his hands.

“I didn’t know you were a Legilimens.”

Draco huffed a laugh into her neck and pressed a kiss to her pulse before pulling back. He took stock of her, feeling anxious and thoroughly flayed.

“I’m unregistered.” He muttered, nodding when he accepted that there was not a single hair on her head that appeared harmed.

“Why?”

Draco pulled her away from the shop and the darkness of the unsavory alley. They walked through the crowds beneath the lanterns once they were back in the safe walkway of Hōjō Tsūro. “If the DMLE knew, then I would be tasked with far more interrogations than I’m comfortable with. It’s not something I enjoy doing.”

She chewed on her lip, hands wringing together as they stopped outside of the Apparition point. “What did you see?”

Draco scrubbed his free hand over his face. “I think I saw the artifacts being made—and then a deal—and then—”

She blinked up at him, eyes open, brows tight. “And then?”

“You.”

She jerked back, the fire in her eyes balking. “Me?”

Draco shook his head, trying to free the image from his mind. “You were… in a clearing, I think. In a forest, maybe. It kept changing. But there was smoke and runes, and you were on the ground. I couldn’t tell what was happening or if you were hurt.”

Hermione frowned deeply. “You know how I feel about Divination.”

“I’m telling you what I saw.” He flicked his attention around the street. Dread flooded through his veins, growing bolder and stronger with every pulse of his heart.

She looked over her shoulder and began to shift away. “We should go back.”

She only made it half a step before he grabbed her wrist, fast as an asp. He ran a soothing brushstroke over the delicate bone with his thumb, knowing it was more for his sanity than hers.

“No.” He pulled her back against his chest, fingers splaying wide barricades around her hips.

“Why not?” She stomped her foot and tried to push against his chest, but his grip only tightened the harder she struggled.

“I said no, Hermione.” Draco’s cheek feathered, and he jerked his chin toward the map now tucked away in her bag. “We need to go find the shrine. I’m not poking around in his mind again. I don’t trust him, and I certainly don’t want to find out what else he might have clacking around in his head regarding you.”

“I feel like that is even more of a reason to go back.”

His fingers drummed over her waist as he considered her request. He flicked his attention back over her shoulder, and then back to her face. “You don’t understand what I saw.”

“Then make me understand.”

The determination on her face was straightforward, and he felt his stance begin to flicker, waning and dissolving into the depth of her eyes. Amber swirled with brown, drawing him in.

“Do you trust me?” He whispered, drawing his hands to cradle her face. His thumbs smoothed over the swells of her cheeks like a cloud that swept over stars.

“With my life.”

Draco inhaled, a sharp, percussive sound. His brows twitched together, but then he nodded before pulling her down an empty side street.

“What—where are we going?”

He hurried them down the narrow street until they hit a dead end, and swept her against it, caging her in. “Trust me.” He whispered against her ear before pulling back and bringing his hands up to her face again. He took a deep breath and rested one of his thumbs over the soft cartilage of her temples, his wand to the other.

Legilimens,”

Hermione gasped as he slipped into her mind, but the sound fluttered away when he met little resistance. Her mind was fully open to him, like a roll of parchment unfurling in every direction. Draco hesitated at the soft currents of her memories, realizing the corridors of her mind weren’t just rolls of parchment, but a library. The books of her mind fell open, pages fluttering as he passed.

Draco brought forward Sai’s memories, planting them carefully in a new book, pages upon pages of images—pausing when he got to his own memory he’d seen through Sai’s mind. He brought that one forward, opening it to her. He felt her mind answer, gliding through it, soft as silk. He shivered when she circled back three times, focusing on the way he had looked at her when they were just kids. Warmth flooded through him, and then she moved on when he placed the last memory—the vision.

He felt her hesitation at seeing it, her confusion. She watched it several times over, and then he felt the tendril of her conscious twine with his. Draco gasped, wanting to pull back, but the thread wound closer, not tight but—there. With him.

Hermione had the makings of a Legilimen’s as well.

When the book was properly sorted, he slipped away as it closed. When he came to, their foreheads were resting against each other’s, chests heaving, lips centimeters apart.

What was that?” She rasped, excitement threading into her tone. “How did you do that? I moved inside my own mind—Christ, that was—I’ve never felt magic like that! You have to teach me, Draco!”

He chuckled, his breath fanning across her mouth. “Did I earn that kiss?”

She pulled him down by the back of his head, fingers threading through the short hairs at the nape of his neck. They both held their breath as their mouths idled closer and closer to meeting, until finally they swept against one another’s as soft and warm as the touch of spring

A thousand pinpricks flickered across his lips, every nerve in his body firing a hundred, thousand times. He groaned into her mouth; he would never tire of this feeling—of her. She deepened the kiss, opening to him, tongue slipping beneath his own, and then she was pulling back too soon, grinning up at him, fire dancing in her eyes.

“Teach me.”

Draco snorted, and because he was a thief, he stole another kiss—just a quick peck this time. “You need to learn to Occlude first.”

“I can learn to Occlude.”

“Mind magic is not simply memorizing facts and wand movements, darling. It’s not that simple.”

She shoved him, laughing when he darted down to nip at her neck in retaliation.

“Don’t you dare insult my ability to learn something new.”

“I would never dream of it,” he drawled, flicking a brow. “I’m merely being your voice of reason.”

She lifted her nose in the air, and instead of suppressing the urge to kiss her—he welcomed it.

“You’re out of your allotted kisses,” she muttered, but didn’t stop him when he came back for another.

“Strange, I suddenly forget how to count.” He smothered his face in her hair, inhaling deeply. His hands found their way to her hips, fingertips pressing divots into her soft flesh, pressing down until he met bone. “Perhaps you should remind me.”

“We need to get back to the hotel.”

Draco grinned like a fiend when he noted how out of breath Hermione sounded. “Oh?”

“Because we need to fire-call the others.” She corrected, still struggling to breathe evenly the closer his hands inched towards her backside.

“And then?”

She swallowed thickly, and so he traced the movement of her throat with kisses full of tongue, laving at her soft skin.

Draco,” she rasped, squirming against him.

“Hm?” He took two handfuls of her arse in his hands, hips jerking against her belly. Merlin.

“Work,” she mumbled.

Draco slid his thigh between her legs, still brushing kisses up and down her neck.

“You want me to work?” She groaned when he pressed his thigh hard against her core, chuckling into her hair. “I can work.”

“You know… ah… what I mean—oh, gods.

Her hips rolled around his thigh; he could feel the heat of her cunt trapped between the fabric of their trousers. Draco pulled her earlobe between his teeth and gently bit down. Her hips rolled again as she groaned.

“We’re in public, darling,” he whispered, his hot breath whisked over her temple. “You need to be quiet.”

She only moaned louder, hips rolling faster. Draco cast a cursory glance over his shoulder and then turned back to Hermione where she writhed between him and the wall. When she opened her mouth again, Draco pressed his hand over her lips, grinning when he felt the flat of her tongue lick his palm.

“People might see us,” he whispered, dropping his hand from her mouth to slide between their bodies. He played with the button of her trousers, catching her gaze when she opened her eyes. “Would you like me to cast a Notice-Me-Not?”

She panted, shaking her head no.

“You’ll be quiet?”

She nodded frantically, pupils growing wide and dark. Her mouth was a tight, pink line.

“Good,” he whispered and slipped his hand into her knickers, finding her cunt slick and needy. He groaned, “Merlin. You are always so wet for me.”

Hermione’s nails dug into the nape of his neck as he swirled two fingers around her clit. Draco’s hips rocked against her pelvis. He brought his knee higher, resting his kneecap against the brick for a better angle.

“Oh, darling,” he whispered with a soft smile, brushing his lips against hers. “I don’t think I ever want to learn to count if it means I can touch you like this.”

Hermione moaned loud enough that the birds hovering on their perches nearby scattered. Draco chuckled and pressed his free hand against her mouth again. He pushed down on her clit again, toying at her entrance with his pinky. Her answering cry was muffled but no less quiet.

Her hands slipped free from his neck and clasped his forearm, pulling his hand down tighter across her mouth. Her hips rolled in time with each press of his fingertips, growing wilder.

“You’re close?”

She nodded, eyes flicking down to where his hand was hidden inside her trousers. She looked back up when Draco dipped his fingers lower, sliding through her folds until he teased her entrance, sweeping up and down, down and up.

“You have to be quiet, darling.”

She whimpered, trying to shift, to press his fingers inside of her cunt. Draco’s grin was feline in nature, and really, since he loved her, he simply couldn’t let her suffer any longer.

He plunged his fingers inside and she clenched in response. He groaned in satisfaction when the slick heat of her walls began to flutter almost immediately. The heel of his palm ground down against her clit as he pumped his fingers in and out, crooking them when he was deep, twisting them when he was shallow.

He was pleased that she had complied with his request for her to be quiet. Only little gasps against his hand made their way to freedom.

Draco decided that simply wouldn’t do.

“Take my wand and cast a Muffliato.” Her dark eyes jerked to meet his. He pressed his lips to the shell of her ear. “I need to hear you.”

Hermione moaned but complied. The flick of his wand in her hand was jerky, but soon the distant sounds of the shopping center bled into silence. She shoved his wand back into its holster beneath his arm, and when he released his hand from her mouth, she cried out as he hit that sweet spot inside her cunt at the same time the heel of his palm pressed down hard enough on her clit. She exploded, cunt clenching, curses slipping free from her tongue as she ground around his hands, writhing as she rode out her orgasm.

Hermione sagged against him, limp and spent. He pulled his hand out of her kickers, sucking on his fingers. Salazar, the taste of her drove him up a wall.

Draco did up her button, then kissed the corner of her mouth despite wishing to do nothing more than turn her around, pull down her trousers and push aside her knickers so he could bury his cock to the hilt inside of her.

“I think we might need to wash out your mouth with a bar of soap, Draco.” she rasped, dropping her head to his chest. He caught the flush of her cheeks despite her attempt to hide.

“Oh, I’m sorry… perhaps I’m wrong but… I could have sworn you just came on my hand because of my mouth. Or was that just the skill of my fingers? It’s unclear.”

She huffed a tired laugh and the color on her neck intensified. “I don’t know what came over me. I can’t believe we just did that in public.” She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, brown eyes wide as saucers. “Clearly, I black out whenever you touch me.”

“Don’t be embarrassed, darling.” Draco whispered, grinning down at her. “You’re still a good girl in my eyes.”

She lifted her head, eyes bright, dark lashes heavy. Her cheeks were flushed a deep shade of crimson, lips bee-stung, hair a wild mess of curls. He loved that he was the one who made her look so unraveled.

“You’re filthy.”

“True,” he agreed, still grinning wickedly. “Shall I wax something poetic next time? Perhaps I can find a way to rhyme cunt with—”

Draco,” she hissed, shoving his chest. She peered around his shoulder nervously. “We should go before someone sees us.”

He shrugged and stepped back, helping her back to the ground. He adjusted himself in his trousers, trying to ignore how painfully hard his cock was. (He almost came in his pants like a juvenile but the thought of playing out the tension between them for the rest of the day had him staunching that urge. The orgasm would be worth the blue-balls.)

Hermione watched him, blinking. “Oh.” She stepped forward, staring at the bulge in his trousers. “I didn’t… I can…”

Draco snorted and held out his arm to his witch. “Later, darling.” He paused, lips twisting upwards. “Preferably when you are naked in bed.” He paused. “On all fours.”

Draco lifted his wand as he grinned at her, chuckling as her squawk of indignation rose up. It was drowned out by the crack of their side-along Apparition.



“Well, he’s finally stopped hissing at me,” Theo announced, his fingers lifting Crookshanks by the scruff of his neck to show him off to Hermione through the flames. The cat gave an indignant squawk, his bottlebrush tail flicking amongst the sea of fire with supreme irritation. “It only took bribing him with an entire tin of salmon and letting him terrorize Tansy for an hour. By the way, why have you not declawed the beast? He’s shredded through two of my favorite jumpers trying to sink his teeth into my neck!”

Draco snorted; arms crossed as he leaned against the back of the chaise facing the Floo in the hotel’s lobby. “That’s hardly a surprise. He holds grudges.”

Hermione frowned, leaning forward. She looked like she was on the verge of tearing a hole through her bottom lip the way she was worrying it with her teeth. “You’re sure he’s all right? His stomach can be quite sensitive.”

Theo huffed as Crookshanks leaped out of view, leaving only Theo’s bobbing head in the flames. “Why are you not this worried about me? Granger, I am highly offended. You should know I am in a constant state of mental and physical peril because of your beast.”

“Oh, no.” Hermione whispered with wide eyes.

Theo wrinkled his nose, flourishing away her horror with a wave of his hand through the flames. “‘Oh, no?’ I understand. I am nothing but a scratching post. I shall remember this moment when you looked upon me with little care.”

“Gremlin…” Drawled Draco.

“Fine, fine. I shall speak no longer of it. Oh—did you know that Weasley has quite the reputation for being a cad at the DMLE? Truthfully, I’m quite shocked.”

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, and Hermione simply huffed a laugh.

“Anyways, enough about that. How’s the holiday?”

“We are not on holiday,” Hermione said at the same time Draco said, “It’s been lovely.”

She glared at him over her shoulder and Draco merely grinned.

“We… have been busy.” Hermione supplied after a short stint of silence.

Theo arched a skeptical brow. “That’s the vague, utterly unconvincing answer I expected. Well done.”

Before Hermione could deflect, another face popped into the fireplace—Harry, glasses slightly askew, soot smudged on his forehead as he jostled for space in the Floo connection from his office at the DMLE. “Oh, it worked. I was worried it wouldn’t connect—my heads been in the Floo for about five minutes now.”

“Potter,” Draco inclined. “Thanks for joining.”

“Are we discussing something useful?” Ron’s voice called out from somewhere beyond the flames, distorted and quiet. “They brought back the apricot pastries down at the canteen and I really want to grab one before they sell out…”

“Hello, Ron—wherever you are.” Hermione greeted.

“Is that—” Harry’s face bobbed in and out of the flames and soon was replaced by Ron’s. “Hullo, Hermione. Thought I heard your voice.” He swiveled toward Draco and nodded. “Malfoy.”

“Weasley.”

“How’s Japan?”

“It’s been lovely weather so far,” Hermione said tightly, flicking a glance in Draco’s direction. He coughed, trying to hide his smile.

“That’s it?” Ron grumbled. “Nothin’ else?”

“Well, if you’d let me get there—”

“Didya know me and Harry were up all night yesterday sorting through some really shobby paperwork? Man, Malfoy—how’d you ever work with Jenkins? From the Wales office? He’s a right prick. Also, he really ought to have someone else write up his reports. Absolute rubbish penmanship. Squiggles, really.”

“That’s nice, Ron…”

“Bloody hell, anyways—we found a lead on another break in.”

Hermione blinked. “What? In Wales?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said, innit?”

“No, Ron—I meant—never mind. Where in Wales?”

“Cardiff.” Ron sniffed and then looked over his shoulder. “Right. I think Harry can handle this. I really want one of those pastries—bye ‘Mione. Malfoy.”

Harry popped back into the flames again, sighing.

“Weasley didn’t even say hi to me.” Theo pouted.

Harry jerked his head in Theo’s direction. “Oh. Nott’s here. Sorry, mate. Didn’t see you there.”

“Potter, I think you need your sight checked again.” Draco drawled, resting an ankle over his knee.

Theo merely greeted him with a stoic expression.

“How’re you, mate?”

“Fine, thanks.” Theo answered. “Can I come over tonight? Ginny mentioned something about a banana pudding last week and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since.”

“Oh, yeah. I don’t see why not. We might get drinks after work, want to meet us at Finnigan’s?”

“Enough!” Hermione shrieked, standing up. “Can everyone just shut up?!” The two men in the fireplace blinked at her. Draco sniggered. “Please.”

“Sorry, Hermione.” Harry said sheepishly. “What’ve you got to tell us?”

“We have been successful in tracking down a lead on the shrine.”

“Cheers!” Harry grinned but it soon deflated into a grimace as he glanced back over his shoulder. “Oh, no. They didn’t have the pastries?”

“Harry, please.” Hermione admonished, rubbing her temples.

“They didn’t have the pastries.” Ron grumbled, voice muffled through the flickering flames. Harry shuffled and then the fireplace was stuffed with three heads. Harry muttered about feeling suffocated, Theo quipped that he rather liked tight spaces and that it reminded him of the womb, to which Ron groaned, “Not this again.”

Draco whispered to Hermione, “Don’t ask.”

“Okay… well, now that everyone is here… can I please finish what I was saying?”

The team listened as Hermione went over their visit to the Knockturn Alley of Wizarding Tokyo, letting Draco finish the briefing, going over the vision they were shown and explaining that after their call they would be taking a train to the Okutama in search of the shrine, but if they found nothing by the time sunset rolled around, they would Apparate back to the station to head to the hotel before their trip to Mahoutokoro tomorrow morning.

“Mostly because we needed confirmation on a few details," Hermione said when Ron asked what had taken them so long to fire-call if they had visited the shop first thing this morning, smoothing down the front of her blouse.

“Details? What details?” Harry asked, gaze flicking between Hermione and Draco. His brow puckered just enough to make Hermione nervous.

“Just that… um…” she glanced to Draco, widening her eyes as if trying to say ‘help me, you idiot, my best friend happens to be your boss and he absolutely cannot know that you got me off in the middle of an alley’.

“We went to the Japanese Ministry to see if we would be able to request information from the Archives, but we were denied. Didn’t have prior authorization.”

”Oh,” Harry said, scratching his cheek. “I could get that sorted out.”

”No!” Hermione interjected quickly. The last thing they needed was Harry checking in and being told they never tried to visit the Archives in the first place. “Don’t bother—we leave in the morning for Mahoutokoro anyways. I’m sure I’ll find everything we need there.”

“Are you sure? I could—”

“Positive. Tell me, what was taken in Cardiff?”

“Er, well—a time-turner.” Harry adjusted his glasses, wincing. “Stolen the same night that rope was taken from the Parkinson Estate in Glastonbury.”

Hermione went still in her seat.

“A time-turner? In Cardiff?”

“Yeah.” Harry continued. “It was at the National Museum on display as a Victorian-era time piece, believe it or not. Shacklebolt is livid that something as dangerous as a time-turner was in Muggle possession.”

“Harry.” Hermione ran her hands through her hair as she laughed nervously. “Do you realize how dangerous a time-turner is in the wrong hands, let alone in the hands of a Muggle?”

“I’m aware,” Harry stated. “But we believe it was broken and that’s why we didn’t know of its existence.”

“You believe.” Hermione deadpanned.

“It had a massive crack through the glass.” Harry supplied. “There was a picture of it provided by the museum to their local Muggle law enforcement when they filed the report. It only got passed over to the liaison between the Auror office in Wales and the Muggle police station because the liaison is a Squib and recognized the time-turner for what it was.”

Hermione’s head fell into her hands. “An amulet, magical binding rope, a dagger and now a time-turner. This doesn’t make any sense. What is the purpose of all these stolen objects?”

“Come on, Brightest Witch of Her Age. I bet that big brain of yours will have this solved in no time.” Theo said cheerfully, grinning at her.

“Could it be more than one perp?” Draco asked, clasping his hands together between his knees. “That’s the first time we’ve heard of two spots being successfully hit on the same night.”

“There’s about twenty minutes between the reported times of theft.”

Draco twisted his family ring, brows pressed down over his eyes as he sat in contemplative silence for a few minutes. “That’s a long way to Apparate from Glastonbury to Cardiff. At least a few jumps.”

“I would seriously doubt that a wizard capable of breaking past blood wards as ancient as the Parkinson’s wouldn’t be able to Apparate that far within twenty minutes.” Theo added. “He probably made it there in one jump alone, and besides, if the museum is for Muggle’s then the security in place would also be Muggle. It wouldn’t have taken anything to get in. Rudimentary charm work.”

“True,” Draco agreed, his lips a fine line.

“Sounds like the guy we’re looking for is dodgier than Malfoy at a Ministry gala.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Charming, Weasley. Truly.”

Harry ignored the exchange and adjusted his glasses. “I’ll get that workup done on the shopkeeper to see if we can find any information on this Sai chap. It’s likely that he won’t officially exist in any capacity within our Ministry registry. If that’s the case—no birth records, no prior business licenses—I’ll put in a request with the Japanese Ministry’s head of the DMLE and see what they might have on the guy.”

Hermione exhaled sharply. “I figured. Thanks, Harry.” She then pulled out the parchment and held it up to the flames to show the team. “So, this is what the shopkeeper gave us—we’ve cast quite a few diagnostic charms, seeing if there is anything inherently Dark hidden in the ink or the parchment itself but it appears completely mundane aside from these runes along the border. They’re not kanji-inspired but Draco thinks they might have influences of Mongolian Runes. I just don’t have any texts on hand to confirm his theory. We’re not sure if it will lead us to the shrine itself but Draco thinks we might find ruins if we find anything at all, but obviously we can’t confirm until later tonight.”

Theo chuckled. “Sounds like the two of you don’t have a single clue as to what’s actually waiting for you in Okutama.”

Draco pushed off the chaise, pacing slightly. “It’s the only lead we have, and we’re not going to ignore it.”

Mischief sparkled in Theo’s blue eyes. “So… back to my earlier question… aside from your little expedition today, what were you up to yesterday?”

Hermione felt Draco’s eyes flick toward her, a silent conversation passing between them. She met Theo’s gaze head-on. “We did some… other research. On the culture. To fully immerse ourselves.”

“Immerse yourselves, you say?”

“That thing you said about the runes reminded me of something,” Harry cleared his throat, dragging the conversation back on track. “You recall the report from the break-in on the Greengrass estate, right Malfoy?”

“I do.”

“I was able to confirm that it was runic magic that broke the blood wards in place that night.”

Draco sat forward. “Really? Did they say what kind of runic language was used?”

Theo yawned, but Harry ignored him. “Not sure yet. Mysteries is doing research for us on it as we speak.”

Hermione deflated. “I wonder if it’s similar to the runes on this map… Harry, I’ll duplicate it and send a copy to you via owl. Let me know if it matches?”

“Sounds like a plan. Alright, we’ve got to go. Please be careful. We’ll keep digging on our end. If this lead can prove that the artifacts came from the shrine in the first place, then we are definitely getting closer to whoever’s pulling the strings.”

Draco nodded. “We’ll keep you updated.”

The fire-call flickered, the figures of their friends distorting slightly before the connection cut off, leaving the lobby fireplace crackling merrily with orange flames once more. Hermione exhaled, rubbing her temples.

“Well, that went well,” Draco muttered.

“If by ‘well,’ you mean Theo now suspects we’re keeping something from him and Harry thinks we’re going to get ourselves killed—then yes, absolutely,” Hermione replied dryly. She rubbed her temples, sighing. “Did you think Theo seemed off?”

Draco clucked his tongue, sliding his hands into the pockets of her charcoal trousers. “His mother’s birthday is in a few weeks.”

She gave him a questioning glance.

Draco winced. “She passed when he was four.”

“Oh, that’s terribly sad.” Hermione said softly, touching her lips

Draco scratched his cheek, lips pursed. “I think she died sometime in December, so we can expect his mood to decline around then, too.”

Hermione frowned deeply. “Maybe we should send him a present.”

“Darling, I do love the thought of you caring about Theo, but a fruit basket will not cheer him up.”

She knew he was right. If her parents had passed away, she wouldn’t want sympathy presents. Especially not sympathy fruit.

“I hate that he’s alone, especially if Crookshanks has been such a naughty boy for him.” Hermione frowned, feeling guilt settle in. “We should have invited him to come to Mahoutokoro with us.”

Draco blinked. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

Draco stepped forward; large hands falling to the arm rests of the chair she was perched in. He leaned down, caging her in. “Because I wouldn’t be able to kiss you whenever I wanted if he was here.”

She hummed, looking up at him from beneath her lashes. “You are out of kisses, Draco Malfoy.”

Draco grinned when she let him kiss her anyways.



The train hummed beneath Draco’s planted feet, a steady rhythm that pulsed through the floorboards and up into his spine. It was a very interesting sensation, and he wouldn’t say it was particularly pleasant, but it wasn’t nearly as gruesome as he had first imagined it would be upon stepping inside the cabin. It was a bit like the Hogwarts express, only… faster. (Draco would not say he particularly enjoyed that form of traveling either if anyone cared to ask, but it was tolerable.)

If he had known the landscape and could have accurately gauged the jumps, he would have suggested they Apparate their way to Okutama, but Hermione had been adamant that they must travel by train. (He had a suspicion it was for purely selfish purposes, considering she had her nose pressed against the glass since they departed from the Muggle station thirty minutes prior, oohing and aahing at all the passing scenery.)

He supposed it had its perks—Muggle transportation, that is. (If you happened to ignore the fact that one was sitting inside a massive six car train that went roughly one-hundred-and-twelve kilometers per hour. Then it was just a moving steel death trap that had a higher likely of completely obliterating you than Apparating across unknown terrain had the chances of splinching you.)

They had long since left behind the rigid, towering skyline of Tokyo and were now rolling past a wide river Hermione had pointed out with glee. The Tama River carved a winding path through the landscape, its waters glinting silver beneath the soft afternoon light. The train followed its course, weaving alongside it as they pressed further into the countryside.

“Only about an hour left,” Hermione said, drawing his attention from the window. She blinked at him when his gaze caught the stack of parchment in her lap, darting to their open notebook on the empty seat to her left, and then the two maps she held up in both hands. “I think the shine might be inside the lake.”

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. “And what, pray tell, makes you think that the shine is inside the lake?”

She blushed and handed over the two maps, pointing to the outline of the map Sai had given them this morning. She traced the edges and directed Draco to overlay the faded map on top of the one she had taken from the station before their departure.

“Of course it’s in the lake.” Draco groaned. “Why else wouldn’t it be in the lake?”

“How’s your bubblehead charm?”

He glared at her. “Don’t mistake me for Potter.”

She lifted her hands up, a slight smirk tugging on her rose bud lips. “I just had to ask.”

Draco flipped between the maps, scowling. “Any clue if we might come into contact with say, merpeople? Or grindylows?”

“What makes you ask that?”

“Oh, I don’t know, perhaps a bit of a risk assessment is necessary if we are about to submit ourselves to unknown depths of water—”

“The deepest part of the lake is only one-hundred-and-forty-two meters.”

Only.” Draco deadpanned. “Darling, the average blue whale is one third the length of this lake. The shrine could be anywhere.”

“It’s right there.” She pointed to a smudge of ink on the map—which was unmarked, mind you.

“That is not a marker.”

“There’s no other markers besides that one.”

“It could simply be a smudge from the cartographer.”

“It is not a smudge.” Hermione insisted.

Draco squinted at the map. “A blob of ink, really.”

“That’s the shrine.” Hermione huffed. “It has to be.”

“If you squeeze one eye shut, and hold it out in front of you, it sort of looks like Crookshanks.”

Hermione snatched the parchment from him, stared at the map, then glared up at him before doing exactly what he had just done.

“Oh.” She said, still squinting down at the map with one eye closed. “It does look like Crook, doesn’t it?”

Draco grinned like a shark. “Sort of miss the old bugger.”

Hermione sighed, dropping the map on top of the stack of parchment in her lap. “Me too. I do hope he’ll be nicer to Theo from here on out.”

Draco hummed, leaning back in the seat so he could stretch out his legs. He tucked them beneath Hermione’s own seat, knees knocking against her calves. “He can be rather crotchety. I don’t foresee their relationship being anything but amicable.”

“Crooks is the sweetest, best boy.” Draco sucked on a tooth in an attempt to hide his smile at Hermione adorable scowling. “Don’t you dare say otherwise.”

“Darling, you just admitted—out loud, mind you—that your beast has a tendency to be crabby.”

“With strangers.” She pouted. “Not me. Or you, I suppose.”

Draco rolled his eyes, reaching over to pluck their notebook from the empty seat. He thumbed through it, looking over old scribblings from the two of them on the shrine. (Hermione had tabbed everything using a color-coded tab system. One she forced him to memorize because she refused to make a key to said tab system. His witch could be cruel when she wanted to be.)

“The water will be proper cold.” Draco eyed her clothing, which dare he say was not fit for leisurely swims searching for potentially nonexistent shrines. “We should search the grounds before just diving in.”

“Obviously.”

He gave her a withering glare. “Oh, is it obvious? Here I thought you were preparing to condemn us to a watery death just for funsies.”

Hermione lifted her nose in the air, glaring out the window. “Well, I’ll have you know that I’ve uncovered rumors that there might be an island somewhere on the lake.”

“Key word being might.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “We stick to the edges around here, take the floating bridge to the other side and if we find nothing—then I suppose we could transfigure something into a raft to search the lake itself.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘shouldn’t take us too long. Two hours, tops.’” Draco rubbed his temples, feeling a headache begin to blossom at the edge of his mind. “This is sounding like an expedition and not a leisurely look around.”

“We’ll look quickly.”

“You do realize this will be many kilometers of hiking, yes?”

“…yes?”

He dropped his attention to her wellies. “And let’s see… have you indulged in a good hike since you and Potter’s excursion in the forest during your soul-searching adventure?”

“I went on a camping trip with my parents after completing my eighth year.”

“Right.” Draco groaned. “So, essentially, one hundred years ago?”

She swatted his arm with the parchment stack. “Draco Lucius Malfoy!”

“I never thought hearing you say my full name could be so erotic—ow! Sop hitting me!”

“You are such a cad!” Hermione all but shrieked, hitting him again.

Draco took the abuse with a rakish grin. “Only for you, darling.”



Draco glared at the witch trudging ahead of him along the shore of the blue-green lake, the water gently lapping against the floating bridge she was leading them towards. It was a narrow stretch of metal, curved like a serpent in motion with drums every few meters that kept it aloft.

The lake was relatively still, which Draco supposed was comforting. Thus far, it appeared utterly mundane. There were no wards in place, no Muggle repellant charms.

Draco thought this strange, considering the fact they were here searching for a magical shrine, but as he looked over the stretch of cyan water surrounded by mountainous terrain and trees with their foliage a mirage of emerald, gold and crimson, he supposed it just meant neither of them would be eaten by ravenous beasts this day. Which was a vast improvement compared to their previous excursions.

Draco leaned down and swiped his hand through the water, testing its temperature. It was warmer than he had imagined it would be when they first arrived. Quieter, too. He had expected it to be a hub of activity given the fact that Hermione mentioned it was one of the more popular tourist spots in the prefecture, but they were but a handful of people exploring the lake and its surrounding terrain.

Hermione turned to look at him over her shoulder, swiping the back of her hand across her brow that glistened with sweat. The sun was high and bright, the sky a sheet of bright blue and there wasn’t a single cloud floating across the sky. Cicada’s croaked and chirped, content with the stretch of heat for a late summer afternoon.

“We should check the trails over the bridge. If we cast a few detection charms, we might pick up any magical traces or markers. Mine only extends a kilometer or two, but if we cast together, we could broaden the radius.”

Draco caught up with her, pinching her side as he drawled, “Yes, darling. Whatever you want.”

She squawked indignantly, but he breezed right past her, leaving her standing at the shore, hands on her hips. When he reached the bridge, he turned, offering his hand with a cheeky grin.

Hermione grumbled something about being self-sufficient and not needing his help—but still took his hand. He expected her to drop it as soon as she stepped onto the floating bridge, but instead, she threaded their fingers together.

It was such a small gesture. A benign one, really.

(That didn’t mean it kept his heart from racing.)

Draco had never been one for tender intimacies—handholding, soft kisses, lingering looks. That had never been his hand to play. But with Hermione, he didn’t want to play games. He wanted it to be real.

Halfway across the bridge, he slowed his steps, forcing Hermione’s punishing pace to falter.

“Draco, what are you stopping for? We’re almost there.”

She turned, eyes dark with exasperation, and huffed when she saw his smirk. He tugged her against his chest, lifting her hand to his mouth and pressing a slow kiss to the inside of her wrist, right over her pulse point.

“Take a breath,” he murmured, fingers splaying across the small of her back, pressing into her spine. “It’s barely past noon. The last train departs at midnight.”

“We have to catch the ferry at five in the morning.”

“We can sleep on the ferry.”

She opened her mouth—probably to argue—but he released her hand only to slip his fingers into her hair, tilting her head back. Her cheeks were flushed, her freckles darkening under the sun. He kissed the small cluster of freckles on her left cheek—the ones he swore looked like Leo—then the collection directly below. Those ones reminded him of Serpens.

“Let me enjoy you,” Draco whispered.

Hermione sighed but melted against him, hands sliding around his waist. “You were the one worried about making time,” she muttered into his chest.

He chuckled, tucking his chin over the crown of her curls. She was warm, and soft, and she smelled like salt and strawberries.

Then—click.

Draco stiffened. He glanced over his shoulder, searching for the source of the sound. A cherub-cheeked little girl stood a few feet away, holding up a hot pink camera covered in tiny tree frog stickers. She grinned at him, a gap where her two front teeth should have been.

Behind her, two frantic adults—her parents, presumably—gesticulated wildly, rattling off what he expected were apologies in rapid-fire Japanese.

Hermione stepped around him, and Draco pouted at the loss of her warmth. She approached the family with ease, speaking in flawless, accented Japanese. Whatever she said made them laugh. She turned back to him with a small smile, waving him over.

Draco approached cautiously, glancing between the family’s matching dark hair and dark eyes.

“Draco, this is Keiko. She wants to be a photographer when she grows up.”

The little girl nodded fervently.

“Er—hello there.”

Apparently, that was good enough, because she beamed up at her parents before unzipping the pink pack strapped around her waist. She pulled out several small, rectangular photographs, shoving them toward Draco with unbridled enthusiasm.

Draco hesitated before taking them. He flipped through the stack—and his brows shot up.

The first was of him, crouched at the water’s edge, looking contemplative.

The second was of Hermione walking ahead, grinning back over her shoulder. Draco was behind her, hands stuffed in his trouser pockets, smirking faintly.

The third was of them together, arms outstretched toward each other. Hermione’s hand was in his, and she looked exasperated while he looked content. Happy.

The fourth and final photo was of Draco kissing her cheek—the constellation of Leo pressed to his lips.

“These are very good, Keiko,” he said, flipping through them again.

The little girl shuffled her feet, waiting expectantly.

Draco tried to hand them back, but she shook her head.

“For you.”

Draco blinked, glancing at Hermione for confirmation. She nodded and thanked the little girl first, then her parents. Draco followed suit and watched as the little family ambled away, back over the bridge toward the shore.

“Can I see them?” Hermione asked, coming closer.

Draco handed them over, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He watched her as she took her time viewing each photograph, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Oh, this one is lovely, Draco.” She said, flipping the photograph up to show him. The fourth one. His favorite.

“I keep expecting them to start moving,” Draco said.

Hermione nodded, tugging her bottom lip between her teeth, still looking at the fourth photo. “I kind of like that they’re mundane.”

Draco hummed, content in his silence as he observed her rapt fascination over the pictures of them. When she finally made to put them away in her bag, he plucked the fourth from her grasp.

“I would like to keep that one, if that’s all right.”

Draco slipped the photograph into the breast pocket of his jacket, right over his heart. (Hermione had transfigured his cloak into a dark green bomber before they left the hotel, insisting he couldn’t go trudging around Okutama in his Auror uniform. He’d only grumbled until she mentioned he looked rather smart in it. If he were honest, the many zippered pockets were proving quite useful.)

Hermione huffed, flicking her hair over her shoulder.

“But I wanted that one.”

Draco sighed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Merlin help himHermione was pouting. And not just any pout. A full, lower-lip-jutted, eyes-slightly-too-wide, fluttering-of-lashes kind of pout that had to be some sort of weaponized manipulation. If she thought he was going to cave to that nonsense—

He glanced at her. She clapped her hands together and held them beneath her chin.

She fluttered her lashes again.

(Bugger.)

It was unfair, really. A blatant abuse of power. Someone ought to regulate that sort of thing. Maybe draft up some legislation: Granger’s Pout and Its Unreasonable Effects on the General Population (Malfoy v. Common Sense).

He exhaled sharply, glaring at the heavens like they had personally wronged him. “Let’s make a compromise.”

“I don’t want to compromise.” She huffed. “I want that one.”

“You can have the rest.”

He would not look at her. He refused to look at her.

(He looked at her.)

“How is it even possible that you can manage to look so absolutely adorable yet diabolical at the same time?”

Hermione grinned when he pulled the photograph from his pocket and handed it over. She squealed in delight and shoved all four photos into her crossbody.

“Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He muttered, gesturing for them to continue along the bridge.

“I’ll duplicate it when we get home so you can have a copy.”

Again—there was that word. Home. Draco’s lips cracked into a grin, and he almost told her that her efforts wouldn’t be necessary. He already had plans to steal it back at some point so he could enlarge and frame the photograph for their mantle.

“Whatever your heart desires, my darling.”

They stepped off the bridge into a dense copse of trees, leaving the bright blue sky behind them. Sunlight broke through cracks in the sprawling canopies like glittering knives of gold, scattering fleeting pools of light over the undergrowth. Hermione swept her free hand through the pockets of light as they walked, wand raised as she cast detection spells. Draco followed suit, content to aid her in silence.

After thirty or so minutes of walking in the direction of the largest part of the lake, they came to an agreement that so far, there was nothing around them for kilometers. Just nature as it was intended to be.

Hermione sighed when they broke through the last stretch of forest to a small shore, staring out at the lake. The water lapped at the toes of her boots, the cicada’s song a dull, distant hum. Draco leaned against the wide trunk of a magnolia tree with his arms crossed, watching Hermione as she looked down at the maps in her hands, then back to the stretch of still turquoise water.

Draco scanned the lake, searching for sunlight where it should have dappled the surface. Where was the flickering white light refracting off the water? He squinted, stepping forward. In the middle of the lake, where the sun’s reflection should have shimmered, the water was eerily still—a pocket of plain, dull blue, unmoving. As if twilight had settled over that one spot alone.

“Granger,” he chirped, catching her attention.

“Hm?” She glanced at him over her shoulder from where she was traipsing through brambles, pushing aside sticks and golden leaves with flicks of her wand.

He jerked his chin toward the lake.

“This where that smudge was?”

She looked down at the map and then to the lake. She cocked her head, thinking.

“It could be.” She made her way back to Draco, coming to stand at his side. He glanced at the map and then back to the dull water.

“Only one way to find out,” he supposed, rolling his shoulders before stepping closer to the lake’s edge. He cast a Muggle Repellent ward around the stretch of dull water, and then as he whispered Finite Incantatum, a moss-covered stone path unfurled before his feet, stretching past the shore and over the still lake itself. He cursed under his breath as one after another, weathered stone lanterns flickered to life on either side of the stone path, their firelight a cool blue. At the end of the lantern lined path stood a massive stone torii gate, crusted in green lichen.

Well. That was underwhelming.

Draco had expected a raging firefight, or at the very least, some devious, bloodthirsty wards—perhaps something that would set his robes aflame or at least try to scramble his insides. Instead, all they got was a simple Disillusionment Charm.

He stared at the now-revealed section of the lake, unimpressed.

“Really?” he muttered. “That's it? I’ve seen first-years pull off better concealment.”

Beside him, Hermione sighed, tucking her wand away. “Not everything has to be a grand spectacle, Draco.”

“I’m just saying, if you’re going to hide something ominous and possibly deadly, you should at least put in a bit more effort.”

They stared at the path together. Then Hermione looked up at Draco from beneath her lashes, looking as if she were the cat that caught the canary. “I told you it wasn’t a smudge.” She said in a sing-song voice.

Draco rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. “Congratulations, darling. You’ve bested a piece of parchment.”

Her grin widened. “And you, an Auror, were almost outwitted by a smudge.”

He scoffed. “I wasn’t outwitted, I was skeptical. Big difference.”

Hermione hummed, clearly unconvinced, and turned back toward the path. Draco narrowed his eyes at the knowing tilt of her lips. Infuriating witch. If they weren’t about to step into what was surely some sort of cursed nonsense, he might’ve taken the time to properly argue. Instead, he sighed and gestured toward the hidden path.

“After you, O Smudge Whisperer.”

She took hold of her mane and piled it high on the top of her head, shoving her wand through it to keep it from tumbling back down. “How kind of you to admit defeat so easily.”

“At least we won’t drown.”

She trudged down the slope of the shore only to backtrack to where he still stood. She braced her hands on her hips. Lifting her nose in the air as she said, “Tell me I’m brilliant.”

“You’re brilliant, darling.”

“Tell me I’m the cleverest witch you know.”

Draco huffed a laugh. Who was he to deny her?

“You are without a doubt the cleverest witch I know.”

She grinned. “Yes, thank you. I know.”

“My little egomaniac.” He hummed, a soft smile on his lips.

She preened, clapping her hands together happily. “Well, what are we waiting for?”

Nothing, apparently. Hermione turned on her heel and stalked down the path, happily swinging her arms at her sides with every step she took. Draco caught up with her quickly, snatching her wrist.

“Perhaps a bit of caution would be wise?”

She scrunched her nose and plucked her wand from her hair. Draco hummed in delight as it tumbled past her shoulders and tugged on a particularly springy looking coil. She batted his hand away as she waved her wand, casting an array of detection charms alongside Draco.

A blip of light zapped beyond the threshold of the torii gate, causing Draco to stiffen. He stepped in front of Hermione on instinct.

The next series of events happened rather quickly. Draco wasn’t exactly surprised that this wouldn’t be easy, but he had hope.

That blip of light flared brighter, and then bigger, until there was a massive lion-shaped creature lunging through the gate, its dark mane rippling as it soared toward them in the air. It landed hard at the shore, two muscular back legs sending up a wave of water in the wake of its arrival. The creature opened its maw, strings of saliva stretching between its glinting canines.

What the actual fuck was this thing?

From deep in the creature’s chest, out poured a most horrendous sound. A roar that shattered sound barriers. Dropping its chin to the stone path, its spine rolling back as it bunched its muscles beneath its ebony hide to launch itself at the two of them.

Draco barely had time to shove Hermione out of the way before the creature struck. Its claws scraped against the stone path where they had been standing, leaving deep, jagged gouges in their place.

Protego!” Hermione cried, rolling to her feet. A shimmering shield erupted between them and the beast just as it snapped its massive jaws toward Draco’s shoulder. The impact sent sparks ricocheting in all directions, the sheer force of the creature’s attack cracking the magical barrier.

Draco flicked his wand, sending a Confringo straight at its chest. The spell hit with a sharp crack—and fizzled out like a candle in the wind.

“Oh, brilliant,” Draco snarled, sidestepping as the beast whirled toward him. “Of course it resists direct spells. Why wouldn’t it?”

Hermione cast a Stupefy, the red light streaking toward the creature’s flank—only for it to deflect off its hide, veering wildly into the trees with a boom. Leaves and debris rained down around them.

“Did that bounce?” Hermione yelped.

Draco ducked as another of her spells went careening past his ear, nearly taking his head off in the process. “Granger, stop throwing bloody ricochet spells around before you kill me instead!”

“Would you rather I do nothing?” she snapped, dodging a swipe from the creature’s massive paw.

“Yes, actually! That might be safer!”

The beast let out another ear-splitting roar and lunged again. Draco swore, barely managing to summon a wall of water from the lake, forcing the creature back as it shook itself furiously.

“Any bright ideas?” Draco called, watching the creature shake off the water with an irritated growl.

“This might sound crazy—”

“Nothing new there, Granger.” Draco snapped, edging them back another step as the creature began to stalk forward, paws dragging with every step, claws clacking against the stone path.

Draco Malfoy!”

He cut her a quick glare before focusing back on the creature in front of them. “Everything you say in these fucking life-or-death situations you drag me through sound crazy!”

“Well, my plans always end up working, so—”

“Not the time to argue with me, darling.”

“Right,” she said with a sniff. “So, I believe that is a Shishi guardian, and I am absolutely certain its hide repels magic.”

“Wonderful news.”

“We just have to prove we don’t have ill intentions.”

“All of my intentions are ill right now.” Draco spat, keeping his wand trained on the creature that had slowed its hunt to a dangerous crawl. “Terminal, in fact.”

“We need to show it respect.”

“There is nothing I would like to do less.”

“I am not leaving without getting inside that temple, Draco.” She stomped her foot and if he wasn’t convinced they were about to be mauled, he might have told her she was adorable. Well, perhaps he should tell her—death’s confessionals and all that jazz.

“We are going to approach slowly, and then we are going to get down on our knees, drop our wands, and bow.”

Draco made a very impressive sound that resembled the squall of a gull, guffawing at her plan (or rather the lack of one). Hermione paid no mind to his outburst. She simply moved onwards and upwards. Draco, still in what his mother might call a tizzy, failed to see her leave his side between one blink and the next. He belatedly lurched after her and watched with no small amount of horror as she proceeded to do exactly what she said they were to do.

She crouched down on both knees, dropped her wand to the ground and fucking bowed—like they were in fourth year Care of Magical Creatures, and this was just another one of Hagrid’s Hippogriffs.

Merlin, save him.

The creature snarled; lips pulled back to reveal far too many sharp teeth for Draco’s liking. Panic spiked through his veins, his heart pumped at a tumultuous rate, making his neck slick with sweat. He dropped down in front of her, ready to use his body to shield her. She would never forgive him if he grabbed her and Apparated them away. She would probably string him up on a wall in the hotel room by his bollocks and hex him into oblivion.

(He was kinky, but not that kinky. He had a decent amount of self-respect.)

“Put your head down and bow!” She hissed under her breath when another rumbling snarl echoed through the woods.

Draco’s breathing came out in erratic, quick pants as he surveyed the situation. Death or death or death. Those were their options.

Draco dropped his head down and grabbed her hand, threading their fingers together.

“If we survive this and make it back to the hotel, your arse will be red for days.”

“Did you just threaten me with a spanking?” She snarled, squeezing his fingers.

“I did.” He snapped back. “Deal with it.”

She choked on a gasp, opening her mouth to defend herself, but then hot breath hit both of their exposed necks, and a wet nose pressed against Draco’s temple. He gritted his teeth, keeping his eyes trained on the forest floor mere centimeters from his face.

Minutes ticked by as the shishi took stock of them, sniffing and prodding their faces with its nose. Then the hot breath was gone with a flash of light. Draco blinked and slightly raised his eyes, high enough to see… two human legs.

Hermione gasped and fell back on her haunches, dragging Draco with her.

Draco swiped their wands and crouched, pulling Hermione up and behind him by her elbows. He shoved her wand against her chest and faced the man standing in front of them.

He was willowy and young—not much older than the two of them—with cascading black hair that fell past his shoulders, half of it tied back in a knot. He wore billowing emerald robes with wide sleeves that he brought together, hiding his hands.

“You have relics of this shrine.” The man said, eyes flicking to the duffle bag at Draco's feet.

Well, that was blunt.

“Yes.” Hermione answered in a strong voice.

“You’ve come to return them.”

“Er, no.”

The man raised one dark brow. “No?”

“Not… yet?”

He considered her and then flit his attention to Draco. “Are you her guardian?”

“He is no such—”

“I am.” She smacked his arm—he ignored her. “We’re here to visit the shrine.”

“I see.” The shishi-turned-man shuffled the sleeves of his robes like he was about to pull something out from within them.

Draco lifted his wand. “Hands where I can see them.”

The man chuckled. “Much like a dragon, he is protective of his treasure.”

Draco’s waterline twitched. Twice now someone had revealed they knew his namesake today without Draco so much as introducing himself.

“It was written,” the man said simply as if he knew the thoughts flickering through Draco’s mind.

Draco lifted his mental walls higher, stones stacking, frost spreading.

The mans lips quirked. “Clever trick.”

“Listen, mate.” Draco snarled, stepping forward. The man didn’t so much as blink. “Can you help us or not?”

The man stepped forward as Draco’s grip on his wand tightened. He peered at Draco’s wand, and that was when Draco noted the man’s eyes were blue as the flames in the lanterns around them, his irises flickering in time with the flames.

“It has been many centuries since I have treated with wizard kind.”

Draco took a very long, patient breath. Of course. Of fucking course this wasn’t just a wizard with a wicked Animagus form out for a jaunt in the woods.

Shishi, what is your name?” Hermione asked, stepping up to Draco’s side. She drew his wand back down to his side. “My name is Hermione Granger, and this is my partner, Draco Malfoy.”

The man—no—the fucking forest spirit—smiled pleasantly. “I know your name.”

Right. So, he was the Almighty himself. Wonderful.

“It appears your philosophical debate on whether or not the Almighty exists can be concluded, darling.”

Hermione gave Draco a crazed, tight smile and then turned back to God.

“My name is Tenkai. I am not your God.”

“Right…”

“I am a guardian, not unlike yourself.”

“I think our job descriptions might be a bit different.” Draco muttered.

“True,” Tenkai laughed, and it was a soft, warm sound compared to the shrill laugh Hermione just released.

Was this what happened to Muggles when they witnessed magic?

“You’re not going mad,” Tenkai supplied, still smiling. “Many would say you are enlightened.”

Ah, so Nirvana was just another word for death. Very nice.

“You’re not dead, either. You’re simply in between.”

That had any bit of Draco’s snark falling apart. He jerked his head around and staggered when he noticed the two bodies behind them. Their bodies.

Draco looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers. They shimmered, slightly translucent. Hermione did the same and began to pant wildly.

“Oh, Christ.” She began to sputter and babble.

Sensing an impending meltdown, Draco slid his hand around the back of Hermione’s neck. He directed her eyes to his, finding two black holes for pupils looking up at him. Her head jerked in his hands with quick little shakes, pert mouth quivering.

“I’m s-sorry—I killed us, Draco—oh, what have I done—why did I think this was a good idea—I’m so stupid and—and I killed us! Oh, Draco—what have I done?” She lurched back to stare at their unmoving forms.

“Darling...” Draco redirected her attention back to him, threading his fingers through her hair. He gently tugged. “Take a breath.”

(She did not breathe.)

“Oh, oh—oh, my God. You were right. I was wrong. We’re dead—”

Hermione.”

She snapped her teeth together with an audible clack, sealing her lips over them.

“Breathe.”

Hermione nodded rapidly, drawing in hard breaths until Draco slowed her down with a palm to her chest. He took one of her hands and put it over his own heart. It pounded through his ribs against her palm, and he forced it to slow by inhaling deeply. Hermione followed suit, and together, they exhaled.

“It has been many moons since I have witnessed such an energy between two souls.” Tenkai said with light humor, watching their exchange. “Air and fire do not often come together in such a way.”

Hermione’s lip quivered and Draco shot the Shishi a glare. Tenkai merely raised his brows, lips still twisted up.

“We can return to our bodies, yes?” Draco asked.

“Oh, yes.”

Draco squinted. “Are there stipulations?”

Tenkai cocked his head, considering. “The fear of deception flows through your mind.”

“Are. There. Stipulations?”

“No,” said Tenkai simply. “Unless you die while in between, but that’s unlikely to happen.”

“How unlikely.” Draco snarled.

Tenkai sighed, but it wasn’t due to impatience. Disappointment, rather.

“Would you like for me to make you a vow?”

“An Unbreakable Vow?” Draco asked; brow cocked.

Tenkai lifted another curious brow. “You are a very fierce dragon.” He slid his hands from his sleeves and held up his palms. They were empty, save for lines of kanji covering every inch of pale skin exposed.

Hermione gasped, staggering forward.

“I’ve read about you!”

Tenkai grinned, showing off straight, white teeth.

“You’re in the Nihongi!”

His blue eyes glittered happily, flickering with the lantern light. “I will not deny your knowledge, but I will not confirm it, either.”

Hermione pushed her knuckles into her temples and all but squealed. “This is incredible.”

Draco shook his head, finding his fingers growing tingly. He glanced down—they were starting to grow more translucent as time went on.

“Granger, I think it’s time to visit the shrine and get a move on.”

“Right,” Hermione said breathlessly, her voice thick with anticipation. “Tenkai, Guardian of Tetsuya Shrine, we request you grant us passage through the shrine.”

Tenkai gave Hermione a sad smile. “I’m afraid I cannot grant that request.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open and closed several times before she whispered, “Why not?”

“To visit the shrine, you must be a Keeper of Keys—which you are not.”

“But we have to see the shrine! I have to know!” Hermione’s voice was nearly frantic. “Guardian, please, I was given these artifacts for a reason. I have a duty to-to-to unearth knowledge that has been lost for centuries! This shrine has the potential to explain how yokai are bound and the purpose of their existence!” She stomped her foot in frustration, earning an amused glance from Tenkai. “I can’t just walk away from this!”

Tenkai’s lips twitched in a knowing smile. “It seems your determination knows no bounds.”

Hermione huffed, fire sparking to life in her eyes. “Three full moons ago, a sealed crate was given to me, labeled as property to the very the shrine you protect.” Hermione waited, seeing if Tenkai would speak. He remained silent, so Hermione barreled on. “I have a lot of knowledge pertaining to Japanese magical theory, as well as a genuine interest in the culture and practices.” She began to pace as she spoke. Draco could do nothing but watch as she spiraled into a rant of exponential proportions. “I first assumed the crate given to me by my superiors as a project—I work for our government, training to become what we call an Unspeakable. It’s my job to research and study magic and its proponents.”

“Obviously, I tried to find out who dropped off the crate before attempting to unseal it, but I was told it was given to me by a man we have yet to identify. Naturally, I had to figure out why. So, I took it upon myself to unseal the crate so I might see what was inside, and in doing so, I unleashed eight yokai from their confines within eight different artifacts. Since that day, we have bound and sealed four back into their artifacts. A noppera-bō, the yuki-onna, a suzuri and finally, an unknown yokai I have taken upon myself to call hibiki-oni. We have four more to go, but there is so much we still don’t understand—including the reason why I was given the crate, who gave it to us and what their end goal is.”

Tenkai raised a brow, smirking faintly. “You are a very powerful witch. A true daughter of wisdom and air.”

“Right…” Hermione pursed her lips. “So, you understand why I want to see the shrine? Why I have to?”

“I understand, but I’m afraid I still cannot grant you passage.”

Hermione huffed. “Well, what can you do?”

Tenkai’s cheeks spread in a mirthful grin. “A great many things.”

“If I ask you questions, will you answer them?”

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose—well, he tried. His fingertips were gone.

Great.

“Within reason.”

Hermione lifted her nose in the air. “Do you know which yokai remain unbound in London, and subsequently which artifacts they must be bound and sealed within?”

“That is a question you have already answered for yourself.”

Hermione actually growled in response. “Fine. What is the purpose of these artifacts?”

Tenkai’s smirk deepened, his blue eyes gleaming like tempered steel beneath the dim light of the shrine. “You misunderstand,” he said, his voice like the distant rumble of an oncoming storm. “The artifacts were never meant to simply contain the spirits. They are not cages. They are anchors—bindings woven with purpose, history, and sacrifice.”

Hermione's fingers twitched at her sides as if she were resisting the urge to summon her notebook and record every word. Not that she could. Her fingers were slowly disappearing as well.

“Explain yourself.”

Tenkai nodded. “Each artifact was crafted with a dual purpose. One, to hold the spirit in check, suppressing their chaos within something that could bear the weight of their nature. Two, to serve as a vessel for those who seek balance rather than eradication.” His gaze was steady as it settled on her. “You are not the first to unseal them, nor will you be the last.”

Draco’s mind spun. Balance, not eradication. That meant his original theory had been right, that the wizard behind this entire ordeal knew what Hermione was capable of.

“Correct.” Tenkai answered, not needing to hear Draco’s question out loud. He snapped his walls back in place, frost spreading down his spine.

“Can they be manipulated—used?” Hermione asked.

“Does water flow down the slope of a mountain, or does it rise?”

Hermione gritted her teeth. “Do they a will of their own?”

“A yokai is simply disrupted energy.” Tenkai chuckled, a low, knowing sound when he noticed her wide eyes. “You are right to question these matters. The yokai are not mere monsters. They are echoes of history, forces of nature given will and form. To seal them improperly is to invite their wrath. To bind them correctly is to weave them into the world’s fabric as they were meant to be.”

Draco, who had remained silent up until now, exhaled sharply. “You’re telling us that these things need to exist? That some poor sod is always going to end up with them running loose?”

Tenkai inclined his head. “Yes, and no. The cycle is inevitable, but the method of containment is what determines the nature of their return.” He flicked his fingers toward Hermione. “You, who have already sealed four, have begun this process anew. Whether you see it to its completion or leave it for another, the choice is yours.”

Hermione swallowed, shoulders visibly slacking as if the weight of the responsibility settled fully over her shoulders like a leaden cloak.

“If I were to see it through,” she said slowly, “what happens when all eight are sealed again?”

Tenkai stepped forward, his presence commanding, ancient. “Then, Unspeakable, you will have rewritten the cycle—at least for this age.” He raised his hand, and the air around him shimmered like heat over stone. “You seek the remaining four, do you not? Very well. I will tell you where they are.”

Hermione straightened. Draco’s pulse quickened.

“We’re listening.”

Tenkai’s eyes gleamed. “The tengu waits in the shadow of the highest spire, drawn to the winds of the city. The andon flickers where lost souls gather, where the past refuses to fade. The gashadokuro stirs in the place of countless dead, restless and unfed.”

He paused, the final name lingering on his tongue. When he spoke, his voice dropped to something almost reverent. “And the kitsune… still walks freely, playing its games, watching you even now.”

Draco stiffened immediately, his hand twitching toward his wand before he remembered—it wouldn’t work here. “That’s not funny.”

Tenkai’s smirk returned, something knowing in his gaze. “No, it is not.”

“Do you know who stole the crate?”

“A master of many faces,” Tenkai’s brows puckered. “I am afraid I do not, for I was deceived.”

“And… do you know why they stole them? Aside from wishing to unleash them?”

“The machinations of men have long since faded from my understanding, but I have theories.”

“Such as…?” Draco asked.

Tenkai’s gaze flickered behind them, to the tree line. “You do not have much time left. Please, only a few more of your questions. You must go back to your bodies.”

“Is the kitsune aiding the wizard that stole the crate?”

Tenkai's expression remained impassive, but the weight of his gaze suggested that Hermione's question had not been an idle one. He exhaled slowly, as if considering how much to reveal.

“You misunderstand the kitsune’s nature,” Tenkai finally said. “It does not need to manipulate in the way you assume. A kitsune is a creature of cunning, of shifting fates and altered paths. It does not control—rather, it nudges. It watches and waits, presenting choices where none should exist.”

Hermione frowned. “That sounds an awful lot like manipulation.”

Tenkai’s smirk was almost indulgent. “And yet, what is free will but the ability to be led astray?”

Draco scoffed. “That’s a poetic way of saying yes.”

Hermione ignored him, her mind no doubt already sorting through implications.

Draco wondered if the kitsune was guiding the yokai—whether directly or subtly. If this had been orchestrated, meant to push them toward a certain outcome—he wondered what possibly could be the outcome?

Hermione pressed on. “Are they growing stronger the longer they remain unsealed?”

This time, Tenkai’s expression sobered. “Of course. What is an anchor without its ship?”

The single answer sent a shiver down his spine.

“They are creatures of the in between, thrust upon the world for varying reasons, but always, they are meant to be tethered,” he continued. “Without the artifacts their souls are linked to, they are no longer bound to their own nature. They adapt. They change. And as time passes, the world reshapes them into something far more dangerous.”

Draco swallowed. That meant each battle would only get harder. That meant he and Hermione were on borrowed time. “Fantastic. And I’m guessing the longer we take, the less likely we are to actually rebind them?”

Tenkai nodded. “You understand quickly, young dragon.”

“Okay, okay,” Hermione took a deep breath, bracing her non-existent hands on her hips. “There has been a series of break ins across England and now Wales, all occurring on the nights we have been busy resealing and binding the yokai.”

“How peculiar.” Tenkai’s gaze sharpened with interest. “What has been taken?”

“Er,” Hermione looked anxiously down at the stretch of her forearm as it slowly faded into the ether. “Four items in total have been identified. There are other investigations still pending with reports yet to be completed, so we don’t know for certain if anything else of significance has been stolen.”

“Tell me these items.” Tenkai said urgently, flicking his attention to their physical bodies. “Quickly.”

“An amulet, magical binding rope, a dagger and something we call a time-turner.”

Tenkai didn’t so much as blink, but he did visibly stiffen.

“There has to be a reason why these things have been stolen, considering the thefts occurred on all nights where the moon was full, and we were busy tracking down the yokai. Draco and I believe the yokai are meant to distract us, and that there is something far more nefarious at play.”

Tenkai’s fingers tapped against his palm, thoughtful in nature. “It is possible the yokai were released for a reason beyond mere chaos.”

“Do you know what that reason could be?”

Tenkai remained silent for a moment, his gaze drifting beyond them, as if watching something neither of them could see. “There are many rituals,” he said finally. “Many ancient practices that require spirits beyond human reckoning.”

Draco and Hermione exchanged a look, unease passing between them.

“I urge caution in your quest,” Tenkai glanced at the space where their legs should have been. They were nothing but floating torsos at this point. “I am sorry, I cannot answer any more of your questions. You must go now.”

Draco made a sharp nod, though it was awkward without his legs to balance him. He tried to bow, but the motion was a strange, uncoordinated lean. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice low but sincere.

Hermione echoed him, “Thank you,” her voice soft with gratitude.

Tenkai gave them a wistful smile, his eyes twinkling with ancient knowledge. “Goodbye, daughter of air and son of fire. I do look forward to the day we might meet again, but I do hope it not for many a millennia.” His words resonated like the closing of an age, and with that, he vanished from their sight, leaving only the eerie stillness behind.

In the blink of an eye, Draco was jolted backward, as though yanked back into the physical world. He gasped for breath, his hands instinctively patting his chest, his thighs, his face, as if confirming he was still whole. The ground beneath him felt solid again, the weight of his body settling back into reality. He glanced at Hermione, who was doing the same, her fingers brushing over her limbs as though ensuring she, too, was grounded.

She turned slowly to meet his eye, and before Draco could fully process the moment, Hermione threw herself into his arms. The suddenness of it sent them both tumbling to the forest floor in a heap, limbs tangled together.

“Tell me that really happened,” Hermione gasped, burying her face into his neck, her breath warm against his skin as she nuzzled against his pulse.

Draco’s chest tightened, both with a rush of emotions and the lingering confusion of the experience. “What the actual fuck, Granger?” he choked on a laugh, his arms instinctively tightening around her waist, pulling her closer. “We just—”

“I know,” Hermione said, laughter bubbling from her as she lifted her head to meet his gaze. “I know. It was—well, it was ridiculous.”

Draco shook his head, still half in disbelief. “It’s mental.”

“You’re telling me,” she replied, her eyes sparkling. “But at least we’re not floating around like a couple of disembodied torsos anymore.”

“You’re completely mad, Granger.”

She grinned up at him, her fingers tracing the edge of his jaw as if making sure he was real. “Maybe. But at least you’ll never be bored of me.”

“Never.” He promised, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. 

Notes:

Wow. WOW. Thank you all so much for reading. This chapter is a doozy, nearly 20k words. Took me hours to finish editing it but it was worth every second!

I do hope you enjoyed this chapter... I know it was a bit slower but there were a ton of things I had to explore for the plot and well, our duo has to actually work at some point.

Thank you for your sweet comments last chapter, they made me so happy. I hope to see some wheels turning in the comment section after this one, cheers!

Oh, and happy Monday! Hopefully I will see you all next week with another update, but if not, head to my tumblr page to check in on the next post date! I'd love to see you there! <3

(I’m also now on instagram @ ukiyoryn but to be frank, I’m not huge on social media so I’ll do my best to be active there! At least, not when I’m getting hand cramps typing 3k words in 2 hours)

Chapter 12: Mahoutokoro

Notes:

Trigger warning: brief dialogue of suicide, depression, ect. Also, smut warning. Big smut.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Day Ninety-Eight: Monday, 13th of September 2009

Granger’s Twenty-Sixth Rule for Conquering Magical Disorder:

Account For All Variables .

When traveling with a wizard prone to dramatics, be prepared to coddle him.

(Malfoy’s Note: This is slander. I required neither coddling nor excessive reassurance.)

(Granger’s note: Oh, the lies you tell…)

(Malfoy’s note: Never would I lie to you, darling… but … in the case that I appeared pale and vaguely on the verge of death, I will admit that your steady supply of hair-stroking and murmured praises was indeed the bare minimum.)

 

----

 

Chichi-jima’s shores were a blanket of white sand, disappearing beneath waves of turquoise water. It was a beautiful day, for all intents and purposes. A marvelous day.

The morning sun cast a golden sheen over the gently lapping waves, turning the water into rippling silk that shifted between deep sapphire and pale aquamarine.

She lifted her face to the sky, its canvas one of soft pastels—blush pinks bleeding into lavender streaks, the last remnants of dawn still clinging to the edges of scattered clouds.

A warm breeze rolled in from the ocean, laden with salt and carried along it, the distant cries of gulls as they circled above the dock.

The island’s jungle loomed, a dense sprawl of emerald-green foliage, where palm trees and broad-leafed plants stretched toward the sun.

Hermione inhaled, letting the sounds of the waves wash over her as the salt-tinged air kissed her cheeks. At her side, Draco hovered, pale and green in the face.

He had not been a fan of the ferry ride.

“I would rather take my chances and Apparate across the ocean if it means I never have to step foot on that blasted ferry again.” He groaned, slinging an arm over his face as he fell onto a nearby bench. He buried his face in the crook of his elbow, taking measured breaths. “My stomach is rioting.”

Hermione patted the top of his head, murmuring soothing, placating words.

He moved his arm far enough away to glare at her, grey eyes shadowed by the hard slant of his eyebrows. Hermione thought he looked like Cabanel’s Fallen Angel.

“We’re almost there,” Hermione said, running her fingers through his wind-swept fringe. His hair usually felt silky and smooth, but after twenty-four hours at sea, it was tacky and stiff from the salt-tinged air.

Draco dropped his arm and sighed, closing his eyes when her nails scratched his scalp.

“Mm,” he mumbled, fingers slipping though the belt loops of her trousers. He tugged her between his legs, close enough that her knees pressed against the lip of the bench seat, and the outskirts of her thighs brushed the inside of his own. He was warm, and soft, but cold and firm at the same time.

She ran both hands through his hair now, brushing back the strands, dragging her nails down the nape of his neck. He hummed pleasantly.

“Would you like to find something to eat before we head to the Carpet Port?”

Draco cracked one eye open, a smirk rising. “I can think of only one thing I’m hungry for at present.”

Hermione glared up at the sky, still flushed with the colors of a beautiful sunrise. A flock of birds flew overhead, wings outstretched as they dove, feathers tipping to skirt across the water.

Draco reached up and brushed his fingertips over the curve of her jaw. She pressed her cheek against his palm, smiling softly. She had tried to prevent herself from sinking into him, to push back and retain boundaries, but it was hopeless. How could she deny herself the luxury of his affection?

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured. “Have I told you that recently?”

Hermione felt warmth bloom across her skin, creeping from the shell of her ears down to her chest. She ducked her head, biting back a smile as she traced the edge of his collar. “You must still be sick if you're resorting to flattery,”

Draco let out a breathy chuckle, the hand on her jaw sliding back into her hair, fingers curling possessively at the base of her skull. “Hardly flattery if it’s true,” he murmured, tilting his head up so their noses brushed. His voice was still thick with exhaustion, but his smirk had gained some strength. “And I must say, darling, you make for a rather excellent distraction from my suffering.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but the way her fingers skimmed over the nape of his neck betrayed her. “How tragic. Shall I fetch you some ginger tea? Or would you rather faint dramatically into my arms?”

“Tempting,” he mused, thumb skimming over the swell of her cheek. “But I rather like this arrangement, remind me to have more me near-death experiences at sea.”

Hermione huffed out a laugh, but before she could retort, a loud squawk overhead drew her attention. A group of seagulls had gathered near a food stall just past the dock, hopping along the wooden railing in search of scraps. The scent of something sizzling—savory and rich, with a hint of soy and citrus—drifted toward them on the breeze, making her stomach give an undignified growl.

Draco lifted a brow. “Well. Seems I’m not the only one with cravings.”

She swatted his shoulder, stepping back. “Come on, let’s find something to eat. You’ll feel better once you’ve got something in your stomach.”

Draco groaned as he pushed himself up from the bench, running a hand through his stiff hair before stretching his arms above his head. His white undershirt lifted just enough to reveal a sliver of pale skin where it had untucked, and Hermione really couldn’t help herself when she reached out and tucked it back into the waistline of his trousers. She was greedy to feel his skin after going so long without (an entire twenty-four hours) so she grazed her fingertips over the soft skin of his lower abdomen, nails skirting through the smattering of pale hair that disappeared beneath.

Draco smirked down at her, ashen brow curving.

Her chest flushed and she looked away, clearing her throat. “Sorry.”

Draco merely shrugged and rolled the sleeves of his tan linen button-down, the fabric catching the early morning light. Hermione had watched him with quiet fascination before they’d departed their shared cabin on the ferry, gaze flicking over the relaxed drape of his clothes. And when he had pulled out loose white trousers from his trunk just before dressing, she had outright blanched, as if the very sight of him in something so undeniably Muggle had shaken the foundation of her worldview.

He had worn his Auror robes for the majority of their trip thus far, aside from their trip to the festival and Okutama. All crisp lines and dark hues that made him look every bit the formidable figure he was meant to be. Hermione always thought he looked handsome whenever she saw him in the Ministry before they began to work together. Her steps would annoyingly stall when she caught sight of him walking through the Atrium in his long, high-collared robe of deep charcoal, gaze catching on the shimmering embroidered insignia of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement over his breast.

“It’s just clothing, Granger,” he had drawled, slipping the linen shirt over his shoulders with practiced ease.

“It’s Muggle clothing,” she had corrected, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you opt to wear something willingly that isn’t black or grey, or something that doesn’t need cufflinks.”

Draco had smirked then, smug and knowing. “Do try not to swoon.”

It was, admittedly, a handsome ensemble. Too handsome, really. Something about the casual nature of it made him look softer, more human, yet still devastatingly Draco. And perhaps that was what reduced her to seeking him out first, rather than the other way around.

She had been the one to set the rule—three allotted kisses, nothing more. A necessary boundary. But Draco was a Slytherin through and through, and he had found many ways to work around that one rule. A brush of lips at the curve of her jaw. The ghost of his mouth against her temple in passing. Fingers tracing slow, deliberate patterns against the inside of her wrist.

He’d gotten her well and good in the alley after their encounter with the shopkeeper, and since then she’d been careful to keep the touching to a minimum.

(Lest she wished to black out again, which she supposed wasn’t entirely too terrible. Afterall, he’d given her a world-shattering orgasm in the process.)

She supposed she should have expected Draco to work around her teeny, pathetic little rule. It just wasn’t very helpful that he looked insufferably pleased with himself every time she let him.

Hermione sighed, shaking her head as she glanced at him now. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, revealing the sinewy lines of his forearms, Mark hidden by his exceptional Notice-Me-Not charm. She sighed again when his hair was tousled by the wind, strands falling into his eyes. It was utterly unfair for one human being to look that good.

She should have insisted he wear something else. Something dreadful. Something black and daunting with those ridiculous silver and emerald cufflinks with an imposing M pressed into the face.

Together, they wandered toward the small food stall near the port. Hermione brought her hand up to intertwine with his where it dangled off her shoulder. He grinned down at her, silver eyes sparking like starlight.

The wooden sign above the stall was painted with elegant kanji, illuminated softly by lanterns hanging from the awning. The vendor, a middle-aged Muggle man with laugh lines around his eyes, gave them a polite nod as he flipped skewers of fish and vegetables over a small grill.

“What can I get for you?” the man asked, his voice warm and welcoming.

Hermione scanned the menu, recognizing some dishes, but Draco simply stared, looking far too exhausted to attempt reading the unfamiliar script.

“Two orders of shrimp skewers, please. And some ginger tea.”

Draco played with her fingers, absently tracing the delicate lines of her palm before dropping a kiss to her temple. With a sigh, he reached into his trouser pocket, pulling out a few crisp banknotes of the Japanese yen they’d exchanged at the bank before retiring to their hotel Saturday night. The vendor took the money with a polite nod, moving efficiently as he prepared their order.

As they waited, Draco rested his chin on the top of Hermione’s head, his entire weight leaning into her as if standing upright required more effort than he was willing to expend. She smiled to herself, tilting her head slightly to let him settle more comfortably against her.

The warmth of his presence was a balm, soothing a part of her that had long been starved of tenderness from the years she spent with Ron. She had never felt comfortable with these kinds of simple affections, never enjoyed feeling the steady rise and fall of Ron’s chest beneath her fingers the way she enjoyed it with Draco. It wasn’t until she felt it with Draco that Hermione realized she craved the simple act of sharing space like this.

She had been a fool to try and deny herself these moments, these small pieces of affection in order to maintain boundaries. She couldn’t simply separate herself from the connection that had slowly grown between them at this point, and besides, she knew Draco wouldn’t let her be afraid of vulnerability. He wouldn’t let her push him away.

Draco's breath brushed against her skin and his presence seemed to melt into hers. Those fears began to feel distant, like ghosts from a life she no longer wanted to remember. There was no way she was willing to redraw the lines again. Not now. Not when this felt more real than anything else she had ever known.

When their food was finally handed over, they wandered to a quiet spot near the water’s edge, where the waves lapped gently against the shore. The sun had climbed higher, warming the sand beneath their feet as they sat, shoulders brushing.

Between bites, they talked about things of little importance—Hermione's observations about the local wildlife, Draco’s grievances about the humidity ruining his hair, so on and so forth. The conversation meandered, unhurried and easy, the way it often did when they were simply existing in each other’s presence.

 

Chichijima Island of the Ogasawara Islands (photo: trip.101.com)


 

The water stretched endlessly, a brilliant shade of turquoise that deepened and shifted with the movement of the waves. It was so clear that Draco could see flashes of silver and gold beneath the surface. Schools of fish weaving through patches of coral, darting in and out of the light. In the distance, a few windsurfers skimmed across the waves, their sails catching the breeze as they laughed and called out to one another, carving effortless arcs through the water.

Beside him, Hermione leaned forward slightly, the wind teasing at her hair as she gazed out at the horizon. The sun had left a warm flush on her skin, deepening the rosy hue of her cheeks.

Draco leaned back on his hands, content to watch her.

There was something about the way the light caught her eyes, turning them into pools of honeyed amber, the way the breeze played with the loose tendrils of her curls. She looked happy. Free. It was a version of her he had seen come to life since coming to Japan. Here they were, away from their friends and their jobs and the overall responsibility of life, existing harmoniously, happily.

The sun reflected off the expanse, turning the ocean into a sheet of liquid sapphire, impossibly vast and mesmerizing. Draco exhaled slowly. There was a selfish, insatiable part of him that wanted to keep this moment—to steal it, bottle it up, and press it close to his heart. He tried not to think about what might happen when they returned home. Would this bubble around them inevitably pop? Would she insist they cease their relationship and throw up boundaries and walls when the mundane of life came hurtling back into existence?

She could certainly try, Draco thought, but he wouldn’t let her succeed.

Hermione tucked a curl behind her ear, then turned to look at him, her gaze soft, knowing. When she gave him that sweet, secret smile that he loved so much, the weight of his thoughts lifted, floating away with the breeze. No, she wouldn’t push him away. He knew that for a fact. Hermione was as wrapped up in this thing they had yet to label as he was.

Girlfriend felt like such a trivial title. Partner wasn’t quite right, either.

When the shopkeeper at the curio shop had called Hermione his wife—when Hermione hadn’t corrected him—that was when Draco just knew. The word had nestled itself somewhere deep in his chest, warm and undeniable. It felt absurd, in a way, how easily it fit.

How easily she fit.

“They call this the Galapagos of the East.” Hermione said, fingers drifting through the fine sand. “It’s actually a protected island.”

“Is it really?”

“The Muggle’s deemed it a World Heritage Site.”

Draco hummed and took another bite of his skewer, glancing at Hermione as she spoke. “A protected island,” he mused, licking a stray drop of sauce from his thumb. “So, naturally, wizards decided to put an international magical port here?”

“It makes sense,” she said. “With all the conservation efforts in place, Muggles are restricted in what they can build here. Fewer prying eyes.”

Draco exhaled through his nose, conceding the point, though he still found it amusing. He watched as a pair of sea turtles surfaced briefly before vanishing beneath the waves again. “Your Headmistress,” he began, nudging her ankle with the tip of his shoe, “think she’ll be as thrilled to see you as you are her?”

Hermione preened slightly, though she tried to play it off by taking a sip from her takeaway tea. “I’d like to think so. It’s been years since I last visited Mahoutokoro, but she was always kind to me.” She hesitated, then added, “She was one of the first magical scholars to acknowledge my research, you know. Before I published, that is.”

Draco tilted his head, watching her closely. “Darling,” he drawled, “do you have a favorite professor from every school on the ICW roster?”

Hermione laughed, light and unguarded, and Draco couldn’t help but smirk in return.

He finished the last bite of his food and stretched, rolling his shoulders. “Alright,” he said, standing and offering her a hand, “let’s find this bloody carpet vendor. The sooner we get to Mahoutokoro, the sooner I can figure out how to fix my hair.”

Hermione took his hand, lacing their fingers together as she pulled herself up. “I think you look rather charming like this.”

Draco arched a brow. “Charming?”

She tapped his nose. “Like a windswept, sun-kissed rogue.”

He scoffed but didn’t let go of her hand as they made their way toward the town, the golden morning light glinting across the white sand. They walked up the beach toward the main street of the quiet outpost town, the path beneath their feet well-worn and sandy. A narrow strip of concrete guided their way, flanked by tall, lithe tree ferns and curving Pandanus trees. Short lanterns lined the trail, their glow powered by what Hermione explained to Draco was solar energy. He found the concept strange, but noted it made sense. He wondered if these so-called solar panels could be put on the Manor, and then laughed with delight knowing that his mother would keel over from shock if huge black sheets that absorbed the sun for energy were placed on the ancient Manor’s shingles without her approval.

As they walked, she casually informed him that Ogasawara was technically considered a subprefecture of Tokyo, despite being so far from the main island. Draco only hummed in response, his gaze sweeping over the town’s modest buildings, their exteriors softened by the sun’s rays. The air smelled of salt and blooming hibiscus, and the rhythmic crash of waves against the shore provided a steady, soothing backdrop to their journey.

Once they reached the end of the main thoroughfare, Hermione led them into a small, unassuming restaurant. Inside, there were no chairs or tables—just a counter with a bell under a glass dome. Hermione, with the precision of someone who'd clearly done this before, pushed back the dome and rang the bell thrice. On the final chime, a door opened on their right.

Hermione led Draco down a narrow hall to another door, which opened to reveal a secluded stretch of beach. A lone pier jutted out from the water, and there was a small shed perched on algae-covered stilts. It looked like the kind of place where forgotten dreams came to rest.

Before departing, the two of them swiftly shed their Muggle attire, the fabric pooling at their feet as they redressed in more appropriate wizarding garments. Hermione’s robes were another stunning, Japanese-inspired set—an elegant blend of deep greens and rich blues, the fabric rippling like water with every movement. Silver tracery wove intricate patterns across the sleeves and hem, catching the light in delicate, shimmering threads. She adjusted the sash at her waist, smoothing out the folds as she turned to Draco.

He, on the other hand, donned his full Auror kit with practiced efficiency—gloves pulled snug over his fingers, cloak fastened securely at the collar, every inch of him exuding the sharp readiness of a man prepared for anything. His robes, a lovely charcoal set, were meticulously tailored, blending function with subtle refinement.

“The full works, then?” she mused, tilting her head.

Draco smirked as he adjusted the fingers of his gloves. “Wouldn’t want to make a poor impression.”

She rolled her eyes but said nothing, simply reaching for his sleeve and giving it a slight tug as if urging him forward. They walked down the pier, stepping carefully as the boards creaked underfoot, and stopped outside the shed’s window, where an ancient man was fast asleep, his wrinkled chin resting on his broad chest.

Hermione cleared her throat loudly. The wizard didn’t stir.

She tried again, this time with a little more force. Another raucous snore followed.

“Honestly,” Hermione muttered, “how does one even sleep like that?”

“Excuse us!” Draco said, raising his voice and knocking on the windowsill with exaggerated politeness.

The attendant jumped, snarling and snorting as he came awake, wiping drool from his scraggly white beard. He squinted at them for a moment, clearly trying to comprehend the world around him.

“H’urgh,” he grunted, looking like he’d just fought a battle with a pillow. Hermione blinked in response, as if she were unsure whether or not she should be concerned.

The attendant cleared his throat, then belched. Draco let loose a long-suffering sigh.

“Hello, forgive me,” the old man said, as if that would absolve him of all sleep-related crimes.

“Quite all right,” Hermione replied with a strained smile, though her eyes darted behind him. Draco followed her line of sight and spotted a row of rolled-up carpets slotted into various shelves. Hermione swallowed, wringing her hands together.

Ah, that fear of flying was obviously making its comeback.

“We need to book passage to Mahoutokoro, if you please.”

“Oh, ho, yes, yes,” the attendant said, sitting up with surprising agility. “Six kinban, miss.”

“SIX?” Hermione gasped, like the wizard was suddenly appearing for what he was—a carpet peddler. “That’s three times the rate it was when I last came!”

“Sorry, miss, under new management, you see…” The wizard rubbed his eyes. “Bit of a stiff-backed bunch…” He gave a vague wave, like that explained everything.

Draco, his patience already worn thin, cut in. “May I presume you will be our guide?”

“Oh, no.” The wizard looked at him like he was missing the point entirely. “The carpets are magically woven with special thread imbued with navigational charms. They will take you directly to Minami Iwo Jima. No guide necessary.”

Draco’s glare was molten, but he held his tongue. He turned to Hermione instead. “You should have let me bring my broom.”

“Absolutely not.” Hermione crossed her arms, giving him a pointed look. “I hate flying as is but at least on a carpet there’s less likely a chance we won’t plummet into the ocean and drown!”

“Less likely a chance? Granger, darling—be rational for me, would you? Brooms are by far a safer means of transportation than carpets and have been proven to be the case when the British Ministry banned them—”

“That was merely propaganda for the embargo set in place in ’94 by the Registry of Proscribed Charmable Objects!” Hermione lifted her nose in the air and crossed her arms rather dramatically.

“Let me get this straight,” Draco began, incredulous, “You, who hates flying in any parameter, would rather fly atop the mercy of a carpet we cannot control for two hours across the ocean instead of in front of me on a broom, which I would have full control over, mind you.”

She puffed her cheeks and planted her hands on her hips, striking a pose as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

(He very much wanted to kiss her despite the sass.)

“Yes.”

“That is madness—darling, be reasonable.” Draco said with no small amount of exasperation. He supposed now was as good as a time as any to finally have this discussion. “There is a handle on a broom. A shaft. Places to hold on.” He gestured to the rolled carpets. “We will be at the mercy of the wind on a carpet.”

“Oh, yes, because a stick between your legs is obviously superior.” She immediately realized how that sounded and with a huff added: “Don’t. Say. A. Word.”

(It was a miracle, really, that he didn’t make a randy joke.)

“For an extra two dōban I can add stability and boundary charms.” The man grinned. “Like magical bumper, yes? Would you like that?”

“Pardon me,” Draco growled, all thoughts of his stick between Hermione’s legs forgotten. “But do I look handicapped?”

The attendant laughed heartily.

“I feel moderately insulted that you’re laughing instead of answering my question.”

The old wizard let out another wheezy chuckle, smacking his knee as if Draco were the funniest thing he’d seen in decades. “Oh, young man, if you have to ask—”

Draco scowled. “Brilliant. The concierge service here is spectacular.”

“I don’t see the point of your argument considering you don’t even have your broom.” Hermione cut in, her tone leaving no room for negotiation. (Sort of like a mother refusing to give in to a child’s tantrum—ah, yes. There were his lovesick thoughts again, full of fantasies where Hermione attempted to boss around their nonexistent offspring.) “We have to use the carpet regardless, so what’s the point?”

“The point—” Draco stopped himself, silver eyes glinting. His mouth snapped shut.

He actually had no point to make. He just liked to rile her up.

Hermione, looking far too pleased with Draco’s lack of answer, turned to the wizard. “No extra charms needed, thank you. I have experience with carpets.”

Draco barked a laugh. “Do you really consider the two times you rode on a carpet as experience?”

“Of course—two times is enough to constitute as experience, no?”

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. “And in those experiences, you didn’t use any charms? Refused a magical bumper? Just rode raw, unfiltered, hurling through the sky on a glorified picnic blanket? I find that hard to believe, my darling.”

“Well, it was on a six-seater, and I rode with a few others.” She pursed her lips, frowning. “I don’t really remember if it had charms or not.”

“Young man, relax, relax. You and your wife will be perfectly safe.” The attendant said breezily, patting Draco’s shoulder. There was that title again. (Draco only smiled a small, pleased smile for half a second.) “You’ll hardly notice you’re flying at all. Very smooth ride.”

“I will notice every time a gust of wind tries to send us cartwheeling into the ocean.” Draco seethed.

“No, no. You’re far less likely to hit pockets of air on a carpet and spin out.”

“See, this is why I didn’t let you bring your broom,” Hermione said, wagging a finger at him. “You have control issues.”

Draco scoffed. “I do not have control issues.”

“You absolutely do,” Hermione said. “Flying carpet? Nightmare scenario for you. No shaft, no control over speed, no ability to show off.”

(His cock twitched just a bit hearing her say the word shaft.)

Draco righted himself and continued on to defend himself. “I don’t show off.”

“There is some control over the speed…”

Hermione ignored the attendant and continued her tirade. “Please. You’ve never mounted a broom before without dramatically tossing your hair first.”

“I have never ‘dramatically tossed my hair’ before mounting a broom.” Draco said, going so far as to use air quotes to further bolster his defense.

“Do you forget, Draco Malfoy, who was in the stands during every Quidditch match at Hogwarts?” She jabbed her little pointer finger into his sternum, eyes fiery, mouth turned down. “You were always tossing your fringe about like some damned Arthurian tourney knight in order make all the girls in Slytherin and Ravenclaw swoon!”

Draco glared at her. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he ran a hand through his hair, stifling the urge to toss his wind-swept fringe from his eyes.

“Well, if you noticed,” Draco enunciated, grabbing her finger from jabbing him further. He yanked her forward, glowering. “Then obviously you were swooning too!”

Hermione guffawed, eyes flashing with her ire. “I did no such thing!”

The attendant coughed. “So, the fee for the carpet…”

Hermione growled and dug into her pouch, pulling out the six kinban. She smacked them down onto the wooden ledge. “Here! Give us the bloody carpet!”

The old man took the coins and unceremoniously yanked a rolled carpet from the shelf. He disappeared for a moment just before stepping onto the pier through the side of his shed, carpet in tow. He dragged it along the planks and proceeded to hastily drop it in front of their feet.

It unfurled slowly, showing off a suspicious-looking thread count, the fabric fraying slightly at the edges, as though it had lived through one too many turbulent flights. The deep crimson base was adorned with swirling golden patterns, intricate floral motifs curling around stylized birds and mythical beasts woven into the fabric. Faint traces of old enchantments shimmered between the threads, their glow flickering like dying embers.

Draco inspected the rug with a dubious look, nudging one of the worn tassels with his boot. “This is it?”

“Handwoven, four-seater,” the wizard said proudly. “Black Carp Co’s top of the line.”

“From what bloody year?” Draco scoffed. “It looks threadbare.”

“’64, of course.”

“Oh, lovely.” Draco said, choking on a manic laugh.

“It’s a good carpet—broken in,” The attendant said, patting his arm. “Like a good pair of boots! She’ll have you at Mahoutokoro in no time.”

Draco grumbled under his breath and toed the fringe of the carpet, causing it to hum to life. It hovered a few inches off the ground, swaying slightly.

Hermione blinked down at the floating carpet, her expression growing grim.

“Oh, now you’re scared, Granger? Ready to put your galleons where your gab is?”

She shot him a scathing glare. “No. It was a smooth ride the last time I came. Rather like a topless buggy—Muggle car with no roof, hard to explain,” she chewed on her lip, edging closer to the carpet. “But perhaps… stabilization charms wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all?”

Draco muttered under his breath, “Potter will never let me live this down in the afterlife if he finds out I allowed you to strongarm us to our death.”

“We’re not going to die.” Hermione muttered, then proceeded to take a deep breath. She nodded her head once and stepped onto the carpet, wobbling a bit before unceremoniously plopping down onto her bum. She pulled her legs in, sitting cross-legged in the middle. A smile slowly started to bloom across her face. “See? Not so bad—” she cut herself off when the carpet lurched higher off the ground. Hermione shrieked, palms smacking the carpet.

It thudded to the ground.

“Brilliant, darling. You’ve broken it before we even took off.”

“Ol’ girl just needs a bit of adjustment—” the attendant muttered, pulling out his wand from the sleeves of his robes. He gestured for Draco to get on as well, and so he did, but not before he gave the old wizard one final glare.

Draco lowered himself down as gracefully as he could at Hermione’s side, crossing his legs as she did. (It all felt very undignified. His mother would simply expire if she saw him sitting like a toddler atop a carpet.)

Why couldn’t this thing have built in seats? That seemed more practical. Draco opened his mouth to ask as much, but then the attendant muttered a few spells, causing the carpets threads to shimmer and hum. Then, very slowly, the carpet rose higher and higher off the pier. Draco cocked his brow and craned his head to look over the side of the carpet, causing it to dip with him.

Hermione shrieked, grabbing Draco’s arm. “Stop it! Stop it!”

Well,” Draco drawled, sitting back upright. The carpet leveled itself. “If we fall, at least I won’t have to pay back my debts.”

Hermione, still clutching his arm as they continued to float upwards, cried out, “What debts?”

“The ones to the Almighty, darling,” Draco deadpanned. “I’ve skirted him on many occasion in all the various near-death experiences I’ve racked up since you stormed into my life.”

“For the love of Merlin, Draco. Do stop being ridiculous.”

“I fear I owe him a life or two.” Draco hummed. “Surely, the universe has a ledger for these things.”

Hermione merely sighed and crossed her arms, making a point to look away from his grinning face.

“You can control the carpet a bit on your own, if you’d like to.” The old wizard called up to them from where he was slowly turning into a miniscule dot of a figure beneath them. “Press your hand to that weave of a ram horn and a handle will appear—yes, just like that, young man, now grip the handle—ah, ho!” The attendant cried with joy when Draco took hold of the handle shaped like two horns. “Safe travels!” cried the wizard as Draco pulled back, his well wishes drowning out with the wind as they soared across the sky—much faster than Draco thought a carpet capable of.

 


 

Hermione detested flying, but she supposed of all the times she’d been forced into the air, this flight wasn’t particularly gruesome. The expanse of ocean unfurled before them like a swath of azure silk, soft waves capping white against one another. The carpet cut through clouds shaped like tufts of cotton, leaving their chinks pink from the slight chill.

They flew southward over the endless bound of the Pacific Ocean for a long while in silence, Draco with his hands still firmly on the woven ram horn handles, Hermione leaning against his side, her temple pressed to his shoulder.

Just then, a sumptuous spray of salt water arced below, drawing their attention. Draco pressed forward on the handle much like one would with a gear shift on a car and steered them closer to the water. Hermione squinted down at the glinting waves, pointing towards an unnatural swirl of water directly below.

A sleek, silvery-grey dorsal fin cut above the surface for a blink of an eye, then dropped back beneath the ways. A poppy petal shaped tail trailed the waves wake, flicking a spray of water toward their carpet. Hermione gasped. “Oh, good Godric. It’s a Ramora.”

“Really? A Ramora?” Draco asked, squinting down at the shimmering scales just beneath the surface of the ocean. “Bloody hell. You’re right—would you look at it. It’s a beast of a fish.”

“What on earth is it doing here?” Hermione mused, frowning. “It’s so far from the Indian Ocean.”

Draco began to pull back on the carpet, drawing them away before they could be soaked by the next spray of water the Ramora sent flicking their way. Hermione halted his ascent, sputtering. “Draco—another one. Oh, another one there as well!”

“Darling, that’s a whole school of them.” Draco said, unease slipping into his tone.

“Let’s have a look, please? Just a bit lower?” She began to whine in earnest now, deploying her best fluttering-of-lashes-please-let-me-have-my-way look.

Draco’s nostrils flared. “I’d rather not.”

“Oh, but please, Draco?” She scrambled onto her hands and knees, doing her best to peer over the side of the carpet without teetering the carpet.

Draco hissed and gripped the back of her shirt. “Sit down, Hermione.”

“Ten, twelve—oh, fourteen! Seventeen! Do you see any on your side?”

Draco kept a firm grip on the back of her shirt, no doubt scowling as she leaned dangerously over the edge of the carpet, her curls tumbling over her shoulders.

“I see enough,” he muttered, his fingers tightening. “And I’d rather not see the inside of one of their mouths if you don’t mind.”

Hermione huffed but didn’t pull away, her attention still fixed on the spectacle below. The school of Ramora shimmered like molten silver beneath the waves, their massive, ancient forms coiling and gliding through the water with effortless grace. A flick of a translucent fin sent ripples rolling across the ocean’s surface, the light catching on the scales of the creatures as if the sea itself had been scattered with diamonds.

“They’re magnificent,” she whispered, enthralled. “Ramora are guardians, Draco. They have powerful magical properties. Some believe they can anchor ships, even ward off storms.”

“Well, that’s lovely,” he drawled, his grip on her shirt still unwavering. “Except that we’re not a ship, and I have no particular desire to test their storm-warding abilities.” He shot her a look. “And if you pitch yourself off this carpet, I highly doubt they’ll be inclined to rescue you.”

Hermione scoffed, finally sitting back on her heels but still watching the water intently. “You’re being dramatic.”

Draco arched a brow. “Am I?” He gave the carpet a slight nudge forward, making it wobble just enough to send her scrambling for balance. She yelped, scrambling back to clutch onto him.

“Draco!”

He smirked. “Oh, don’t you start shrieking now.”

She glared up at him, but he could see the flicker of amusement behind her irritation. “I hate you.”

“Impossible,” he said smoothly, nudging the carpet into a slow, circling descent so they could get a closer look.

The Ramora continued their slow, undulating movement beneath them, their presence almost hypnotic. The waves rolled gently, lapping at the air with the rhythmic hush of something ancient, something that had existed long before them and would endure long after they were gone.

“I wonder if they’re migrating.” Hermione mused.

“Do fish migrate?”

“Yes, Draco. Plenty of fish migrate.” Hermione rolled her eyes, still peering down at the shimmering school below. “Salmon, eels, even some sharks—”

Draco let out a short laugh. “Right. And do these particular magic fish have a seasonal vacation home they’re off to?”

Hermione huffed. “It’s not something that’s been observed before.” She frowned, tapping a finger against her chin. “Unless…”

“Unless what?” Draco prompted, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

Hermione turned to him, her expression alight with curiosity. “Unless something is drawing them here.”

Draco stared at her for a long moment, then exhaled heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. “Brilliant. Just what we need. Another ominous mystery.”

 

The Ramora is based on a real fish, but in the HP universe, the Ramora is a magical fish native to the Indian Ocean. (photo: imgur.com)

 

Draco’s grip on the carpet’s handles tightened as he flicked a glance back at the swirling water below. The Ramora moved in near-perfect synchrony, their silvery scales catching the sunlight as they twisted and dove in mesmerizing patterns.

“Something’s not right,” he muttered, more to himself than to Hermione. The fish weren’t just swimming—they were orbiting something. A focal point in the water that, despite the endless undulation of the sea, remained eerily still.

Hermione’s expression turned contemplative as she traced the pattern with her eyes. “It’s almost like…” She trailed off, before sucking in a sharp breath. “Draco, they’re guarding something.”

Draco blinked at her, then back at the unnatural stillness below. “You mean like treasure? Some poor bloke’s sunken ship?”

“No.” Hermione shook her head, eyes dark with intrigue. “Ramora are known to anchor ships, remember? They have powerful magic—protective magic. If this many are gathered in one place, there’s a reason for it.”

Draco let out a slow, measured exhale, tilting his head to study the spot where the fish seemed most concentrated. He could see it now. The way the water darkened, like a deep well in the sea, shifting with something not quite natural. The longer he stared, the more he swore he could see something shimmering just beneath the surface, like the fractured reflection of a mirage.

“Absolutely not,” he decided, wrenching his gaze away. “We’re not investigating.”

“But—”

“No, Hermione.” Draco turned to her with a firm look. “You said it yourself—Ramora are protective. If they’re guarding something, that means it’s either bloody dangerous or bloody valuable. And either way, I don’t fancy finding out which.”

Hermione bit her lip, clearly torn between curiosity and reason. “It could be important.”

Draco sighed, resisting the urge to rub his temples. “Everything is important to you.”

She shot him a glare. “That’s because knowledge is important, Draco.”

“Yes, well, so is self-preservation.” He shifted his grip on the carpet’s handles, steering them away from the swirling disturbance. “And I quite like being alive, thanks.”

Hermione huffed but didn’t argue, though she kept craning her neck to get another look at the mysterious gathering below. Draco knew this wasn’t over. She’d be cataloging theories in that brilliant mind of hers, storing away details for later. He only hoped that later wouldn’t involve them plunging into the ocean in some reckless pursuit of knowledge.

For a while, they flew in silence, the wind tugging at their clothes and ruffling Draco’s already disheveled hair. Hermione sat back with a pensive expression, her fingers twitching like she was itching for a quill to jot down her thoughts.

Draco exhaled through his nose, tightening his grip on the handles. He could practically feel her curiosity vibrating off her in waves. “You’re still thinking about it.”

Hermione blinked at him, wide-eyed and innocent. “Thinking about what?”

Draco shot her a knowing look.

She pursed her lips, clearly trying not to smile. “It’s just—”

“No.”

Hermione scowled. “I didn’t even say anything yet.”

“I could hear you thinking, darling.”

She let out a dramatic sigh and flopped back against his shoulder, arms crossed. “Fine,” she huffed. “But if we find out later that a lost magical civilization was hidden beneath that whirlpool, I reserve the right to say ‘I told you so.’”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I’m sure the lost city of Atlantis is positively teeming with ancient scholars just waiting for you to interview them.”

Hermione let out a little snort, her gaze lifting to the endless blue horizon. The clouds had begun to thin, sunlight breaking through in brilliant shafts, glinting off the rippling sea like scattered diamonds.

He glanced at Hermione out of the corner of his eye. Her lashes fluttered against her cheek, golden in the sunlight. He still couldn’t believe he was here on this absurd, impossible journey with her.

He cleared his throat, suddenly feeling very exposed. “Not much longer, right?”

Hermione nodded. “We should reach Minami Iwo Jima within the hour,” she murmured.

“Hopefully we won’t pass over any more magical anomalies on the way.”

Hermione hummed, still staring out over the ocean. Then, to his surprise, she reached over and freed one of his hands from the handle to lace her fingers through his. Hermione didn’t look at him. She just squeezed his hand once, absently, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He squeezed her hand back.

Minutes ticked by and then Hermione said, “Perhaps I should petition Greengrass when we get back. I wonder if he’d let me study the Ramora.”

Draco groaned, long and suffering. “Might we focus on one thing at a time?”

“I’m going to write to Prickle in Magical Creatures when we get to Mahoutokoro. She’ll definitely want to know what we saw. It would be a collaborative effort between Departments—yes, that sounds lovely. I wonder if I should also write to the liaison between the Ministry and the merpeople.”

“Well to do plan you’ve already cooked up.”

“It could be an unrecorded civilization.” Hermione sighed, ignoring Draco as she absently stared off into the distance. “Imagine.”

Draco scoffed. “Yes, of course. A hidden, highly intelligent, magical fish civilization just waiting to be discovered by none other than Hermione Granger. I can already see the headlines.”

Hermione ignored his sarcasm, her fingers tapping against her knee as she continued musing to herself. “If they are migrating, it would be a fascinating breakthrough. Ramora are known to anchor ships, but a whole school of them moving in tandem? There’s something unusual about that. Perhaps—”

Draco groaned. “Granger.”

She blinked at him, startled out of her thoughts.

“Can you, for once in your life, not attempt to uncover the secrets of the universe while we’re in the middle of flying over the Pacific on an enchanted rug on our way to uncover other, far deadlier secrets of the universe?” He arched a brow. “You know, just a thought.”

Hermione pressed her lips together, clearly biting back a smile. “Sorry.”

“I will throw an obscene number of galleons at this future project you’re mentally drafting if that’s what you want—but in the future.”

“A privately funded expedition?” She blinked at him. “Draco, the cost would be astronomical.”

His answering look was dry.

Hermione huffed. “Well. As long as you come along, I suppose that would be fine.”

“Not Potter or Weasley?” Draco hedged.

“Absolutely not. Ron hates fish and Ginny would kill me if I dragged Harry across the world to research the migrating patterns of Ramora.” She nestled closer to his side. “Besides, I don’t particularly like the idea of going that long without seeing you.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, you see—I’ve grown rather attached to you.”

Draco tried to fight the grin. “What a lovely confessional speech this is turning out to be.”

Hermione hummed, tilting her head to look up at him.

Draco arched a brow. “Do go on.”

She exhaled dramatically. “Well, it’s not my fault. You’re the one whose turned out to be so charming, and then there’s your morally ambiguous decision-making skills, and a clear penchant for danger, and of course, the many spirits we’ve encountered that seem to want you dead. I couldn’t possibly in good conscious leave you behind to get into trouble without me.”

Draco scoffed. “Hardly my fault that yokai seem to find me irresistible.”

“Mm, of course not,” Hermione teased. “That, and the thought of you whisking me away on a grand adventure thing is really quite appealing. Very Indiana Jones of you.”

Draco smirked, knowing the exact movie she was referring to. She had made him watch it with her not too long ago.

“You realize he was a professor, yes? Your subconscious is showing.”

Hermione gasped, lightly smacking his arm. “That is not why I made the comparison.”

“Admit it,” Draco drawled, leaning in conspiratorially. “You have a thing for intelligent men with a dangerous side.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it. Instead, she settled against him, her fingers idly tracing the woven patterns of the carpet beneath them. “It’s not the danger that appeals to me,” she admitted softly. “It’s you.”

Draco stilled. Something about the quiet certainty in her voice sent warmth curling through his chest, deeper than he expected. He wasn’t sure he deserved it.

But Merlin, he’d take it.

They flew in silence for another half-hour, the salty wind tangling through their hair, the ocean stretching infinitely before them. Then, just as Draco thought she had fallen into her own thoughts again, Hermione murmured, “You would look good in a fedora, though.”

As they drew closer to the end of their trek, Draco soon spotted an island in the distance, jutting toward the sky like a craggy fist erupting from the sea. Draco pushed the ram horn forward, sending them shooting through a tuft of clouds at breakneck speed. Hermione shrieked in pure terror at their sudden burst of speed.

“Stop! Stop! You’ll crash us right into the wards!” She howled, frantically clawing his hands. Draco sighed and let up on the handles, drawing them to and idle. Hermione sighed with obvious relief and pulled her wand from her thigh sheath. She swept her hands in a few looping arcs, murmuring an incantation in Japanese, and as she spoke the last breezy line of her spell, the air not even two meters before them began to shimmer. Like a sea of stars falling to their deaths across an open sky, the ward around Mahoutokoro dissolved, revealing what lay hidden beyond very ancient and clever wards and charms.

It was a marvel to behold, and Draco felt that same electric thrill zip through his veins as when he first spotted Hogwarts while bobbing along the Black Lake at eleven years old—the sheer, incomprehensible wonder of magic made tangible.

Perched high atop jagged volcanic cliffs, Mahoutokoro loomed like something out of myth, its sweeping, tiered roofs drenched in golden sunlight, the lacquer shimmering so brightly it was almost blinding. The castle itself was a sprawling fortress, its walls carved from pale jade, standing in stark contrast to the cerulean ocean stretching endlessly beyond. The scent of salt and blooming cherry blossoms drifted through the air, carried on the sea breeze.

Above the castle, flying carpets wove through the sky—single-seaters, from what Draco could tell—gliding effortlessly along the open-air corridors of the fourth and fifth stories, flitting about like gemstone birds. Their riders moved with precision and ease, a synchronized dance of magic and mastery.

Five towering spires dominated the southernmost edge of the grounds. One stood tall and cylindrical, its golden roof tapering into a fine point like the tip of a calligraphy brush. To its left, a square tower with a sloping domed roof gleamed, its three stories of windows wrapping around like a lantern. At the center, an enormous, imposing structure rivaled the Astronomy Tower at Hogwarts, boasting five tiers of sweeping roofs above a grand, circular chamber. Two smaller towers flanked it, mirroring its shape but more modest in scale.

Draco exhaled slowly, drinking in the breathtaking sight. for all the castles and manors he had seen in his life, nothing quite compared to this.

They descended smoothly, passing floating paper lanterns drifting over the sprawling shore that gave way to a massive training ground where Draco spotted students practicing magical combat atop what looked like an ever-shifting Zen garden.

Somewhat off in the distance was the Quidditch pitch, built atop a cloud-woven platform, hovering high above the churning sea, the hoops being actively scored on as students zipped around the pitch running drills.

Two jade runways jutted out from the volcanic island, leading to a grand staircase carved directly into the rock. It wound its way up the cliffs in a zigzag pattern, an elegant yet daunting ascent. As Draco guided the carpet downward, he and Hermione stepped off onto the cool, polished stone, rolling up the carpet before heading toward the stairwell.

They deposited the carpet into a barrel alongside others and began the daunting climb. Each step was carved from the same pale jade as the school, smooth underfoot and almost eerily pristine. The stairs rose in impossibly steep sections, cascading upward in long, graceful stretches before abruptly switching direction, twisting in on themselves like winding dragon tails clinging to the cliffs.

Floating lanterns hovered alongside the stairwell, suspended without chains or hooks, glowing softly even in the daylight. Their paper casings were painted with constellations and swirling ocean waves, the ink shimmering faintly with enchantments.

At various landings, the staircase branched into narrow walkways, leading to tucked-away pavilions overlooking the vast expanse of sea. Students lingered there, their robes vivid splashes of color against the pale stone, billowing in the wind as they leaned against railings. Draco could feel their curious gazes tracking him and Hermione as they finally reached the school's front grounds—a sprawling courtyard paved in that same ethereal jade.

To one side, a winding pond shimmered in the afternoon light, koi fish with brilliant orange bellies gliding beneath its surface. A small waterfall trickled down a rocky ledge, feeding into the pond. A plume of smoke billowed out from a crack in the cliff overhead, gently rolling along the dips and craters of the volcanic island like incense. The courtyard’s entrance was marked by four broad steps leading up to a pair of towering double doors, their lacquered surface etched with swirling kanji that pulsed faintly with magic.

Beneath their feet, the jade slabs were inlaid with delicate, glowing runes—bioluminescent streaks of silver and blue that flared softly with each step they took, as though the stones themselves acknowledged their presence.

To the right, standing in regal solitude, was a massive cherry blossom tree, its sprawling canopy heavy with delicate pink blooms. It reminded Draco of the one in the Ministry’s atrium when they first arrived in Japan, petals drifting lazily in the salt-tinged breeze. Beneath its boughs sat a curved stone bench, worn smooth by time. On that bench sat two students, a boy and a girl. Likely sixth or seventh years, Draco presumed.

Upon noticing Hermione and then Draco drifting past them, the students stood, their posture respectful but charged with anticipation. Hermione stalled when she caught their attention, her brown gaze flicking to the swath of robes that was nearly entirely golden before settling on the small sliver of pink that spilled over their shoulders, blending into the gold thread like watercolor.

A flicker of recognition brightened Hermione’s face. Her expression softened into something warm and proud.

“Takahashi-san! Nakamura-san!” she exclaimed, stepping forward with open arms. “You’ve both grown so much since I last saw you! How are you, my little doves? And look at your robes—almost completely golden! I’m so very proud of you!”

The girl blushed, ducking her head before accepting Hermione tight hug. Her short, blunt bob shifted as she glanced at the ground, shifting from foot to foot. “Thank you, sensei. Professor Minamoto told us you would be spending a few days at Mahoutokoro, and we were so thrilled to hear of it. We begged and begged her to let us greet you, and when the arrival gong rang, we just knew it had to be you!”

The boy beside the young girl nudged his friend playfully, his rogue grin full of mischief. “Aika hasn’t stopped talking about seeing you again since the welcome ceremony. Professor Minamoto informed the entire school we would be hosting you and one of your colleagues.”

“She said if we weren’t on our best behavior, then she’d cancel Quidditch for the whole season!” Aika said, clasping her hands beneath her chin. “Sensei, could you even imagine Mahoutokoro without Quidditch?”

“Yes, darling, can you even imagine?” Draco drawled, fighting the grin rising when Hermione scowled at him.

“I’ll ensure Professor Minamoto doesn’t cancel Quidditch, Aika. Don’t you worry.”

Aika beamed, while the boy with dark eyes flicked his attention to Draco, appraising him with open curiosity before stepping forward. “Renjiro Takahashi, sir.” He bowed low before extending a hand, which Draco shook firmly.

“Auror Draco Malfoy, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Takahashi.”

“Likewise, sir. Granger-sensei helped Aika and me out of a rather unfortunate situation during our second year.”

Draco looked toward Hermione with dry amusement. “Did she now? She does have a bit of a nose for trouble.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “It was an academic mishap.”

“A tragic misunderstanding,” Renjiro corrected, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“We may have attempted to see a Tatsumaru Tideback up close,” Aika admitted in a near whisper.

Draco’s lips parted slightly. He turned slowly to Hermione. “You helped two second years sneak up on a dragon?”

“Oh, please, I helped them out of trouble, not into it,” Hermione huffed. “They were already caught when I intervened.”

“It was the most amazing thing, Mr. Malfoy. She leapt in front of the dragon, threw up the most impressive shield I’ve ever seen and then she climbed on its back and rode it!” Aika added, causing Draco to wince when her voice rose higher and higher as she regaled the tale.

Draco slowly swiveled his head back to Hermione, mouth agape, ready to catch wayward flies. “You rode a bloody dragon?”

Hermione had the audacity to blush as she whispered, “Twice.”

TWICE?!”

“The first time was when Harry, Ron and I—” Hermione hesitated, and then waved a hand with a tight smile. “A story for another time. Let’s head on in, shall we? I don’t want to keep the Headmistress waiting.”

 


 

Hermione’s steps echoed softly against the polished jade floors as she and Draco followed their young escorts through the grand halls of Mahoutokoro. Much like Hogwarts, Mahourtokoro practically vibrated from all the magic woven into its foundation.

Though the school wasn’t officially founded until 1342, students walked these halls nearly two hundred years before Hogwarts was even a whisper on the wind. The magic here felt ancient and undisturbed, and Hermione could hardly stifle her grin as she looked at Draco. He was trying his best to appear unaffected, but she saw the glimmer in his eyes as he took in the sights.

“Sort of makes you feel like a firstie, doesn’t it?” Hermione whispered, slipping her arm through the crook of his elbow.

“My Hogwarts pride is really taking a backseat right now,” Draco muttered as they passed towering screens of carved wood and painted silk. The images on them shifted subtly as they walked by, as if their very presence sent ripples through the paintings—like fingers skimming the surface of still water, distorting reflections with the lightest touch.

The screens depicting stories of magic, constellations, and legendary creatures that seemed to swim along the screens, trailing them. Floating lanterns, delicate and round, hovered just above eye level, casting a soft, golden glow along their path.

At each intersection, the architecture took a dramatic turn. Bridges of pale stone arched over koi-filled streams that ran beneath the walkways, and paper-paneled doors slid open and closed without a single touch. Some corridors branched into sweeping balconies, revealing breathtaking views of the cerulean sea far below. The wind carried the distant cries of sea birds, mingling with the low murmur of students moving through the halls. Many of them whispered to one another as they passed, hiding grins behind the long sleeves of their robes.

Aika and Renjiro led them toward an ascending spiral staircase, its jade steps appearing to float in midair, suspended without rails or visible support. Hermione hesitated for only a second before stepping onto the first stair. It held beneath her weight, pulsing with a faint, luminescent glow, and carried her gently upward without the need to climb. Draco exhaled sharply beside her, though he masked his surprise well.

The ascent was smooth but unnerving, the space between the stairs and the open-air leaving Hermione slightly breathless. They spiraled higher and higher, passing through levels of the castle where golden-robed students turned their heads curiously at the newcomers.

At last, they arrived at the set of grand double doors to the Headmistress’s office. They were a masterful display of craftsmanship, and Hermione took a deep breath as she looked up at the tall, lacquered panels. They were made of a deep mahogany, inlaid with veins of gold that shimmered like molten sunlight. At their center, a golden sigil of Mahoutokoro was carved in intricate relief, depicting a dragon coiled around a pearl, its eyes gleaming as though alive.

Aika and Renjiro stepped aside, bowing respectfully. “The Headmistress is expecting you, sensei,” Aika said warmly.

Hermione straightened, smoothing her robes before reaching for the door. With a whisper of magic, it parted soundlessly, revealing the breathtaking office beyond.

Hermione stepped inside; Draco close behind her.

The office was still just as breathtaking now as it had been when she first visited the school. Suspended high above the cliffs, its walls were formed of enchanted glass, offering an unbroken view of the endless cerulean sea and the swirling mist that coiled around the island’s volcanic peaks. Gilded beams arched overhead, supporting a ceiling painted in rich midnight hues, dusted with glowing constellations that slowly revolved like the sky itself had been captured within the room.

Scrolls and ancient tomes lined dark wooden shelves, some floating idly from place to place as if searching for their proper homes. A massive calligraphy desk sat at the center of the space, its surface covered in neatly arranged parchment, inkstones, and enchanted quills that twitched as though eager to write. Delicate wind chimes, crafted from enchanted jade and pearl, hung in the corners of the room, their soft, melodic tinkling a constant backdrop to the hush of the space.

And behind the desk, waiting for them with an air of composed authority, was Headmistress Minamoto.

The Headmistress rose from her seat and glided around her desk, her golden robes billowing around her like a warm breeze. Her hands were tucked inside wide, flowing golden sleeves, and as she approached, the faintest hints of age were visible in the deep grooves around her eyes and mouth.

“Ah, Miss Hermione Granger,” Minamoto said softly, her voice tinkling like a soft chime, still as welcoming as Hermione remembered. “My, my. You have blossomed beautifully in the years we’ve been apart.” She reached forward, her hands outstretched, a wide, genuine smile lighting up her face. “Come here. Let me have a proper look at you.”

Hermione grinned, her heart swelling with affection at the sight of the woman who had helped her so much during her time at Mahoutokoro. She stepped forward, clasping Minamoto’s hands with an eager smile. “Professor, it’s so wonderful to see you again. Thank you for hosting us. You’ve no idea how much we appreciate it.”

She turned back, glancing at Draco who stood a bit farther off, eyes flicking around the office with careful appraisal. He had the posture of someone who was, Hermione thought wryly, trying very hard not to look out of place.

“This is Auror Draco Malfoy,” Hermione added, offering the introduction with a slight but knowing look.

Draco’s smile was polite, but there was a nervous edge to it. He stepped forward, his hand extended. “Headmistress Minamoto, I’ve heard only the best things about you. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Mahoutokoro is enchanting.”

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Malfoy. I’m sure Hermione will be more than willing to give you a tour if you have the time to spare. She is just about as knowledgeable on Mahoutokoro as I am.” Minamoto winked as she grasped Draco’s hand with both of hers, shaking it warmly and with more enthusiasm than one might expect from a woman so composed. She looked between Hermione and Draco, her light brown eyes gleaming with an amused glint. “You didn’t tell me how handsome he was in your letters. Well done, Mimiko.” she remarked, her voice lilting in a way that made it clear she was well aware of the nature of their relationship.

Heat crawled up Hermione’s neck, but she managed to answer with a chuckle, “Yes, well, it wasn’t exactly pertinent information…”

Minamoto released Draco’s hand with a final squeeze and waved her hand dismissively at the space before her desk. Almost instantly, roots began to unfurl from the stone beneath them, twisting and growing in intricate patterns, forming two chairs that seemed to bloom from the earth itself.

Minamoto practically floated back to her own seat, the delicate patter of her slippers echoing briefly before she sank into the plush cushions with a satisfied sigh. “Ah, wonderful,” she murmured, closing her eyes for a moment before turning to them with a renewed twinkle in her gaze. “You’ll forgive me, I’m afraid my age shows whenever I find a comfortable place to sit.” She gestured to the newly formed seats. “Please, sit. I believe we have much to discuss.”

Hermione’s eyes widened slightly in surprise as she lowered herself into the chair, jolting when the wood seemed to mold itself to the contours of her body. She turned her attention back to Minamoto. “New trick, Professor?”

Minamoto chuckled, her eyes crinkling with mirth. “An old woman like me must find any excuse to still be of use.”

Draco, who had set down the duffle bag containing the crate of artifacts between them, crossed one ankle over the other, settling into his seat with practiced ease. He folded his hands in his lap, eyes flicking between Hermione and Minamoto as he waited patiently for the conversation to begin. Though his body was relaxed, there was an unmistakable tension in the way he held himself.

When Hermione didn’t immediately speak, he subtly tilted his chin in Minamoto’s direction, prompting her to take charge.

Hermione gave a soft nod, realizing it was time to finally dive into the heart of their mission. She unclasped the leather strap of her bag and lifted it into her lap, rifling through its contents to retrieve several carefully organized stacks of parchment—case notes, detailed research, magical theories, and potential implications of the artifacts they had been tracking. She handed the neatly organized stack to Minamoto with a serious look.

“I know I touched briefly on the nature of our visit in my letter, but perhaps it’s best I start from the beginning,” Hermione said, trying to stifle the slight edge of urgency that slipped through her tone.

Minamoto took the papers with a swift motion and conjured a delicate pair of reading glasses. She began flipping through the pages with practiced ease, her brows rising as she read. She let out a soft hum as she examined the information. “Ah, yes. The artifacts,” she mused, her eyes scanning over the notes on yokai, the rituals involved, and the sinister magic that seemed to bind everything together. “You’ve done well, Mimiko. I’m not even sure I could manage such a feat.” She paused, her expression turning more thoughtful as she ran her finger over the parchment she was reading. “Learning they are tied to the lunar cycle, how clever you are, Mr. Malfoy. Four sealed so far, and oh, four remain unbound. Interesting…”

Hermione leaned forward slightly; her own gaze fixed on Minamoto. “Professor, we found Tetsuya Shrine.”

Minamoto slowly looked up from her reading. “Have you?”

“Yes,” Hermione fiddled with the strap of her bag. “It’s a bit of a mad tale but—well, we went to the in between and met with the Guardian.”

Minamoto set the parchment stack down on her desk and leaned back in her seat, taking the time to look between Hermione and Draco. “This is quite the adventure you’ve gotten yourself into, Mimiko.”

“He’s from the Nihongi, Professor. Shōkaku Tenkai, the story of the Buddhist monk of the Shingon school who traversed realms and ascended to the heavens.”

Minamoto grinned, a breathtaking sight that lit up her entire face. She clapped once and rose from her seat with more agility than Hermione thought the witch capable of. “You must begin your research at once, then. The heavens have seen to it to guide you, and I will not stand in the way with my curiosities.” Minamoto quickly rounded her desk and waved a hand to gesture them to follow her as she bustled toward one of the windows. She waved her hand, and a screen appeared, sliding open as she approached. “Tell me which tomes you seek, and I will see to it you have all you need.”

 

----

 

Day Ninety-Nine: Tuesday, 14th of September 2009

Malfoy’s Twenty-Seventh Rule for Managing Mystical Trouble:

Sleep Is Not Optional

Do not let your partner allude that sleep is optional. It is not.

The body cannot function on sheer adrenaline and the occasional cup of coffee—no matter how many “urgent” situations arise.

(Granger’s Note: We were on a timeline, Draco. I told you then the same thing I shall tell you now: I'll sleep when I'm dead.)

(Malfoy’s Note: No, then you’ll just be dead. We’ve been over this before, darling.)

 

----

 

Draco collapsed face-first into the too-small mattress, groaning into the coverlet. His feet dangled off the edge of the bed, toes nearly touching the floor.

It was a pathetic sight, really, but he had been awake for an excruciating twenty-four hours now. How could one not act pathetic when they felt tired to their bones? He wasn’t sure how Hermione was still functional. Not that he was envious, but it made a man wonder if she’d been sneaking some sort of elixir of wakefulness to keep her going.

The only reason they had retired to the quarters Minamoto had provided was because Draco had hauled Hermione over his shoulder, ignoring her protests, and forced them to leave the Library. No matter how much she’d been determined to keep going, the moment dawn began to creep through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Draco had decided he was done.

The bed dipped by his knee, and Hermione let out a long-winded sigh. “I really wish you would have just let me stay behind.”

Draco grumbled incoherently into the mattress, kicking his legs with dramatic flourish as if to emphasize that, no, there was no arguing with him about this.

His body was betraying him, and he was well past the point of rational thought. He couldn’t even remember why he’d been so insistent about not letting her stay. He’d meant to argue, to make her understand, but all his energy had seeped out of him like the sand in an hourglass, and now the only thing left was to sink into this godforsaken mattress.

Hermione snorted, clearly unfazed by his display, and gave him a pat on the shoulder, the only consolation being that she hadn’t outright smacked him for being an idiot.

“You should get undressed if you’re planning to sleep.”

He turned his head slightly, cracking one weary eye open. “You first.”

She rolled her eyes with practiced ease. “You can be such a dog, you know that, right?”

Draco wet his lips, dragging himself out of his foggy stupor just long enough to give her a wicked grin. “Woof.”

A short laugh escaped her before she shook her head in amused exasperation. Draco didn’t blame her; at this point, he was a walking, talking disaster of a man. Still, there was something reassuring about having her nearby, even if they were both running on empty.

He dragged himself up slightly, shifting just enough to at least make himself comfortable without falling off the bed entirely. His limbs felt like they belonged to someone else, heavy and aching, but the promise of rest was too tempting to resist.

“Why are you so far?” Draco murmured, fingertips brushing the sleeve of her robes. Hermione looked down at him from where she still perched, face drawn in deep thought. “Come here.”

She smiled faintly and ran her hand through his hair. “I’m really not tired.”

He narrowed his eyes, tracking the dark circles beneath her eyes. “Liar.”

She sighed, waving a dismissive hand before standing. “We don’t have that much time here. We’re supposed to leave tomorrow morning to catch the last ferry back to Tokyo. I really should get back—”

Draco had managed to roll himself off the bed with much more stealth than he thought himself capable at this point, lurching forward to snag Hermione around the waist, barring her from leaving.

He pulled her tight to his chest and buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply. “No,” he mumbled, drawing her back to the bed.

She had hardly even resisted, so Draco thought himself triumphant... until he collapsed back onto the bed and she managed to wiggle out of his grasp.

She stood over him, hands on her hips. Hermione let out a long breath, shaking her head at him. “You’re borderline delirious, aren’t you?”

Draco scowled into the mattress. “You know I require at minimum nine hours of sleep every night—which I have barely scratched in months no thanks to you taking up permanent residence in my life.”

She quirked a brow.

“How about a compromise.”

“How does one suggest a compromise in place of sleep?”

“We take a bath, and if you’re still not tired after—you can go back to the Library.”

“How generous you are.” Hermione deadpanned. “Are you telling me I smell?”

Draco eyed her rumpled robes, the ink stains on her fingers, and then gave a pointed glare at her riotous hair. “I say this with as much respect and adoration one man can have for the witch of his affections, but, yes, darling. We both are in serious need of a bath.” He pointed to his hair. He didn’t need a mirror to know it looked a mess. “Twenty-four-hours awake, but nearly forty-eight without bathing. And before you say anything, the ferry washroom doesn’t count. The water pressure was pathetic, and that shower was not only seriously outdated, but it was clearly built for a toddler.”

She rolled her eyes but didn't argue. Instead, her gaze flickered toward the small adjoining washroom. “I suppose you are right.”

“I always am,” Draco drawled, propping his head up with his palm.

“You're filthy,” she noted, crossing her arms.

Draco hummed, too exhausted to be properly insulted. “Mmm. Bit of a turn-on, isn't it?”

Hermione scoffed. “I’m ignoring that.”

“Please don’t.”

“I was going to suggest we wash up before bed anyways—”

That got his attention. He cracked one eye open again. “We?”

“Don’t be daft.” She turned toward the washroom. “I meant separately, obviously.”

Draco pouted and all but slid to the floor from the bed. He sat against the footboard and stared up at Hermione with wide, beseeching eyes. “Not separately.”

She walked backwards, pulling the sash loose. “If you don't get up now, I doubt you'll have the energy to drag yourself in later.”

He stretched out an arm toward her dramatically. “Carry me, darling.”

“Your legs still work.” She said in a sing-song voice as she crossed the threshold of the washroom. Draco stared at the open doorway, fully prepared to pout until he passed out—until the thick silk of her robes hit him smack dab in the face.

He had never moved faster in his life, scrambling off the ground, hip knocking onto the bedside table as he shot across the chamber towards the washroom. He skidded around the corner, hand curled around the lip of the door frame to slow him. The smarting pain of his hip barely bothered him when he found Hermione sitting in the large square tub, knees pulled to her chest, obscuring the faint purple of her curse scar. Water pooled out from several taps, the scent of jasmine and white tea permeating the room.

Draco blinked, momentarily stunned by the sight of her.

(He really did love when one of his randy fantasies came to fruition. It was like a certified boon from the gods—God? Singular? Plural—never mind.)

Desire thrummed through him, a rapt sense of urgency growing ravenous inside him, counteracting his sleepiness. Hermione slipped lower into the warm water, her bare shoulders glistening with condensation, hair pinned up haphazardly with a few loose strands curling at the nape of her neck. A cheeky little smirk flit across her mouth. “That was quick.”

The steam softened the edges of the room, turning it into something hazy, dreamlike.

He scrubbed his eyes, blinking several times. “Am I dreaming?”

Hermione snorted and sent a wave of water his way with a flick of her wrist. He hissed, glowering at his now damp trousers, and then patted them with much less bluster than he intended. “First, you nearly knock me unconscious with your robes.” He flung the offending garment onto a nearby hook for dramatic effect, shaking his head. “Now you get me wet?” He waggled his finger at her. “These are blatant acts of aggression, darling.”

Hermione smirked, stretching her legs out beneath the water. The top swells of her breasts grew visible for only a moment before she sunk deeper into the sudsy water. He pouted.

“You seem unscathed.”

“There will be consequences,” he warned.

She closed her eyes and lifted a delicate foot out of the water. She wriggled it to the other side of the tub. “I’m sure there will be, but until then, there’s plenty of room.” She paused, cracking one eye open and then smiled. “Unless, of course, you’d rather sulk and stink up the bed.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Is that an invitation?”

“Take it however you want.” She rested her head on the tub wall, arching her back. Bubbles covered the soft mounds of her breasts, which promptly landed bubbles and suds and other archetypes of such soapy things as public enemy number one in Draco’s mind.

“I feel rather unwanted when you put it that way.”

Hermione sighed, but it was a playful, drawn-out kind of breath—the exact same one that had gotten Draco into this adventurous mess with her in the first place.

(He was hesitant to admit that the crazed look in her eyes as she crouched and scurried around her pathetically tiny cubicle whilst trying to open the crate all those months ago also had done him in, but it had. It really had.)

“I doubt you’ll find another opportunity for a hot soak anytime soon. I’ve probably used all the hot water.”

It wasn’t even a choice at that point. It’s not like he was going to actually turn down an opportunity to get into the tub with Hermione, especially when she was naked and covered in bubbles—right. He was still standing and leering at her like a wanker.

With a huff, Draco yanked off his outer robes, then his shirt, keenly aware of the way Hermione opened her eyes when she heard his belt buckle clink as he unfasted it. She dragged her attention over the expanse of his bare chest before she quickly looked away, a blush staining her cheeks.

They had yet to repeat any sexcapades since he’d thoroughly fucked her with his hand in the alley of the Hōjō tsūro, which made Draco rather keen on rectifying that. He needed to be inside her as soon as possible—sleep be damned. Smirking to himself, he rid himself of his trousers and pants. When he stepped in to the tub, he sunk into the water with a groan.

The heat seeped into his muscles and the crevices of his tired brain. Draco rested his head on the lip of the tub and hummed contentedly, nearly floating. He vaguely recalled he had just been thinking of sex, but the warm water had all sense of self dissolving. Physically or spiritually, he wasn’t really sure. The concept of recognizing his body was practically nonexistent in this state.

Draco focused on the gentle drip of water, feeling his lids grow heavy. He reached a blind hand out in an attempt to secure some body part of Hermione’s, but his fingers only slipped through water.

She nudged his calf under the water with her toes. “You’re not going to fall asleep in here, are you?”

Draco grunted when she prodded his calf again. Snapping his eyes open, he snatched her retreating foot, wrapped his fingers deftly around the delicate bones of her ankle. He held her gaze as he said, “I can think about ten other things I would rather do in lieu of sleep.”

Hermione stilled, her lips parting slightly as her gaze flickered down to where his fingers now wrapped around her ankle beneath the surface. The steam curled between them, thick and heady, perfumed with the scent of jasmine and white tea. The warmth of the water lapped at his skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat flickering in her hooded gaze.

Slowly, deliberately, Draco traced his thumb along the curve of her ankle, feeling the soft skin beneath his touch. Her pulse fluttered there, just beneath his fingertips, and he swore he could feel the moment her breath hitched, too.

“And what, exactly, do those ten things entail?” Hermione asked, her voice carrying that careful, almost-too-steady tone she always used when she was trying desperately not to give away her interest.

Draco smirked, tilting his head slightly, eyes still half-lidded with fatigue but predatorily sharp at the same time. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

She huffed, but the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her. “I would, actually.”

Draco gave her ankle a light squeeze before releasing it. The water sloshed slightly as she withdrew her foot, tucking it beneath her once more, though not as hurriedly as he expected. Draco rolled himself off the tub wall and pulled himself closer to where Hermione sat in the middle of the bath, knees once more pressed tight to her chest, cheeks pink, skin dewy from the hot water. He kept his eyes locked with hers as he inched closer, the tension coiling between them like the steam swirling in the air. The only sound was the gentle lapping of the water against the tile walls and the rhythmic rise and fall of their breaths.

Draco dipped his hands into the water, inches from her skin beneath the surface. He was aching to touch her, fingers flexing beneath the water, hovering just shy of her shin, the space between them dwindling with every slow beat of his pulse. He could feel the warmth radiating off her, see the way the fine hairs at the nape of her neck clung to damp skin.

She didn’t move away.

Her gaze flickered downward for the briefest moment, watching the way his hands skimmed through the water, the way his knuckles brushed against her thigh without quite touching. Draco wondered if this was as maddening for her as it was for him. He saw the need in her long looks, in the lingering touches and the many kisses she accepted that went far beyond his daily allowance.

But he was persistent if not dedicated to his craft, and so he followed her lead in this dance of restraint. He had followed the pull to her across countries, through stolen moments and whispered arguments—he would prove to her that he was serious about how he felt for her, sleep depraved or otherwise. His words hadn’t been empty. He’d meant that he’d wait... but that didn’t mean either of them had to starve in the process.

Draco’s voice was quiet when he finally spoke, rough around the edges. “I want to touch you.”

Hermione swallowed.

His lips curved at her silence, slow and deliberate, a wicked glint in his tired eyes. “Do you want me to touch you, Hermione?”

Her arms shifted from around her legs, rising to the edge of the tub where her fingers curled slightly against the curved tiles. Then she slowly dropped her legs down and spread them. Draco groaned, watching the soapy water swirl until it cleared, exposing her full breasts, the soft, blush-pink peaks of her nipples, the taut, tan expanse of her stomach. He zeroed in on the space between her parted thighs.

She let out a slow breath. “I’ve missed you,” Draco looked up, catching the way she tilted her chin just so, defiant even now.

Her eyes were two dark pools of desire as she whispered, “Please touch me.”

Draco’s restraint snapped like a thread pulled too tight.

He surged forward, palms splaying around her waist beneath the water, fingers racing upwards, tracing the droplets clinging to her breasts just barely above the surface. Hermione moaned, arching into his touch, fully lifting her beautiful chest out of the water for him to worship.

He dropped his head down and took one pert nipple between his lips, tongue circling, teeth just barely scraping the delicate flesh. He volleyed between sucking and licking, his hand squeezing her other breast, pinching until her nipple was stiff between his fingertips. He tugged when his teeth scraped the other, causing Hermione to inhale sharply. Draco paused, but she arched higher, shoving his face against her breasts.

“So responsive, my darling,” he murmured at the tail end of a husky laugh. He circled her nipple with his tongue, pulling back far enough to blow cool air over her wet flesh. Hermione moaned, a deep, low-bellied sound that had his cock twitching.

Encouraged, Draco slid his hand lower. He ran his palm over the flat expanse of her stomach, following the curve of her waist, his touch slow, careful, giving her every chance to stop him.

She didn’t.

Draco lifted his head away from her breast, dropping his forehead against her own. She panted as he explored, her hands latched onto his shoulders in a vice grip. Draco was close enough to see the fine sheen of water beading along her collarbone, the pulse at the base of her throat hammering beneath her skin. He couldn’t resist the temptation to mark her.

He nipped at her pulse point, his teeth pulling the delicate skin tight between his teeth before lapping the bite with his tongue to soothe the sting. He licked up the side of her throat, tasting the water beaded along her jaw, biting the soft skin of her cheek. He met her gaze just as he brushed his lips against hers. His voice was barely more than a murmur when he spoke again.

“Do you want my fingers or my mouth?”

Hermione’s lips parted, her eyes dark and unreadable in the dim glow of the lanterns. But no words came.

Instead, she moved one hand from his shoulders, trailing up, up—until her fingers settled lightly at the base of his throat, her thumb pressing against his pulse.

Draco’s breath stilled.

“Neither.”

“Fucking hell, Granger.” Draco snarled, feeling all the blood in his body rush to his cock, leaving him aching and painfully hard. “Are you trying to kill me?”

Her grip tightened briefly, and Draco realized very quickly that he quite enjoyed whatever was happening right now. (He’d never been one for the submissive role, but Salazar.)

“Your heart is beating very fast,” she whispered, a cheeky grin spreading.

Draco wrapped an arm around her waist, tugging her closer. Their chests were flush now, Hermione’s fingers still splayed possessively around his throat. “Might leap from my chest if you’re not careful.”

“Sounds painful.” She bit her lip to stifle her smile, slipping her hold from his throat to trail down the slick contours of his chest, over his stomach muscles, nails biting into the divot between his hip bones. She swiped her fingers beneath his balls and just barely grazed his aching length, chuckling as Draco cursed, hips rutting forward at her featherlight touch.

His breath stuttered, heat curling low in his stomach as Hermione’s fingers ghosted over his waist, leaving a trail of fire in their wake on her ascent back to his throat. She fanned her fingers over his throat again and squeezed hard enough he felt the pressure deep in the muscles of his neck. The water sloshed softly around them as he shifted, hips straining forward in search of friction.

She was teasing him—he could see it in the glint of her eyes, the way she pressed her lips together to suppress the smug little smile threatening to break free. It made something dark and dangerous unfurl inside him, something possessive.

His grip on her waist tightened, fingers pressing into the soft curve of her back as he dragged her even closer, until there was nothing between them but heat and want.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, darling,” he murmured.

Hermione hummed, tilting her head slightly, her damp curls sticking to her flushed skin. “Am I?”

Draco smirked, tilting his chin down, his mouth just a breath from hers. Her grip on his throat tightened, and he could feel the faint tremor in her fingers of her other hand as they slid further down, dragging over his hip. She cupped his balls, humming in delight when he bucked against her hold. She squeezed, sending a sharp jolt of awareness straight through him.

His pulse roared in his ears.

“Very dangerous,” he murmured.

She exhaled softly, her lips just brushing his as she whispered, “I think you like it.”

She squeezed his throat again and Draco let out a breathless chuckle, his grip shifting, thumb tracing slow circles along the dip of her spine. “It’s new territory.”

Hermione leaned in, brushing her lips along the edge of his jaw, slow and deliberate, teasing him with just enough pressure to make his breath hitch. His fingers flexed against her skin, the heat between them coiling tighter, charged and unrelenting.

“You might be too tired for what I want.” Hermione whispered just before she sucked on the skin at the base of his throat, teeth grazing over his collarbone as she shuffled to her knees beneath him, pushing him back, forcing him to sit against the wall of the tub.

“I sincerely doubt that.”

She practically purred her response. “I’ve been thinking about doing this—” Hermione gripped the base of his cock, pulled it upright and then she twisted and stroked him at the same time. Draco may have whimpered. “—for days.”

Draco made to reach for her, but she smiled softly—demurely, as if she were some innocent woman who wasn’t planning on ruining him with her wiles and pushed his hands away from her body. She very much was planning his demise, that much was obvious.

He could see the methodical planning in the glint in her eyes.

“You can’t touch,” she whispered, pushing his hands to the lip of the tub.

Draco wrapped his arms around the edge of the tub and watched as Hermione crawled on top of him, straddling his hips. She hovered out of reach, still gripping him at the base. She dropped down, close enough to brush the head through her folds. Once, twice—Draco groaned, fingers tight on the tiles as he held himself back from grabbing her hips and thrusting to the hilt at the next pass over her center.

“Wicked woman,” he grunted, hips jerking upwards, the head of his cock just barely slipping through her cunt.

Hermione moaned, cupping her breasts with her hands. She squeezed them, pinching her nipples, rolling them between her fingers. She rolled her hips, sliding up and down his length, water sloshing around her hips, over the edge of the tub. Draco silently cursed, fingertips digging into the tiles hard enough he swore he heard a fissure crack beneath his hold.

“I’m sorry, darling—I know you told me no touching, but I’m a rather possessive sort of man and I really must insist on touching you now.”

Draco grabbed her hips and surged upwards, pulling her out of the water long enough to turn her around. He caged her against the cool, tiled wall of the tub, water sloshing violently around them. Hermione gasped, her hands flying up to brace herself, palms splayed against the wet surface as Draco pressed in behind her, his chest flush against her back, his cock nestled between her spread legs. He could feel the rapid rise and fall of her breath, the way her body tensed beneath his touch, caught between anticipation and desire.

His hands slid slowly down the curve of her waist, fingers dipping beneath the water, tracing idle patterns over her slick skin. He felt her shudder, her nails scraping against the tile as she tilted her head slightly, giving him a glimpse of her profile through the swirling steam. He dropped his mouth to the juncture between her shoulder and neck, lips folding over her damp skin. His fingers skipped over her hips and one hand dove between her legs, cupping her cunt.

He groaned, finding her wet not just from the bath, but from her arousal. He rocked his hips, rubbing his cock against her thigh, swollen head pressing between his fingers where they slipped between her slick folds.

“More,” she rasped, pressing her arse against him, keening when his cock slipped against her entrance. She reached up and wrapped her arm around his neck, nails biting the skin at his nape. “Please, please—”

If he were feeling particularly devious, he might have dragged out her pleading—but he couldn’t fathom waiting a fucking second longer.

Draco slipped one finger inside her, finding her soaked and tight around his middle finger. He pumped once, twice, and Hermione shook her head, muttering incoherently in what sounded like protest.

“Say that again,” he whispered, pressing quick kisses to her throat.

“Please, Draco. I need more.”

“What more could you want, darling?” Draco wrapped his free hand around her jaw and pulled her mouth to his, kissing her roughly. He pumped his finger again, slower this time. She cried against his lips, whimpering.

(Okay, so he was feeling a little devious.)

“I need—ah,”

Draco rubbed the heel of his palm against her clit. Hermione jerked back against him, grinding her arse hard against his hips, forcing his cock to bunt against his hand.

“You were saying?”

She let out a frustrated whine, nails digging into his skin hard enough to leave crescent shaped divots at the base of his skull. “Don’t make me say it.”

Draco tutted, easing the pressure. “But I want to hear you say it.”

“It’s rude to make a woman beg,” she rasped, covering his hand with her own and forcing him to finger her deeper.

“I can assure you I am very unconcerned about what’s considered couth at the moment, darling.” Draco fingered her hard, water sloshing against her thighs as he rutted his hips, canting them to the rhythm of his fingers. “Besides, I rather like the sound of you begging for my cock.”

Hermione moaned loud enough Draco’s head spun and then she spoke the filthiest words—words he’d only ever dreamed of hearing come from her lips.

“Draco, please, please, please—your fingers aren’t enough right now—I need you.” She panted, hips swiveling as she chased his thrusting fingers. “Inside me, right now.”

“That wasn’t so hard, now was it?” Draco purred as he pulled his fingers free from her cunt to take hold of his cock, guiding his head to her entrance. “Such a good girl for me,” Hermione whimpered, shifting back as if she could hardly stand waiting another second without having him inside her. “So wet, so tight.”

“My god, your mouth is filthy,” she rasped, straining up to catch his lips. Draco held her jaw tighter and kissed her, nipping at her bottom lip before letting her coax his tongue into her mouth. He rubbed the tip of his cock through her folds, up and down, down and up. Hermione kissed him harder, slanting her mouth open wider as he pushed her labia apart, the swollen head of his cock swirling over her clit before sweeping back down to her entrance. She tasted of tea and the cinnamon biscuits they’d eaten before coming to their chambers, and as she nipped his top lip with her teeth, Draco pressed the tip of his cock inside of her, just barely stretching her open.

Hermione moaned, mouth falling away from his as he slid another inch further inside. “Oh, Christ—fuck-ingfuck—please, please, more—”

Draco pushed further inside, feeling her heat encapsulate him as he took her fully, seating himself to the hilt. He groaned, releasing his hold on her jaw to drop his forehead to her shoulder as he remained still for a moment, relishing the tight hold.

“You feel like a dream,” he muttered as he began to withdraw. “Like a glove. Fuck, you’re so wet.” He snapped his hips forward in one swift, punishing motion. Hermione cried out, hands slapping down on the tiles as he pulled back and thrust forward again, hips smacking against her arse.

“Faster, please, oh, God.”

Draco could have wept from how beautiful the sight of her arse was, transfixed as he was while watching it jiggle with every thrust of his hips. “So good, Hermione. You feel so good. Perfect. You’re perfect for me.” He wrapped one arm around her chest, and then slipped his other hand between her legs, finding the hood of her clit. “So beautiful. You look so beautiful when you take my cock.” He circled her clit as he snapped his hips over and over, feeling her walls flutter faster with every pounding thrust. Hermione moaned, head bowing between her elbows as Draco sped up, fucking her hard and fast. Hermione panted in earnest now, walls clenching around his cock, the heat of her core near sweltering. Sweat dripped between her shoulder blades and down her spine. Draco lapped at the beads of salty water, grunting as he continued to pound into her. “Already so close, my darling?”

Yes,” Hermione cried out, “Close. Nearly there. Dra-co, oh—”

Draco couldn’t think beyond the singular base urge tunneling through his mind to fuck her senseless. He wasn’t even sure how his mouth was moving considering there was certainly no neurons firing in his brain aside from the ones connected to the nerve endings in his cock. But obviously, move his mouth did. Things like, such a good girl you are, I love watching you take all of me, and you’re so tight, darling, can you hear how wet you get for me?

There was no such thing as a filter at this point, so his filthy words continued to flourish as he fucked her, and Draco was pleased to note they had their intended effect. Hermione was a writhing, responsive puddle of need against him, whimpering and grunting soft, sexy sounds, begging for his cock, telling him she was, “Close, so close, please, Draco, I need to come—tell me to, please—”

Her breath quickened, a staccato beat as her walls clenched around him.

“Come for me, Hermione.” Hermione cried out, fist pounding on the tiles as Draco pressed his fingers down on her clit, sending her tumbling over the edge. “That’s my girl, that's my darling,” he choked out, unable to hold himself back. His hips jerked, rhythm stuttering as he thrust once, twice—then he chased her orgasm with his own, spilling inside her with a loud groan, forehead dropping to rest at the nape of her neck.

Hermione panted beneath him, fully slumped against the tub, cheek pressing into the expanse of tile. Draco wrapped both arms around her waist and buried his face into her sweat slick neck, trying his best to ease his racing heart back into a somewhat normal rate. Neither moved for several minutes, and finally Hermione broke the silence by saying, “I don’t think I’m going back to the library until after we’ve had a kip.”

Draco laughed hard enough his entire body shook, dragging Hermione back to sit on his lap in the lukewarm water after he slipped out of her, his cock now as soft and limp as his brain.

“Wash. Bed.” He muttered, eyes falling shut. “Sex.”

“Wrong sequence of events, my love.” Hermione whispered, laughing softly as she lifted a soapy sponge to Draco’s chest.

He cracked an eye open and managed to smirk. “That’s what you think. I have it in me for another round if you do.”

(He did not, in fact, have it in him for another round, because Draco passed out as soon as they slipped beneath the covers—well before Hermione could even so much as mutter Nox to turn out the lights.) 

 

----

 

Day One-Hundred-Two: Friday, 17th of September 2009

Malfoy’s Twenty-Eighth Rule for Handling Supernatural Mischief:

Time is of The Essence

While researching, never, under any circumstances, let your partner near an ancient library without a time limit.

Unless that partner is Hermione Granger.

If that’s the case, then be prepared to wait—you will be there until civilization collapses.

(Granger’s Note: Proper research requires thorough investigation, cross-referencing, and meticulous documentation. If you lack the patience for intellectual pursuits, that is entirely your own failing. Also, civilization will be just fine—your attention span, however, is clearly in grave peril.)

----

It was clear by the following morning that they would not be leaving by their original set date of departure. The hours long sexcapades that happened after their first night (morning?) in Mahoutokoro may or may not have been cause of this decision, but as soon as they had gotten out of bed after that near sleepless day (night? It was all very blurry. Too many mind-shattering orgasms will do that to ones memory), Draco had sent off an owl to the team detailing they decided to extend their trip to focus on further research.

Mainly of bodies—spiritual and physical. Obviously, Draco knew they couldn’t spend all their time at Mahoutokoro having multitudes of orgasms. (Dreadful way of thinking, really.) They were, after all, professional professionals who could manage to maintain a somewhat healthy distance from one another when actual work needed to take place. And also, there was a time and place to fuck Hermione’s brains out and he realized a sexual jaunt at a magical school wasn’t exactly the best time, no matter how much he enjoyed the idea of sneaking away to the pitch and fucking her in the grass to fulfill more of his school fantasies. So that was how he had landed in this new sort of purgatory—sexless purgatory, which somehow was worse than his previous sexless silent purgatory because back then he hadn’t known how good sex was going to be with Hermione, and now that he did, it made going without it so much harder. It was like a tiny death for his cock.

Hermione had entered what Draco referred to as her N.E.W.T state of being, which left him woeful and whiny.

His darling witch better resembled the creature she had become in their eighth year while studying for their end of school exams. Of course, Draco had noticed her then. How could he not? She was like a wild, beautiful hurricane as she flapped about the Hogwarts Library, lecturing her fellow students and friends, arranging study sessions with the backbone of a war general (which, he supposed she sort of was one if he were to be technical about her position within the now disbanded Order).

Hermione’s hair had descended into a perfectly adorable perpetual state of frizzy disarray, and every so often he would force her to still long enough for him to wipe the ink stains from her cheeks, only for them to return in seconds considering all ten of her fingers were black from her vigorous scribbling. She muttered to herself as she shuffled between three tables full of open books, parchment floating over each with the notes she’d taken thus far from their contents.

At one point, he asked if she thought she was going to fail her N.E.W.T’s, and she snapped at him that she couldn’t possibly fail what she’d already accomplished. Point taken, Draco did his due diligence and let her brilliance become her being, seeing as how he was rather useless considering he could hardly read half of the books she had sprawled out before them.

Draco, not one to enjoy feeling useless, decided it was time to try his hand at a translation charm. As soon as his wand was raised, Hermione shot a stinging jinx at his wrist, hissing, “Are you mad? That’s the Kodai Mahō no Hon! It’s two thousand years old, Draco!”

“Darling, that hurt,” he pouted, rubbing his wrist.

“You’ll live,” she snapped, moving to gently straighten the book’s edges. Her fingers were delicate, tracing the paper with a tenderness that made Draco’s breath catch. “This book won’t.”

“I was just going to use a translation charm,” Draco muttered, not backing down.

“I can read it.” Hermione glanced up, her tone cool.

Draco exhaled, leaning back. “Yes, but you’ve only slept for about ten hours in the past four days.” (He may or may not have let out a little heh heh, wink wink at the end of that sentence.) “Let me help, Hermione.”

Hermione sighed, conceding with a reluctant nod. She shuffled closer, slipping between his legs. She placed her hands behind his neck, letting them linger as Draco sighed in contentment, feeling her fingers slip into his hair. He almost purred.

“But you’ve become so adept at being my errand boy,” she soft teasingly. “Fetching me tea, rubbing my shoulders…”

Draco’s hands slid around her waist as he tugged her closer, so she was nearly straddling him. He leaned his head back slightly, breathing in the scent of her shampoo—that familiar, comforting scent of strawberries that made his pulse quicken. The small screened-in room Minamoto had conjured for them in the back of the library suddenly felt like a sanctuary where Draco could touch her freely, without the eyes of curious students around.

“I could give you massage,” he whispered, his voice dropping.

Hermione raised an eyebrow, the playful glint in her eyes making Draco smirk. “You want something.”

“A small something,” Draco replied, nodding dramatically. “Just one something.”

Heat bloomed on Hermione’s cheeks as she looked at him, her voice low and teasing. “Draco, we’re in the Library.”

“No one can see us,” Draco said, leaning in ever so slightly.

She glanced around the room, her eyes narrowing at the shadows of students passing by. “They can see plenty.”

Draco’s pout deepened, his lower lip jutting out. “One kiss. You’ve deprived me of affection all day.”

“You’re a needy thing,” Hermione tutted, leaning in close enough that Draco could feel her breath against his lips. Her teasing smirk made his heart race.

“Darling,” he whispered, his lips brushing the corner of hers, just barely out of reach, “How could I not be? I’m weak to your wiles.”

“My wiles?”

“Yes, they have me out of sorts,” Draco murmured, his voice soft and filled with an intense longing. He leaned closer, brushing his lips gently against her skin. “You know, I’ve thought of a similar situation as this many times over the years.”

“Have you now?”

“Mmhm,” Draco replied, pressing his lips to her throat. “I always wondered what you might do if I found you alone in the Library at Hogwarts.”

“I probably would have hexed you,” she whispered, wriggling in his lap when he lapped at her pulse point.

“I wouldn’t have minded,” Draco whispered, his hot breath skirting over the wet patch of skin on her throat. He hummed delightfully when she gasped. “Not if it meant I got to press you against the shelves and kiss you after. Would you have let me?”

“Probably not.”

Draco laughed, “A bit of cat and mouse, then.”

“I fear it would have been a bit more violent.”

Draco grinned like a fiend. “Again, to reiterate, I wouldn’t have minded.” He wet his lips in what could only call a suggestive manner. “I’ve always liked your mean side.”

Hermione gasped, hips jerking when his fingers danced over the curve of her arse.

“It would’ve been good for inter-house relations, such a shame we didn’t end centuries of rivalry with our coupling up.” Draco tutted, a cheeky glint in his eyes yes as he raked his attention over Hermione’s writhing body, “I was a debauched eighteen-year-old, you know. I stared at you in class and imagined running my fingers between your thighs.”

“Did you really?”

“Mmhm, all because of that blasted skirt you wore during eighth year.” He huffed a breath, thinking of golden skin and dark pleated fabric. “Merlin, it was shorter than you ever wore before.”

“I was, ah—” Hermione dug her nails into his shoulders, rasping when Draco jerked his hips up, grinding his length against her leg. “—feeling a bit rebellious.”

Draco nipped the soft skin beneath her ear. “You didn’t know it, but you drove me mad all year, Granger.”

“Really?” Her nails dug into his neck as she arched her back, pressing her throat to his mouth. “I never saw you, mm—looking at me or anyone, really.”

Draco grabbed a fistful of her robes, lifting her skirts high enough to slide his hand beneath the fabric. He groaned when he brushed his fingers along the soft skin along the curve of her bum.

Hermione purred her response as she dropped down onto his thigh, rolling her hips when he tugged at the slip of lace she called knickers.

A gong softly chimed through the Library, but Draco kept Hermione in place, squeezing her bare backside when she tried to push away.

“They’re all leaving,” he murmured, dragging his nose along the line of her jaw. “I can cast detection wards and silencing charms.”

Hermione pressed at his chest, her brows furrowing. “Why didn’t you ever approach me? In school? Or after?”

Draco stilled, exhaling through his nose. That was not his intended direction for this conversation.

“…and say what?”

“I don’t know,” she said, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “Hi, I suppose?”

Draco’s amusement died as something heavier settled between them. He pulled back slightly, looking at her properly, and felt his stomach turn at the sadness on her face.

“Hermione,” he muttered, his voice low and strained. “I love your optimism, truly, but let’s not get into the nuances of my post-war depression while I have my hands on your arse.”

Her expression softened, fingers easing where they had been gripping his shoulders.

“You were with Weasley, and I was...” His voice came out rougher than he’d imagined it would. He shook his head, exhaling sharply. “It doesn’t really matter, does it?” His mouth curved, not quite a smile. “I’ve got you now.”

“It matters to me.” Hermione said, tugging her lower lip between her teeth. “I noticed, you know. How withdrawn you were.”

Draco swallowed, fingers tightening where they gripped her waist. “If you must know, I really didn’t want to be there. I felt like I didn’t deserve to be able to come back.”

“Everyone deserves a second chance.”

Draco sucked on his tooth, huffing a laugh through his flared nostrils. He wanted to dismiss it. He wanted to kiss her so thoroughly that she’d forget she ever asked in the first place. But Hermione Granger was not the sort of woman who let things go easily, especially not when she had latched onto something.

“You’ve more than made up for what happened, Draco.”

He met her gaze and found her determination sparking to life. “It doesn’t mean I’m still not ashamed of what I’ve done.” His voice dropped lower, something almost bitter curling at the edges. Draco removed his hands from beneath her robes and took her face between his palms, smiling faintly at her. “But I’ve won the game, haven’t I? It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Hermione stayed quiet, but her gaze never wavered. She saw too much. Always had.

“Is that so?”

He leaned in, slow and deliberate, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Yes.”

“You don’t have to bluster me, you know.”

Draco cut back, gaze narrowing. “I would never.”

Hermione arched a delicate brow. “Oh, really? You don’t deflect with sarcasm and redirect difficult topics with humor?”

Draco opened his mouth, and then promptly closed it.

“Exactly.”

A beat of silence stretched between them, taut and fragile.

Then, to his utter horror, Hermione reached up and ran her fingers through his hair, nails dragging lightly against his scalp.

It was a touch meant to soothe, but it made his entire body lock up instead.

“I would have listened,” she said softly. “If you had ever wanted to talk.”

Draco’s chest ached. Not in the way that made him want to press closer, but in the way that made him want to flee. Run before she could sink her fingers into the parts of him that were still somehow raw. Even after all these years.

He really did his best not to think of these sorts of things. Rather depressing bit of his history, Voldemort’s reign was.

“Oh, Granger,” he murmured, letting his lips brush her temple, “If I had, then we wouldn’t be here right now, would we?”

“You don’t know that for certain.”

Draco huffed a quiet laugh, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze. “If you had tried talking to me, I guarantee it would have only backfired. I’d have become be a posh git after you no doubt would have ruined me for any future women—”

Ruined you?”

“Yes, darling. Do keep up. You would have gotten sick of my wallowing, eventually left me for Weasley—”

“—I never said anything about a relationship! I said talk—”

“—Only for me to end up running between society events like Theo, with no enjoyable future in sight—so really, you did yourself a favor. If I hadn’t wallowed away in misery for our eighth-year return as a self-made pariah, then I certainly wouldn't have wanted to better myself by becoming an upstanding citizen and Auror, which means I wouldn’t have been assigned your protective detail.”

Hermione’s fingers curled slightly against his shoulder, but she stayed silent, watching him.

“And let’s be honest,” he continued, voice light, but threaded with something heavier beneath it, “if you had taken pity on me then, you would have—without a doubt—fallen in love with me.”

She let out a breath through her nose, unimpressed. “Oh, would I have?”

“Of course.” Draco smirked, though it lacked its usual arrogance. “Every good schoolyard romance involves a bit of teenage angst. Ask Parks next time you see her—actually, don’t. She probably will try to hit me with one of her children if she recalls how horrid I was to her at school. Do babies make good weapons—you know what, never mind. Don’t answer that. Horrible imagery that is. I can never forget that thought now. I have ruined myself. Avada me now. I simply can’t forgive myself for thinking such violent things about my godchildren.”

“The fact that Harry thought you were a Death Eater during sixth year and practically went mad over it blows my mind when things like that come out of your mouth.”

Draco quirked a brow, “But I was a Death Eater.”

“Besides that point,” she sighed. “Your takeaway from what I said was a rant that left me more concerned than confused. What is with you and children?”

“Adorable but dangerous? Scary but squeezable. Kind of want to eat them but in a non-cannibal way?” He scratched his cheek. “Anyways, it was a brilliant takeaway, really. Aside from Pansy weaponizing her children against me for my teenage antics and my general disdain toward her mental health... I really ought to apologize again. She just had a baby, did I mention that?”

She shook her head, fingers tracing absentminded circles along the fabric of his shirt. “It’s probably a good thing we didn’t become friends until this case. I’m not sure I would have been able to stand you. You’re positively an irredeemable prat with a horribly dark sense of humor.”

“Dash it. What a rude thing to say considering I’m devastatingly charming. It evens out, no?”

Draco.”

His smirk faltered for just a second. Just enough for Hermione to catch it.

She softened. “You didn’t have to be alone. That’s all I’m saying.”

Draco inhaled slowly, holding her gaze for a long moment. Then he forced a grin, light and easy, like the conversation wasn’t shifting into dangerous territory. “I’m fairly certain you were preoccupied with your torrid love affair with Weasley, anyways.”

Hermione gave him a flat look. “It was not torrid.”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t subtle.” Draco scoffed. “You two bickered every time he and Potter came around for visits.”

“We are not talking about my relationship with Ronald right now. We’re talking about you.”

Draco’s smirk didn’t reach his eyes. “Darling, don’t ruin the mystique of my past as an enigmatic recluse.”

Hermione studied him, something searching in her expression. She once again ran her fingers through his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp in a way that made his throat go tight.

“Stop deflecting.”

Draco swallowed, fighting the urge to lean into her touch. “It’s worked well for me so far.”

Hermione let out a quiet sigh. “Has it?”

A beat of silence stretched between them. Then, with great difficulty, Draco pulled back slightly, forcing the smirk back onto his lips. “Well, it got me here, didn’t it?” He leaned in, voice dropping to a murmur. “And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m currently the only one allowed to take you to bed, which I’d argue is a rather excellent turn of events.”

“Draco…”

Draco smirked, ignoring the warning in her voice. “So, tell me—were your spats with Weasley because you had a little crush on me? Is that what this is about, then? Un frisson interdit?”

Hermione huffed, unimpressed.

Un petit faible pour moi?” he tried again, voice laced with amusement.

She scoffed, shoving at his chest. “You’re ridiculous!”

“I can’t believe Hermione Granger spent her eighth-year fantasizing about reforming the bad boy.”

Hermione huffed, unimpressed. “Hardly! I was too busy prepping for my N.E.W.T’s and getting caught up on all I missed half of sixth year!”

“You just admitted to watching me.”

“I didn’t watch you.”

“It’s alright, darling. You can’t be blamed for falling for me.” Draco grinned, undeterred. “Le cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point.

“That’s not how it was.”

He hummed. “Pity. It would have been excellent for my ego.”

Hermione let out a breath that was dangerously close to a sigh. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Do what?”

“Make everything a joke.”

Draco’s smirk faded. His fingers, which had been tracing idle patterns along her waist, stilled.

“It’s not a joke,” he said, but it lacked the usual bite.

Hermione reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “You can tell me the truth. You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t still affect you.”

Draco clenched his jaw. “What do you want me to say, Hermione? That I used to wake up screaming for years, thinking my arm was burning because he was calling me? That I wanted to off myself more times than I can possibly count while awaiting trail, too afraid that if I didn't kill myself I'd end up dying in Azkaban anyways? And beyond that, what about how I used to dream of running into you in a bookstore or a Ministry corridor, trying to think of what I might possibly be able to say that would be so impossibly clever that you’d finally look at me the way you looked at him? Did you know that I thought about it—over and over—but I could never bring myself to do it? That I didn’t know how?” His voice had dropped lower, hoarse and tight. “That I hated myself for even wanting it?”

Hermione inhaled sharply, eyes dark with something he couldn’t place.

“Draco—”

“No.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I don’t want to do this. I've said enough.”

She studied him for a long moment, as if weighing whether to push or let him retreat.

“We don’t have to talk about it now, but we will talk about it, Draco.”

He cut his gaze away, glaring at the space over her shoulder. “I’ve done my best to put that part of my past far from my present, Hermione. I’ve worked hard to prove to the world that I’m not that person anymore, even though I still have the Mark.”

“I know you’re not that person. That’s not what I’m saying—”

“I know, Hermione. I know you’re not accusing me of anything like that. I’m only saying I don’t think we need to talk about this. It was over ten years ago. I’ve come to terms with it. I’ve moved on. Haven’t you?”

He finally met her gaze and found her tense, lip stuck between her teeth.

“Yes, I have." She paused, blinking rapidly. "For the most part.”

Draco held his breath, brows pinching together tight enough to hold a pin.

“I used to love leaving my windows open at night during the early months of autumn. But now, if I wake up in my room, and the air is cold, and it smells like wet leaves... I panic. I wake up and think we’re on the run again. Harry and me. I think we’re looking for the Horcruxes, and Ron’s gone, and we’re starving, and alone and—”

Hermione swallowed, turning her cheek to brush away an errant tear.

“I just wanted you to know that because I didn’t try to talk to you then, doesn’t mean I won’t talk to you now. About all of it. Any of it. We’ve never really… discussed the war. Here and there. But not in depth. There are things I’d like you to know, and vice versa. Things I think as my… as you are to me… that we should tell each other. Things other people might not know.”

"You'd... want to hear it?"

"Yes, Draco. All of it. The good, the bad. The ugly. Your darkest secrets. Your happiest memories. I adore who you are now, but you also are who you used to be, and who you will be. Does that make sense?"

Draco had no words, and so he surged forward and caught her lips, slanting his mouth over hers. She parted her lips, tongue slipping against his. Tasting slowly, exploring reverently. She wrapped her arms around his neck and tugged him closer, heart to heart, the beating muscles locked behind their ribs syncing as their lips tangled.

He pulled back, resting his forehead against hers. “Okay.”

Hermione blinked, panting. “Okay?”

Draco kissed her again, sweet and soft this time. He would never tire of this. He would always feel as if he were kissing her for the first time. He would worship her until his death, he was sure of it.

He nodded. “As long as you’ll listen.”

“I will always listen,” Hermione cupped his jaw, stroking her thumb over his cheek. “I won’t turn my back on you.”

“Pesky little vermin, us Slytherin are,” Draco nipped at her jaw, grinning. “Are you sure you’d like to be stuck with me?”

“As long as you’ll have me,” she promised.

Draco hesitated, considering the timing.

It seemed as good a time as any to admit he was madly in love with her, wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, and raise a million Granger sized demon babies with her as they traversed the world and solved mysteries—

Hermione jerked, eyes widening. “Draco, I just realized something.”

He took to lapping at her neck, fingers entwined with her wild curls. “Later, perhaps? A bit busy.”

But it was too late, she was pushing on his chest and scrambling off his lap. She shot across the room like a comet to where she had laid out their map of the United Kingdom on one of the tables, wand waving as she spoke, “I don’t know how I haven’t thought of this before.” She tapped her wand against the map, murmuring an incantation, and small glowing yellow dots appeared throughout England and Wales.

Draco leaned over her shoulder to watch her mark the locations in ink on a separate sheet of parchment. Her hair tickled his jaw, and his fingers brushed against her wrist as he caged her with his body. He inhaled deeply. Saffron. Strawberries. His.

Yes, he would tell her he loved her. He had to.

“Hermione, darling. Look at me, please.”

She waved a hand in his direction and traced the constellation of thefts with her index finger on the map. He pressed his chest against her back, covering her left hand with his. He imagined a ring on her finger—not just any. Whichever one she wanted from the vaults. All of them. A different ring for each day of the week. The month. He’d buy her a ring for every day of the year if she wanted.

“Draco, are you listening to me?”

Draco blinked, hand trailing over the swell of her bum just brushing against the front of his trousers. How could he hear anything she was saying when her arse was right there, and she smelled divine, and he loved her—Salazar, he could hardly focus.

“Yes. Pattern. Discernable. Geography. Listen, can we table this for later...”

“Here—in Glastonbury and Winchester, the Greengrass and Parkinson Estates. Old family blood wards were breached. That takes an incredible amount of knowledge to pull off something like that, yes?”

“Yes…” he drew out a long breath, resting his chin on her shoulder to pout. “I would suppose.”

“Someone who might have experience in those kind of wards?”

Draco’s finger froze over the yellow marker on the Parkinson’s house in Winchester. When he rose to his full height and looked down at Hermione, she already found her looking up at him. “You think a pureblood is doing this?”

“It would certainly narrow down the suspect list, wouldn’t it?”

(Goodbye fantasies of reciting his endless yearnings for her; hello, cognitive brain, which, frankly, had been on vacation since they arrived in Mahoutokoro. It was about time he participated in less vigorous, hip thrusting sort of activities.)

Draco rested said hip against the table’s edge and crossed his arms, sucking on a tooth as he thought. “Say we track that theory; how do we explain the time-turner. That could suggest intimate knowledge of Muggle culture. A muggle-born could be as well versed in wards as a pureblood if they had the right connections to learn.” Draco tapped the map with a finger. “This is scattershot.”

Maybe,” Hermione intoned, her tone a raspy cadence as she etched a line between the four locations. “I don’t think it’s scattershot, though… we’re just missing the throughline.”

Draco pushed away from the table with a rough breath, tracking the way she remained frozen for another moment before seemingly shaking herself into motion. She started annotating the edges of the map with meticulous notes on each theft: dates, times, and what was taken.

Draco strolled around to the opposite side of the table (another excuse to look at her from a different angle if he were being honest. He was still a lovesick man, Auror or no.) and picked up one of the newest reports they’d received via a very exhausted barn owl from Potter. Draco flicked between the pages of the report. “August sixth—this one’s from the British Museum’s restricted magical exhibit in London.” He flipped to the next page, pausing when he saw the sketch of what was reported stolen. “Granger.” He shot his gaze across the table, his jaw growing tight. “What are the chances that an Oni Mask is significant?”

Hermione’s hand froze mid-note. “An Oni Mask…?” she echoed, her eyes darting up to meet his. “Let me see that.”

He handed her the sketch. Their fingers brushed for a half-second longer than necessary, and Draco relished the touch. He missed her already, and tried to fight the smirk rising when he noticed a blush had bloomed across her cheeks.

“Do you have the report of the dagger stolen in Cambridge?”

Draco shuffled through the stacks of parchment on another table and tugged it free, flipping through the report until he found a mundane photograph of the dagger. “No picture of the dagger, but here’s one of its sheath.” He cocked his head, considering the picture. “I’ve seen these symbols before. Is that kanji…?”

“What? Let me see.” Hermione rushed around the table and snatched the photograph of the dagger sheath. She froze, growing still as a mountain. Then her breathing quickened, chest rising and falling as she set down the report and grasped the table ledge for support.

Draco rushed forward, bracing her waist with his hands. “Granger? What’s wrong?”

“That’s a tantō blade, or a short blade.” Hermione squeezed her eyes shut as she thought, brows pinched together tight enough to hold a blade of grass. “This kind of blade was often used in seppuku which is a suicide ritual.”

“I’m not following, darling.”

“Imagine the residual energy left on that dagger, Draco.” Hermione shook her head, trying to ease her rapid breathing. When she opened her eyes, they were bright with amber fire. “What kind of amulet was stolen from the Greengrass estate?”

Draco kept one hand curled around her waist and drew the other to cup her cheek. “Some gaudy moonstone amulet. I wrote to Daph about it a while ago and she wasn’t too torn up over it, but her mother was. Said it had been in the family for—”

“Draco,” Hermione grabbed both of his forearms, nails biting into the exposed skin where he had pushed his rolled sleeves up to his elbows. “Moonstones are known for their connection to not only the moon, but to the veil between life and death.”

Draco tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as he considered her words. “Tenkai said that there are ‘many ancient practices that require spirits beyond human reckoning’.”

“Oh, Christ,” Hermione snapped, and her tone had him meeting her fiery gaze. She had that manic, wild gloss to them. “The rope from the Parkinson estate—”

Draco released her just as she pushed at his arms, knowing exactly where her mind was going. “It’s the same kind of rope we saw during the Mikoshi processions.” Draco scrubbed a hand over his face. “I thought it was something Pans’ father had cooked up, but I should have considered the chances it was something else. Pansy’s mother is from Japan, Granger. It’s a shimegawa. Fuck! How did we miss this?”

Hermione blew out a frustrated breath and began to pace at a relentless pace. “A sacred rope used in Shinto rituals to mark the boundaries of sacred spaces or to ward off evil spirits. An Oni Mask, a Tanto dagger, a moonstone amulet, a bloody time-turner!” Hermione stalled, nearly tripping, and then whirled around the table to the map. She picked up her wand and flicked it at the map, lifting the glowing markers off the page to hover in the air above the table. Hermione leaned in, and her pointer finger traced lines between the five glowing points

“Cambridge, London, Winchester, Glastonbury, Cardiff…” Her mouth dropped open, and Draco physically saw as the pieces of a puzzle (ones he wasn’t privy to) click together in her mind. Then his witch was racing out of the conjured room, her soft-soled indoor shoes rushing over the tatami floors.

“Granger—where are you going?” Draco stormed after her, striding into the Library just in time to watch her disappear down the spiral staircase descending into the archives. Draco sighed and followed suit, taking the stairs two at a time. On the final step he stumbled, catching himself on the railing.

He called out for her, running a hand through his hair in agitation. There was a questionable amount of cursing coming from somewhere in the back corner of the archives, but not a response to his inquiries.

“Where did you go?” Draco huffed once he popped his head down another corridor of shelves scrolls and found it empty.

“Draco, the break ins weren’t random!” Hermione shouted. He turned to the left, following the echoes of her voice. “Everything taken was a tool—” her voice was muffled through the shelves, but he could tell she was growing fervent. She had reached the shrill decibel that often had him wincing. “Aha!” she cried with triumph just as Draco stepped into the aisle she was in. She didn’t offer him a second glance as she scurried (rather mouse like, mind you) right past him, disappearing from sight. He sighed when he heard her footsteps on the stairwell.

“This fucking witch…” he muttered and stomped down the aisles back towards the staircase. He ascended slowly, figuring by now, Hermione had enough time to sort out whatever she had run off to the archives for and when he stepped through the threshold of their little research room—he stalled.

“Darling… what in the bloody hell have you got going on in here?”

The reports were floating all around Hermione, and the book she had taken from the archives was hovering inches from her face as she rapidly flipped through the pages. Above the center of the map was a floating, glowing octagon with three of its points missing.

“It’s not scattershot at all, Draco. It’s a specific pattern. I think whoever is behind the break ins is following leylines! Now, I don’t exactly know if each location has significant traces of magic that can manipulate or amplify the leylines in different ways, but it would make the most sense.”

“Meaning…?”

 “Residual traces of magic or energy are likely imbued within these objects. These aren’t random thefts; they’ve been meticulously planned.” She shuffled over to him and shoved the book in his face, pointing rather aggressively to the fine-print text.

“Read this! ‘An octagon often represents the balance between worlds across many East Asian esoteric schools of knowledge and witchcraft, and these beliefs include the concept of earth and heaven, material and spiritual realms. It is also known as a symbol of rebirth and resurrection.’ Draco, this is ritual framework. Someone is creating a conduit, possibly bridging magical and physical planes.” She snatched the book back and began to flip through the pages again, reading faster than Draco could possibly keep up with. She paced as she read, chewing on her nail. “This is an ancient concept tied to sacred geometry, which makes sense given the significance of leylines as conduits for magical energy! Sweet Circe, whoever is behind this is a genius! A raging lunatic, yes, but a genius!”

Draco simply stood there, dumbfounded.

She spun back to the map, her wand darting to connect glowing markers with shimmering lines, each point burning brighter as she finished the octagon. The last three points hovered over Telford, Leicester, and Presteigne and once Draco stood back and stared at the fully solidified shape above the table, he rubbed his jaw.

“An octagon is considered a transitional symbol. It bridges a square—earth, stability—and a circle—heaven, divinity. It’s the perfect shape for harnessing energy between realms. In magical terms, it’s like a giant bloody amplifier.”

Draco knew there was a time and a place for a raging boner, so he most certainly understood that now was not that time, but alas, his body clearly had more hedonistic urges when it came to watching Hermione unravel with excitement over the concept of divinity and geometry. He sat down and tried to adjust his hard-on best he could.

Hermione, oblivious to his current predicament, began to pace again as she launched into yet another fervent explanation. “This goes so much deeper than we thought. In East Asian esotericism—including Japanese traditions—the octagon appears in the I Ching and the trigrams. It’s used to represent elemental forces and their transformations. The stolen objects align perfectly: a seppuku dagger, likely for the blood rites; the Oni mask, to protect the caster from wayward dark magic; the moonstone amulet to solidify a connection to both earth and heavens, the Shimenawa rope—which is sacred in Shinto traditions, will be used to define and protect ritual spaces! Don’t you see? Ugh! Whoever planned this is leveraging these artifacts for a purpose… one tied to manipulation of the spiritual and physical worlds.”

“What could they be setting this up for?”

Hermione threw up her hands. “For anything! A summoning, a binding, maybe even to open a portal! The octagon is the key, Draco. God, I am brilliant—tell me I’m brilliant.”

Draco’s smile was slow but sure, and the heat growing in his belly was practically volcanic. “You’re brilliant, darling.”

“Thank you, I know.”

Draco rolled his shoulders back and tried to appear nonchalant. “Why is the octagon significant in this ritual?”

“It’s the anchor.” She gasped, pointing to the map. Her whisky eyes were bright and wide, her cheeks rosy and dimpled from her mile-wide grin. “The eight points align perfectly to create a framework over the leylines. Think about it! Sacred geometry is often used in ritual spaces because of its ability to focus and channel energy. An octagon not only balances but also amplifies those energies. With the right positioning, the right ritual, these stolen objects could turn the leylines themselves into a magical circuit.”

Draco had understood about half of what she’d said by now, for he was still staring, and still hard because of his staring. Salazar. She looked at him expectantly. Right. He was her sounding board.

She grinned and continued on. “This could possibly connect realms—it could tear open a rift between worlds or anchor something catastrophic to this one!” She jabbed her finger at the floating map, and though her words were ominous, she sounded anything but frightened. “And if they’re following the symbolism of the I Ching or Japanese rituals, it’s possible that the trigrams themselves are tied into this. Each point could represent an elemental force—fire, water, earth, wind—all being channeled into one unified purpose.”

Draco raked a hand through his hair, boner suddenly deflating at the concept of world dominion or explosions. Salazar. “Let’s say you’re right. What are they planning to do with it? Destroy the world? Bring back some ancient evil?”

“Possibly,” Hermione replied, and then her mania subsided. Her lower trembled slightly just as the weight of her theory seemed to settle in. “They could be trying to summon something from the other side.”

“Like a resurrection.”

“Yes,” Hermione said slowly, suddenly on edge. “We’re dealing with magic far older and darker than anything we’ve studied.”

Draco cleared his throat and opted to drag a book into his lap. (His boner was not going away anytime soon despite talks of world dominion induced necromancy and the likes.) “What of the time-turner?”

Hermione whirled around, her expression alight with frantic realization. “The Time-Turner is going to be used as keystone. If this is meant to set up for a resurrection… it’s the only explanation.” She said, voice breathless with certainty. “All these elements—the blood rites, the spiritual binding, the protective measures—they’re all leading to one thing: a controlled temporal rupture. Draco, this is a… this could rewrite death—to bend time and fate itself.”

Draco stilled, fingers tightening around the book in his lap. “That’s—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “That’s madness. Even if they could pull it off, the consequences—”

“—would be catastrophic,” Hermione finished grimly. “Altering time in such a fundamental way? It’s not just dangerous—it’s unnatural. They wouldn’t just be bringing someone back. They’d be fracturing reality.”

Draco ran a hand through his hair, his own thoughts racing. “So, what’s the missing piece? You said the artifacts align, but if he’s still gathering them, then something’s missing. What’s the final elements they need?”

“There’s got to be three more pieces involved at the very least if my octagon theory tracks, but…” Hermione bit her lip, her mind cycling through possibilities. Then, with a slow, dawning horror, she turned to face him. “I think perhaps they will need a vessel,” she whispered. “Something—or someone—to anchor the ritual. To serve as the bridge between past and present, life and death.”

Draco’s eyes flicked back to the octagon, now glowing ominously above the table. “Is that how the yokai tie into this?”

Hermione hesitated, her gaze flickering between the octagon and the stacks of research on the crate and its artifacts that had mysteriously appeared on her desk all those months ago. “I believe the yokai will eventually be a part of the ritual,” she said finally, but her voice wavered, unsure. “Each yokai provides a purpose—either to serve as potential conduits or to help bridge the gap between the living and the dead.”

Draco stared at her, comprehension dawning on him. “You don’t think they’re intended to be vessels, do you? They're the ones who will allow whatever's being resurrected to cross over?”

“It’s an idea, but I don’t think so. They’re not alive. Technically.” Hermione canted her head from side to side, now fully immersed in her theory. “The crate triggered this whole thing. I mean, I knew it wasn't ever just a collection of cursed objects. But this is beyond what I thought possible.”

“Fucking hell, Granger.”

“Somewhere inside this octagon is the focal point for what may be a resurrection spell," Hermione wrapped her hair into a top knot and shoved her wand through it, chewing precariously on her bottom lip. "Which means we only have five months to stop whoever is behind this before they the last pieces they need."

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, trying, and failing, to take a deep breath. "Granger, we have seventeen days until the next full moon,”

“We aren't going to be able to handle this in that short of time." She took a fortifying breath. "If I’m right—if this is as much about celestial alignment as it is about the artifacts—then on the final full moon... which will be a Blue Moon on the last day of the year, mind you... that is when the ritual will take place."

Draco grimaced.

"That's when they’ll try to bring back their dead and in theory, destroy the fabric of the universe doing so.”

Notes:

I didn't abandon you! I'm so, so, so sorry for the wait! Life hit me hard in the face. It was my daughter's first birthday, then my family came into town, then we all go the flu... chaos, really.

It's four in the morning and my eyes are burning but I was determined to get this out before morning... well... later morning. Proper morning.

Annnnyway... Woooooof! 23k chapter. This was a big'uns. I tried to split it up into two chapters but I just couldn't do that to you all after you waited so patiently for an update. Some fluff. Some wit. Some smut. Some sass. Some answers as to where the hell we're going with all this! I've had the library scene drafted for months now lmao. Finally able to put it out there and I'm thrilled.

Did anyone pick up on the epilogue easter egg in there... heh.

I hope you loved all the Draco this chapter. I love him, I write my best from his POV, we just get along so swimmingly in my mind. With that said... good news. Another expansion for this fic's length bc wtf I cannot wrap this up in four more chapters. We haven't had a yokai battle in three chapters now (next chapter, babes. Don't worry! We just had a lot of plot to slough through first lol) and we are still set to have four more battles and that's just impossible plot wise with all the fun stuff I have planned for our two idiots soooo let's shoot for 18 chapters now. Which means 6 more chapters for you amazing people! More words! More sex! More fluff!

Your comments and support have been so wonderful. I can't thank you all enough. Please keep commenting. It saves me from spiraling. Also! Nearly 15k hits. Might seem like small fry to some people but to me that's mind blowing. World shattering. I rapidly blink whenever I check in on my stats and try not to cry.

I’ve learned a lot on this WIP journey aka it’s hard as hell to write between updates since I have now blown past my original drafted storyline lol. In between writing scenes for TGMSGTMAM I may or may not have begun drafting another fic… another romcom adventure if you will… just maybe…
That’s all I’m saying. (I’m so fucking excited because it is depressing but funny as all hell. Also the title??? UGH chefs kiss. That’s all I shall reveal for now but just know… we have plans after this journey is over, you and I.)

I love you all. Muah. XX

(Find me on my tumblr page for general ramblings! See you there! <3)

Chapter 13: A Very Gran(d)ger Birthday

Notes:

I bring to you an interlude to the usual chaos, expect sap, smut, and silliness. Ily all thank you for being patient 🫶🏻

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Day One-Hundred-Four: Saturday, 18th of September 2009

 

Malfoy’s Twenty-Ninth Rule for Outsmarting Magical Mischief: 

Celebrate All Wins

Acknowledging small victories can boost morale and reinforce confidence in one’s abilities.

(Granger’s note: I suspect Malfoy only wrote this rule because he successfully outwitted a group of prankster second-years. He seemed disproportionately smug for merely avoiding a color-changing charm.)

That said, excessive gloating negates any benefit

(See Granger-Malfoy, Magic and Mischief, 89, on post-prank avoidance, insufferable levels of self-satisfaction).

(Malfoy’s note: If you don’t celebrate your own brilliance, who will?)

Small victories add up. One day, it’s sidestepping a charm; the next, it’s outmaneuvering a bureaucratic nightmare or outwitting a yokai.

(Granger’s note: You celebrate your own “brilliance” daily!)

(Malfoy’s note: You’re just bitter because you got caught in the splash radius.)

(Granger’s note: My hair was purple for two hours, Draco.)

(Malfoy’s note: Shall I remind you that purple does wonders for your eye color?)

 

----

 

It was a lovely day to celebrate Hermione’s upcoming birthday… if one considered the dubious downpour of rain lovely. His original plans for his darling witches birthday had been superseded by the fact that they were still in Japan. Which was fine. Only that he hadn’t brought her present to Japan, thinking they would have returned home four days ago—which obviously, they hadn’t. So, that wasn’t fine. 

It was a disaster. 

As was his attempt at making his own Portkey, a task he had taken upon himself. His attempt started (in secret, mind you) two days ago when he realized that the next ferry back to Tokyo from Chichi-jima was on Monday. The 20th. Which, again, was not good.

He was utter rubbish at Portus charms. Now, if Theo were here, he’d have had Draco and Hermione back home in an hour tops, which Draco supposed was given considering who Theo was. 

(A degenerate who dabbled entirely too much in the creation of questionable charms and walked the fine line between light and dark magic.)

Theo’s hobbies often made it hard for Draco to be his friend, considering Draco was an Auror and his best friend was a degenerate, but alas, what could one do. At least the scales were evened out between the two of them. Sort of. 

It wasn’t like Draco had any reason to exactly want for Portkey's—not when he could just drop by to visit good ol’ Basil in Transportation. Give the man a box of chocolate croissants, and he pushed you to the front of the queue.

But Basil wasn’t here, and Draco was too scared of Minamoto to ask her for any assistance in his activities. Not after he witnessed her rip into her students when they accidentally turned Hermione’s hair purple during a little bit of schoolyard dueling funsies. 

(It was terrifying, quite frankly—Hermione’s hair. And Minamoto, he supposed. But mainly Hermione’s hair)

Draco was a rather confident fellow, but he wasn’t too sure that if he happened to succeed in making a Portkey that it wouldn’t take them to the moon. He didn’t fancy the thought of a slow, oxygen-less death, nor did he particularly think either of them would enjoy the lack of gravity.

Potter, no doubt, would have words for Draco illegally making a Portkey. (Was it still illegal if you worked for the government? Questions…) And if Draco managed to kill himself and Hermione, then who the bloody hell was going to save the world?

Certainly not Weasley. Maybe Potter. 

Theodore… definitely not. He’d be the first one dead.

Draco sighed. This was a project in the name of Hermione’s birthday. She was only turning thirty once! He had plans, damn it. A birthday bash. Cake! A jaunt about town. Sex! Oodles of it!

Draco cast his attention over the table of professors, then the span of students who sat not too far beneath their little platform. Was this what Snape saw when he sneered down at the Slytherin table? No wonder his godfather had looked so miserable all the time. 

These children were positively feral.

The students were happily chattering, many wearing what one would call spirit wear to their respective House’s, or well, not House’s. Groupings? Magical inclinations? 

Mahoutokoro did not dabble in House rivalries, for they didn’t have Houses as Hogwarts did. That, he learned, was more of an English thing. Which he felt a touch sad about, given that it taught him early on—actually, never mind. Segregation and stoking the fires of childhood rivalries based on animals is never a good idea. (See: Dark Mark at sixteen.)

The student body was one entity at Mahoutokoro. Students were grouped together based on their magical growth, or something… of the sort. It was all very confusing for Draco.

He had asked Hermione who the Slytherin’s were, to which she had sported upon him a dry glare and said there was no such thing. Thus, he learned of their sorting ceremony, or lack of one. 

It was really just a shuffling of bodies, from youngest to oldest. Essentially.

Mahoutokoro had what Hermione called Celestial Rankings, a tiered system rather than fixed Houses. Students weren’t separated into four groups at eleven, nor did they engage in House rivalries.

Which was rather smart of them, considering he got hazed relentlessly by the older Slytherins his first year, and apparently, that sort of bullying did not occur at Mahoutokoro. No first-years being used as test subjects for prank spells, no random hexes in the corridors just for existing. 

The younger children between seven and ten attended classes during the day before returning home, learning magical theory, control, and etiquette before full enrollment.

Draco would have much rather attended Hogwarts for three years before boarding. 

Especially if it kept him from his wicked governess.

(He still had nightmares about the flicks she delivered to the shell of his ear whenever he failed to enunciate his French accent during language lessons. If you asked his mother, he still tensed when anyone snapped their fingers too close to him.)

The first ranking, Kaze, the Wind Rank, was for children aged 7-8. Something about learning the basics of magic and discipline through the metaphorical (or really rather physical) flow of air? It seemed… well, fine . A bit whimsical for his taste, but fine.

Then came Sazanami, the Ripple Rank, for ages 9-10. These were the advanced day students, or as advanced as a ten-year-old could be. They practiced refining the control of their magic while preparing to be away from their families while they boarded at Mahoutokoro. Which sounded suspiciously like a far more responsible version of what Draco had done at that age—sneaking into his father’s study to steal family heirloom wands to refine his skills by turning the house elves odd colors. 

(It was an educational experience, thank you very much. The elves didn’t mind.)

(Don’t tell Granger.)

At Mahoutokoro, students progressed through distinct ranks as they developed their magical abilities.

The journey officially began with Tsuki, the Moon Rank, for ages 11-12, where students were fully enrolled and focused on learning foundational magic.

As they advanced to Hoshi, the Star Rank, for ages 13-14, they moved into early intermediate studies, developing specialties and delving into more advanced magical theory.

By ages 15-16, students reached Suiryū, the Flowing Water Rank, where they refined their skills through practical applications, participated in competitions, and engaged in magical combat.

At 17, students entered Taiyō, the Sun Rank, an advanced stage where they not only underwent elite training but also took on roles as mentors, learned leadership and honed their expertise. 

The final rank, Tenkū, the Sky Rank, was for 18-year-olds, the highest level of achievement, offering access to restricted magical knowledge and prepared students for life beyond Mahoutokoro. 

That rank, Draco learned, also meant their ever changing robes officially turned gold, signifying they were highly educated. He wanted a pair of his own golden robes, to which Hermione laughed boldly, and loudly, for far too long. 

She never confirmed she would get him a pair. (Was it against the rules to order some from his tailor? Hm…)

It was all very refined and elegant. The sort of thing Hermione found brilliant. Draco, on the other hand, still wasn’t entirely sold.

How did they play Quidditch if there was no House rivalry?

No Quidditch Cup drama?

No feuds over the ugliness of the other team’s House colors?

He supposed that it was healthier.

(But he was still a Slytherin. He had to at least try to find the Slytherins.)

Which is how he found himself in the stands with Hermione sometime after breakfast, sitting in the box with the professors as Minamoto’s voice boomed out over the roaring crowd of students and staff alike, welcoming everyone to the first practice scrimmage before the official season began. 

Now, Draco was very pleased that he was seated to watch Mahoutokoro’s best and brightest play a good game of Quidditch, but the fact that it was still raining sheets put a damper on the experience. And also, Hermione looked miserable. Her curls had already begun to frizz at the edges despite her best attempts to charm them into submission, and though she hadn’t said a word of complaint, the sheer level of irritation radiating off her was almost tangible.

Draco was trying his best to act as if the very idea of this game was not something he was that interested in, but she knew his tells, and he was a rubbish liar when it came to her. The way he kept tapping his fingers on his knee, the slight lean forward as he scanned the players, the twitch of excitement every time a broom lifted off the ground was all too obvious. And so, even though it was her birthday weekend…

They were about to watch Quidditch.

Draco could have cried.

(At one point, Hermione asked if he actually was crying. To which he answered: No, Granger. That’s rain.)

(It wasn’t.)

Minamoto sat down once the whistle was blown, shuffling a bit to get comfortable and tugging her rain-slicked robes more securely around herself. The overhang kept them dry for now, but the wind howled just beyond it, occasionally sending mist curling into their sheltered seating.

“Rain’s a bit pesky this time of year,” Minamoto grunted, glaring beyond the protective charm at the churning sky. “I offered to put a weather shield over the pitch, but Tsukiji likes the children to learn tenacity.”

Draco made a noise of mild amusement as he leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms. “We had to play with Dementors swirling over the pitch when I was in my third year,” he said idly, sighing as if lost in fond remembrance.

Hermione turned to him with a horrified glare.

“Rain’s nothing,” he continued, utterly unfazed.

Minamoto let out a raspy, deep chuckle. “Were they good referees?”

“You could say that…” Draco muttered. “Though, they were a bit gung-ho for Potter. Had to watch the poor bloke fall from the sky after flying too close to them whilst chasing the Snitch. Called him Potter, The Petrified for a while after that game.” Draco sniggered.

Hermione smacked his arm with one of her gloves. “Don’t be a prat. You know Harry reacted poorly to the Dementors.”

Draco smirked. “Darling, if you’d allow me to counter that argument…”

“I absolutely will not.”

“Well, I’m going to anyway.” Draco pecked her cheek, earning him another hard thwack from her globes. “The fact that Potter was capable of killing an immortal megalomaniac but couldn’t handle the dementors is a tad asinine.”

“What’s asinine is that at one point in your little Quidditch career you had to resort to attempting to get Harry disqualified during a game when he pushed your hand away from the Snitch, only after you held onto his broom to keep him from it in the first place,” she shot back, crossing her arms. “ And! AND! To further bolster my argument, Harry was THIR  ! TEEN ! You try facing a dementor without knowing how to fully conjure a Patronus!”

Draco gasped, all mock offense. “Granger, are you accusing me of unsportsmanlike conduct?”

“I am stating it as a fact, Draco Malfoy.”

“My word, even a dog wouldn’t eat your quarrels,” Minamoto laughed, shaking her head. “I do believe you are the only one I’ve ever seen capable of ruffling my Mimiko’s feathers, Mr Malfoy.”

Hermione immediately opened her mouth to protest, but Draco, ever the opportunist, simply shrugged and said, “The only way to keep her in line is to argue with her.”

That earned him a sharp elbow to the ribs, which only made his smirk widen.

Below them, the game was finally kicking off, the players soared into the air, cutting through the misty rain with effortless grace. Draco’s eyes flicked to the movement almost on instinct, thighs tensing as if in preparation to take to the skies himself.

He had meant what he thought earlier—rain was nothing for these kids compared to the trials he and his fellow Hogwarts alumnus had gone through just to play a spot of Quidditch. Salazar, he would have given his left toe to have just had one normal season.

The Dementors in third year had been a nightmare for everyone, and even now, watching the Mahoutokoro students glide across the sky, Draco could still recall that match with perfect clarity. The way the cold had seeped into his very bones, the booming crackles of thunder and lightning as the rain poured down on them like sheets of ice. But what Draco remembered the most was the sight of the sky splitting apart, and Potter plummeting through the seam like a stone.

He shivered, and scooted closer to Hermione, seeking her warmth.

He was happy that the children here would grow up in a relatively normal world, that they wouldn’t see the likes of war and wouldn’t become scarred, hollow shells of their former selves because of it.

The players zipped across the pitch like a streak of lightning, their young faces full of unfettered joy. Draco’s heart felt on the verge of jumping from his chest. What he would have given to grow up safe and unburdened, tucked away from the world on a mountain, surrounded by the purity of learning without the disconnect between his fellow students just because they wore a different color on their tie.

“Granger, darling,”

Hermione looked up from her book, blinking. “Hmm?”

“Now, don’t take this the wrong way…”

She scowled, and the way her nose scrunched with the expression had a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“If… and I mean… we’ve talked briefly before about this, er, topic. Tentatively.”

One eyebrow raised at his stammering, and then the other when his cheeks began to turn a furious shade of red that did horrors for his complexion.

“Hypothetically speaking… What are your thoughts about schooling at Mahoutokoro? Instead of Hogwarts?” Her lashes fluttered like the wings of a hummingbird's wings, and Draco craned his neck down to whisper in her ear, “It feels safe here. I rather like the idea that there isn’t a centaur revolution on the cusp of breaking out at any given moment right outside the grounds.”

Hermione pulled back, and their cheeks brushed with the movement. She caught his gaze, held it, and then she gave him a slow, little pleased grin. “But we went to Hogwarts.”

Draco shrugged, and feigned watching the game to keep his stomach contents firmly inside his body, given he felt he might retch at any moment discussing these sorts of things with Hermione. The Quaffle was passed with near-perfect precision, and two Chasers wove through the rain like bursts of golden light.

“Split the time, perhaps.” She said, chewing on her lip. “Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

“Of course.” Draco agreed, jerking his head rapidly in a nod that probably made him look a bit mad. “First three years here, then off to Hogwarts. Better than a governess.”

“A governess ? Are you insane ?”

“Excuse me, but I had a governess.”

“That’s exactly my point!” Hermione shriek-whispered.

Draco wrapped his arm around her shoulders and sighed dramatically. “In due time, my darling, you will see the way of things.”

“My children will not have a governess.”

Draco grinned, and because he was feeling bold, and pathetically in love, he whispered: “Don’t you mean our ?”

Her heel stomped into his toes, but Draco barely felt it. Especially not when she interlaced her fingers with his and muttered, “ Hypothetical children.”

Draco chuckled, and squeezed her fingers with his. “Whatever you say, darling.”

 


 

Hermione let out a long-suffering sigh a good two hours later, pulling her cloak tighter around herself as another gust of wind sent a fine mist curling toward them. 

Yes, the blasted game was still going on. And yes , she was positively peeved that these damned children couldn’t get their shit together long enough to just score one more blasted point.

“FOUL!” Draco hollered, shooting up from his seat. “That’s a foul!”

“I still don’t understand why we have to sit outside for this,” Hermione muttered, fiddling with the hem of her scarf. Draco had charmed it green, the smarmy git, and said it was one of his fantasies. She let him have it.

Not because it was also one of her own. That would be preposterous.

Red was her color.

Draco, eyes fixed on the pitch, still standing with his hands in the air, barely spared her a glance as he replied,  “Because it’s Quidditch, darling. You don’t watch Quidditch from a stuffy room with a cup of tea, you experience it.” He emphatically fapped his hands at the stormy sky. “The wind in your face, the rain in your—”

I am experiencing nothing but regret,” she interrupted flatly.

Minamoto chuckled. “It builds character, Mimiko.”

Draco turned and gave her his world-class, Malfoy smirk “ See ? Wise words from the headmistress herself. You wouldn’t want to be lacking in character, would you, darling?”

Hermione shot him a look that could have curdled milk.

Minamoto, unbothered by their constant bickering, leaned forward slightly. Her sharp eyes tracked the players. “The Suiryū Chasers are strong this year,” she commented. “Good formation, excellent reflexes. Only fourth years, too.”

Draco hummed in agreement, settling back down in his seat as one of the Chasers—a boy in pale pink-golden tinged robes—executed a near-perfect feint, sending his opponent careening in the wrong direction. 

“He’s not bad,” Draco admitted, tilting his head slightly. “Bit reckless, but if he reins it in, he’ll be deadly.”

“You sound like you miss it,” Minamoto observed, her gaze flicking to him.

Oh, here we go . Hermione groaned internally.

“I used to play a bit of rec with my friends from time to time, but Granger here has been keeping me much too busy to play as of late.”

Hermione, who adored him despite his play of the blame game, scoffed. “Not my fault.”

“I’m sorry, who opened the crate again?”

Hermione glared, which had him sniggering. 

“I jest, my darling.”

Minamoto craned her neck in their direction, eyes bright. “I could arrange something if you wished to test your mettle against my students,” she said mildly.

Draco blinked in rapid succession. “Come again?”

Minamoto turned her full attention to Draco, expression considering. “An exhibition match. The students would love the opportunity to play against a former professional.”

“HAH!” Hermione snorted, which earned her a scowl from Draco.

“You flatter me, Professor, but I hardly qualify as professional—”

Hermione snorted again, only because she couldn’t help herself, “He only played at Hogwarts, Professor.”

“Nonsense, that is a feat on its own.” Minamoto said, waving a dismissive hand. “I know what your years at Hogwarts were like, Mimiko. I’m sure it was no easy feat to play.”

The tips of Draco’s ears turned an adorable shade of pink. “I did play for three seasons, Granger. It’s not like it’s easy to make Seeker.”

Hermione made a pointed noise in the back of her throat. “Professor, let me tell you more about the match where he spent the entire time in the air attempting to foul Harry.”

Draco gasped, utterly scandalized. “That is slander .”

“It’s on record.” Hermione then sighed, rubbing her temples. “This is not how I pictured spending my birthday weekend.”

Draco tensed, just slightly. She had wanted to bring it up more subtly, but oh well. Kneazle was out of the bag now. 

Draco’s fingers tapped idly against his knee before he leaned toward Minamoto, dropping his voice. She still heard every word.

“Speaking of, er, birthdays… not that I’m not enjoying the hospitality, but I did have something planned for Hermione back home.”

Hermione flipped a page of her book, feigning disinterest in their conversation.

Minamoto hummed, thoughtful. “Ah, I see…”

“I’m aware that the ferries here are on a schedule…”

“That they are.”

“If there was another means of travel… a Portkey, perhaps…?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. Yes, she was aware of his less than conspicuous attempts at making a Portkey.

Minamoto eyed him with a curious sparkle in her gaze.

Draco leaned closer, and gripped Minamoto's robes. Hermione bit on her lip to keep from laughing.

“Listen, Professor,” he said in a crazed, feverish whisper. “I would love for us to stay longer, and though I do enjoy a good spot of Quidditch, I fear the witch will never let me live it down if she spends her entire birthday weekend watching me relive my glory years.”

Minamoto chuckled, a deep, knowing sound. “I suppose I could offer a shortcut, though it may require bending a rule or two.”

Draco’s grey eyes lit up like pots of molten silver. “Really?”

“Perhaps…”

“It’s just that, no offense, Professor, but Hermione told me you’re dreadfully old-fashioned.”

Minamoto’s smirk was positively wicked. “Did she now?”

Hermione, who had definitely not been eavesdropping, stiffened. “I said that with the utmost respect!

Minamoto’s smirk grew as she turned, reaching into her robes and withdrawing an elegant onyx pin in the shape of a coiling dragon. “There is a Floo tucked away within my office, leading directly to the Japanese Ministry.”

Minamoto took Draco’s hand and placed the pin in his palm, smiling faintly. “Place this pin inside one of the windchimes and it will reveal the fireplace. There is a pot of powder atop the mantle already.” 

Draco's eyes widened, and Hermione feared he may just kiss the elder witch.

“This whole time… you’ve had a direct line to the Ministry.”

Minamoto feigned a scandalized expression. “Why, Mr. Malfoy, do you not appreciate tradition?”

Hermione snapped her book shut and glowered at the headmistress. “You never told me that, Professor!”

Minamoto merely patted Hermione’s hand in a fashion eerily reminiscent of Dumbledore at his most infuriating. “A lesson, dear girl: Never assume an elder has no secrets.”

Draco let out a slow, admiring whistle. “Minamoto, you might be my new favorite person.”

Hermione groaned. “I am never going to hear the end of this.”

 


 

Hermione stumbled out of the Floo, coughing on soot. She swiped at her curls with an irritated huff, immediately looking around for Crookshanks. Instead of finding her beloved familiar, she spotted Theo lounging on the chaise, bare feet kicked up on the armrest.

“Oh, Theo.” Hermione bit down on her laugh. “I see Crooks has finally taken a liking to you.”

Atop Theo’s naked chest sat her beloved familiar, lording over the wizard like some ancient temple guardian. There was a miniature Crookshanks sized blanket draped over him.

Theo grinned slowly, smoothing a palm over Crookshanks head. “I have conquered the demon.”

“I can see that.”

Theo stretched out his legs, forcing Hermione to look down. She immediately looked away, sputtering. 

He wore only his pants—tight, bright orange briefs with her cat’s face on them.

“What the actual fuck , Nott?” Draco choked out from behind her, dropping their bags to the floor. “Why are you here? It’s—” Draco snatched his pocket watch and scoffed. “Four in the morning. My instructions were concise. Come twice a day to feed the beast and then be on your merry way.”

Hermione, still looking anywhere but at Theo’s person, muttered, “He’s practically naked on the chaise, Draco. I think he’s been here the entire time we’ve been gone.”

Crookshanks yowled in annoyance, cracking one bleary yellow eye open at the sound of Hermione’s voice. Her cat lifted himself off Theo’s chest, slithering free from his blanket. He then proceeded to prowl up and over Theo’s bare shoulder to the chaise’s headrest. Without nary a glance backwards, he leapt to the floor and scampered down the hall, bushy tail flicking this way and that. 

And that was when she realized her poor cat was bald. Everywhere. 

(Save for his legs, tail and head. Thankfully.)

Theo craned his neck over the chaise, pouting. “You scared him away, Granger.”

Hermione pressed her fingers into her eye’s hard enough flashes of black squiggles popped into existence. “Theo… what did you do to my cat?”

“Oh, it’s all the rage in Paris. I thought he could use a bit of a confidence boost with the ladies.”

“What ladies ?” Draco seethed.

“The half-Kneazle bride I bought for him. She’s hiding somewhere. Doesn’t really like me all that much—or, well, anyone. I’ve tried everything to get her to come out of her hidey hole.”

Hermione dropped her hands and glanced around the spacious living room, mouth going dry.

Draco must have done the same, because when she glanced up at him, his entire face was beet red, the tendons in his neck bulging. “I’m going to fucking kill you , gremlin.”

Theo stretched his arms up and settled them behind his head. He grinned at the two of them. 

“Happy birthday, Granger!”

Theo had taken it upon himself to furnish the flat while they’d been in Japan into a feline fantasy. There was no shortage of cat trees in the living room, accompanied by yarn balls and ribbons hanging from the ceiling that had a suspicious amount of tattering at their edges. Hermione squeaked, jumping high off the ground when a little charmed toy mouse whizzed about the polished floor near her toes.

“The hammocks were Tansy’s idea.” Theo said mildly, inspecting his nails. “However, I do believe I’ve used them far more frequently than our feline friends. Very comfortable spot for a kip, if I do say so myself.”

Draco strode forward and gripped the back of Theo’s head by his hair. He yanked him off the chaise and practically threw him against the mantle. “I’m going to make your death slow and painful .”

Hermione, keen to stop any bouts of murderous tirades from occurring, shoved Theo inside the fireplace as she grabbed a handful of Floo powder. 

“But I haven’t even gotten to show you the catio —”

Theo disappeared in a whirl of green flames as she threw the powder, calling out: “Nott Manor!”

Draco lunged towards the fireplace, hands outstretched as if gearing to strangle Theo to death through the Floo, and Hermione flicked her wand, sending him airborne with a well-timed Wingardium Leviosa .

“HERMIONE!” Draco bellowed, his face bright red as he glared at her from where he hovered, now upside down.

“We do not murder our friends, Draco.” She said, wand outstretched as she brought him back down to the ground, settling him gently on his feet.

“We do if they turn our flat into a bloody spinster’s den!”

Hermione rolled her eyes, swishing her wand as she began banishing all of Theo’s furnishing additions. “I believe he did it with good intentions in mind.”

“His intentions are never good.”

“He did wish me a happy birthday, so I must assume he redecorating was indeed a birthday present.” Hermione said as she walked around the room, banishing the bits of string on the floor and the many whirring mice that kept bashing their heads into the floorboards.

Draco’s eyes narrowed as he glanced over the once carefully decorated flat, now littered with strings and cat paraphernalia. “Darling, look at the place. It’s not even proper decor. It’s... it’s a bloody feline nightmare, a haven for spinsters! We are not spinsters!”

Hermione, hands on her hips, pinned Draco with an unimpressed look. “You’re overreacting. Look, it’s almost back to normal. Just a few more banishments and it will be right as rain.”

Hermione chuckled at all the ridiculous pieces of cat furniture Theo had bought, spying a basket of catnip on the coffee table, and a giant scratching post in the corner of the living room that towered like some sort of strange monument.

“If I find he has turned the bathroom into a litter box,” Draco warned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “There is nothing you can do to stop me from going through that Floo and wringing his neck.”

Hermione bit back a grin. “It was a gesture of kindness.”

“Theo's idea of kindness is terrifying, darling. Did you see his pants? They had the bloody beast's face on them.”

Hermione sawed her lower lip between her teeth to stifle her laughter. “They were a bit mad, weren’t they?”

Draco grumbled, striding towards his bedroom. “I have to check my pants now. I don’t trust that he hasn’t replaced my entire wardrobe.”

Hermione trailed after him, wand flicking left and right, vanishing more and more cat paraphernalia as she went. “I sincerely doubt he would go that far.”

“You have no idea how far he will go, darling!” Draco shouted from his bedroom closet, taking a deep breath just before he continued his long-winded spiel. “He could’ve given you a book or a new record. For fucks sake, he could have done anything else but go full mad cat man. It’s an insult, really, a testament to his lack of awareness. There are far more things you like than just your damned cat. Take me for instance! You like me!”

Hermione peaked inside the bathroom, snorting when she saw the clawfoot tub was indeed full of cat litter. She banished it immediately, opting to keep the discovery to herself. “At least Crookshanks seemed relaxed with him. I feared he might maim poor Theo to death at some point.”

“Your bloody cat is bald and you’re defending Nott?” Draco shot back as strode out of his bedroom, muttering in disbelief. “... lucky he didn’t touch my clothing….”

Hermione shrugged. “He did say it was all the rage…”

“Why are you being so cavalier about this?” Draco asked, suddenly suspicious. “Theo performed some bizarre grooming ritual on the beast and you’ve barely bat an eye.”

“If Crooks didn’t want Theo cutting off his fur, then he wouldn’t have even been able to get close enough to try.”

Hermione followed Draco into the kitchen, leaning idly against the wall as he opened cupboard after cupboard, searching for more signs of Theo’s redecorating. 

When he opened the cupboard that housed their teacups, he groaned.

They had all been replaced with gaudy orange mugs with Crookshanks' face on them.

Draco went to work Transfiguring them back to their previous states, muttering intelligibly under his breath. 

“Can we keep one?” Hermione asked, grabbing the last mug before Draco could finish his charm work. “Look how cute it is. The handle is a paw!”

Draco snatched the mug from her hand and scowled down at it. “I refuse to drink from a mug with your beast's face on it.”

Hermione pouted, blinking up at Draco. “Please?”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sighed. “It must remain out of sight.”

Hermione held the mug close to her chest once Draco had relented its possession back to her. “I will use it every morning.”

“Once a week.”

“Every weekend.”

“Saturdays.”

“Oh, look—he’s charmed it to move.” Hermione giggled. “Aww, he’s yawning.”

Draco snatched the mug from her hands and shoved it in the cupboard, shutting the door with more force than necessary.

“We will never speak of this again.”

(Theo’s redecoration would forever be known as the Great Cat-astrophe of ’09.)

 


 

Day One-Hundred-Five: Sunday, 19th of September 2009

Malfoy’s Thirtieth Rule for Outsmarting Magical Mischief:

When In Doubt, Charm.

Or, if that fails, just let Granger talk your way through it.

(Malfoy's note: She'll get to the point eventually.)

(Granger’s note: I don’t know whether to be flattered or offended.)

(Malfoy’s note: Always flattered, darling.)

 

----

 

Hermione awoke to the smell of coffee and pastries, and a gentle breeze wafting through the open curtains of Draco’s bedroom. Soft, buttery sunlight streamed through the gauzy curtains, casting a golden glow over the dark floorboards. 

Hermione cracked her eyes open to find Draco sitting up in bed next to her with a book in his lap. She swept her gaze over him, attention snagging on soft cotton of his pajama bottoms that hung dangerously low on his hips, exposing a dusting of fine, white hair beneath his navel.

She shuffled closer to his thigh, and nuzzled her face against his hip, humming. “Morning.”

“You’re finally awake,” Draco drawled, snapping his book closed before setting it on the bedside table where a tray laden with drip coffee, croissants and fruit that awaited her, untouched. Draco leaned down, kissing her forehead as he swept her sleep-tangled curls over her shoulder. “Happy birthday, my darling.”

There was a snap of a band under her chin as he settled something atop her head, and when she reached up to see what it was, she scowled.

On her head Draco had placed a teeny, tiny paper birthday crown.

“What is this?” She muttered, sitting up, exposing her bare torso.

Draco hummed, a brow notched as he pulled her into his lap, forcing her to straddle him.

“A crown for my queen.”

She scoffed and shoved at his chest, only to shriek with laughter as he began to tickle her. Hermione squirmed in his lap, laughter bubbling up from her chest as Draco’s fingers danced mercilessly along her ribs.

“Draco—stop! I swear—” she gasped between giggles, trying and failing to wiggle away.

He grinned in that beautiful way of his, grey eyes crinkling at the corners, thoroughly pleased with himself as he held her tight. “Not until you admit you love the crown,” he teased, his hands still tormenting her sides.

Hermione let out a breathless squeal, clutching at his shoulders. “Fine! I love the ridiculous little crown!” she relented, her head falling against his as she caught her breath.

Draco wrapped his arms around her, nuzzling his face against her neck. “That’s my darling.”

Hermione ran her fingers over his ribs, counting them beneath the stretch of muscles on his sides. She pushed away from him and leveled him with a serious look. “I take it you have an agenda for the day?”

He adjusted his hold, his large hands settling at the curve of her waist as he studied her, gray eyes twinkling with mischievousness. The morning light cast golden streaks across his sharp features, and Hermione’s heart fluttered in her chest.

“Me? With an agenda? Preposterous.”

She swallowed, letting her fingers trail over his bare shoulders before she cupped his face. “You really didn’t have to do all this,” she murmured, glancing at the untouched breakfast waiting on the nightstand.

“Of course, I did. It’s your birthday, my darling. I happen to take birthdays very seriously.”

She felt her heart stutter, warmth unfurling inside her. “I recall your mother sending you similar crowns for your birthdays back at Hogwarts.”

He brushed his nose against hers. “Malfoy tradition.”

Hermione inhaled sharply, caught between wanting to tease him and wanting to kiss him senseless. The latter won. She surged forward, pressing her lips to his in a slow, languid kiss, savoring the way he responded instantly. His grip tightened, his lips parted beneath hers. He tasted like coffee and something inherently Draco , something intoxicating and familiar all at once.

When they finally pulled apart, breathless, he grinned at her. “Does this mean I get to keep the crown on you all day?”

She groaned, dropping her forehead against his shoulder. “Don’t push your luck.”

He laughed, wrapping his arms around her as if he had no intention of letting go anytime soon. And honestly, Hermione was perfectly fine with that. When his mouth dragged along her throat, fingers teasing the sides of her exposed breasts, Hermione let a ragged breath loose. Hermione let her head tilt back, giving him silent permission as his lips grazed her throat, slow and deliberate. The teasing drag of his fingers along her sides sent a shiver rippling through her, and when his thumbs brushed just beneath the swell of her breasts, she exhaled a soft, needy sound.

Draco chuckled against her skin, clearly pleased with her reaction. “More?” he murmured, his breath warm as he nipped at the delicate spot just beneath her jaw. Hermione groaned, rocking in his lap, pleased when she found him already hard beneath her.

“More,” she pleaded as he pressed quick, chaste kisses over her collarbones, over her thundering heart. When he caught one of her nipples between his teeth, she hissed.

“Hmm,” he rumbled, palm splaying over her bum before giving it a firm squeeze. “You’re needy this morning.”

“Don’t tease,” she bit back breathlessly, rocking against his length. “It’s my birthday .”

“That it is.” He agreed, flicking his tongue around her pert nipple before blowing a breath of cool air over the wet flesh. “And it’s a good thing, because I have plans for you today, birthday girl.”

Hermione shivered, her hands sliding over his bare chest, nails dragging lightly along the raised scars there. “Oh? And what exactly do these plans entail?”

Draco smirked, shifting beneath her to push his pajama bottoms down. They both groaned when she rubbed herself over his bare length, leaving a trail of wet want along his shaft.

“A little of this,” he said, pulling her down by her hips as he lifted his own. She gave a guttural groan when the tip of his cock pressed against her aching sex. “A little of that .”

She rolled her hips as he thrust upwards, seating herself on his cock.

Draco scooped her up as he thrust again, forcing her to her back. She shrieked, laughing, and then her laughter turned into a breathy pant. His lips pressed to hers in a hard, chaste kiss. He took her bottom lip between his teeth, nipping it, before flicking his tongue over it to soothe the sting.

She was panting and overheated, her stomach tight with need as he thrust into her slow, and steady, the roll of his hips meeting her own in soft claps of bare skin and wet, salty heat. Draco groaned when she dragged her nails over his spine, the rhythm of his thrusting kicking up, growing fervent. “You were,” he muttered, groaning as she clenched around his cock when his fingers danced between their connected bodies, sweeping his fingers over her aching clit. “Supposed to eat breakfast first.”

Hermione threaded her fingers through his short strands of blonde hair, pulling his mouth down to meet hers in a hungry kiss. She gasped into his mouth when he pinched her clit. 

“This is better,” she moaned, dropping her head back to the pillows as she writhed beneath his ministrations. 

His palm smoothed over her thigh, and he dragged her leg to rest over his strong thigh, and she dug her heel into his calf, forcing him deeper. Draco had other plans, however, and pulled out far enough to tease her entrance, sweeping his swollen head through her folds, over her aching nub, then back down. He barely thrust inside her before pulling out again, teasing her clit with his cock. He swirled her clit, over and over, moaning when she began to quiver beneath him.

Draco pushed off her and crawled down her body, kissing and nipping her breasts, her ribs, her navel. He pushed her legs apart and met her heavy gaze with his own, black pupils blown wide, leaving only a ring of silver around them before he dropped his face between her thighs and went to work devouring her.

Oh —” She cried out when his teeth grazed her clit just as he pumped two fingers inside of her, humming in satisfaction when she clenched around his hand. He ate her without abandon, the sounds of his feasting a filthy, sloppy mix of moans and drenched fingers.

She was trembling, moaning his name like he was a god she was begging for repentance from. She clawed at his shoulders, desperate to pull him back, to have him inside her as she came. “Please, please—”

He laughed against her folds, and she shuddered when he crooked his finger just so—

Hermione exploded, throwing her head back, spine arching as her orgasm swept through her. Draco kissed her cunt, licking her harder, nipping her inner thigh as she trembled and rolled through her release. Despite the orgasm, she was still starving, vibrating with pleasure and need. 

She needed more, needed him deep inside her, until he reached her soul and plucked it between her ribs. It was his, her soul, her heart, her mind. All of her was his, and she muttered this, throwing her head back and forth as she incoherently mumbled all of her wants and needs.

His hand skirted between her legs as she trembled, and he used his knee to push her legs impossibly wider, and then his fingers were there, stroking her again. She screwed her eyes closed tight enough she saw stars burst behind her eyelids, whimpering when his fingers found her swollen clit, swirling, teasing.

“You’re—” she threw her arm over her face and moaned into the crook of her elbow. “—being cruel.”

Am I?”

She narrowed her eyes at him over her arm, and then she rolled them when he dragged her hips to the edge of the bed as he stood. He braced one hand on her belly as he guided himself home, slowly conquering her inch by luxurious inch.

He took her hard and fast, forcing her breasts to jump with her gasping breaths and his thunderous thrusts. His eyes fixed on hers, held her captive, and when she let out a breathy, stilted pant as her second orgasm began to crest, his eyes rolled into the back of his head. He grew harder inside of her, and then together they tumbled over the edge, clawing at one another as he collapsed atop her. They kissed, tongues tangling as his thrusts slowed down, until his hips stilled entirely, and all the movement left was the gentle breeze sweeping into the room.

Draco laughed as he cupped her cheeks, peppering her face with kisses. “You little minx.”

She grinned, clicking her teeth together as she nipped the air between them. “Don’t you mean lioness?”

Draco rolled his eyes as he dragged his hands over her hips. “Eat your breakfast, and drink your coffee. I’m taking you out for the day. No more research, no work, no bloody yokai—just us.”

Hermione blinked, surprised. “Really?”

Draco tugged playfully at the ridiculous paper crown still somehow perched atop her curls. “Yes, really. And before you protest, I already planned everything. You don’t get a say.”

She huffed, though there was no real annoyance behind it. “If you insist.”

He pressed a quick kiss to her throat, “I’m going to shower, join me if you’d like once you’ve eaten.”

Hermione sighed, pretending to be exasperated even as she melted into the silk sheets as he pulled away from her, leaving her to turn into a puddle without his strength. 

Fineeeee,” she relented, finally reaching for the coffee on the nightstand as he swaggered to the bathroom attached to his room, giving her a wonderful view of her bare bum in all its firm, muscled glory. “But if this plan involves anything remotely ridiculous—”

Draco smirked over his shoulder, tapping the door frame as he said, “Oh, it definitely does.”

 


 

Draco was not, not panicking. No, he was simply engaging in some highly strategic problem-solving while standing in the middle of a candlelit rooftop terrace, waiting for Potterette to arrive with his witch, to what was, objectively, an utterly spectacular birthday dinner.

Because it was spectacular.

The fairy lights? Perfect. The wine? Exquisite. The view of Diagon Alley's skyline? Absolutely stunning. And the fact that he—former menace, current debatable reformed adult, Auror extraordinaire, expert yokai hunter and giver of fantastic orgasms—had pulled this off without any visible disasters? Miraculous.

So why, exactly, did he feel like he was about to pass out?

Oh, right. Because he loved her, and was going to tell her as much. 

It might have been a mad idea, but he couldn't possibly hold it in a moment longer. He was going to combust if he didn't tell her the truth.

What he should have told her ten days ago.

He didn't just care about Hermione; he loved her. Ardently. Fervently. Eternally. 

Had loved her for months now, in fact.

Relaaaaax,” Theo said with a cheeky grin. “It’s not like she’ll be disgusted by this totally not outlandish display of non-affection.”

“This is just a... simple party for my... co-worker.”

Theo snorted, and clapped Draco on the back. “I’m pretty sure you can give that up. Potter is quite aware that you and Granger are most certainly not keeping things professional.”

Draco slowly swiveled his attention across the terrace, spotting his boss who was sporting a twitching eye and a mean grip on his tumbler of firewhiskey.

Draco gave him a waggled finger wave and quickly turned his back on the Chosen One before Draco found the Chosen Foot up his arse.

Draco checked his watch, fidgeting. It was fine. It wasn’t like Potter would actually fire him at this point. Murder, however, was still a possibility.

Weasley seemed unaware, which Draco supposed was good. He had supplied the hors d'oeuvres table with plenty of finger foods for the ginger menace to distract himself with.

Draco exhaled a shaky breath. 

She’d be here any minute. He smoothed a hand over his shirt, took another slow breath, and did not acknowledge the very real possibility that he wanted this to be the best night of her life, because he had plans. More plans than just the plans he had orchestrated throughout the day.

He was going to bloody tell her he loved her, sans Potter’s permission, despite knowing it broke pretty much all the rules between Principle and Auror.

Why not? It wasn’t as if he had any real reason to wait, aside from the whole yokai business. He’d rather them be transparent about what they were to one another before the very real possibility either of them died. It wasn’t like it really would be that horrible. If anything, it would boost morale amongst their ghost-fighting-group. Draco’s, so he could spend more time fucking Hermione and less time running for his life. Potter’s, so he didn’t burst a coronary artery whilst trying to maintain that professional boundaries were necessary, Weasley’s … well, Draco didn’t give a fuck about Weasley’s morale. 

And when it came to Theo, it would provide a much needed reprieve from his gremlin-like antics.

Japan had changed everything, and in many ways, nothing. It solidified the truth to Draco that he had no intentions of letting Hermine go. Not because he was a sap, of course. But because it was highly inconvenient to be dating the most brilliant, frustrating, beautiful woman on the planet, and not being able to constantly show her off.

A soft pop broke the silence.

And then there she was.

Oh, fuck. He was sweating.

Hermione stepped onto the terrace with Potterette, dark curls swept back, wrapped in that deep emerald dress he had absolutely not suggested she wear (but had maybe, sort of, left a few comments about). She looked stunning. And just for a moment, Draco forgot how to breathe.

She still wore the silly little crown he had made her.

Sweet Salazar. He was fucked.

Thoroughly, irrevocably fucked.

Her gaze swept over the table, the candles, the skyline. Then, slowly, back to him.

“You absolute prat,” she murmured, lips twitching.

Draco smirked, because of course that was her reaction. “Try not to cry, darling.”

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks were flushed, and when she stepped closer, her fingers brushed his before sweeping them behind her back when she heard a choked, muttered curse at their backs.

Draco gave Potter a menacing glare before turning back to Hermione and giving her a megawatt grin. “Impressed?”

She gave a half-shoulder shrug. “Maybe... Did you do this all yourself?”

“Theo may have helped. A temporary cease-fire if you will,” he said, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets. “But the conception of the idea was mine.”

“It’s very thoughtful.”

Draco fidgeted under her attention, feeling slightly (very) uncomfortable over the sentimentality of him throwing her a birthday party when they weren’t exactly a couple. Not one out in the open, at least. It was a necessary lie, one he would only have to cling to for a short while longer, even though admitting to them would probably lead to an avalanche of problems—chief among them being Theo’s insufferable gloating in the corner as he whispered to Potter, whose red face slowly turned into an incomprehensible shade of purple.

Unfortunately, tonight was thoroughly testing his ability to maintain that particular delusion.

The evening had started well. Hermione had been surprised (which was an accomplishment in itself. He swore she could smell secrets), and after a few glasses of wine, she’d even let herself enjoy it with their friends joking about her being so old . He’d endured Weasley’s suspicious glances, Potter’s vaguely threatening glares, and Theo’s knowing smirk with remarkable patience. Potterette was content and drunk, and thus did not bother him at all aside from sending him cheeky winks and lewd gestures whenever she looked between Draco and Hermione.

But now, as the night wound down and the guests started thinning out, Draco felt that familiar gnaw of nerves creeping back in. Because the most dangerous part of the evening was still ahead. Her gift. Or, well, a fraction of it, he supposed.

He’d saved it for last once they were finally alone, just the two of them despite Theo’s attempt at trying to outstay his welcome. It wasn’t because Draco doubted it. He never doubted his taste. But because he was uncharacteristically… uneasy. And Draco did not often get uneasy.

Except, apparently, when it came to his darling witch.

So when the terrace was quiet, and the fairy lights had dulled into a soft flicker, with just the two of them lingering by the railing, Hermione’s hand loosely tangled with his.

Draco cleared his throat as he reached into his pocket, pulling out a small velvet box.

Hermione blinked down at it, brown eyes going wide as she began to stutter out refusals.

“Oh, Draco—I don’t need anything else—you’ve done enough. Oh, you’re opening it—” 

Her blathering faded the moment she saw what was inside.

Nestled in the velvet was a delicate silver necklace, goblin-made, with an ornately cut emerald set amongst silver filigree.

She looked up at him, and tears lined her doe-eyes. “Draco…”

He gave a nervous laugh, for his chest felt oddly tight. “Touch the emerald with your wand.”

She did. And just like that, the terrace was bathed in soft, shimmering light as constellations flickered to life around them. Stars swirled in the air, moving like real celestial bodies, the faintest dusting of cosmic magic dancing throughout the terrace.

Hermione inhaled sharply. “Where did you get this?” She swallowed, looking back at him, eyes wide. “This is—oh, it’s too much, Draco—”

He hesitated. “It belonged to my great-grandmother. Originally, the stone channeled the night sky as it appeared on the day it was first enchanted, but I messed with it a bit. It’s the sky from our first night working together.” He gave her a hesitant, small smile.

Hermione blinked rapidly, and Draco braced himself, because if she cried, he was going to have to start blaming the wine. But instead, she exhaled a shaky laugh, tracing the stone again as another constellation flickered into view. “Draco,” she said, voice warm, affectionate. “This is the most thoughtful, beautiful gift I’ve ever received.”

He rolled his eyes, nudging her chin up with a finger. “Obviously.”

She laughed again, and before he could come up with something particularly clever to follow up with, she leaned in and kissed him. It was soft, and lingering, the kind of kiss that made the rest of the world disappear.

And that was when he realized he was absolutely, completely ruined for her.

He pulled back and placed the necklace around her throat, tapping the stone with his wand to whisk away the constellations. He tucked her hair behind her ear, and chuckled at the crooked paper crown atop her beautiful head.

“Granger, darling.” Draco whispered, searching her warm brown eyes. Fucking hell. He was going to do it, wasn’t he? He wasn’t going to chicken out.

“Hermione,” he said firmer, clearing his throat.

“Yes… ?” She blinked up at him when he struggled to come up with words, and her soft, rosebud lips dropped apart, her brows knitting together in that way they did when she was trying to decipher a particularly complicated equation.

“Fuck it.” He said as his fingers trailed down the side of her neck, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath his touch, before settling on the delicate chain of the necklace. His thumb brushed over the smooth gemstone. “Hermione,” he said again, this time slower, tasting her name like a secret. “I wasn’t planning on saying this tonight.” A pause. “Actually, that’s a lie. I planned it. I planned it ten bloody times over.

Draco exhaled a quiet, breathy laugh and shook his head. “For so long, I’ve wanted you, and all that you are—” he gestured vaguely at her, as if words had simply given up on him. “But my brain turns to absolute rubbish whenever you’re around, and I never say anything that could constitute the true depth of my yearning, yes, yearning. Don’t give me that look.”

She huffed a laugh, and pressed her cheek into his palm after kissing his wrist. When she opened her mouth, he leaned down and quickly smothered her words with his lips.

“Shush. Speak later. I’m trying to work up some nerve at present, and whenever you talk, I flounder.”

He cleared his throat and straightened, giving her a very serious, Malfoy-esque look. 

Her fingers, still resting lightly on his wrist, gave a small squeeze. “Draco—”

He cut her off, because he had momentum now and he wasn’t about to let himself overthink this.

“I love you,” he blurted, then immediately cursed under his breath. “Fuck, that wasn’t supposed to come out like that.”

Hermione inhaled sharply.

Draco groaned, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “That sounded far less suave than intended.”

A breath of laughter escaped her, and he dared a glance up to find her staring at him, eyes shining, lips quirking.

So he doubled down.

“I love you,” he said again, steadier this time. “Despite every reason why I shouldn't, despite the fact that its only been a short while since I’ve come clean, but Merlin, witch, I can’t downplay it a moment longer. You’ve climbed inside me, have made a home in the spaces between my ribs and I’m glad for it. I want you in every way, under my skin, in my head, in my home. Our home. I want a life with you, and I should have told you this in Japan, but I was scared it would push you away. So I resigned myself to hold it in, but I can’t take another moment being dishonest with you about how much I care for you. How much I love you. I would shatter the construct of time for you. I would take on an immortal megalomaniac for you. Well. I likely am, honestly. So, points for me." Draco shook his head, forcing himself to stay on point. "What I'm trying to say, you bloody beautiful, infuriating witch is that I love you even though you’re insufferable in the mornings and leave books in places that actively try to kill me. I love you even though you’re smarter than me and you know it, and you pretend not to gloat about it, which somehow makes it worse. I love you, and the fact that for some reason, you’ve given me a chance whilst we’re in the thick of a yokai infestation, and that you haven't pulled back despite how hard I shove.

Hermione let out a choked laugh, covering her mouth, but he wasn’t done.

“I love you despite me. Despite the fact that I was raised to be everything that should’ve kept us apart. You have forgiven me over and over again for my failures, have overlooked my inadequacies and been so perfectly, amazingly wonderful that there is not a world in which I will not search if I ever lose you. You deserve someone far better at all of this than me, but I will spend my entire life becoming better, being a man who is not just your match, but your equal.”

Her hand trembled slightly as it reached up to touch his face, brushing over his cheek. He turned into the warmth of her palm, exhaling against it.

“So,” he muttered. “Now that I’ve actually embarrassed myself beyond repair, I want you to know that you don’t have to say it back, of course—”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Hermione murmured, cutting him off with a softness that stole his breath away.

He blinked, caught off guard, and she smiled, her eyes glinting with unshed tears.

“Obviously, I love you, Draco.” She cradled his jaw, smoothing her thumb over the bow of his lips. “How could I not love you?”

He didn’t know whether to laugh or let out a relieved breath. 

So, he just stood there, absorbing her confession, watching her like she was the most impossible, beautiful thing he'd ever had the fortune to know.

And she was. She absolutely was.

“Fucking finally.” He growled, and crashed his lips against hers.

Notes:

Ha ha! I'm alive. Super sappy chapter, I know. Not sure if I will regret this, but alas, whatever. It's fanfiction! It's my little world! I love love! Let them love, damnit!

Next chapter out... soon? It will involve the yokai battle, and I was going to put it with this one, but it encroached 20k words and that was insane sooo... smut and sap for you all today. Comments make me happy cry so if you liked this let me know 😭 Happy Thursday!