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Chapter Text

May 2006

The cave was humid and cold, the sun nearly gone, but there was still enough light seeping in from the entrance to guide his way. The man moved cautiously, a torch held out in front of him, flickering and casting shadows on the jagged walls. The dim glow illuminated the path ahead, but he knew the darkness was creeping closer with every step. It was almost time to light the second torch, for he knew that once night fully descended, the cave would become far more treacherous. Behind him, a house-elf trailed cautiously, unsure of every step. His face was twisted in fear, tears streaking down his cheeks as he struggled to breathe, his lips sealed by a cruel magical curse.

The man glanced around, wary of what might be lurking in the shadows. His grip tightened on the torch as he ventured deeper into the cave, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and the faint, unsettling sound of water dripping somewhere in the distance. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t alone. Creatures roamed these parts, creatures that only came out after dusk. He had to stay vigilant.

The torch crackled in his hand, its flame flickering higher, and he took a steadying breath. It was time. He would need the second torch, not just for light, but for protection. As the light from the first torch weakened, the cave seemed to grow darker, its energy turning more ominous. Something was waiting for him—he could feel it deep in his gut.

With the second torch raised high, he pressed on, determined to uncover what lay deeper in the cave. He walked for what felt like hours, deeper and deeper, the path twisting unnaturally. There were no signs of life—no creatures, no sounds—just the oppressive silence of the cave. Eventually, he arrived at a water-filled cavern, the surface dark and still, reflecting the faint light from his torch. Hanging stalactites dripped from the ceiling, their sharp edges glinting like daggers.

In the center of the lake sat a large, dark wooden chest, its surface solid and weathered with age. The man could sense that the water around it was cursed; its unnerving stillness made his stomach churn. He paused, considering his next move. The chest was the prize, but the water could hold dangers beyond his imagination. He took a careful breath, summoning his wand. With a swift motion, he collected a sample of the water, transferring it into a small vial. The liquid swirled darkly inside, resisting containment as if it were alive.

He then extinguished his torch and waited a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

Turning to the house-elf, he gave a sharp command, pointing toward the chest. "Get in the water. Swim to the chest."

Terror flashed in the house-elf’s eyes, but it obeyed, stepping hesitantly into the water. As soon as its feet touched the surface, the man tensed, but nothing happened. The elf waded through the water, its movements quick and fearful, until it reached the small island where the chest rested. It tried to lift the chest, but it was far too heavy for the small creature to budge.

Frustration gnawed at the man’s chest as he watched the elf struggle. Desperate to please, the house-elf hesitated only briefly before attempting to lift the lid. The man, momentarily distracted, heard the faint click of the chest’s latch.

“No, don’t—” he hissed, but it was too late. The chest snapped open with alarming speed, releasing shadows that burst forth faster than the man could blink. A piercing scream echoed from the shadowy figures as they swarmed around them. The house-elf crumpled to the ground, lifeless, his small body still as the shadows lingered for a moment before vanishing into the darkness.

The man remained frozen in the gloom, his torn cloak billowing faintly in the aftermath of the shadows' departure. He didn’t move, stunned into silence. Now that they were free, he knew he would have to find them.

September 30th 2006

Hermione leaned against the vibrant-colored wall of the hospital corridor in the pediatric wing for a few moments, pressing her palm against her forehead. She felt warm and somewhat unwell. The young patient wasn’t responding well to treatment, and despite the past year’s experience, it was still a difficult situation for her to manage. Her colleague Betty walked by and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. Hermione looked up and offered a faint smile in return. Betty was tall, with short blonde hair. She had amazing, big green eyes and freckles all over her face. She was super athletic and spoke with a high-pitched voice.

"I know," Betty replied, echoing her weak smile. "It’s never easy."

Hermione nodded, determination rising within her as she straightened up. She moved in to give Betty a brief hug, thanking her before heading toward the next patient’s room.

The door was ajar, and the mother was surrounded by two young women. The second patient lay in the large hospital bed, even though she could not weigh more than ten pounds. The little girl had a bacterial infection in her blood and was currently on antibiotics. Hermione offered an encouraging smile to the mother and headed toward the sink to wash her hands. She then turned to the mother, who had stood up and was wiping her sweaty, stressed hands on her thighs.

“The results are encouraging. The little one is responding very well to the treatment, and we can now confirm that it was a bacterial infection that got into her blood. We are treating her with intravenous antibiotics, and if all goes well in the next 24 hours, you should be able to go home.”

The young mother quickly relaxed, and Hermione could see the stress leave her body. The two young women beside her nodded in agreement. Hermione assumed they were family, sisters-in-law, as they resembled each other but not the young mother. She touched the little girl’s forehead and made sure that she was firmly wrapped in the little blanket before leaving the room.

The rest of her morning was much the same—visiting patients and discussing cases with her supervising doctor to ensure she made the right decisions, did not miss anything, and confirmed he agreed with her choices. Doctor Lloyd Taylor, an elderly man with a long and remarkable career, had supervised many junior doctors like Hermione. However, he often remarked that Hermione was the most gifted junior doctor with which he had ever worked. He was extremely proud to have her as his final student before his retirement, feeling content and fulfilled by the thought.

Hermione held a great deal of respect for Doctor Taylor and felt fortunate to be working under his guidance, learning from his wealth of experience.

“The patient in room 105 isn’t responding well to the treatment, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it,” she mentioned just as they wrapped up their review of her cases. She stood by the doorway, almost ready to leave Doctor Taylor's office, which was impeccably tidy and clinical. The room had no personal touches—not even a photo of his wife or four sons. Nothing.

“I was thinking that maybe we should run another blood test and review the results again,” she added.

Doctor Taylor nodded. “I know. It is not always easy, but if you think that’s the right course of action, then please do.”

“Thank you, Doctor Taylor.”

As Hermione left the spotless office, she thought about her own messy apartment in the quiet London suburb of Richmond upon Thames. Her walls were lined with pictures from her past—photos of herself, Luna, Ginny, Ron, and Harry from their first years at Hogwarts. There were fewer from their later years, but those seven years at Hogwarts were filled with unforgettable memories. She had also made new friends during her time at Oxford when she decided to reconnect with her Muggle roots. Although magic was still a part of her life, she thoroughly enjoyed living as a Muggle and practicing medicine in the Muggle world.

The day flew by. She started at 5 a.m., so by 4 p.m., she was ready to leave. She was heading into a two-day weekend, and before she left, she made sure to instruct the nurse to run a full blood test on the patient in room 105 so she could review the results the next afternoon, as she often came in on her days off. As she headed home to her apartment, her phone rang. It was Harry.

Since she spent more time in the Muggle world than the Wizarding world, she relied on the phone for communication. Living as a Muggle, it had become an important tool for her. After some initial resistance, Harry and Ginny decided to use the phone to stay in touch with her, as it was the simplest option. While Harry was familiar with phones, Ginny wasn't, and it took them both some time to feel comfortable using it.

She answered even though she did not really feel like it. She was tired and hoped to get to her apartment, read a book, and drink a glass of wine like an old lady.

“Hi, Harry! How are you?”

“I’m fine. And you?”

“Pretty good. How’s Ginny?”

“She’s good too. Listen, we’re all going out for drinks tonight.”

“Who’s ‘all’?” Hermione asked with a suspicious tone.

Harry laughed.
“Ron, Ginny, myself… and a couple of other people from the Ministry.”
“Ugh, I didn’t know, Harry. I wasn’t in the mood to talk about politics and You-Know-Who.”
“We won’t! It is informal, and it would be fun for you to mingle a bit. You are always so busy. I know you aren’t working tonight, so I’m taking the opportunity.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yes, okay, I’ll come. Where were you going?”
“The Old Bell Tavern.”
“Of course you are. What time?”
“6 p.m.”
“Perfect! I’ll be there.”

She barged into her flat quickly and gave Crookshanks a little pat on the head. He was an old magical cat, and she really loved him. She took a quick shower and had a pickled egg, as she did not want to have her first pint on an empty stomach.

Without really knowing why, she decided to put on a black skater skirt with her Dr. Martens boots and a fitted black long sleeves shirt. She also grabbed her old, comfortable wool cardigan with a hood. She did not wear any makeup and chose not to blow-dry her hair; it was messy and bushy, and she liked it that way.

She decided to take the train to Waterloo and then the Tube to Ludgate Circus. She was not the type to get drunk, but you never knew how late those nights could get, especially since she was not working the next morning. She felt she could use the time to relax and think about something else. The train was busy as usual on a Thursday night, and she felt lucky to find a seat at the end of the carriage. The 30-minute train ride would be pleasant, as she could read her book. She opened her satchel to get it and began to read.

The sun slowly set, casting a beautiful yellowish hue that she loved so much. The weather got colder in October, but it was always her favorite month of the year. She had always been fond of the spooky season and thought it was because she was a witch; she had loved it even when she was just a Muggle living her life before Hogwarts.

She thought about her parents, who were still in Australia. She had to Obliviate them before leaving to find the Horcrux, and she had never been able to lift the spell. She saw them sometimes, but she realized her mom was suffering from deep depression after seeing her. Hermione visited them and passed them by in markets or malls. The love her mother had for Hermione was still there, but the loss—combined with the fact that she no longer remembered—still hurt her.

Over time, the visits became less frequent, and Hermione continued studying to find a reversal spell. But as the years passed, she lost hope. She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she didn’t notice right away the person who had just come to sit next to her. Suddenly, she felt quite sad, as if everything was about to die. For a moment, it seemed like the sun was hiding, and the carriage grew darker, almost as if it were night. She looked up, and everyone around her was staring at the tall person beside her. They all seemed to be afraid of him.

Hermione froze; for a moment, she had the unsettling feeling that he was a Dementor. But then the sun reappeared, and the person next to her stood up to leave at the next stop. The people around her resumed chatting, and the normal sounds buzzed in her ears as if nothing had happened. Hermione knew something had just occurred, and being too familiar with the Wizarding world, she sensed it must be connected, though she didn't know exactly what it meant.

She realized she needed to report the situation to Ron and Harry, but she wasn't in the mood for that kind of conversation that day. The train arrived at her destination, and she had to leave to catch the Tube to Ludgate Circus station. As she stood up, she noticed her legs felt shaky, and she had difficulty breathing. She followed the flow of traffic until she passed her ticket at the gate, then moved to the side for a few moments to catch her breath.

The rest of the ride was uneventful, and she arrived right on time at The Old Bell Tavern. Harry and Ginny were already there, sitting at the end of the bar. She gave them a brief nod and smile before heading to the bar to grab a pint. While waiting for her drink, she felt a friendly hand on her hip and a breath on her neck. She didn’t even flinch; she knew who would take that kind of liberty with her.

“Hello, Miss.”
“Hi, Ron. How are you?”
“I’m good, and you?”
“Pretty good, busy.”
“As always.”

She turned around to find herself close to him, his arm draped across her body and his hand resting on the bar behind her. For an instant, she felt that familiar flutter she used to get during their seven years searching for Horcruxes. Ron was tall and still had his trademark red hair, but he had trained a lot and had gained considerable muscle. However, the feeling quickly faded as their eyes met. He was a handsome guy; he knew it and used it to his advantage with the ladies.

They were better as friends who occasionally annoyed each other than as a couple. Ron and Hermione were very much alike—smart and loyal—but for some reason, the spark they had never developed into something deeper, though they genuinely liked each other and were remarkably close. Especially since Harry and Ginny were now officially together, this had forced Ron and Hermione to strengthen their friendship. Ron was his confidant, and Hermione was hers.

She playfully punched him in his hard abdominal muscles and moved past him with her beer to join the lovely couple. She sat down, waved at them, and took a sip of her drink. Holding her pint with both hands, she noticed Ron sitting down and looking at her.

“You must stop doing that, Granger. It’s way too cute, and I might think you’re trying to flirt with me.”
“What are you talking about again?” she asked, rolling her eyes.
“Holding your pint with both hands and sipping it while looking at me with those big eyes.”
She scoffed. “Oh my god, you’re the worst. I wasn’t looking at you!”
Ginny and Harry started laughing, and Ginny elbowed her brother. “Stop flirting with her; you had your chance. It’s over.”

“I know, I know,” he said, changing the subject. “How’s everything with you, Granger, aside from being busy in the Muggle world?”

“Nothing new, really. Still working a lot to get my license. I am almost done with my two-year foundation.”
“Are you still practicing healing magic?”
“Yes, I am. I have training tomorrow.”

They looked at her, all the three of them serious.
“You’re an amazing witch; you should come back and work more in the Wizarding world. Harry told her - We need people like you, especially since we don’t know yet what would happen.”

Hermione felt a pang of silence. She knew they didn’t approve of her life choices, and she felt more and more pressured by their disapproval. For a moment, she thought about mentioning what had happened on the train.

Ginny glanced at them and decided it was time to change the subject. She didn’t want the three of them to pressure her. She rarely came to these happy hours and didn’t feel it was the right moment to push her limits.
“Look who’s here! Luna and Neville!”

Hermione looked at Ginny with appreciation and stood up to welcome Luna and Neville. She gave Luna a big kiss on the cheek. She hadn’t seen her for the last six months and was eager to catch up. Luna took a sit next to Hermione and gave her again a hug.

"It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other," Luna said, her voice light and casual. "You know, even though I came with Neville, we’re not together. I’m seeing someone."

Hermione, used to Luna’s straightforward and sometimes awkward conversations, gave a faint smile. She acknowledged the fact that Luna wasn’t with Neville, even though everyone had always assumed they would eventually end up together.

"We know," Hermione replied. "I just think everyone is secretly hoping that you two will one day."

"People never understand the friendship between a man and a woman," Luna said matter-of-factly.

Hermione laughed mildly, nodding as she understood what Luna meant. Luna continued talking about her love life, but Hermione became a little distracted as the bar grew louder. She understood that Luna was seeing someone but couldn’t quite grasp who it was. Just as she was about to ask for clarification, Luna suddenly climbed up onto the table to make her way to the other side. She had spotted Cho arriving and decided to speak with her. Everyone started laughing, trying to protect their beers and glasses, as Luna carefully balanced herself on the table and maneuvered to get past.

"Luna, come on, mate!" Neville called out, still laughing. "You’re incorrigible!"

Hermione saw Cho walking toward them and waved in her direction. Cho waved back, and soon, Luna—who had managed to jump off the table with her beer intact—was deep in conversation with Cho.

The night went well, and Hermione had more fun than she expected. She was introduced to many members of the Ministry of Magic, met with friends of friends, and even got an invitation for the Halloween night of the Ministry of Magic. She didn’t even know they had social activities.

She stepped outside for a few minutes as the crowded bar got hotter and hotter. It was dark, and when she looked at her watch, she noticed it was already 9 PM. She was on her third pint and looked at it in her hand; it was half full, and she thought it would be the last one before heading home. Many people were outside, seeking fresh air, and Hermione needed a moment alone—just a quick second.

She walked to the side of the building to distance herself from the crowd and leaned against the wall. She had removed her sweater and felt the cold brick against her back, her shirt not quite thick enough to shield her from the chill. It was refreshing.

She let her head fall back with her eyes closed for a minute, enjoying the emptiness of her mind. The alcohol had soothed her usual anxiety, which she would probably pay for the next morning, but for now, she felt completely relaxed, and she liked it.

She suddenly heard the crowd talking louder, and she had no choice but to open her eyes and slowly move back into the bar. This little moment reminded her that it was time to go, so she put her pint down on the bar and walked across the room to say her goodbyes. She kissed Ron, Harry, and Ginny on the cheek, gave Luna a big hug, and grabbed her satchel, ready to leave. She didn’t feel like looking around in the crowded bar for the others and hoped she could leave discreetly.

As she turned around, she bumped into something extremely tall, wide, and solid. Her head barely reached chest level, and she was about to lose her balance when two hands grabbed her arms to steady her. His hands felt warm against her now colder skin from the brief time she had spent outside. She looked up to see the person she had accidentally collided with and froze in stupefaction, as if she had just been stunned.

Draco Malfoy.

He looked down at her, and it was as if he didn’t recognize her for a moment. His hands remained firmly grasping her arms, and she felt his grip tighten for an instant, drawing her closer, as if he too had experienced the electric shock of their encounter. A rush of warmth and cold coursed through her veins as their eyes locked. The noise of the bar faded to a low hum, and all she could hear was a slight buzzing sound. She tilted her head slightly, furrowing her brow, noticing the depth of his grey eyes shifting to a stormy grey. As she parted her lips to draw a breath, his gaze was drawn to her mouth, and his eyes darkened even further.

“Draco” Hermione whispered, and this seemed to pull him out of his stupor. He didn’t answer; he quickly released her arms with a disgusted look, as if she were dirt beneath him.

Her eyes widened as she remembered he was a stupid racist, an elitist who likely still clung to pureblood ideology. She moved past him and left the bar quickly, not looking back.

Draco turned to watch her leave, surprised to see her there. He had heard that she wasn’t active in the wizarding world anymore, that she understood her place, and that she had been studying and now practicing Muggle medicine for the last eight years. However, he had to admit she still looked great, and her fitted black shirt and skirt made her extremely attractive. He pinched his nose for a moment, wondering what was happening to him, thinking that the “Mudblood” was appealing with her bushy hair. He thought for a moment about Astoria, a tall, pristine pureblood who would never go out with her hair like that or in combat boots, but for some reason, this realization didn’t make him feel any better. He took a large sip of his pint of beer and ordered another one.

Chapter Text

June 2006

Draco was seated, relaxed in the armchair of the Greengrass manor, watching his Firewhiskey glass as the firelight passed through it, casting shadows on the walls. He had been summoned by Astoria’s father to discuss some urgent matters at the Ministry and was waiting for him in the salon after the supper he had been invited to. Astoria and her mother were going out for the night—another useless event Draco would have to attend later. Malcolm Greengrass was an eminent figure in the wizarding world, extremely influential within both British and international political circles.

Draco, who had started his training eight years ago with Shacklebolt, had deepened his connections with pureblood families, as it came naturally for him to do so. Malcolm was now the head of the Ministry’s Department of International Magical Cooperation. Draco, having specialized in building relationships across different countries in the last eight years, worked closely with him. He often referred to himself as the "whore of service" for both the Greengrasses and Shacklebolt. The thought of it brought one of his rare smiles to his lips.

The door opened, letting a house-elf enter. Draco lifted his eyes slightly, giving the creature a brief glance. The house-elf, without speaking, made a gesture to Draco, bowing, and looked at the now-empty glass Draco was holding, offering to either refill it or take it away. Draco dismissed it without even looking at the elf, keeping his empty glass. The creature vanished, and soon, Malcolm made his entrance.

"My son, how are you?" Malcolm asked, a wide smile on his lips as he walked toward Draco and extended his hand.

Draco stood and walked over to Malcolm, presenting his right hand to shake his. Malcolm took it and placed his hand on Draco’s shoulder.

"Another Firewhiskey before we join the ladies at the Zabini reception?" Malcolm asked.

Draco shook his head. "No, thanks, Mr. Greengrass. I have a feeling the night will be long."

"It will, it will," Malcolm agreed, inviting Draco to sit back in the armchair. "Sit, my son."

Draco always hated the way Mr. Greengrass spoke to him, calling him "my son." He knew that the fact that he was “seeing,” a big word, Astoria, was something that made the Greengrasses extremely happy. Two big pureblood families coming together was definitely the dream of both their parents. However, Draco wasn’t there yet with Astoria.

Draco sat, placing both arms on the armrests of the black sofa, closer to the fire. He knew that Mr. Greengrass was waiting for him to show curiosity about why he wanted to speak with him, but Draco, with experience, had learned that the more they wanted something, the more power you had over them—even for the smallest thing. Finally, Malcolm decided to speak.

"I was with the Ministry of Magic in the United States this afternoon. There’s a rumor that the Tenebralith were released in Canada."

Draco didn’t flinch. He just looked at Malcolm with attention.

"You know what the Tenebralith are, my son?"

Draco stifled a sigh of annoyance in his mind and almost rolled his eyes. Malcolm was so condescending, but like a good "son," Draco simply nodded, keeping his expression serious.

"Yes, sir. They are dark shadows that were held in Canada a very long time ago. They’re almost a myth, but the Ministry of Magic has been studying them for quite some time now."

Malcolm looked at him with a satisfied smile on his face, as though everything Draco knew or had become was because of him.

"Good, son, good. Yes, and we have near certainty that they were found and released earlier this year."

Draco nodded, his mind racing. It will be important that Shacklebolt is made aware as soon as possible. Draco didn’t want to ask the question, but he was wondering if he could make Greengrass confess—was he happy that they had been released?

Malcom took the parole again.

"We’ll need to make sure Shacklebolt is aware," he said, with a look of distaste.

Their rivalry was not something of the past, Draco thought, judging by Malcolm’s tone. Greengrass had run for the Ministry of Magic since the Battle of Hogwarts but had never managed to oust Shacklebolt from his position.

Draco had to admit, even though Shacklebolt was annoying, he was a hell of a politician—knowing everything, being a strategist, able to take advice, ask questions, remove himself from certain situations, and manipulate others when necessary. Draco had to give credit where it was due. Shacklebolt was brilliant, and everything with him was well thought out. He played chess, years in advance.

"You know, this is setting something in motion, and we don’t even know what it is," Malcolm said.

Draco had an idea, just as Shacklebolt probably did. Draco was pretty sure Shacklebolt knew everything already; how, Draco had no idea, but he was sure of it.

Draco waited a moment to see if Malcolm would say anything else. His gaze shifted to his forearm, where the Dark Mark was. That was one of his tactics when speaking with former Death Eaters—subtly reminding them that he had been the youngest one. Malcolm smiled at Draco, as though they both understood each other but didn’t say anything further.

Draco stood up and, for the first time since the meeting began, initiated the conversation.

"I’ll reach Shacklebolt tonight."

"Thank you, son. But for now, let’s join our women at the Zabinis’ reception."

October 2006

Crookshanks was particularly vocal that morning as Hermione woke up, not feeling super amazing but better than she had expected. She pulled her hair into a messy bun and grabbed a pair of sweatpants and a sports bra. She paused for a moment, remembering not only last night but also the weird dream she had during the second half of the night. Crookshanks was meowing loudly, so she headed to the kitchen to open a can of food for him, giving him a mock annoyed look while he ate, finally satisfied that she had listened. After putting on her running shoes and grabbing her phone, she left the flat for her morning run. It wasn’t her best run today, as she was feeling a bit hungover. She wasn’t used to alcohol, so just a little was given her a hard time. Her thoughts were not highly organized either.

She had been running for only 10 minutes looking at the house and tree that were in the street. She was thinking about how pleasant was last night to see all her old friend like Luna or Neville, how Harry and Ginny seem happy, Ron always so annoying. She had a pleasant smile on her face while her mind also moves from visage she didn’t really know, the invitation that she got for the Halloween night…

She suddenly stopped running when her mind drifted to the moment she met Draco. She remembered the feeling, as if life was leaving her body. His eyes had looked at her, as if he could read her, and the disgusted look he gave her when she said his name made it feel like she wasn’t allowed to. Her mind floated to her dream as well; she was on the train, everything was perfect, and suddenly a Dementor came for her, taking her breath away and leaving her for dead.

She shook her head to dispel the panic that overtook her, struggling to calm her breath, unsure if it was from the run or the anxiety coursing through her body. Feeling uncertain, she resumed running and mentally noted to call Harry while driving to the hospital.

When she arrived at the hospital later that day, Hermione realized that she hadn’t called Harry. She felt irresponsible and promised herself to give him a call before the end of the day. She smiled at the receptionist on the third floor and headed directly to her locker to change.

Making her way to the laboratory, she asked if the results for patient 105 were in. Marty was there and smiled briefly at her.

“You know you don’t have to come here to get the results. I always enter them in the system. They’ve been there for ten minutes,” he said.

“I know, but I like to come say hi. You play a significant role in finding the right cure for the little ones we have here. Do you know if Doctor Taylor has reviewed them?” Hermione replied.

“No, I’m unsure, but knowing him, he’s probably already done it,” Marty responded.

Hermione nodded and took the printed results, which they had predicted she would want. She bit her lip as she examined the paper, sensing that there was something they were missing—something that hadn’t been seen yet. As she passed a vending machine, she grabbed a sandwich and walked to her office.

Her office stood in stark contrast to Doctor Taylor’s. Hermione had pictures, plants, and books, with documents piling on her desk. Everything was well organized and neat, yet there was an abundance of materials cluttering her workspace. She sat down and opened her drawer, retrieving a pen from her pencil case. She needed time to examine the results from a different angle. Taking a bite of her sandwich, she spent the rest of the afternoon buried in books, medical journals, and databases.

The sun was long gone when she finally closed the book she had been reading on blood cancers. She ran her hand along the back of her neck, rubbing it gently as she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Leaning back in her chair, she brought her hand to her face, rubbing her eyes and feeling a wave of discouragement wash over her. She switched off the light on her desk by pulling down the chain and locked her door behind her.

Walking slowly to room 105, she peered through the small window. The patient’s parents were inside, and she didn’t feel like engaging with them, especially since she had no new information since yesterday. She knew the child’s condition was stable for now, but he wasn’t improving. Deciding to head to the locker room to change, she made a mental note to call Harry when she got home.

She was alone in the locker room when Betty entered, starting her shift. Betty was a friend she had made at Oxford; they had both studied medicines there and they were completing their two-year foundation at the Royal London Hospital. They were taking part in the rotational program and had ended up in pediatric care at the same time. While Hermione increasingly considered specializing in pediatrics, Betty found it a bit overwhelming and hoped to leave this wing shortly.

“Starting your shift already?

‘’Coming in on your day off? Don’t you have anything else to do? You don’t want to meet someone? At least head to the emergency room; there’s an amazing young doctor there.”

Hermione gave her a small snort and smiled.

“I don’t feel like it yet.”

“Who or what hurt you that much? You never talk about it, but something must have happened.”

Hermione looked at her for a moment, contemplating whether to open or not. But she felt it was too risky. All her memories prior to Oxford were rooted in the Wizarding World, and she didn’t want to scare Betty into thinking she was losing her mind.

“Haha, nothing happened to me, seriously. I just never found the one.”

The moment those words left her mouth, Hermione felt a blush creep up her cheeks as a sudden thought of Draco flashed through her mind, which she quickly pushed away. She was just troubled by last night and their encounter—nothing more.

"I actually met up with some high school friends yesterday," Hermione said. "They work for the Ministry now. They invited me to a Halloween party."

"Oh, that sounds fun! Are you inviting me?" Betty teased.

Hermione hesitated for a moment—there was no way she could invite her. "It's invitation-only, but I’ll ask if I can bring a plus one."

Betty chuckled, catching the hesitation. "Oh, sure. Go ahead and investigate it," she said with a laugh, fully knowing Hermione would not and perfectly fine with it.

Hermione realized how isolated she had become, building walls to keep her two worlds apart. In that moment, the weight of her loneliness struck her, and she wondered if it was because of her decision to immerse herself in the Muggle world. Deep down, she knew it had much to do with her parents. During the war, when their lives were in danger, she had no choice but to Obliviate them, erasing herself from their memories. She chose Harry and the Wizarding World over her family.

After Harry's victory, Hermione was confident she could restore her parents' memories and reunite with them. But it was too late; despite all her efforts, including extensive research and studies at St. Mungo's Hospital, she had failed to bring their memories back. That sense of failure haunted her, driving her to return to the Muggle world, following in her parents' footsteps. Both were brilliant, successful dentists, and, in some way, living in their world felt like a way to honor them, even though she could never fully bring them back.

The burden of that loss, the choice she made, and the life she now led lingered in her, leaving her with a profound sense of guilt and loneliness.

Hermione give her a big smile that only her knew was fake and open her arm to give Betty a big hug. Betty looked at her with a biggest smile and told her to stop faking the smile, she looks creep and gave her a hug while laughing.

Hermione left the hospital and walked to the parking lot to get to her car. She knew she had to call Harry to report what happened yesterday on the train and felt that it would be a difficult and extended conversation. She engaged in the street while her phone was ringing.

“Hermione?”

“Hi Harry, how are you? How’s Ginny?”

“We are good, and you? Everything is fine?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Actually…” Hermione took a deep breath. “I am calling to report something that I found weird, and I think it can be related to dark magic.”

She felt Harry becoming stiff on the phone.

“Yes?”

“Yesterday, while coming to the bar, I took the train from home to the tube.”

“Ok, yes? And?”

“In the train, I was reading a book. It was, I don’t know, maybe 15 past 5 PM, and suddenly the sun disappeared. I felt like something was wrong next to me, like a Dementor was in the train. I was feeling the desperation. Everybody was looking at the man next to me, but then, before I was able to realize it, he stood up and moved to the door to exit. The sun came back, and the people were chatting again like nothing had ever happened.”

Harry was silent on the other side of the line.

“I know I should have told you —”

“Yes, you should have. This is important, Hermione, and I know that you don’t care that much about the wizarding world, but this can impact the Muggle world as well.”

“I do care. You don’t have to be mean to me. I do care; I just didn’t know when to bring it up. I was about to, but the moment didn’t present itself.”

“Ok, I must go. I need to connect with Ron and Ginny on this. Thanks for telling me.”

“Ok, Harry, but if I can help —”

But she heard the silence that happens when someone has already disconnected the line.

Hermione got home feeling sad and discouraged, but she did not have that much time to dwell on her fate. She took a quick shower, ate a salad, and put the bowl in the empty sink. She opened a can for Crookshanks and gave him a quick pet on the head as she moved to the center of the living room. She then apparated to St. Mungo’s Hospital, ready for her magical healing course with Healer Stroud.

She apparated to the reception; even though most of the healers usually apparated to their offices, Hermione liked to say hi to the receptionist and signal her presence. Something that was more Muggle than Wizard now that she was thinking about it. She walked to her office, changed rapidly, and walked to Healer Stroud's office. While her relationship with Doctor Taylor was important, marked by kindness, great knowledge, and exchanges with his students, Healer Stroud was elitist, more difficult to approach, and Hermione always felt as if she was forced to impress him, whereas with Doctor Taylor, he was proud of mentoring her. However, despite her more challenging relationship with Healer Stroud, Hermione had to admit to herself that he was extremely knowledgeable and had taught her a lot. Without him, she wouldn’t be as skilled with healing charms and fabricating antidotes. She has been learning healing charms for the last five years, considering that the training to become a healer is not as structured as that of a doctor in the Muggle world. Healer Stroud has been encouraging her to move to either Canada or the United States to learn more about magical healing, but it is important to Hermione to complete her medical studies in London before moving on to something else. She has been seriously considering Canada once she gets her license to practice in the Muggle world, which Healer Stroud highly disapproves of, as he believes she should prioritize the wizarding world.

Their night started slowly as Hermione was looking at new patient and administering healing charm.

At midnight, Hermione was about to finish her shift and slowly walked to Healer Stroud's office for the debrief of the night. She entered the room without knocking, as it was not in their habit, but she found him with someone else. She froze in place while the tall, blond man moved around and looked at her. Draco Malfoy was with Healer Stroud. Hermione looked at him, mouth open for a second, and she worked on her composure a minute later. Draco stared at her and didn’t say a word while Healer Stroud stood up and walked to Hermione.

"I assume that you know Hermione Granger. She is a healer here at the St. Mungo facilities."

Draco didn’t answer yet; his body, which had stiffened for a minute when he saw her, was now relaxed as he switched his weight onto one leg, giving her a snobbish look. They looked at each other, and the silence became awkward in the room.

Healer Stroud, who clearly was not used to being ignored, had a quick cough and looked at Hermione as if she were the one that didn’t answer. She gave him a quick nod and told him that she was coming to provide the night debrief before heading home. Healer Stroud looked at Draco for a second time.

Draco totally ignored Hermione and told Healer Stroud that they would continue this conversation shortly, his tone was aggressive, like he was mad that she has see him. He passed by Hermione without looking at her, walking off into the corridor where she heard his apparition. He was gone.

Healer Stroud looked at her as if she were the one hiding something. He asked for her debrief, and while she went through the different care she had provided, he stopped her.

‘’Regarding the patient who came with a blood infection…’’ he asked her - what happened?’’

She mentioned that the patient arrived around 11 PM that night. She had cast a localized healing spell and quickly detected that it was blood poisoning but could not identify the cause. The patient was unconscious and unable to provide any insight into the situation. She rapidly took a blood sample and ran a more thorough analysis, quickly detecting that it was not a potion or a curse that had caused the blood to react this way; it seemed more like a genetic disease. However, she noticed something powerful in the blood—it was dark magic, but undetectable by a healing spell, and she had to do the analysis.

Healer Stroud was listening to her; she knew she had his full attention, and he was looking for the conclusion of her debrief.

"We didn’t have much time, and I had to make a decision quickly. So, I used a Thes…

"…tral extract by intravenous and provided a blood replenishing potion as well.”  Healer Stroud cut her off and finished the sentence for her. “How did you know that the Thestral essence would counteract or stabilize the dark magic in his blood?”

“It was an intuition, it made sense to me, following all the reading I had done and by shadowing you over the last five years.”

“You are such a waste, Hermione Granger, in the Muggle world. However, next time, I will need to be made aware before you administer this type of care to a patient. Dark magic is extremely dangerous, and this could have backfired, especially since you do not have any training with dark magic.”

She looked at him for a second and nodded, even though she was extremely mad at him. She had done that and was able to stabilize the poor man; he should thank her. But she knew he was right; she had no training in healing dark magic.

“The patient will need your care,” she told him and asked if there was anything else that she could do for him. He dismissed her, and she left the office.

As Hermione walked down the corridor, she could not help but think about why Draco was there and what he wanted with Healer Stroud. Hermione did not know much about Draco, except that after their seven years at Hogwarts, Draco had left for the United State. She had learned over time that he was working in various ministries across the world and that he was also in relationship with the Muggle Ministry around the world, which was again extremely odd to Hermione, considering his character. He had barely been able to speak with her; how was he able to sustain relationships with the Muggle ministry? Hermione was starting to have too many questions and stopped for a minute, wondering why she had been thinking about Draco Malfoy so often in the last 48 hours.

The next morning, Hermione stayed in bed a little longer than usual. She was exhausted and did not feel like moving at all. She stood up for a quick minute to provide fresh water and food for Crookshanks, but then she returned to bed, putting her head under the covers. She felt Crookshanks on the bed and the usual kneading as he made his bed. It was still early when she looked at her watch: 7:30 a.m. But for her, being an early bird, she knew something was wrong. The covers were super soft on her skin, and her bed was so comfortable. She let herself fall asleep.

She found herself standing alone in a dark corridor. She didn’t know how she had appeared there, where she was, or why she was there. Suddenly, she started hearing horrible screams and loud noises. She reached into her back pocket and found her wand. She brought it forward and whispered, “Lumos,” and a white-yellowish light emerged from the wand. Someone was at the far end of the corridor. She didn’t notice at first, but the corridor was made of dark bricks, and there was a lot of humidity coming from it, almost like she was in a cave close to water.

Someone screamed her name, and as she walked, she heard more horrible screams, as if someone was suffering from a curse.

Hermione suddenly woke up with her chest compressed. She looked around, realizing she was still in her bed. She put her hand on her forehead, moved it to her cheek and then her chest, trying to rationalize the situation and telling herself that it was just a dream.

She had been under a lot of stress recently and had been working tirelessly without allowing herself a day of rest. She decided to grab her sports bra and sweatpants and go for a run.

It was 1 p.m. when she walked onto the third floor of the Royal London Hospital. It was still her day off, but she wanted to review the blood results of patient 105 one more time. She changed quickly and headed to room 105 to see him and verify his condition.

Both parents weren’t there, which was rare. She washed her hands at the sink and moved closer to the bed to look at him. He seemed so small in that big bed. She didn’t want to touch the bar but did lean closer and quickly touch his forehead. He was still burning, but the antibiotics were at least stabilizing his condition for now, but she know that he was getting worse a little bit every week.

She thought about the different books and cases she had read in the last couple of weeks, and she couldn’t understand why they hadn’t found anything in his blood test that would explain why his organs were failing. Hermione was about to leave the room when she thought about casting a healing detection spell on him. She knew it was illegal; she knew it was probably dangerous, and she wouldn’t find anything since the kid had never been exposed to magic, but something—her intuition—told her it was the right thing to do.

She reached into the pocket of her white coat and quickly cast the charm, her mouth dropping open when she saw a dark floating shadow filament appearing in the center of the golden globe.

Chapter Text

August 2006

Shacklebolt looks at the three Aurors in his office that morning: Potter and the two Weasleys. He also glances at his most trusted advisor, Malfoy. They are young, fierce, and he feels pleased to be surrounded by such talented people.

They provide their latest reports on their mission. For the past month, they have been searching for any sign of the Tenelabrith or any wizard linked to them. Malfoy has just returned from Canada, while Harry and Ron have come back from the United States, specifically Utah. Ginny is working on a case in Britain involving an old pureblood family.

The four of them are not friends, and they don’t enjoy working together, but given the gravity of the situation over the past four months, they have no other choice.

Draco, as usual, looks annoyed and stares out the window, ignoring the other people in the room.

“I didn’t find much,” Malfoy begins, “but I did manage to speak to a healer, Saimaniq, in Canada. She’s based in Montreal. Extremely intelligent woman, and she was able to explain to me what the Tenelabrith represent in their culture, even if she wasn’t herself aware of much about it.”

Malfoy moves away from the window, his gaze falling on the three Aurors sitting in front of Shacklebolt’s desk. “It’s difficult to explain. A lot of it involves spirits that once were, but essentially, they are dark creatures, almost evil. She mentioned ‘almost evil’ because to be evil, you need to have lived—and these creatures never have. They were captured long ago, and since they couldn’t be destroyed, they were imprisoned and protected by wards and curses so dangerous that no one can survive them.

“She also specified that they aren’t from her culture, so she isn’t as familiar with them and didn’t know exactly where they came from. The legend she mentioned only indicated that they were imprisoned here, in Canada, though she wasn’t entirely certain about that either. That’s why I sent you to Utah,” he adds, his voice calm but sharp. “It was the second location she mentioned as a possibility.”

Harry nods, leaning back in his chair and glancing at Ginny.

“What do you think, Ginny?” he asks.

Ginny stands and paces in a circle for a few seconds. She plays with her hair and bites her lip, deep in thought.

She suddenly stops and looks directly at Draco, her gaze locking onto his pale grey eyes—almost translucent, starkly contrasting with his pupils.
“If I understood correctly,” she says, “she implied they can be remnants of the past or fragments of spirits. Could they be a connection between life and death? As they ‘are’ but never ‘were’?”

As she speaks, her eyes drift from Draco’s to Harry’s, seeking his affirmation. Draco’s eyes follow her gaze and catch the pride in Potter’s expression as he looks at Ginny, a silent demonstration of love that irritates him.

Draco answers cautiously. The idea isn’t stupid, but he doesn’t know, and it wasn’t something he discussed with the healer.

“I’ll reach out to her again and let you know,” he says.

“I wish we had Hermione with us,” Ron says with a sad smile.

Draco looks at him with a blank expression, slipping his hands into his pockets. He’s not entirely sure why he feels irritated—whether it’s the mention of that Mudblood’s name or something else.

“She’s so smart,” Ron continues. “She’d know exactly which book to look into for more information. I still don’t understand why she has no interest in magic anymore.”

Ginny spins to face him, her eyes blazing with anger. “You know why,” she snaps. “You’re just too selfish to understand it.”

“Anything to report from Utah?” Shacklebolt asks, cutting off the conversation with a tone that makes it clear the subject is of no interest to him. He turns his focus to Ron and Harry, steering the discussion back to their mission.

Harry shakes his head. “We met with the state minister and talked extensively about the Tenelabrith and the potential impact they could have, but we didn’t uncover anything specific.”

“Ginny, anything to report from the family?” Shacklebolt asked.

Ginny shook her head, and Shacklebolt dismissed them

“Excuse me. I have another meeting to attend.”

As they left the office, Draco was about to Apparate, preparing to travel to Canada again, when Shacklebolt called out to him.

“Wait...”

Draco paused, turning back. He leaned against the wall he had been close to moments before, exhaustion etched on his face.

“Yes?” he said, tired.

“Granger.”

Draco straightened, removing his hands from his pockets. His posture grew noticeably stiff.

“What about her?”

“She’s been studying medicine for the last eight years. She’s currently doing her foundation training at the Royal London Hospital. Apparently, she works with children.”

“Yes, that’s what I heard,” Draco replied evenly. “She’s removed herself completely from the wizarding world.”

“Do you know why?” Shacklebolt asked.

Draco hesitated. He had no idea, though he found himself suddenly desperate to know. Still, he would never admit it. He shrugged with feigned indifference.

“She felt guilty for erasing her parents’ memories and was never able to recover them,” Shacklebolt explained. “She believes magic hurt them, and that guilt made her walk away from it all. But I’ve recently learned something else.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, listening intently despite his casual demeanor.

“Five years ago, she approached Healer Stroud at St. Mungo’s. She’s been learning magical healing techniques from him. So, even though she claimed she wanted nothing to do with magic, she kept one foot in it—to help the injured.”

Draco’s lips tightened. That sounded just like her—always driven to help those she deemed oppressed or in need. Still, he couldn’t shake the suspicion that, beneath it all, she was secretly delving into magical healing with the ultimate goal of uncovering a way to restore her parents' memories.

“With all due respect, Shacklebolt, I’m not sure why you’re telling me all this,” Draco said, his tone measured.

“I think we need Hermione to train with Healer Saimaniq,” Shacklebolt replied.

Draco felt anger rise in his chest, spreading like fire. He wanted to tell Shacklebolt to leave the Mudblood out of this entirely, but instead, he forced a smile and leaned back against the wall once more.

“Enlighten me with your idea, Shacklebolt.”

“She is one of the most brilliant witches the wizarding world has ever known,” Shacklebolt began. “She now possesses Muggle medical knowledge as well as magical healing expertise. That makes her invaluable.

“But it also makes her a target,” he continued. “She’ll be one of the most sought-after witches by Death Eaters if—or when—You-Know-Who returns. She’s one of the three who brought him down. For her own protection, and for the sake of our efforts, she needs to gather more details on the Tenelabrith and join our forces. The sooner, the better.”

Draco’s expression didn’t falter, but his jaw tightened. Shacklebolt’s reasoning was sound, yet, without exactly knowing why, the thought of involving the Mudblood made his stomach flicker uneasily.

October 2006

“Mrs. Hermione Granger.” A deep, strong voice echoed through the courtroom.

Hermione looked at the magistrate and responded loudly, “Yes.”

“You know why you have been summoned to this court today.” He asked, looking down at her over his round glasses.

“Yes, I know,” she said in a steady, confident voice.

“The Ministry of Magic reported that on Saturday, October 21st, 2006, you cast a healing-detection spell on a Muggle who was sick at the Royal London Hospital.” His tone carried an accusatory edge, as if she were already condemned.

“Yes, I did,” she answered, her confidence unwavering.

“Were you fully aware that it is prohibited by law to administer healing spells on Muggles?”

“Yes, I know.”

“So, Mrs. Granger, we would like to know why you did it and what your defense is in this case.”

Hermione glanced around the room for a moment. She stood in the center, surrounded by magistrates and wizards who had come to witness the proceedings. The Wizengamot was present, though fewer in number than during Fudge’s time.

Harry, Ron, and several Aurors stood among the spectators. Seeing familiar faces reassured her. Then, she noticed Minister Shacklebolt seated nearby, and at his side, Draco Malfoy—his usual expression of boredom making it clear he would rather be anywhere else. Life, to him, always seemed like some ridiculous, obligatory passage.

Their eyes met for less than a second, but something warm stirred in Hermione’s belly, giving her a renewed sense of confidence. She straightened her back, squared her shoulders, and prepared to explain herself when the courtroom doors opened.

Healer Stroud entered, his presence drawing every gaze in the room. As he walked toward the center, a murmur spread through the crowd. He was a well-respected healer within the wizarding community, and though Hermione wasn’t sure why he had come to speak on her behalf, his presence reassured her.

Healer Stroud looked at her with a disapproving expression for several seconds before moving his head to the magistrate.

“Hi, honorable M.W.E.C. Tiberius. Thank you for having me.”

“What can we do for you, Healer Stroud?”

“I am here to defend and plead the case of Mrs. Granger.”

“She did not mention that she would have anyone with her.”

“Mrs. Granger is not fond of asking for help.”

“We see. Please explain yourself, Healer Stroud.”

“Mrs. Granger has been studying in the Muggle world for the last eight years to become a doctor of Muggles. She has recluse herself from the wizarding world since then; however, she came to me in the last five years to be trained as a healer for wizards. I must admit that while I didn’t think she would have the capacity at first, Mrs. Granger's work is remarkable, as is her perseverance and hard work. She is more capable than many of the colleague healers that I know across the globe. I often encourage her to move to other countries to learn more about magical healing, such as indigenous magic in Canada...”

“Healer Stroud, while we appreciate your input regarding Mrs. Granger's capacity, we do not see the link with why we are here today.”

Healer Stroud, particularly unhappy about being interrupted, took some time to look at the magistrate and every other member of the jury. There was an awkward silence in the room until the magistrate politely asked Healer Stroud to excuse himself and to please continue.

“Mrs. Granger, soon to be Doctor Granger, is now a healer in the wizarding world. She has been practicing for the last five years at St. Mungo’s, and if you had done any more research, you should have seen that she has been practicing as a registered healer.”

The magistrate was about to speak again, but the look that Healer Stroud gave him reduced him to silence.

“By this act, the fact that she used magic on a Muggle-born to cast a detecting healing spell was not out of line considering that the Muggle was infected with dark magic, needed magical care, and that Mrs. Granger is a healer in the wizarding community. Her status at the St. Mungo hospital allowed her to cast the detecting healing spell at any time, anywhere if she had the intuition that it was needed.”

Hermione looked at him with wide eyes. He was playing with words; the law that she knew was that she could cast a spell if she had reasonable doubt that the Muggle was exposed to magic. Hermione never had a reasonable doubt; she had an intuition; the same way she had an intuition the night of the patient at St. Mungo’s with the blood infected with dark magic.

Healer Stroud continued, “With everything happening at this time, do we really need a hearing for a grown woman who had nothing else in her record than courageous acts while we were fighting, you-know-who, and who cast a healing spell in front of an unconscious little child?”

The magistrate’s full body took a step back in his chair.

“I am questioning if there is any other reason you have brought her up in front of this hearing, Magistrate Tiberius. Especially with a sentence of a restraining order, leaving her without magic for a period. This will be to the Ministry's loss. So please, highlight that for me.”

There was complete silence in the room. Everybody looked at Magistrate Tiberius, then at Healer Stroud, and finally to Hermione. The magistrate stood up from his chair and addressed Hermione.

“Would you like to add anything, Mrs. Granger?”

“Yes, can you please call me Healer Granger?”

The room went silent, and Hermione looked around as she spoke. She caught a flicker of amusement in Harry and Ron’s eyes before quickly shifting her gaze to Draco.

Their eyes locked. She wasn’t sure what she was seeing in his dark grey eyes—there was pride, amusement, and something else. Something she couldn’t define, but it made her uneasy. For the first time, he was the one to break their gaze, turning his head to the magistrate.

The magistrate looked at her with narrowed eyes. She glanced at Healer Stroud, who did not seem pleased with her last statement. The magistrate announced that the sentence would be a warning and left the session.

Healer Stroud, without looking at Hermione, left the room, and Hermione was left with a bewildered smile.

Hermione was meeting with Ron and Harry for lunch and was waiting for them in the lobby of the Ministry of Magic. She didn’t have time to think about it that morning, but she always had a quick feeling of unease when she visited the Ministry, always thinking of the battles that had taken place there eight years ago. She took a deep breath and let the feeling wash away.

She heard her name and turned around to see Arthur Weasley coming in her direction. He gave her a big hug and asked her about the hearing.

“I still don’t understand why you were called for this hearing, especially on such short notice,” he said. “Why do you have to explain yourself for saving a Muggle child?”

Arthur also mentioned that they had opened a further investigation into how the child was exposed to such magic and that they might have questions for her eventually, but they shouldn’t have called her for a hearing considering that she had discovered the situation. Hermione was aware of all this, and it did seem suspicious to her as well. Harry finally arrived and interrupted her conversation with Arthur.

“So, talking about the investigation, Arthur...”

Arthur had a shy smile and laughed. “Yes, indeed. Especially since Hermione is involved.”

Harry looked at Hermione and told her that he was sorry that this was being handled so poorly.

“It’s okay, Harry. It’s no one’s fault; they had to follow the law. I understand, and I knew that what I did was borderline.”

At that moment, Ron grabbed her by the shoulder and gave her a big hug from behind. She let out a strong laugh and turned to face him. They were close to each other, and she smiled at him, happy to find someone on whom she could rely.

At the same time, Draco was passing through the lobby with Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt. He didn’t say a word to them while Kingsley stopped and said hi to everyone, forcing an annoyed Draco to do the same.

“Happy to hear that you are clear of all charges, Healer Granger.”

Hermione looked at Kingsley in surprise and smiled.

“Thank you, Minister Shacklebolt’’

“I will speak with Tiberius to better understand the situation.”

Hermione felt Ron's hand bringing her closer to him, and at that moment, she was grateful for the protection he was offering. She noticed that Draco was stiff, and he briefly looked at Ron’s hand around her hips. She looked at him and noticed that his eyes were the same dark gray as the night at The Old Bell Tavern. He looked at Minister Shacklebolt and told him that they had a meeting with the Minister of Magic from the United States and that they had to go.

The minister excuse himself, shaking hand with everyone while Draco did small nod of his head while heading back.

Draco was walking faster than usual, and when he noticed, he forced himself to slow his pace. The Minister was speaking to him about the Muggle case uncovered by the Mudblood, and he needed to concentrate.

He didn’t know why, but lately, controlling himself had become more difficult. His emotions were unpredictable, slipping past his usual restraint. His mind drifted, caught in thoughts of her—the Mudblood. He remembered the night at The Old Bell Tavern, the way she had barged into Healer Stroud’s office, the moment she had stood fierce and proud in the courtroom, facing down a room of old fools who accused her of saving a child. And just now, in the lobby—leaning on that idiot Weasley, as if he could protect her.

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, frustrated, uncertain where these thoughts were leading him. She had always had a way of getting under his skin, even at school. Back then, he had been more elitist, more closed-minded about Mudbloods. But after a year of traveling the world, he had come to a realization—so long as he didn’t have to mingle with Muggles, he didn’t care about them. He remained convinced that it was in their best interest to stay separate from pureblood wizards.

A smirk curled at his lips. Yes, he was a racist. He did not like people beneath his social class, and he saw no reason to pretend otherwise.

The trio sat down at The Old Bell Tavern and ordered fish and chips. Hermione was starving. Harry and Ron ordered a beer, but she only asked for a glass of tap water.

“So, tell me, what should I know? Or what can you tell me that’s not too confidential?”

Ron and Harry exchanged a look before Ron started speaking.

“We believe that You-Know-Who is coming back.”

Hermione nearly dropped her fork. “How is that even possible? We found and destroyed all the Horcruxes.” She dipped a piece of fish into the tartar sauce and took a bite, waiting for their response.

“We’re not sure yet,” Harry admitted. “But we’re seeing more and more cases like the one you experienced, and we’re trying to understand where it’s coming from.”

“And what freaks us out,” Ron added, “is that it’s happening all over the world. We have contacts in different magical ministries, and they’re all reporting similar incidents.”

“This is really confidential,” Ron continued, lowering his voice, “but Shacklebolt and Malfoy are working on it as well.”

Hermione froze, stunned.

“You work with Draco? He actually collaborates with you?”

Ron smirked. “He’s still a stupid, racist, snobbish elitist, but he’s been traveling the world, positioning himself in the international political scene. Shacklebolt isn’t taking any chances this time. He refuses to let the Ministry be infiltrated or fall again, and he’s making sure we’re prepared to defend ourselves if needed. Draco is his right-hand man—he’s well connected.”

Ron let out a short laugh. “It’s probably killing him to kiss up to ministers around the world.”

Harry chuckled and took a sip of his beer.

Hermione stared at them in disbelief. Draco was still an arse, and she had never thought of him as particularly intelligent—though, she had to admit, she had always found him attractive.

She shook off the thought and refocused. “And what about the train incident? Or the Muggle child infected with dark magic?”

Ron hesitated, then gave Harry a sidelong glance before answering.

“We don’t know yet. We discussed both cases with Shacklebolt—and with Malfoy.” He sighed. “Malfoy was furious when he found out you didn’t report the situation that night. He also said he saw you and that you should have let him know.”

Hermione bristled, anger flashing in her eyes. Ron and Harry instinctively leaned back in their chairs.

“Talk to him? Talk to him?” she snapped. “He’s never even said hello to me! And it’s only the third time I’ve seen him since that night at The Old Bell Tavern.”

Ron narrowed his eyes. “Wait—three times? Where else have you seen him?”

There was something in his tone—jealousy, maybe even possessiveness—that made her stiffen.

“Not your business.”

Harry sighed. “Hermione, we just shared highly confidential information with you. I think you owe us an answer.”

She exhaled slowly, knowing they were right. Reluctantly, she told them about seeing Draco at The Old Bell Tavern, omitting how she had felt that night, and then at St. Mungo’s.

Neither Ron nor Harry looked surprised. The conversation lulled, and they finished their meal in silence, taking a brief break from the heavy discussion.

As Hermione watched them eat, she hesitated before asking, “Do you think we can trust him?”

“Who? Draco?” Ron asked, his mouth full.

Harry wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Shacklebolt trusts him,” he admitted. “But you know I don’t always trust the Ministry.”

Hermione sighed and took a sip of water. Things were getting worse.

That night, Hermione sat at her bay window, looking at the street below. She had a mountain of covers with her, and Crookshanks was on top of it. She was sad and felt alone as her mind wandered. Her parents were in Australia, her relationship with Ron hadn’t worked out, and she had slowly distanced herself from the Wizarding World, losing friends, contacts, and the place she had always felt she belonged. She thought about how she had chosen that world over her family, the hearing she had just gone through, the warning she had received, and her work at the Royal London Hospital. She sobbed softly, her head resting against the window. She wrapped her arms around her legs, giving herself a tight hug. Crookshanks meowed at her and came to her side, snuggling up to remind her that she wasn’t alone.

Hermione felt warm and slowly better while she was petting Crookshanks. She felt his fur gliding slowly between her fingers; this was really relaxing, providing a comforting moment. Crookshanks had been with her for 14 years now. She gave him a quick kiss on the top of his furry head and felt much better. She looked down the street when she had a revelation: the fact that she had been so sad recently, more than usual, a little bit depressing, was because she had been exposed to dark magic with patient 105 and with the patient at St. Mungo's… there was also this unexplained situation in the train… and her recent nightmare! She was not losing her mind; it was normal for her to feel sad considering that she had been exposed to dark magic.

Hermione stayed up a little bit longer that night to drink a hot tea, listen to classical music, read a book, and pet Crookshanks to make sure she was doing what made her feel happy, knowing how important it was to reduce the influence of dark magic on her. Dark magic always leaves a trace and exists within the soul and mind of the host. Without the host, dark magic has no place to go…

Chapter Text

Early September 2006

Draco sat in the drawing room of Malfoy Manor with his parents. Supper had just ended, and they were now sipping firewhiskey by the hearth. Narcissa was lamenting how dull the upcoming Ministry Halloween party would be.

“It will be insufferable,” she said. “A room full of low-level employees and—” her lip curled, “The Weasley.’’

Lucius nodded in agreement. “Precisely. And Mudblood. The Ministry seems intent on lowering its standards in every way imaginable.”

Draco, however, wasn’t fully present. His mind drifted far from the room, from his parents, and their conversation. He was preoccupied with Shacklebolt’s plan, which would take shape at that very event. He only hoped it wouldn’t further complicate his life—already so tightly controlled by the Ministry.

“What do you think, Draco?” Lucius asked, not realizing his son’s mind was elsewhere.

Draco looked up, nodded slightly, and muttered, “Of course.”

“Exactly what I thought, Narcissa,” Lucius said, taking Draco’s response as agreement. “Draco will attend the party with Astoria. She is the perfect match for you, Draco, and an alliance with the Greengrass family, while not as esteemed as the Malfoys, will benefit everyone.”

Narcissa turned to Draco with a faint, melancholic smile. “Do you love her, Draco?”

Draco chuckled softly, meeting his mother’s gaze. “Mother, you’re always so romantic. Let’s say I have a high regard for Astoria. I also recognize that an alliance with the Greengrass family will be profitable—not only for us but for our fortune. Their global investments align well with ours. Strengthening that bond will bolster both families’ influence.”

He raised his glass and caught the glint of pride in his father’s eyes. Lucius’s approval was rare and hard-won, and Draco was keenly aware of how difficult it had been to earn it. As a child, he was never intelligent enough, successful enough, or ruthless enough in his father’s eyes. Over time, Draco had been forced to conform—not only to his parents’ expectations but to a larger, shadowy game orchestrated by players like Shacklebolt.

Draco felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to leave the room. He stood, smoothing his robes, and excused himself politely.

“I’m expected at the Nott Manor this evening for a gathering with Astoria and some of our old Slytherin friends. Mother. Father.” He gave them a polite nod and left the drawing room without waiting for a response.

Draco changed into a pair of sleek jeans, a white T-shirt, and his white Lacoste shoes. He felt lighter, more at ease, just by swapping out his formal attire for something more casual. Grabbing a bottle of firewhiskey, he pitched a handful of Floo Powder into the fireplace and stated his destination clearly: Nott Manor.

When he arrived, the party was already in full swing. Astoria was dazzling, her dark red lipstick perfectly matched to her nails. Her long, dark hair was styled into an elegant, high ponytail. The moment she saw him, she made her way over, kissing him lightly on the cheek and letting a finger linger on his torso.

“Always fashionably late, Mr. Malfoy?” she teased in a deep, sultry voice.

He smiled at her, suddenly struck by the urge to kiss her—which he did. Astoria seemed surprised for a fleeting moment, but no one ever truly caught her off guard. She regained control almost immediately, matching his energy with a composed ease.

As they kissed, Draco couldn’t help but notice, once again, how much control defined their relationship. Every touch, every glance, every moment between them seemed orchestrated, like a performance for the audience around them.

She pulled back slightly and looked at him with a sly smile. Taking her wand, she removed a smudge of her lipstick from his lips with a casual flick.

“You know you’re the only one allowed to use their wand so close to me,” he murmured.

Astoria gave him a satisfied, knowing look before walking away to join Pansy, Daphne, and Millicent, who were watching her with a mix of envy and admiration.

Draco joined Nott, Zabini, Goyle, and Pansy Parkinson’s younger brother, Edmund, who had just finished at Hogwarts.

“How’s everything, Malfoy?” Nott asked, shaking Draco’s hand and placing a firm hand on his shoulder to pull him closer. Nott and Draco had grown close after the Battle of Hogwarts, both working for the Ministry in roles that often overlapped.

“It’s going well,” Draco replied with a nod. “It’s going well.”

“Shacklebolt isn’t driving you mad, is he?” Zabini chimed in, a sly smirk on his face. “I hear everyone saying You-Know-Who is coming back. I’m guessing Shacklebolt must be pissing his pants.”

Draco nodded again, but he said nothing. It wasn’t unusual for former Slytherins to speak openly about You-Know-Who and their enduring pride in pure-blood wizardry.

Daphne Greengrass, who had been eavesdropping on their conversation, approached the group of men.

“If only it were true,” she said sharply, her voice venomous. “Then we could finally get rid of those filthy Muggle-borns—wipe them out entirely and keep only our pure-blood families. The real wizards, not those disgusting Mudbloods.”

Draco instinctively took a step back. He wasn’t shocked anymore by such statements, but he couldn’t ignore the visceral hatred in Daphne’s tone or the way her body moved with a fervor that reminded him uncomfortably of his late aunt, Bellatrix.

The group fell silent, the weight of Daphne’s words hanging heavily in the air. Everyone’s eyes were on her as she stood, still seething.

Astoria, ever poised, walked over to her sister and wrapped her in a brief, firm hug, leaning close to whisper something in her ear.

“You’re making a fool of yourself, my dear,” Astoria murmured, her tone ice-cold. “And you’re jeopardizing a potential marriage between me and Shacklebolt’s most trusted advisor. Control yourself, or I’ll inform Father that you’re carelessly exposing our political views in front of everyone.”

Daphne stiffened immediately, her posture straightening as she regained her composure. She looked at her sister and placed a light kiss on Astoria’s cheek, a thin veneer of charm masking her frustration.

Speaking aloud, Daphne added with a carefully measured tone, “Of course, this is rhetorical. We’re not even certain You-Know-Who will return. My passion, like all of yours, is simply for preserving our family traditions and heirlooms. Nothing to fuss over, dear sister.”

Astoria smiled, a dangerous glint in her eyes, and let Daphne go.

Draco already felt drained, though the evening had barely begun. He reached for a glass of firewhiskey, but after a moment’s hesitation, decided against drinking. Tomorrow would be a long day. He still needed to travel to Canada and meet with the healer.

His thoughts, almost involuntarily, turned to the reason behind that meeting—and to the person connected to it. For the first time in years, he thought of the Mudblood. He hadn’t seen her in eight years and had no intention of ever crossing paths with her again. But, as it seemed, fate had other plans…

October 28^th 2006

It was already the following Saturday, a week after the hearing. Hermione had spent the week working at the Royal London Hospital and had completed four shifts at St. Mungo’s. She was exhausted but relieved to see things gradually returning to a more normal state.

She was especially pleased that she hadn’t encountered Draco for the past five days. Despite the constant stress of her work, many of her patients were making remarkable progress, and the thought brought her a quiet sense of satisfaction.

She was on her way home after a long shift at the Royal and was ready for a shower and tea with Crookshanks. She rarely did this, but she had bought a romance novel recently and was super excited to dive into it. When she got home, she prepared herself a hot bath, fed Crookshanks, and slipped into the water. The water was a little too hot, and she hissed while getting used to the temperature, but once in it, it was a perfect moment. She let her head fall back and rested against the bathtub. That was paradise. She stayed there for a long 40 minutes, delighting in every second.

She stood up, wrapped herself in a thick and comfortable cotton bath towel, and got out of the bath. In the last few years, becoming an intern at the Royal had allowed her to have more money; she benefited from many scholarships because of her school records, and she also had help from the Ministry of Magic when it was time to provide her high school diploma records.

It was not frequent for wizards to have to go to Muggle school after their studies at Hogwarts, but when that happened, the wizarding world was able to provide an equivalent diploma to their students, which was granted to Hermione. Arithmancy became mathematics, Muggle Studies is history, History of Magic is politics, and Herbology was biology, etc. She also received extra credit for extracurricular activities like Astronomy and Ancient Runes.

She was looking for her super old and comfortable pajamas when her phone rang. She almost didn’t answer, about to ignore the call when her conscience told her that maybe it was something important. It was Ginny.

“Hi.”

“Hi, Ginny, what’s going on?”

“How are you?”

“I’m good. You? What’s up?”

“Are you still coming?”

“Where? Coming where?”

“It’s Halloween night at the Ministry. They’ve organized this huge event. You were invited, remember?”

Hermione sighed. She didn’t want to go. “Oh yes, I totally forgot, and I’m in my pajamas. I won’t be coming.”

“You have to!” Ginny’s tone was pleading. “I will be alone with Harry and Ron, and it will be so boring. They don’t dance; they only talk about Auror stuff. You must come.”

“Ginny…”

“I’m waiting for you. You said yes, and I was counting on you.”

Ginny knew exactly what to say to make Hermione feel guilty.

“But I have nothing to wear.”

“I have something for you. You’ve already taken your bath, so I expect you to apparated within the next 10 minutes. Bye!”

And Ginny hung up. Hermione took a quick look at her book, her tea, and Crookshanks. She resigned herself to putting on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt before leaving her living room for Ginny and Harry’s flat in London.

The music was loud, and the crowd was getting bigger. It was already 7 PM, and Draco was tired of this masquerade. He knew they had to do this to reassure the wizarding population, but if there was something Draco hated increasingly, it was the social events he had to participate in to maintain his network in the wizarding. Even though he was good at it, this was not something he particularly enjoyed. Most of the wizards were wearing Halloween costumes. Some were disguised as Muggles, like that ridiculous Arthur Weasley and his wife, Molly. Others were dressed as vampires or movie stars. He found it all ridiculous and wasn’t wearing any costume himself.

He was on the second floor, leaning against the railing, looking at the entry and the dance floor. He glanced at the bar and locked eyes with Astoria. She smiled at him, her perfect white teeth on display. He raised his glass and looked down again. She wasn’t wearing any costume either, probably feeling it was childish and stupid, just as he thought. He appreciated her for that. She was as cold as he was, not caring for any form of affection in public. He had never seen her without makeup, with her hair undone, or not perfectly dressed. Even when they were kissing, it was flawless, without a smudge on her lipstick. She had no passion, and he had none for her either. She was just the perfect match for him.

She always said the right things to the other minister's wives, listened carefully, and never expressed controversial ideas or opposition to him. They would have perfect pureblood children who would go to Hogwarts as well.

For some reason, this thought didn’t make him happy, but once again, happiness was not something he had felt in the last eight years. He had a twisted smile and almost felt pity for himself, complaining as he was. He had an amazing job at his age, a bright future ahead of him, and a future wife he could be proud of. He shook his head for a moment, reopened his eyes, and he saw her, the mudblood.

She was walking with the Weasleys and that stupid Potter. They were all wearing costumes, of course. Ginny was a fairy, and Harry was a vampire. That ridiculous Weasley was a troll, and Hermione was wearing a small black dress with a witch's hat. Instead of her combat boots, she wore black high heels. He had always been under the impression that she was quite small, but the combination of the short dress and the high heels gave him the impression that she had the longest legs he had ever seen. He took a deep breath and walk to the bar to get another drink.

Hermione was tired and wanted to go home, and it had not even been 5 minutes since she arrived. Ron offered her a drink from a cabaret, and she refused it; she didn’t feel like drinking tonight. Ginny was super excited as the room was beautifully decorated. They had pumpkins suspended in the air, candlelight was around the room to give it a spooky atmosphere, and Hermione had to admit that the music was good. Ginny took her by the arm and brought her to the dance floor. Moving was a good idea and helped Hermione feel a little bit more in a party mood. She had been dancing and laughing for at least the last 20 minutes when she needed to grab a bottle of water and go to the bathroom. She told Ginny, who said she would stay on the dance floor. Hermione made her way through the crowded room and finally got to the bathroom. She looked at her face in the mirror and thought for a second that she looked cute with the lipstick Ginny had given her and the mascara she had applied. She was about to leave when a tall dark hair woman entered the bathroom. The girl looked at Hermione like she was nothing. Used to that type of look, Hermione didn’t care and walked out of the bathroom.

Still lost in her thoughts, she once again found herself bumping into what she thought was a wall, but it was once again Draco Malfoy. This time, he did not touch her. She saw him quickly put his hand in his pocket and look at her.

“This is becoming a habit. One more time and I will think that you are doing it on purpose, Granger.”

Hermione raised her head and looked up at him, locking her big brown eyes onto his. She tilted her head to the side, furrowing her brow. His eyes slowly shifted from pale to a darker grey. She was able to see them change color, as if his mood was suddenly altered. He smiled at her, making her notice how white and straight his teeth were; her parents would have been satisfied with this smile. While she was observing him, Draco was pushed slightly forward by others around him. Even though it felt like no one was touching him, she saw him get closer. She had to move back a bit more to maintain eye contact.

“What’s going on, Granger? Have you lost your legendary repartee?”

Hermione bit her lip and noticed Draco’s eyes slowly drifting to her lips, turning a darker gray.

“I preferred the time you weren’t talking to me.”

He quickly brought his gaze back to hers, and she saw him subtly contract his jaw.

Draco was still looking at her when he felt Astoria’s perfectly manicured hand on his chest. She glanced at Hermione with a face that showed no concern, as if she never worried for a second that her man would find someone else more attractive than her. He looked at Astoria with a smile and slid his arm around her tightly at the waist. Hermione bit her lip and watched the perfect couple as Draco gave her a small nod before leaving with Astoria suspended in his embrace.

It was almost 9 p.m., and Minister Shacklebolt was now on stage to address the crowd. His voice, as usual, was reassuring, stern but fair.

"Dear colleagues and friends, thank you for coming tonight to this Halloween Night Celebration. It is important for us to take the time to gather, enjoy life, love, and be grateful for all the little things we have in this life. I do not want to be too serious tonight, as this is a night of celebration. But please, as you know, there are rumors going around about you-know-who. I am not one to hide the truth from you, so please, stay vigilant and report anything unusual to the Ministry. We are here to help."

Shacklebolt took a deep breath and paused briefly. He seemed vigorous, honest, and humble, and the connection with his colleagues appeared to be extremely important to him.

Hermione was back on the dance floor, closer to Ron, while Ginny was in Harry’s arms. She looked at the stage and noticed Draco on the side, observing the crowd with a bored expression. Astoria stood next to him, he had his arm around her waist, and she had a satisfied smile on her face. It was impossible to tell whether Draco agreed with Shacklebolt’s discourse, but he was listening intently to everything being said.

"Once again, I want to thank you for all the work you do at the Ministry, day after day. We truly appreciate you, and I hope you enjoy this night as well."

The crowd, which had been serious a moment ago when Shacklebolt mentioned you-know-who, now seemed more reassured and ready to celebrate with their friends and family. He left the stage with the crowd applauding.

Hermione moved to the bar to get a glass of water when Shacklebolt came to see her. He was with Draco at his side.

"Healer Granger! How are you? What a pleasure to have you at this celebration."

"It was extremely kind of you to extend the invitation," Hermione replied.

"My pleasure. Do you have some time? I'd like to talk to you about a few things."

Hermione looked at the Minister, her gaze drifting to Draco, who was watching the crowd on the dance floor, then back to the Minister.

"Yes, of course."

"Perfect. Please come with me. We have a spot in the back where the music will be quieter."

Shacklebolt started walking, and Hermione had no choice but to follow him, feeling Draco’s eyes on her as she did. They crossed the room to a smaller area at the back. Shacklebolt opened a door and, with a gesture, invited her to go through, which she did.

Shacklebolt took a glass of champagne from a nearby tray and offered one to Hermione, but she politely declined, instead accepting the bottle of water that Draco handed her. She glanced at him with mild surprise, her brow arching slightly. His mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly, in what might have been a brief smile, and he lowered himself into one of the large leather armchairs with effortless grace. Though he would never admit it, Draco had been watching her throughout the evening, quietly noting that she had been drinking only water.

Shacklebolt gestured to the sofa for Hermione, and he took the opposite armchair.

"How are your medical studies going, Healer Granger?"

"They’re going well, but please, Minister Shacklebolt, call me Hermione. The formality makes me uncomfortable."

"Yes, I will, Hermione. But please, call me Kingsley."

Hermione's eyes widened slightly, and she nodded. "Of course." Kingsley, what can I do for you,

Kingsley had a small laugh and looked at her. “You are not someone to waste time, Hermione.”
“I like to think that I’m not,” she replied with a smile.
“Okay, so I will tell you without any detour. We would like for you to come work for the Ministry. You are a valuable witch, and we would like to provide you with more training in magical healing. We would like you to learn about dark magic healing through different branches of magic across the globe.”

Hermione felt uncomfortable and moved to the edge of the sofa. Draco uncrossed his legs and opened them, allowing his arms to rest on them while leaning forward to address both.

“I had the chance to speak with Healer Stroud, and he mentioned that you are extremely talented in healing—not only physical wounds but also in addressing mental health and some neurological damage that certain patients at St. Mungo's have experienced.”

Draco’s voice was deep and grave. He looked at Hermione directly, and all traces of snobbery were removed from his tone during this interaction. It was the first time he had spoken to her directly, without any mockery. Hermione, who had struggled significantly with confidence and self-esteem during her time at Hogwarts, had managed to gain assurance over the last eight years. However, as Draco spoke with her, she felt as if she were being dragged back to the person she used to be—before she made her decision about her fate and chose to pursue Muggle medicine. That’s why they have invited her to the Halloween Night of the Ministry and probably the reason why Draco was at St Mungo the other day speaking with Healer Stroud.

Hermione looked at her hands for a minute, noticing that her nails were not as perfect as Astoria’s. They were clean, and while not too short, they were natural and trimmed for practicality rather than seduction. She felt foolish sitting there with them, dressed in a witch costume while they wore wizard robes for Kingsley and a suit for Draco.

Draco followed her gaze and glanced at her hand as well, thinking that they were pretty. He didn’t know why this thought crossed his mind at that moment, but he imagined for a split second those hands running over his chest, unbuttoning his shirt. He stood up quickly and moved to the window.

Hermione hadn’t noticed the windows when she entered the room.

“I can’t. I must finish my two-year foundation first before taking any other route. This is extremely important for me and something that I want to do. Muggles are who I am, and I want to be able to help them. I don’t want them to ever suffer because of us.”

Draco turned back to look at them.

“We are not the cause of their suffering; they have no power…”

“Exactly, so we need to protect them, even if it’s from ourselves.”

Draco pinched his nose, closing his eyes. Hermione had never really had the chance to look at him during the last three encounters they had. It was always in a bar or while Draco was in service wearing his wizard robes. This was the first time she was seeing him in a more Muggle outfit. He wore light gray dress pants and a white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar. He was tall—extremely tall—and his shoulders were broader than Ron’s. His stature was imposing, and his build was robust. It felt like not only was it genetic—she remembered her dad being tall and large— But Draco also seemed to have spent a considerable amount of time at the gym. His presence was magnetic; she had to admit she was captivated by his charisma. He leaned against the window, looking at her with his snobby expression, his leg crossed before him and his arms crossed over his chest.

“Okay, Hermione, what is your conditions?”

Both Kingsley and Hermione looked at Draco with surprise.

“What do you mean, my conditions? I won’t be working at the Ministry.”

Draco’s eyes were dark gray as he looked at her, moving away from the window.

Kingsley coughed, bringing Hermione’s attention back to him.

“Would you consider training with different trainers, not just with Healer Stroud? We can have healers from across the globe come for a period to showcase different branches of healing from various countries.”

Hermione thought about it for a second. Yes, she was interested; she had always been eager to learn new things. But why—why was it so important to them?

Prudently, Hermione nodded slowly but looked at Kingsley with suspicious eyes.

“Why?” Her gaze shifted from Kingsley to Draco and back to Kingsley.

She sensed that Draco was losing patience. “You’re a smart woman, Hermione Granger. You know why…”

She looked at him, furrowing her brow. “Because of you-know-who?”

“If we have to go through a war, Healer Granger, we will need the best healer—and the best doctor.”

“If you-know-who comes back, I’ll be one of the top people they’ll be looking for. Not only am I Muggle-born, but I was part of the team that found the Horcruxes and destroyed them.”

Draco looked at her, his eyes almost black. How was he doing that? she asked herself.

“Probably,” he said. “I suggest you make sure you have something valuable to offer so the Ministry wants to protect you.”

Kingsley shook his head in disbelief. “Draco, you need to stop. We will protect Hermione, whatever her choice is tonight.”

Hermione was looking at Draco, her gaze locked on his, confused and trying to understand what he was telling her.

“We can work out the details another time. I’ll send you an owl with the specifics later this week, and we’ll have a healer visit shortly.”

Hermione nodded and mentioned that she would speak with Healer Stroud as well regarding all this. Even if he already knew, Hermione was extremely grateful to him for showing her everything she knew so far.

Kingsley shook her hand and walked her to the door. Hermione thanked him and left the room without looking at Draco.

Kingsley closed the door behind him and looked at Draco.

“What was that?”

Draco sighed and summoned a bottle of water with his wand. “I don’t know. She gets under my skin; she always has.”

Kingsley looked at him with compassion and kindness—something Draco was not used to but appreciated from Kingsley. Over the last couples of years, Kingsley had become a great mentor and figure for Draco.

“I suggest you work on that—and fast. You need to control yourself. You’re still young, Malfoy, and you’re making a lot of sacrifices, not just for the wizarding community, but for the Muggle world and your parents—your mother. You’re fighting a lot of dark magic, Draco, beliefs from your education and past. At some point, there’s only so much you can take.”

Draco looked at Kingsley with his pale grey eyes.

“Fix this, Draco, before it’s too late. You are a smart and kin—”

Draco let out a laugh, interrupting Shacklebolt. “Stop. Sometimes you almost make me believe it. I am nothing more than what the Ministry asked me to be.” With that, he left the room.

The music was loud, and there was a variety of food moving around on trays that were floating in the air. Hermione admitted that the wizarding world was throwing parties in a way that no Muggle could. She had missed that in the last eight years while she attended other parties with her friends from Oxford. She took a piece of finger food that looked like salmon and was trying to join her friends on the dance floor. When she joined them, she took Ginny by the shoulder and gave her a mad look.

“I know,” Ginny told her with a contrite look. “Shacklebolt really wanted to talk to you, and he thought that the informal setting of Halloween night would be the best time to discuss this matter.”

Ron and Harry looked sorry as well, but Ron shrugged his shoulders. “It is the best thing you can do, Hermione.”

“For me or for the wizarding world?”

Harry looked at her and answered, “For both. We will need to make sacrifices…”

Hermione looked at them and knew they were right.

“And you knew about Draco,” she told them with an accusing tone, her finger pointing at them. “You know the reason why he visited St. Mungo's Hospital.”

Ron rolled his eyes, catching her finger in his hand. “Yes, we knew. Shacklebolt really wanted to have the conversation with you first, and we thought it was best as well. We talked to you many times about coming back, but you were never tempted. We thought that if Shacklebolt approached you directly, with his right arm, then maybe…”

“I see…”

Ron, still holding her finger in his hand, pulled her closer and gave her a big hug, starting to dance like a fool in his troll costume. She pushed him away, telling him that he was getting green makeup all over her, but he just pulled her closer again, making a silly face to imitate a troll.

On the second floor, still leaning against the railing, Draco pushed himself to stand up with a dark look on his face while observing the scene below on the dance floor. He looked up and saw Astoria in conversation with the wife of a minister of magic from somewhere in Europe, so he approached her with a smile, thinking it was time to socialize a little.

The night went by quickly after that. Hermione was exhausted by midnight, and after saying her goodbyes to everyone, she left to grab a cab. While she was getting into one, she saw Draco and Astoria getting into the back seat of his car. She found it odd that they were not using Floo Powder or a Portkey, but then she remembered that the Ministry had special cars at the disposal of their high-ranking employees, like the one they had taken in her third year at Hogwarts. And, of course, they had a chauffeur.

She got into the cab and gave the driver her flat’s address.

Draco was looking by the window, with Astoria by his side. She looked at him and slowly moved closer. Draco gave her a sidelong glance, knowing what she was after. He was not particularly in the mood, but he always really enjoyed the attention of any woman. He let her shift to him and sit in a straddling position. She ran her hand through his hair, moving his head slowly backward to kiss him. The kiss was interesting but lacked warmth or desire. It was efficient but nothing more. She gradually moved her hand to his trousers and unbuttoned them and she then, pulled her dress up. Draco put his hand on her bare backside and pressed harder into his palm. She let out a soft moan, but once again, Draco was not particularly aroused. She kissed his neck and took him in her hand, starting to move slowly up and down.

Draco’s mind began to float, and his thoughts briefly stopped on two big brown eyes looking at him with genuine care and confusion. He also saw those same big brown eyes smiling, looking at that stupid Weasley. The jealousy and possessiveness rushed through his veins; he became extremely hard in Astoria’s hand. He knew he shouldn’t, not while he was thinking about someone else, but he took her by her hips and positioned her on top of him. Astoria seemed surprised for a brief instant and placed her perfectly manicured hand on his chest. Draco didn’t open his eyes as he thought of a more natural hand, with short nails, resting on his chest. He took Astoria’s arms and brought them to her back to prevent her from touching him. He pulled her arm down to expose her throat and bite her. He was now totally in her and he helped her to move up and down, faster, still thinking of those big brown eyes and the way she bit her lips when he held her cold arm in his hands at The Old Bell Tavern wanted to warm her… and he remembered her long legs in high heels. Draco took Astoria by the back of her hair and pulled her closer to his mouth, where he gave her a deep, punishing kiss. She let out a quiet, satisfying moan and he came. He then let his head lean against the leather of the car seat. He was not touching her except for the part of their body that was connected. Astoria pulled away from him, readjusting her dress, while he straightened his clothes, making himself presentable again. He looked at her, and it was the first time he noticed that her lipstick had smudged a little. He felt a pang of guilt for a moment, sensing that she knew. She knew his mind was with someone else this time—or maybe not; maybe he was just paranoid. He also felt like a jerk, realizing he had taken his pleasure but hadn’t cared for her at all. He risked a look at her, and she was gazing into a small mirror, a satisfied smile on her face as she adjusted her lipstick. It didn’t make him feel any better, but at least she didn’t know. She was far too confident and self-absorbed to imagine, even for a moment, that his mind was somewhere else.

“Do you still take that potion to prevent pregnancy?” he asked, feeling even worse for bringing it up.

Astoria nodded quickly, her gaze shifting from the mirror. Noticing his guilty look and misinterpreting it, she said, "Don’t you worry, I had my fun too."

Draco felt a sense of relief wash over him.

“Where would you like Lewis to drop you? Your parents' manor or your flat?”

For an instant, he saw that she was about to protest, considering whether she wanted to spend the night with him. He felt that her internal debate concluded that she wanted to be alone too, and Draco appreciated her for that. If they decided to move forward and marry each other, it would be a business partnership, and she didn’t expect anything else from his side.

As usual, she composed herself quickly and answered, “My flat.”

Draco nodded and informed Lewis of her decision. He then closed his eyes and didn’t speak for the rest of the drive. Shacklebolt was right, he had to fix this and quickly.

Chapter Text

October 31^st, 2006

The next morning, Hermione woke up to an owl at her window. She looked at Crookshanks, who didn’t seem that interested in the newcomer, and stood up to open the window. The black owl flew in circles in her room before dropping a letter on her bed.

“It’s pretty early for you,” she told him, “Or pretty late. If you need to rest, you can take some time in my closet, and I’ll leave the window open.” The owl looked at the cat on the side of the bed and, without further ado, decided to leave at once. Hermione looked at Crookshanks, laughing.

“I don’t know why everyone is so scared of you! You’re the nicest little kitten I have ever seen.”

Displeased with Hermione’s comment, Crookshanks left the room.

Hermione held the letter in her hand, her mind drifting back to the first time she had received a letter from the wizarding world. It was her Hogwarts acceptance letter. Her parents had been so proud, brimming with excitement at the discovery that their daughter was special. That night, they had celebrated with a special supper featuring her favorite meal, capped off by an enormous cake. She could still picture them in the living room—her dad savoring a glass of whisky, her mom sipping wine—telling her how proud they were and how certain they were she would become an extraordinary witch.

Now, the memory felt bittersweet, even painful. Her parents were still alive, but to them, she didn’t exist. She wasn’t just gone; she had been erased. The thought grew more unbearable the longer she dwelled on it. How could someone do that to their own mother—her own mother?

Hermione couldn’t help but wonder if, somewhere deep in her mother’s mind, there lingered a faint trace of her—a distant memory of a laugh, an echo of a daughter she could no longer name. And how many other Muggles had been Obliviated by wizards in the name of protecting them? It wasn’t fair.

She knew, deep down, that her continued study of healing magic wasn’t just about helping others. It was also about hope—a fragile, desperate hope that someday, somehow, she could restore her parents’ memories and give them back the daughter they had lost. And for herself, she longed to hear, just once more, the comforting, reassuring voice of her mother.

Hermione noticed that she was crying when one of her tears fell onto the letter. She quickly passed her hand across her eyes, and with a sniff, she opened the black letter. It was from the Ministry of Magic. They told her that they had been able to secure the first healer from Canada; Healer Saimaniq would be traveling to the UK and arriving at the end of the week. The first meeting would be at the Ministry of Magic. They asked her to confirm receipt and to let them know if she had any questions.

“Well, your owl already left, and I don’t have one anymore. I’ll need to speak with Kingsley about that,” she muttered to herself. “They’ll have to use a cellphone if they want to contact me.”

She grabbed her running gear and walked to the bathroom to change.

The following days were quiet, with nothing notable. Hermione was happy to get back to her routine, driving to the hospital and spending time at St. Mungo's at night with Healer Stroud. On Halloween night, she was at home researching obliviation, reading the book she found in the Ministry archive, The Ethical Dilemma That Obliviation Brings to Wizards, when she noticed that the book referred to another one. There was a small number at the end of the page: The Dark Art: Obliviated. She had never heard of a book by that title, and she had read many books in the last eight years. She looked at her watch; it was 5 p.m. She still had some time to get to Diagon Alley to stop by Flourish and Blotts. She had questions for Mr. Flourish, his long-standing friend. She would also like to take some time to stop by and say hi to George.

"She grabbed a pair of jeans and a white fitted t-shirt. She brushed her teeth rapidly and put her messy hair into a ponytail. She put on her combat boots and her satchel and looked at Crookshanks.
'’You wanna come with me?' Crookshanks gave her an annoyed look and turned around.
She rolled her eyes and apparated in front of the Leaky Cauldron. She walked straight to the back wall and entered Diagon Alley.

She almost forgot it was Halloween, but Diagon Alley was illuminated with little ghost figures moving around to spook the customers. The merchants were giving candy to the kids, and music played in the background. Hermione felt joy and happiness while walking down the alley. She reached Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes first, wanting to say hi to George. The store was still extremely busy, with people even trying new merchandise.

The boutique was vibrant and full of joy, with the sound of laughter echoing through the air. Wizards of all ages could be heard chuckling and marveling at the wonders of the shop. From the outside, the store seemed modest, with a large bay window showcasing a colorful array of Weasley merchandise.

However, stepping inside was like entering a magical palace. Thanks to an enchanting charm, the shop expanded into a grand, circular space. In the center stood an elegant spiral staircase that connected the multiple floors, giving visitors a full view of the lively, bustling atmosphere. Shelves arranged in concentric circles lined the walls, displaying all manner of tricks, pranks, and whimsical creations.

Despite the shop’s vibrant energy, a bittersweet nostalgia lingered in the air. Fred’s absence was subtly, but poignantly, acknowledged. At the very top of the store, in a quiet, elevated corner, George had created a small memorial—a tribute to his twin and their shared dream. A plaque, simple yet powerful, read:

In loving memory of Fred Weasley – The original mischief-maker.

The memorial was a reminder of the heart and history behind the laughter, ensuring that Fred’s spirit would always remain a part of the magic at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.

“Hi, George!”
George looked at her without recognizing her for a minute.
“Granger, what a surprise! I thought you were against wizards…”
“Don’t be a fool,” she retorted with a smile.
George leapt over the counter and pulled Hermione into a bear hug. She laughed as his strong arms enveloped her, feeling the warmth of his familiar embrace. When he finally stepped back to look at her, his gaze was filled with kindness, and for a fleeting moment, she remembered that he had once been her brother-in-law.

After she left for Oxford and began immersing herself in the Muggle world, Hermione had heard whispers about George. They said he had never truly recovered from losing Fred. The twins had been inseparable, and Fred’s death had left a void so deep that it seemed to drive George to the brink of madness. He carried a sadness so profound that some had started to call him crazy, though Hermione knew better.

The loss of a loved one changes people—it can breed vengeance or lead them down the path of madness. For George, it had been the latter, but his innate kindness always seemed to shine through, even in the darkest moments.

“How’s everything, Granger? I wasn’t expecting you,” George said, his voice tinged with surprise, his wide eyes searching hers.

“I know, I know. I don’t come by often anymore,” Hermione admitted with a small smile. “But I wanted to ask Mr. Flourish a question, and I thought it’d be nice to see you while I was here.”

“Did you hear about… you-know-who?” George asked, his tone cautious.

“Yes, I did. Harry and Ron… well, the entire Ministry seems to be taking it very seriously.”

“As they should. You don’t believe them?” he asked, incredulity creeping into his voice.

“Of course, I do,” she said quickly. “But I’ve been away from the wizarding world for so long—eight years now—that sometimes I feel this... disconnect. But what would you do? And how is something like this even possible?”

George’s expression darkened, his tone and posture heavy with sadness. Hermione was drawn in completely by the weight of his emotion.

“You know he’s already taken so much from us. The only thing to do now is make sure he can’t do it to anyone else ever again.”

Hermione could feel the ache still lingering in George’s voice. The wound of Fred’s death was still fresh for him, and she suspected it always would be. Without thinking, she reached out and gave him a big hug. Gradually, the corners of his mouth lifted into a small smile.

“Hermione!”

She jumped at the sound of her name, turning to see who had called out in the crowded shop. It took a moment to locate the voice, but then she saw her: Luna Lovegood, standing by the door, wearing a peculiar hat that emitted bubbles.

“Luna! How are you?” Hermione asked, her surprise brightening into happiness. “What are you doing here?”

“Me and George are seeing each other,” Luna said casually, her dreamy tone unchanged.

Hermione blinked in surprise as George shifted awkwardly for a moment, but then he walked over to Luna and wrapped his arms around her.

Hermione smiled at them both. “That’s wonderful news—for both of you. Since when?” she asked, and then, a memory surfaced. “Oh, right. You mentioned seeing someone new at The Old Bell Tavern about two months ago!”

Luna beamed, and George chuckled softly. “It’s been a little while now,” he said.

“I’m so happy for you both,” Hermione said earnestly, feeling a warmth for the pair.

Luna looked at George with unbridled adoration, her wide eyes filled with affection. George returned the gaze, his expression soft and tender.

Hermione sighed quietly as she observed them. They were lucky, she thought, to have found each other. The more she watched them, the more their connection made sense. They had both lost people who were irreplaceable in their lives. Somehow, in their shared grief and eccentricities, they had found comfort in one another.

For a fleeting moment, Hermione felt a pang of guilt for thinking of their bond as being born of shared madness. But as she looked at them again, she realized that perhaps it wasn’t madness at all. Maybe it was healing—messy and imperfect, but healing, nonetheless.

“Come on, Hermione, while I have you here, I want to show you our… my invention. It was something Fred and I often discussed.”
Hermione followed them to the back of the store and laughed at all the other merchandise that was popping in and out.

It was getting late, and most of the wizarding children were heading home, leaving the alley much quieter. Hermione hugged both Luna and George tightly, promising to visit more often. They invited her to lunch at the Burrow.

“Mum will be delighted to see you,” George said with a smile.

“I miss her too. Give her a big hug for me,” Hermione replied warmly before stepping out of the shop.

It was 8:30 PM, and if she wanted to catch Mr. Flourish, she needed to move quickly. Hermione crossed the alley, heading toward the bookstore. The familiar chime of the bell echoed as she pushed the door open, signaling her arrival.

Inside, Mr. Flourish was perched on a ladder, sorting through a high shelf. He glanced down at her, adjusting his glasses as recognition dawned on his face.

“Hermione! How are you?”

“I’m good, Mr. Flourish. How are you?”

He answered while coming down the ladder to meet Hermione.

“What brings you to visit?”

Hermione looked at her watch; it was almost 9 PM, and she didn’t want to take too much time, knowing that the old librarian must be tired.

“I have a quick question for you. I was reading the book 'The Ethical Dilemma That Obliviation Brings to Wizards' when I saw a note on one of the pages for a book called 'The Dark Art: Obliviated,' and I was wondering if you know this book.”

Mr. Flourish looked at her with serious eyes.

“Yes, I’m aware. We don’t have it here, but I am pretty sure that you will be able to find it at the Ministry. They have a section with some dark art books. If they don’t have it, I might be able to verify it within my network.

Mr. Flourish knew why Hermione was looking for this book. He had been kind enough to provide her with books on the subject for the last eight years.

“Hermione?” he said in a more paternal tone.

Hermione looked at him.

“This book is about dark magic, and you will need to be careful about which reason you provide to other people, Hermione. Dark magic is never the solution to a problem.”

Hermione froze for a moment. She hadn’t even thought about that. She was approaching it more from an academic perspective, but Mr. Flourish was right; she wouldn’t be able to use anything from this book to restore her parents' memories.

“I agree with you, and believe it or not, I didn’t even think about that. It was purely academic, but you are right; I will be more careful when looking for it.”

Mr. Flourish nodded his head. “You are still so naïve, my dear Hermione, but so smart and fierce at the same time.” Then he asked her if she wanted to stay for a cup of tea. She politely told him yes but mentioning that she was working early the next morning, she cannot stay to long.

“At this Muggle hospital?”

Hermione nodded her head with a smile on her face. Mr. Flourish was very fond of her and found her eccentricity adorable.

They talked about new books and the list that the first-year students received for their supplies at Hogwarts. He also showed her the new book, The Wizard Who Made the Second Wizarding War a Success by Rita Skeeter, which mentioned her as someone who helped defeat Voldemort. As she turned the pages, she saw photos of the Death Eaters, most of whom had been present at the Hogwarts battle.

“I feel like everywhere I go; this part of my past is always there.”

Mr. Flourish looked at her with a sad smile. “Yes, you’re right. It always will be.”

Hermione didn’t want to touch the picture of the Death Eaters, but she noticed Malfoy, Dolohov, Lestrange, and the Carrows. The Carrows had been present at the Hogwarts battle, she thought to herself, frowning her eyebrows. Were they?

She was about to ask Mr. Flourish, but she noticed that he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. She looked at her watch and realized it was past 10 PM.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Flourish; I stayed too long. I’ll go.”

“No, no, I’m sorry that I’m old and I can’t keep up even with interesting conversation. I wish you would come more often. It was a pleasure exchanging ideas with you, Hermione.”

“Yes, it was fun. Can I buy you this new history book, Mr. Flourish?”

“My cash register is closed, and I’m sure you don’t have any Galleons on you. I have no use for Muggle money. This is a gift. Let me know what you think of it.”

She thanked him.

“You’ll be fine going back home by yourself.”

Hermione nodded. She only had to apparated and she will do it outside of the Leaky Cauldron, she would be fine.

Mr. Flourish walked her out of the boutique, and Hermione thanked him again.

The alley was dark, and she briefly looked at the warm yellow light inside the bookshop while walking the few meters that separated her from the wall leading to the Leaky Cauldron. She found it odd that she was alone in the alley. She took a couple of steps, and the light behind her went out—Mr. Flourish had probably gone to his flat above the shop.

She started walking again, a little faster this time. Without exactly knowing why, Hermione felt scared. She wasn’t sure if she should turn back and run to Mr. Flourish or just continue toward the wall. She could also apparated to her flat in London, but she was so nervous that she feared she wouldn’t make it. The atmosphere of the alley was heavy, and it was getting colder; a mist hung in the air, adding to her unease.

Hermione glanced over her shoulder and stopped, frozen. Two somber figures wearing black cloaks stood near the Magical Menagerie. It was impossible to see their faces, as they had their hoods pulled low. Hermione turned herself around and took her wand from her back pocket. She was shaking and she was terrified. Both somber figures started walking towards her, Hermione wanted to turn around and start running but she was paralysed. Out od the suddent, she felt like a bucket of sadness was drop over her and she was only numb. She realise that she was having difficulty breathing and she understood that she was about to pass out. Panic rose through her veins; she felt dizzy, making it impossible to scream. She felt her eyes closing. She couldn’t believe she was passing out and that she wouldn’t be able to defend herself. She needed to do something, or she wouldn’t make it.

She managed to take a deep breath and put one foot in front of the other; she had only a few meters left before reaching the wall of the Leaky Cauldron. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the two somber figures approaching, now floating, shrouded in a mist of dark fumes. As soon as her hand touched the wall, she was instantly transported inside the Leaky Cauldron.

The warmth of the fire greeted her, along with the comforting buzz of conversations that filled the room. The Leaky Cauldron was packed. She walked to the bar and sat down for a moment, trying to steady herself. No one had followed her inside, and for a brief second, she wondered if she had imagined the whole thing. Those figures weren’t Dementors, but they had certainly felt like it. It seemed impossible that they could have walked through Diagon Alley without anyone else noticing. She had been alone out there, yet the Leaky Cauldron was bustling—surely someone, perhaps from the inn's windows, would have seen them.

She took a few minutes to calm herself, she then Apparated back to her flat.

Chapter Text

November 2006

Hermione was walking to her first appointment with the Traditional Healer from Canada. The streets of London were busy on this cold November Monday morning. The weather was grey, and she had to pull her collar up and adjust her Gryffindor scarf to keep warm. She wore wool long johns, dark jeans, a sweater, and her combat boots, feeling grateful that she had dressed appropriately for the weather.

She stepped into the red telephone booth and dialed 62442 on the buttons. As she felt the floor open beneath her, she found herself in the lobby of the Ministry. Once again, she took a deep breath, washing away the feeling of unease that threatened to overtake her. She closed her eyes for a moment, bringing her hand to her forehead and continuing to push her hair out of the way. Straightening her shoulders, she took a deep breath to shake off the tension in a subtle way. She was expected at the Minister of Magic's office within the next twenty minutes.

She didn’t have to wait at the reception on the third floor, and Shacklebolt was behind his desk when she entered the room.

“Hermione, what a pleasure to see you!”

Hermione smiled and replied that the pleasure was hers.

“Let me introduce you to Traditional Healer Saimaniq.”

Traditional Healer Saimaniq was wearing Muggle clothes. Instantly, Hermione felt at ease with her. Healer Saimaniq appeared to be in her early thirties. She was tall, with long dark hair, and her features exuded warmth and kindness. She extended her hand to shake hers, which she took. Her hands were fine and her finger long and when she grabs Hermione’s hand, it was with tender, and Hermione felt calm in an instant.

“It is an honor to be learning from you, Traditional Healer Saimaniq.”
"The honor is mine, Healer Granger," she replied warmly. "I hope this will be a long and fruitful collaboration, where I will also have the opportunity to learn from you."

Shacklebolt let them know that they had a room at their disposal next to his office, but Traditional Healer Saimaniq told him that they wouldn’t need it, leaving Shacklebolt a little perplexed. Hermione smiled briefly, anticipating what Traditional Healer Saimaniq first lessons would be. She asked her if she thought she needed any more clothes to keep warm. Hermione pulled her beanie from her satchel and assured her that she was wearing adequate gear for their expedition.

“You are a smart witch, Mrs. Granger.”
She looked at her and mentioned that she had done some research in anticipation of their meeting and expected that she would take her somewhere outside.

She offered her his arm, and she took it. They apparated in front of Shacklebolt, who looked even more perplexed.

They appeared in Epping Forest, a place Hermione knew well from her time with her parents, who had visited from time to time.
“I thought that maybe the Forest of Dean might bring difficult memories for you,” Saimaniq said.
She nodded gratefully.

“Most of our healing is usually done in sacred places. However, I’d like to take some time today to go over our different forms of healing.”

Healer Saimaniq began moving several stones, arranging them in a precise circle. She then gathered some pine and wood, placing them at the center. Reaching into her right pocket, she pulled out a small leather pouch secured with two rods. Opening it carefully, she revealed three stones inside: one red, one green, and one dark purple.

“These are my stones,” she said, her voice calm yet filled with reverence. “I chose them as a baby, before I could even walk. They will stay with me my entire life. I suppose they are the equivalent of your wand.”

Hermione nodded, recalling what she had learned about Indigenous magical practices. Unlike the wizards of England, who relied on wands, these magical practitioners used stones imbued with power. They served a similar purpose held in hand; they allowed the user to cast spells. But they also had unique healing properties depending on the stone. The red stone was a ruby, the green an emerald, and the dark purple an amethyst.

Healer Saimaniq held the stones with practiced ease and murmured a spell. “Feufandio,” she said softly. A flame ignited at the center of the circle, flickering to life. Hermione recognized the word from a book she had read, Canada: A World of Wild Natural Magic by Evangéline Tremblay.

Once the fire was lit, Healer Saimaniq settled cross-legged before it, gesturing for Hermione to sit beside her. Closing her eyes and placing her hands on her knees, she began to speak.

“Nature is our magic,” she said, her voice carrying a rhythmic cadence. “We listen deeply to the forces that nature and the elements bring us. Life is sacred to us, and we honor it in all its forms—animal and plant alike. We understand that everything exists in a circle, in balance. Without one, the other cannot exist.”

“Our first lesson will be simple,” Healer Saimaniq said. “You must start by listening—to nature, to the wind, to the sounds of the forest. Feel the sun on your skin, even if it is weak today, and the cold ground beneath you. Their temperatures change with the seasons, bringing different life, sounds, and messages. Nature speaks in many ways.”

She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Follow my breathing. We will meditate for a little while.”

The day passed quickly as Hermione absorbed a wealth of knowledge—learning about medicinal plants, sacred rituals, and the role animals played in healing within Canada’s magical traditions.

As the sun dipped closer to the horizon, Healer Saimaniq led Hermione to a nearby river, where she could wash the dirt from her hands after extinguishing the fire. The water was icy, sending a sharp but invigorating sensation through her fingers as it flowed around them.

“Nature is our magic,” Healer Saimaniq continued. “We listen to the forces it brings us, the balance of the elements. Everything is connected.”

Hermione let her hand linger in the cold water, letting its energy seep into her. She focused on its steady movement, feeling its rhythm against her skin.

Healer Saimaniq, standing beside her, placed a gentle hand on Hermione’s shoulder.

“As time passes, we will come to know each other more,” she said, her voice steady. “But I want our relationship to be built on trust and honesty. There is something I must tell you.”

Hermione stood up, meeting her gaze with unwavering seriousness. “Yes. What is it, Healer Saimaniq?”

“At the beginning of the summer, I met with Mr. Malfoy,” she revealed. “He is a tormented man, battling ideologies that no longer belong to him. And I must admit, I am curious which side of his soul will prevail.”

Hermione frowned slightly, but said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

“He came to me because he had heard whispers—whispers that a mystical creature, the Tenelabrith, had escaped. He and the Ministry were searching for its origins, trying to determine where it had been freed and who might be responsible. Some ancient manuscripts suggest it was imprisoned somewhere in Canada or the United States. However, the Tenelabrith are not part of indigenous lore, so we do not know them as well as we do other spirits.”

She paused, watching Hermione’s reaction before adding, “I do know this: they are neither living nor dead. They exist in the space between—a shadow caught in limbo.”

Hermione’s pulse quickened at the thought.

“I spoke with some friends back in Montreal,” Healer Saimaniq continued. “They are French and have a concept in their faith called Purgatoire—a place between life and death. The Tenelabrith may not be exactly that, but perhaps their existence is tied to something similar. An in-between state, neither here nor gone.”

She let the words hang in the air as the river continued its endless journey downstream.

“I cannot be sure,” Healer Saimaniq continued, “but I believe the reason we are training together is that Mr. Malfoy suspects you may be able to find the Tenelabrith—or at the very least, make a connection that could lead to them.”

Hermione gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “Tenelabrith… I’ve never heard of anything like that.”

Healer Saimaniq glanced at the horizon, where the last remnants of sunlight were fading behind the trees.

“Let’s leave the forest and its darkness for tonight,” she said. “The forest is telling me that it is time to go home, and I am not one to ignore its wisdom.”

She extended her arm toward Hermione, and without hesitation, Hermione took it. With a swift pull of magic, they Apparated away.

Traditional Healer Saimaniq and Hermione Apparated directly in front of Shacklebolt’s office door.

Before parting, Hermione asked where she was staying.

“At the Leaky Cauldron,” Healer Saimaniq replied.

They agreed that before their next meeting, Hermione would meet her there to give her a proper tour of Diagon Alley and reveal some of its hidden secrets.

Hermione had plans to meet Betty for a drink later, but first, she wanted to speak with Shacklebolt. She hadn’t yet had the chance to share her experience in Diagon Alley, and there were important details she wanted to discuss. She also wanted to talk to him about the use of cellphones instead of owl.

When she arrived on the third floor, Shacklebolt had already left. She didn’t think much of it and was about to leave when she noticed a light and a slightly ajar door near his office. Her eyes caught the name "Draco Malfoy" engraved on a silver plate. She hesitated but decided it would be better to speak with Shacklebolt first—she still didn’t trust Draco entirely.

As she turned to leave, the door burst open. Draco emerged with a very small man walking beside him—or perhaps Draco’s height just made the wizard seem smaller in comparison. Draco glanced at her briefly, thanked the wizard, who Hermione realized was the Wizard Prime Minister of Kenya based on how Draco addressed him, Draco made a small gesture with his hand, lifting a finger to indicate he needed a minute. She nodded and waited. The small wizard left.

"I would’ve introduced you, but we were already saying our goodbyes," Draco remarked.

"No worries," she replied, her tone light but sharp. "I’m just a Muggle-born, anyway."

Draco's jaw clenched, and he looked at her with narrowed eyes. "Right." He took a slow breath, then asked, "How was your first meeting with Traditional Healer Saimaniq?"

Hermione’s eyes lit up with enthusiasm she couldn’t hide. "It was incredible. She’s so knowledgeable. I’m really looking forward to learning more about how they practice medicine."

"I imagine," Draco replied, his tone measured.

An awkward silence settled between them. Hermione didn’t feel ready to share what Healer Saimaniq had told her about the Tenelabrith—not yet. She wasn’t sure how to approach the situation or which details were safe to reveal. The last thing she wanted was to put Healer Saimaniq in a position where she had to explain herself to Malfoy.

Hermione shifted from one foot to the other, studying him. He wore a tailored black suit, modern with subtle wizarding touches, lacking the traditional robes most Ministry employees favored. His exposure to the Muggle world clearly influenced his style she noticed to herself, surprised. She couldn’t help but contrast his appearance with her own—mud-splattered jeans, boots, and her beanie pulled low over her hair. As if aware of her gaze, Draco removed his black coat and rolled up his sleeves while looking at her.

"I was here to speak with Minister Shacklebolt," Hermione said, breaking the silence that had been growing uncomfortable.

Draco nodded. "He left early today; he had an appointment."

"Okay, I’ll pass by another time," she replied, turning to leave.

Draco hesitated. "What did you want to tell him?"

Hermione paused, unsure if she should share. But Kingsley trusted Draco, and maybe it was time she did.

"Last Tuesday, I was in Diagon Alley visiting some friends. I stayed late with Mr. Flourish; we were drinking tea and talking about new books. I left around 10 p.m. As I walked toward the Leaky Cauldron, I noticed the temperature had dropped significantly, and I realized I was completely alone in the alley. I felt something was... wrong. When I turned around, I saw two dark figures standing near the Magical Menagerie. I froze. It was the same feeling I had the other day, on the train."

She swallowed hard, continuing. "Both figures started walking toward me, and I could barely move. I managed to get closer to the wall. When I turned one last time before entering the Leaky Cauldron, the figures were... floating, like a mist."

"You’re not the only one reporting this kind of experience. We’re investigating, and I can tell you for certain that your two Auror best friends are involved in these cases, looking for answer. They’re happening across the world." Draco paused, looking at Hermione, as though debating whether to share more. After a moment, he seemed to decide. "We’ve noticed similar situations happening to Muggles in the Muggle world as well. What’s more, we’ve found a pattern—every wizard reporting these incidents is Muggle-born."

Hermione gasped in horror.

Draco’s voice softened, but the concern in his eyes was unmistakable. "We’re becoming more and more worried, Granger, about you walking around in the muggle world without any protection and to be frank, we don’t think your skills in Defense Against the Dark Arts have been kept up to date."

Hermione tightened her fists at her sides. Draco wasn’t entirely wrong, but she didn’t appreciate hearing it from him. A flicker of doubt crossed her mind—had Harry, Ron, and Draco discussed her behind her back? Was this a concern they had shared with him instead of bringing it up to her first?

Once again, the conversation fizzled out as she drifted into her thoughts.

Draco leaned against his desk, crossing his legs in front of each other and is arms over his chest. Hermione had no choice but to notice his strong forearms, which seemed even more prominent with his sleeves rolled up.

"I know you and I have had conflicts in the past, and I’m certainly not the type of man to claim I’ve changed," Draco admitted. "I haven’t, but I’m not as close-minded as I was at Hogwarts." He let out a sigh. "I realize our first encounter wasn’t the best, and I apologize for that. I wasn’t expecting you to be there, and surprises aren’t exactly my strong suit."

Hermione looked at him with disbelief while he continued speaking “I don’t expect us to be friends, and you still get under my skin sometimes.”

She shot him an insulted look.

He raised his hands in front of him, wearing a contrite smile. “I’m being honest with you. He continued “What’s going on is serious, Hermione. While we understand that you won’t be joining the Ministry, and we will respect that, we urge you to be careful.”

Hermione looked at him with confusion, wondering where the snobbish, elitist Draco she always knew had gone.

"You look like I just stunned you."

She smiled. "You did, actually."

Her eyes met his, and she noticed his gaze flickering from her mouth back to her eyes. His grey irises darkened, becoming less pale than they had been a minute ago. He stiffened, and the kind, approachable Draco was gone. In a polished and professional tone, he told her, “I think we are done. I’ll let Shacklebolt know about your visit. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other important matters to attend to.”

Hermione opened her mouth, her eyes widening in shock. Turning her back without a word, she left the room, her body stiff and her fists clenched at her sides.

Chapter Text

Mid-November 2006

Draco moved cautiously through the cave, his wand casting a dim light ahead. He was alone, somewhere in Utah, dressed in a sleek black tactical suit—far more comfortable than the stiff formal robes he usually wore at the Ministry. He had spent the past eight years working in the political sphere alongside Shacklebolt, but he had to admit that over the last year, with more fieldwork, he finally felt in his element.

The endless ceremonies, the politics, the constant pretense required when dealing with Ministry officials—it had all bored him. Five years ago, he had started combat training, honing not only his magical skills, including dark magic, but also hand-to-hand combat, and he had come to enjoy it. As one of the Ministry’s most trusted operatives, he was often sent on field missions, which suited him far better than the bureaucratic grind.

This past year had been his most intense yet. He had traveled across the world, relentlessly chasing leads on the Tenelabrith. Recent intelligence suggested they had been held captive at this location—until recently—before being released by an unknown wizard. It was believed this occurred in May of this year, around the time Muggle-born witches began experiencing a series of strange events.

Draco finally arrived at a water-filled cavern. The surface was dark and still, reflecting the faint glow of his wand. Hanging stalactites dripped from the ceiling, their sharp edges glinting like daggers. In the center of the lake sat a large, dark wooden chest, its surface worn and weathered with age. He could sense it immediately—the water around it was cursed.

He paused, considering his next move. The chest lay open, flipped on its side, revealing a small mound of sand where it had previously rested. With a flick of his wand, he conjured a feather and sent it drifting over the lake. Within seconds, something resembling a hand, formed entirely of water, emerged from the depths, and snatched the feather, pulling it under. Draco smirked. So, flying won’t work. What about swimming…?

Testing his theory, he sent another feather into the water, watching as it disintegrated the moment it made contact. He exhaled through his nose, a small, amused smile playing on his lips. He always did enjoy breaking curses.

Ice? He raised a brow and pointed his wand at the lake. Glacius.

Instantly, the water froze into a solid sheet of ice. But Draco knew better—that would have been far too easy. He conjured another feather and carefully placed it on the ice. Within seconds, the feather burst into flames.

Draco let out a short laugh before regaining his composure. This is taking too long. He had other matters to attend to—namely, the Greengrass' November Ball tonight. It was one of the most important soirées of the year, second only to the Malfoys’ New Year’s Eve gala. Every important wizard would be there, and Draco had people he needed to speak with.

He closed his eyes for a moment, piecing together his options. He needed to find a way across the cursed lake—and quickly.

Then, he noticed something. The water was moving, subtly shifting as he walked. At first, he thought it was following him, but after pacing from side to side, he realized—it was following his light. In an instant, his wand light went out. Darkness swallowed the cavern. Now without illumination, Draco conjured a feather and sent it drifting across the lake, this time beneath the water’s surface. It passed through untouched. Of course. It wasn’t the water itself that was cursed—it was the reflection. The lake was drawn to light, protecting the shadows. Clever, he thought.

Casting a water-repelling charm, he stepped into the lake, feeling a familiar thrill of adventure coursing through his veins. He was certain it was safe now—but with dark magic, one could never be too sure.

Reaching the small island at the center of the cavern, he climbed out of the water and approached the chest. He didn’t touch it—not yet. Instead, he circled around, assessing the scene. That was when he realized his mistake.

What he had assumed was a mound of sand was a body—badly decomposed, skeletal in places. The remains of a house-elf lay crumpled beside the chest. Even in death, its face was frozen in terror. Draco's gaze lingered on its mouth, sealed shut by some kind of cursed magic.

For a fleeting moment, he felt pity. Dying like this, alone, silenced—it was cruel.

And then, another thought followed—one that unsettled him more than the corpse itself.

He was getting softer.

Who the hell cared about a house-elf? Besides from…

Draco stopped himself. He really needed to concentrate.

Over the last eight years, he had found himself pitying creatures he once ignored. Shacklebolt’s Ministry had weakened him. Had made him care more than he used to. Draco exhaled sharply, pushing the thought aside. Sentimentality wouldn't get him through this.  He took a sample of the wood of the chest, the water, the house-elf… with a certain disdain, the thought that by doing so, he was perjuring the body of a death and he cast another waster repellent spells before entering the water. He emerged on the other side of the lake and, for a brief second, attempted to Apparate out of the cave. It didn’t work.

Of course, he muttered to himself.

With no other option, he began the long trek back to the cave’s entrance.

Once out of the cave, Draco apparated directly into his hotel room at Obsidian, deep in the Grand Canyon. The minimalist luxury of the space greeted him—stone walls, floor-to-ceiling windows opening to the vast desert, and an almost eerie silence. He exhaled, rubbing his face, exhaustion settling into his bones.

He should head straight to the Portkey. His itinerary was brutal—New York, then Montreal, Dublin, and finally London—but right now, the idea of rushing off again made his stomach twist. He just wanted to stay here, order a Firewhiskey, and stare at the desert until his mind emptied.

Solitude hit him hard, a sudden punch to the gut.

Stripping off his tactical clothing, he stood naked in front of the window, gazing out at the moonlit desert. His reflection faintly overlapped with the view, the dim glow from the bathroom casting just enough light to let him see himself.

His broad shoulders. His solid chest.

Draco exhaled, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. He remembered how small and wiry he had been at Hogwarts, but years of training—and genetics—had shaped him into something else entirely.

He was tall—six foot seven, his frame powerful, sculpted from relentless discipline. Hard pectorals defined abdominal muscles, smooth, unblemished skin. He dragged a hand over his stomach, feeling the ridges beneath his fingertips, satisfaction flickering in his eyes. The work had paid off.

And he knew he was desired.

He had seen the way witches looked at him, how they whispered about him, how often he was pursued. He wasn’t blind to it, and he had enjoyed it. The past eight years had been a whirlwind of encounters, especially in the United States and Japan. He had indulged, taken what was offered, and never let anything weigh too heavily on him.

But he also knew he wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea.

He remembered a tall, strikingly beautiful Japanese witch he had encountered in Tokyo once. She had never been interested, and Draco had been fine with that. It hadn’t bruised his ego or unsettled him in the slightest.

His masculinity had never been fragile. Hunting wasn’t his thing.

He liked them willing, eager even, wanting him more than he wanted them.

He also thought about the first time he saw Astoria again, about a year ago, after being away for so long. It was when he had returned permanently to the United Kingdom.

Draco remembered why he had liked her—she didn’t care. She was as cold as he was, as calculated. She moved through life with the same singular purpose as him: to advance. Nothing more, nothing less.

She was a little more humane, a little more sensitive than he was, and that was why he had softened too—not just because of the Ministry’s influence over the years, but because of her.

Their relationship had been exactly what every pureblood parent dreamed of—they had been friends first, and eventually, they had decided to be a couple. No passion, no uncertainty—everything with Astoria had been planned, discussed, and executed like a strategy. She was never late. Never emotional. Never disagreed with him. She was seamless, and he had appreciated that.

It was an arranged union, and Draco hadn’t had the patience to deal with it if Astoria had been difficult. She wasn’t. She fit into the role perfectly.

But lately… something had changed.

The mudblood had been haunting his thoughts.

It disturbed him—how often she was slipping into his mind. She had been absent from his thoughts for years, yet now, she was there.

Unpredictable.
Strong in a unique way.
Unafraid to push limits.

She had always spoken her mind—even when it didn’t serve her, even when it wasn’t strategic. She spoke her truth, whether it helped her or not.

Draco exhaled sharply and shook his head, irritated. Enough. He was bored of thinking about her.

Without another thought, he plunged into his private pool. The water was perfectly tempered, not even a degree off—as expected in a place like this. Yet, as he floated there, surrounded by flawless luxury, a strange feeling crawled under his skin.

It all felt fake.

Suddenly, he needed to leave.

Without hesitation, he rushed into the bathroom, took a quick shower, and threw on fresh clothes. By the time he reached the bar, he was composed again, his emotions reined in. He took a steady breath, regaining his usual control. He was ready. Without another thought, he reached for the first Portkey of the night and began his journey back to London.

***

Hermione stood in front of the full-length mirror, staring at her reflection for what felt like the thousandth time. She felt so out of place in this dress—like she wasn’t herself at all.

Behind her, Ginny sighed in exasperation. “Hermione, stop looking at yourself! We need to go, or we’ll be late for the Greengrass ball.”

But Hermione barely heard her. She took another lingering glance at her reflection. Her hair was pinned up, revealing the elegant curve of her neck. The red dress clung to her body, highlighting every contour—her breasts, her delicate waist, the subtle flare of her hips. It wasn’t her usual style, and she felt strangely exposed. Her long legs were accentuated by a pair of black high heels, making her feel taller, like someone else entirely.

She wore no necklace, no gloves. Just a simple pair of earrings—tiny diamonds from her mother. Though her parents, both dentists, had Muggle money, her mother had never been extravagant. It was a trait Hermione had inherited, one of the few things grounding her in a world that often felt so far from home. Ginny appeared behind Hermione in the mirror’s reflection, smiling. "You look amazing. Every wizard at the ball will fall for you."

Hermione scrunched up her nose and stuck out her tongue before turning away from the mirror.

Ginny continued, "Mum and Dad were never invited to this ball. Even though they’re purebloods, they were always too openly supportive of Muggle-born wizards. But now that You-Know-Who is dead, the old pureblood families working at the Ministry don’t really have a choice. They have to invite Muggles-borns, especially since they’re becoming more and more prominent in important circles across the world.

"Mum was thrilled when she finally got an invitation a couple of years ago. But honestly, I think we’re mostly invited because of Harry. As an Auror, he gets invited to all these kinds of events. It’s like they’re trying to show their redemption by having us there."

Hermione nodded. "Do you like going?" she asked.

Ginny laughed. "I love wearing dresses. And I love the way Harry looks at me when I do.

At the doorway, Harry stood on the porch, gazing at Ginny with stars in his eyes. They were all gathered at the Burrow, having decided to leave and arrive at the Greengrass Ball together.

Hermione was going with her friend Ron, while Harry was paired with Ginny. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Luna, and George were also attending, and Charlie was set to meet his date directly at Greengrass Manor. They all gathered in the kitchen before their departure.

Ron stepped closer to Hermione, his gaze holding the same kind of admiration that Harry had for Ginny, and it made her uneasy. He gave a dramatic bow, grinning as he teased, "You look delightful."

She let out a small, awkward laugh and thanked him, unsure how to respond.

Trying to brush off her discomfort, she took his arm as he led her toward the fireplace, where they would travel using Floo Powder.

***

Draco stood in the ballroom with Shacklebolt, their conversation appearing casual to onlookers, but in reality, they were discussing his recent visit to America—more specifically, the cave he had explored.

“The house-elf was cursed with a Mouth-Sealing Spell,” Draco said, his voice low. “He was already dead when I arrived—probably had been for months. He was lying next to the chest where I assume the Tenelabrith were held captive and then released. He wasn’t alone when he entered that cave… but he never left.”

Shacklebolt nodded, his expression grave. “You took samples of everything?” he asked seriously.

“Yes,” Draco confirmed.

“Have you had time to examine them? Cast any spells?”

“No,” Draco replied. “I just got here a few minutes ago by Portkey. I’ll have a look tonight, after the ball.”

Shacklebolt nodded once more. “Thank you for your commitment.”

With that, he left Draco’s side, striding toward the Japanese Minister of Magic, who had just arrived by Portkey at Greengrass Manor.

Draco was soon joined by Malcolm Greengrass, Astoria’s father.

“Draco, son,” Malcolm greeted.

“Mr. Greengrass,” Draco replied. “How are you?”

“I’m well. I see Shacklebolt keeps you busy sending you across the world to chase relics that don’t exist.”

Draco held his gaze, his expression unreadable. “Right…”

He turned his attention to a house-elf passing by, balancing a tray of champagne flutes. “Would you like one?”

Malcolm gave a small nod, and they both took glasses, sipping in silence.

Suddenly, the fireplace flared to life, and in an instant, the Weasleys arrived one after the other, tumbling through the Floo Network in pairs. Draco immediately noticed them—Luna with George, Harry with Ginny, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. It looked as if they had all come through at once, landing in a tangled heap, laughing like it was the funniest thing that had ever happened.

Then, he saw her.

She had just arrived, stumbling slightly, laughing as she pushed away from the Weasley chaos, her hands lightly gripping Ron’s arm for balance.

Hermione Granger.

She was stunning.

Her dress wasn’t a traditional ball gown. It was shorter, sleeker—designed to hug every curve of her body. Long sleeves covered her arms, but the hemline left her legs exposed, drawing attention to their endless length. His eyes were drawn, once again, to what seemed to be the longest legs he had ever seen. But was it really the dress that captivated him, or was it something more?

The way her hair was pinned up, revealing the elegant curve of her neck or the way her laugh reached her eyes, warm and unguarded or what is the way she moved, graceful yet unassuming, as she tried to free herself from the tangle of Weasley arms?

Whatever it was, he couldn’t look away. Draco forced himself to look away, shifting his gaze back to Malcolm Greengrass, who was still staring at the group—or rather, at someone.

Draco followed his line of sight, and his stomach twisted when he realized who he was looking at.

Granger.

Malcolm smirked slightly, swirling the champagne in his glass. “I used to enjoy playing in the mud before meeting Astoria’s mother,” he mused. “And I must admit that Granger girl would have been my type—thirty years ago.”

A rush of heat surged through Draco’s body. His fingers curled into a tight fist around the stem of his glass.

“Right…” Draco heard himself say, his voice even, controlled.

“I can only imagine.” But what he really wanted to do was punch the man in the face.

"I’ll excuse myself now—I need to go pay my respects to the Minister of Japan," Draco said smoothly.

Greengrass nodded, waving him off with an indifferent gesture.

Draco, however, had no intention of seeking out the Minister. He only wanted to put some distance between himself and that filthy old man. He walked aimlessly through the ballroom for a few minutes, letting his mind wander, before spotting his friend Theodore Nott locked in what appeared to be a heated discussion with Astoria. However, the moment Draco approached, they both seemed to calm down, their expressions smoothing over.

“What’s going on here?” Draco asked, his gaze shifting to Astoria, who, for the first time he could remember, looked angry about something.

“Nothing,” Nott replied with an easy shrug. “I was just mentioning how small I find this ballroom, and Astoria took offense to my remark.”

Draco chuckled. “Always in competition, aren’t you? Thinking your manor is the best of them all.”

“Always,” Nott smirked. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to sample these canapés—purely for the sake of comparison, of course. I must see if they measure up to the ones prepared by the Nott manor’s chef.”

With that, Nott strode off, leaving Draco alone with Astoria.

Draco slid an arm around her waist, pulling her closer as he looked at her properly. As always, she was perfect—elegant, composed, every detail meticulously polished.

“You look nice tonight,” he said.

“I know. Thanks,” she replied without hesitation. “You look great too.”

She studied him for a moment before asking, “How are you?” But Draco noticed her mind was elsewhere.

“I’m fine,” he answered, though he had the distinct impression that Nott’s comment had bothered her more than it should. “Your reception is incredible, and for the record, this ballroom is far bigger than Nott’s.”

Astoria exhaled, tilting her head slightly. “I know, I know,” she murmured, but there was little satisfaction in her voice.

She glanced toward the center of the room, where the music had softened, and couples were beginning to gather for the first dance.

“They’re about to start,” she said. “We’re expected to dance at least once. Do you want to do the first, or would you rather wait for a later set?”

Draco smirked slightly. “Let’s get the first one over with. That way, we can enjoy the rest of the evening in peace.”

She gave him a small, almost sad smile and nodded.

They stood in the middle of the dance floor, waiting for the music to begin, unaware that the next moments would seal Draco’s fates in ways no one could yet predict.

Draco held Astoria in his arms, bored and impatient, his mind already elsewhere when Shacklebolt, who was about to dance with Hermione, suddenly stepped closer, drawing them all into the same space.

"Astoria, my dear, how are you?" Shacklebolt asked smoothly.

"I need to speak with your father about an urgent matter. I was told he is in his study. I know I’m pulling you away from the arms of our dearest Draco, but would you mind bringing me to him? Or, if it’s easier, fetching him for me?"

Astoria's expression flickered with mild annoyance for just a second before she regained her composure. With a practiced smile, she nodded.

"Of course, please follow me."

She turned to Draco. "We’ll have to dance later, I suppose."

Draco gave a brief nod, expecting to step away as well, when Shacklebolt suddenly shifted Hermione in front of him.

"Draco," Shacklebolt said, a knowing glint in his eyes, "I convinced Miss Granger to dance with me, but now I find myself needing to leave her alone on the dance floor. Would you do me the agreeable favor of ensuring she is not left without a partner?"

Draco met Hermione’s gaze, and in her eyes, he saw the same hesitation—the same reluctance, the same silent protest.

He extended his hand, waiting, unsure if she would take it.

For a moment, she hesitated. But then, with visible reluctance, she placed her hand in his, her fingers cool against his palm.

Without another word, he pulled her closer in one fluid motion, their bodies just inches apart.

“With pleasure, Minister Shacklebolt,” Draco said smoothly, though the subtle clench of his jaw betrayed something else entirely.

Hermione stiffened in his hold. And then, the music began.

For a few moments, neither of them spoke, both lost in their own thoughts.

As they moved across the dance floor, Hermione became acutely aware of the height difference between them. Her head barely reached his chest, and if she wanted to meet his gaze, she had to tilt her head back uncomfortably.

When she did, she found Draco already looking down at her, his expression unreadable, yet somehow still intense.

"Shacklebolt made me aware of the Tenelabrith," she told him, her voice quiet but steady.

Draco’s grip on her subtly shifted, but he remained composed.

"I’m guessing that’s why we’re dancing right now," she continued. "He wants me to start researching it… and for you to share what you’ve found with me."

For a split second, Draco's step faltered, his hold tightening just slightly before he corrected himself.

Hermione felt it—the small misstep, the tension in his frame—but he recovered smoothly, leading her back into rhythm before anyone could notice.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, deliberate.

"I suppose he does."

Hermione let a small laugh escape her lips, her eyes locking onto his.

Draco’s gaze darkened, his usual cool grey now deeper, more intense—just as it always did whenever they found themselves face to face.

"Do you think we should partner for a couple of days?" she asked, her tone measured. "I share with you what I find, you do the same, and then we go our separate ways? We’ll have done what he expects from us… and it’ll be easier than fighting against it."

Draco studied her, his expression unreadable. His grip on her waist remained firm, yet his fingers twitched ever so slightly, betraying the thoughts stirring in his mind.

For a moment, he said nothing.

And then, finally, he spoke.

"That’s also the reason why we wanted you to learn from Saimaniq."

"I know," she said. "She told me the first time we met. I was waiting for either you or Shacklebolt to reach out to me."

"I see," Draco murmured.

"I already started researching them and have found some interesting information," she told him, her voice dropping to a murmur as she rose onto her toes to speak closer to his ear.

He found the gesture extremely cute, and for a brief moment, he had the absurd urge to wrap his hands around her small waist and lift her up to his level.

"Did you?" he repeated, raising a single brow.

Hermione let out another small chuckle, that same quiet laugh that, to his own growing annoyance, he was starting to find more and more enticing.

She looked up at him, and for the first time in months, he felt his lips curve into a genuine smile. The realization struck him unexpectedly—her smile made him happy.

Her eyes sparkled, alight with that unmistakable thrill of discovery, the kind of excitement she reserved for a challenge, for knowledge just out of reach.

And as he watched her, Draco couldn’t quite understand how or why, but there was something undeniably captivating about the way she came alive in the pursuit of the unknown.

And then, in an almost casual tone, she said,
"I find it so sad that all the house-elves have been enchanted to stay silent."

Draco's expression shifted instantly. He stopped mid-waltz, his grip on her hand tightening as he turned to her with sudden seriousness.
"What did you just say?"

Chapter Text

The same night, mid-November 2006

Hermione rolled her eyes, exasperated.

"You’re so insufferably snobbish. It’s impossible that you haven’t noticed. The thought of them being beneath you is so ingrained in that pretty head of yours that you seriously didn’t see it. House-elf here has had their mouth sealed. Definitely not the kind of soirée I enjoy."

Draco’s gaze swept the room, his sharp eyes scanning for house-elves. Then, without a word, he grabbed Hermione’s arm and pulled her off the dance floor. He hadn’t meant to be rough, but the movement was less controlled than he intended.

"Show me."

Hermione hesitated, her brows knitting together. Slowly, she pulled her arm free and came to a stop.

"What? Malfoy?"

Draco looked at her, and for the first time, his eyes were an eerie, almost ghostly gray, his pupils black.

She instinctively took a step back. Something felt different—like this wasn’t the same Draco she was used to dealing with.

Draco halted, then stepped toward her again.

"I’ll explain. Just show me the house-elf that was silenced by a curse."

Hermione almost wanted to tell him to say please, but something in his eyes stopped her from making the joke. Instead, she shot him a nasty look and strode past him.

"What do you mean, the house-elf? They’re all silenced," she said over her shoulder.

She walked straight to a house-elf carrying a tray of canapés in the middle of the crowd. A small floating card hovered above the tray, reading Pork. Taking one canapé, she bent nearly in half to peer beneath the tray, ensuring she met the house-elf’s high—all without breaking eye contact with Draco.

"Thank you," she said with a touch of smugness, her eyes flicking to Draco.

The house-elf’s eyes widened in surprise before he gave a small, wordless nod.

Hermione turned to Draco, whose face was frozen in shock. That was why she had noticed—she thanked them. Other wizards were so accustomed to ignoring house-elves that it had been right in front of him all along, yet he hadn't seen it. How stupid was he? For not noticing? He was even more surprised that Shacklebolt hadn’t picked up on it. He was usually so quick with these details.

Draco stepped closer to the house-elf and took a canapé as well. Bending down the way Hermione had wasn’t an option for him without drawing attention, but he stole a quick glance downward and realized the elves were almost entirely hidden behind their large trays.

"I need to speak to Shacklebolt," he muttered.

"Shacklebolt went to meet Mr. Greengrass in his study," Hermione said.

"Let’s go," Draco told her, reaching for her hand, urgency in his every motion. "We need to get to him."

Hermione glanced down at his hand, then back up at him.

Realizing what he was doing, Draco quickly let his hand drop. Hermione was sure she saw a flicker of shyness in his expression before he covered it up.

"Just follow me. If you want to," he said, giving her a small smirk. "Didn’t you just say we should collaborate for a while?"

She looked at him with a doubtful expression, arms crossed.

Draco simply shrugged. "Your call, Granger."

His entire posture suggested indifference, but his gaze told a different story—something Hermione couldn’t quite pinpoint. His eyes darkened, as they always did.

"Okay, let’s go," she heard herself say.

They were ascending the stairs toward Malcom’s study to find Shacklebolt when they crossed paths with Astoria and her sister, Daphne.

Astoria stopped, tilting her head slightly as she looked at them both. Her gaze flicked to Draco, then to Hermione.

"Draco," she said in her perfectly poised voice, a question lingering in her tone as her eyes returned to him.

Draco acknowledged her with a brief nod but didn’t slow his pace. "I don’t have time," he said quickly before continuing up the stairs.

Daphne, however, didn’t look away from Hermione. Her sharp gaze was filled with open disdain.

And where do you think you’re going? The reception is downstairs. You can’t just roam freely through Greengrass Manor as you please."

Daphne’s voice was sharp, laced with entitlement. Then, turning to her sister—but making sure those nearby could hear—she added, "Things were much better when we only invited real wizards. Muggle-borns have no manners."

Draco hesitated mid-step, his entire body tensing. A sharp pulse of anger shot through him, but he schooled his expression before anyone could notice.

Slowly, he turned, his mind racing for the right response. He couldn’t publicly defend Hermione—not here, not in front of everyone.

Shacklebolt would be livid.

But Hermione didn’t need defending. She met Daphne’s gaze head-on, fire in her eyes, refusing to back down.

Draco remembered her at Hogwarts—how she had always defended herself, never cowered, never let anyone belittle her without a fight. A flicker of admiration stirred in him. She wasn’t some damsel in distress, waiting to be saved. She stood her ground.

Astoria’s expression darkened as she turned toward her sister, ready to intervene. But before she could say anything, Daphne deliberately lost her footing, her glass tilting just enough to send a splash of red wine over Hermione’s chest.

The deep neckline of Hermione’s dress was now stained with crimson.

Daphne’s lips curled into a mockingly sympathetic smile. "At least it’s red wine on your red dress. And if I’m not mistaken, yours can be washed in a machine, can’t it? It’s not haute couture, after all."

Astoria caught sight of Draco stepping down the stairs, his intent unmistakable. If he defended Hermione publicly, it would bring humiliation to their family. Without missing a beat, she took control.

"Please excuse my sister, Miss Granger," Astoria said smoothly, her tone neutral but firm. "She’s had more to drink than usual and alcohol doesn’t sit well with her."

Daphne opened her mouth to protest, but Hermione silenced her with a raised hand.

"Enough," she said, her voice steady. Then, turning to Astoria, she continued, "Mrs. Greengrass, I’m sure you won’t mind showing me where the washroom is. I’d like to clean up the mess your drunken sister just made on a guest at your reception. I’ve always heard how wonderful the Greengrass Ball is and how your family is known for being exceptional hosts. But it seems some publications are nothing more than rubbish after all."

Astoria's lips parted slightly, momentarily taken aback by Hermione’s casual yet cutting remarks. Not only had she insulted their hospitality, but she had also made it clear she wouldn’t mind seeing the incident reported in the press.

Astoria glanced at Draco, who now stood by the stair railing, watching the scene with a somewhat amused smile. But then she noticed something else—his eyes were on Hermione, and he was looking at her in a way he had never looked at Astoria.

Was it admiration? Pride, perhaps? Astoria asked herself. The realization unsettled her. As soon as Draco sensed her gaze on him, the amusement faded from his expression. He straightened at once, his posture shifting back to rigid formality.

Astoria’s pupils constricted as she turned back to Hermione, her mind working quickly. Daphne had just publicly humiliated her, and while Astoria admired Hermione’s sharp repartee and felt the temptation to retort, she knew her role was to defuse the situation.

Yet, she couldn't ignore the silent exchange between Draco and Hermione. There was something there—something she couldn’t quite grasp—but it was undeniably present.

Hermione was delivering a subtle, calculated form of payback, and Astoria found herself caught between the lines of a game she hadn’t realized had already begun and she decided she would not be drawn into their game. Instead, she would play the perfect hostess, refusing to rise to either Daphne’s provocation or Hermione’s retaliation.

Astoria’s expression smoothed over. "Of course," she replied coolly. With effortless poise, she took Hermione’s arm and rested it lightly on her own. "Please, follow me."

Her gaze flicked toward her sister, sharp as a blade. "And you, Daphne—I think it’s time you retired for the night."

Daphne’s face twisted in defiance, her grip tightening around her empty glass. But before she could snap back, Astoria stepped closer, leaned in, and whispered something low—something only Daphne could hear.

Daphne’s body stiffened. Her jaw clenched.

Without another word, she spun on her heel and stormed upstairs, brushing past Draco with barely concealed fury.

Hermione turned to Draco, her wide eyes searching for… something. Even she wasn’t sure what.

But Draco didn’t look at her.

Instead, Draco’s gaze met Astoria’s, and after a beat, he gave a subtle nod—silent gratitude.

Astoria gently took Hermione’s arm and led her away, guiding her in the opposite direction of Draco’s path.

Hermione followed Astoria into a room nearly twice the size of her flat in London. As they stepped inside, Astoria cast her a contrite smile.

"Please, excuse my sister for real. She’s a prank. A jinx."

"I’m used to it," Hermione replied. "And I know you only helped me to save appearances. So please, I’ll go home now. I have no interest in any of this."

"I did. True." Astoria sighed. "And the last thing I wanted was for Draco to jump in. For a second, I was sure he was about to grab his wand and Avada Kedavra my sister."

Hermione froze, processing the words—then, unexpectedly, a laugh escaped her throat.

"With all due respect, Astoria, Draco Malfoy is worse than your sister. He hates everything that I am, everything my blood represents. You’ve misunderstood his expression—he was probably about to Avada Kedavra me instead."

Astoria stared at her, mouth slightly open.

"For the smartest witch of our age, you’re definitely lacking somewhere."

Hermione frowned, puzzled. She shook her head, exhaustion creeping into her voice. "I’ll go home. I’m tired of all this."

"You won’t."

Hermione shot her a surprised, almost shocked look.

"You are going to collect yourself," Astoria said firmly. "We won’t just Scourgify your dress. You’ll wear one of mine, so everyone sees that my sister was just being childish and that the Greengrass family isn’t a bunch of stupid racists. And then, you’ll go meet with Draco. You two were onto something, and Draco needs you."

Hermione blinked in disbelief, about to protest—

But Astoria cut her off.

"Draco and I—we’re great partners," she interjected smoothly. "And I can tell when he needs someone.

Hermione, who was not one to usually defer, found something in Astoria’s tone—calm yet laced with quiet authority—that made her pause. Before she even realized it, she gave a small nod and moved toward the wardrobe.

She couldn’t help but wonder—was its Astoria’s commanding presence that swayed her, or was it the quiet thrill of knowing Draco needed her?

"I need long sleeves."

"Long sleeves it is, then," Astoria said, pulling out a dress. "Here we go."

She lifted a breathtaking gown—black, with delicate lace climbing up to the neckline and a long, flowing skirt that cascaded dramatically to the floor. The design was gothic, striking, magnifique.

Hermione changed quickly. The dress was slightly too long for her, and while it fit well enough, her bust and hips were slightly fuller than Astoria’s.

Astoria smiled. "You’re smaller than me, but with better curves. You’re a beautiful woman, Hermione Granger."

"And you are stunning, Astoria."

"Oh, I know," Astoria said with a playful smirk. "There are enough men in this world for both of us. I’ve never cared for competition. As women, we should be more supportive of each other. Just a thought."

Hermione smiled. "I agree."

With a flick of her wand, Astoria cast a charm to adjust the dress, ensuring a perfect fit.

"Both black and red suit you, Doctor Granger," Astoria said with a knowing wink. "Now, let’s get you back to the ballroom so everyone can see that the Greengrass family is not a filthy, racist one."

As she spoke, her eyes hardened, her tone sharpening like steel. It was as if she were fighting something deep within—something too distant for Hermione to grasp.

It was only 10 p.m.—the night was still young. Hermione and Astoria stood at the top of the grand staircase, preparing to descend into the ballroom. Astoria leaned in and whispered, "Keep your head up and just say my sister was a stupid drunk. The Greengrass’s family will owe you one."

They had only missed supper, but Hermione was starving as she walked toward the ball, scanning the room for her friends. Where were they?

From across the room, she spotted Ron. He was deep in conversation with Harry, but the moment he saw her, his face hardened, and he strode straight toward her.

"So, it’s true?" he asked, his voice sharp with anger. "That stupid Greengrass insulted you and threw her drink at you?"

"Ron, it’s fine," Hermione said, trying to brush it off. "Don’t worry about it."

"It’s not fine, Hermione. This is so ‘98."

"I know, but please—she was drunk. She fell down the stairs."

Ron stared at her in disbelief. "You? You believe that bullshit?"

Before she could respond, he reached for her left arm, his intent clear—to expose her scar.

Hermione recoiled, stepping back sharply. "How dare you?" she snapped. "This is so beneath you. What exactly are you trying to prove to me?"

Her retreat was cut short by the wall behind her. She stiffened as two large hands settled on her shoulders. The dress Astoria had lent her had long, semi-transparent lace sleeves, and through the delicate fabric, she could feel the warmth of the hands gripping her.

Ron took a step back, his gaze shifting to the newcomer.

Slowly, Hermione turned within Draco’s grasp to face him. His gaze was intense—so much so that she couldn’t quite pinpoint what she saw in it. But one thing was certain: his eyes were darker now, no longer the pale, almost transparent grey they had been just hours ago.

Instinctively, her hand lifted, reaching toward his face as if searching for answers in his expression. Her own eyes locked onto his, trying to understand—what had changed? What was happening? She didn’t event realised that she was about to touch him but before she could, Ron stepped forward. His hands slid around her waist, pulling her away from Draco’s touch.

Draco’s jaw clenched, his expression unreadable, but he didn’t move—not yet. He knew the eyes of the entire room were on them.

Ron and Draco locked eyes, and in that moment, Hermione felt it—like she was a prize, a trophy they had both claimed.

And she hated it.

She found herself closer to Ron as he had pulled her over to his side. They were all looking at each other, Draco nodding at both before speaking.

"I'm glad you found a dress that fits you. It was a stupid accident."

Hermione nodded as well and placed a hand on Ron’s arm, preventing him from saying anything.

"Thank you, Draco. Please excuse us—I’m starving, and Ron just kindly told me he would take me somewhere to eat."

Draco, maintaining his serious demeanor, gave another nod before walking away.

Hermione turned to Ron and immediately stepped away from him.

Ron was about to say something, but Hermione shot him a furious glare.

"Enough," she whispered sharply. "You had no right. Consider yourself lucky that I didn’t want to make a scene. Now, excuse me."

"But you said we were going to eat," Ron protested.

"Yes, I am. But not with you."

She left him standing in the middle of the room and walked over to join Ginny and Harry, who had witnessed the entire exchange.

Ginny shot her brother a furious look before placing a comforting hand on Hermione’s shoulder.

They both walked away, leaving Harry with Ron.

The rest of the night went by quickly—guests were dancing, laughing, and enjoying themselves. Hermione spent the evening with Ginny, knowing she would need to head home soon. She was tired but had to admit that, aside from the earlier incident, she had enjoyed the reception.

As the night wound down, she was preparing to leave, bidding farewell to Ginny, who used Floo Powder to travel home. Hermione, on the other hand, would take the Portkey since it would drop her closer to her place.

She made her way across the ballroom, but just as she was about to leave, a House-elf carrying a tray of food stepped in front of her. He gave her a small wave and gestured for her to follow him. Intrigued, she complied.

The House-elf led her to the terrace, where the crisp night air greeted her. It was cold, but small enchanted flames flickered around the balcony, casting a warm, golden glow. The scene felt almost magical—fairy tale like, she thought for a fleeting moment.

The elf set the tray down on the broad railing and stepped back. A small note rested beside the food, reading: For you.

Hermione, still quite hungry, didn’t think twice about it. She picked up a sandwich filled with grilled vegetables and took a bite, savoring the warm flavors. She had just started to enjoy herself when the sound of footsteps echoed behind her on the balcony.

She turned around and saw Draco standing a couple of meters away.

She remained silent, unsure of what to say. For a brief moment, she felt oddly out of place—standing on the balcony of Greengrass Manor, past midnight, eating a sandwich alone.

"I was starving," she finally said, holding up the sandwich slightly. "And the House-elf brought this to me… I couldn’t resist."

Draco gave her a small smirk. "Yes, I know. I noticed you didn’t leave with that idiot Weasley, and I figured you were starving since you had to skip dinner."

She nodded, continuing to eat before pausing. "You did this for me?"

"Yes," he admitted. "But don’t flatter yourself—I needed to talk to you. About the House-elf."

"Oh, okay. Thanks anyway. It’s delicious." She took another bite and then noticed the fries on the side.

"Blimey! You even got fries!" she said, grabbing a few and popping them into her mouth. "These are amazing!"

Draco watched her, amused. There was something oddly endearing about how excited she was over fries.

"What about the House-elf? Did you speak with Shacklebolt? What did he say?"

Draco stepped closer, closing the space between them until he was just an arm’s length away. She felt a shift in the air, a tension radiating from him. Pausing mid-bite, she looked up at him.

Draco lowered his voice. "I can’t talk here but meet me in my office tomorrow morning. I’ll bring you up to speed, and we can work together."

Hermione nodded, but a shiver ran down her spine. Was it the cold or something else—something to do with Draco standing so close? The thought unsettled her.

Draco noticed and, without a word, slipped off his black suit jacket, draping it over her shoulders. He smelled like crisp forest air mixed with Firewhiskey, and as he settled the fabric over her, she involuntarily closed her eyes for a second, absorbing the warmth.

"Thank you," she murmured.

"That’s okay," he said simply.

She lifted her chin to look at him, realizing just how close his face was. His eyes—usually a cool grey—had darkened, deepening to something unreadable.

"Your eyes," she whispered. "They change color sometimes."

Draco didn’t respond right away. He just held her gaze before finally saying,

"You look amazing in this dress." His voice was quieter now, almost hesitant, as if sensing the sadness still lingering in her. He had never been good at offering comfort, but for some reason, seeing her upset unsettled him in a way he couldn’t explain.

"It’s not mine. Anyone can look good in a dress worth a million Galleons," she said flatly. "I preferred my cheap one."

Draco let out a short laugh—low, warm. He leaned in slightly, his breath brushing against her ear.

"The red one was my favorite too," he murmured. "And I particularly love your earrings—they’re so you. Elegant."

His voice dropped lower, almost teasing. "Though, I can’t decide what I liked more—your bare neckline with your hair up like that, your raspy laugh, or those endless legs in that short red dress."

A flutter stirred in her stomach as his words lingered between them, his breath warm against her skin before he slowly pulled away.

Hermione stared at him in disbelief. "Are you flirting with me, Malfoy?"

Draco smirked, tilting his head slightly. "You’re the one who said I had a pretty head on my shoulders."

Hermione smiled back, and Draco’s eyes darkened even further.

They were so close now—so close that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body. For an instant, she wanted to move even closer, to close the space between them. She wasn’t sure if it was the lingering sting of Daphne’s cruelty, the way Draco had been unexpectedly kind to her all night, or the extra glass of champagne that had left a pleasant warmth in her veins. But for some reason, all she wanted in that moment was to be in his arms.

She saw Draco’s hand lift, hesitating for just a second before he cupped the back of her head, his thumb brushing against her lips. A breath hitched in her throat as he pulled her toward him, his head dipping lower. Instinctively, she rose onto her toes, her heart hammering.

But just as the moment tightened around them, Draco let out a quiet sigh—and suddenly, he was gone.

He released her as though she burned him, stepping back like she carried the plague.

"I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Good night," Draco said before Apparating.

Hermione was left alone on the balcony, his coat still draped over her shoulders. The lingering warmth of it, along with the fading tension in the air, made her exhale softly.

A House-elf appeared in front of her, taking the tray away before handing her a small cup of tea.

She accepted it without question, knowing it was a Portkey. The moment her fingers wrapped around it, she felt the familiar tug at her navel, and in the blink of an eye, she was transported to a quiet bar near her flat.

Chapter Text

Next Morning, Mid-November 2006

Hermione had struggled to sleep the night before, and heading into the Ministry of Magic on a Sunday was certainly not what she wanted to do on a Sunday. She had promised herself she wouldn’t get dragged into this mess.

Yet here she was.

Exactly where she didn’t want to be.

She took a long, warm shower, letting the water soothe her as her mind drifted back to the events of last night—the sharp sting of Daphne’s wine splashing across her dress, Astoria’s insistent plea that she changes and stay at the reception, and the knowing look in her eyes when she told Hermione that Draco needed her. As if she knew something.

And then there was Draco himself.

For the first time in his life, he had been kind. Open. Willing to collaborate. Smiling? That was new. He had even gone out of his way to make sure she had something to eat before she left. But more than that, it was the way his touch had lingered on her neck, the way his thumb had brushed her lips—an unspoken moment neither of them had been ready for, yet one they had both undeniably felt. The tension between them was impossible to ignore.

She exhaled sharply, shaking off the thoughts as she reached for a towel, wrapping it tightly around herself as if that alone could ground her. A few minutes later, she pulled on a skirt and a long-sleeved cotton shirt, the familiar fabric a stark contrast to the uncertainty swirling in her mind. She stroked Crookshanks' head and gave him his croquette before grabbing her Gryffindor hood, scarf, tuque, and satchel.

She glanced at herself in the mirror, and for a fleeting moment, she almost considered putting on mascara—or even lipstick. But then, she smiled at her reflection. No, she wouldn’t.

She understood perfectly well why her body reacted that way around Draco. He was tall, strong, his jaw sharp and defined, his forearms corded with muscle. His waist was broad and solid, complementing the power in his stance, the sheer strength coiled in his thighs. He was, undeniably, an impressive specimen.

Probably extremely toxic in his masculinity, too given his upbringing and the way he had been raised to believe in pureblood superiority. And maybe, in some inexplicable way, that only added to the allure of his presence.

Women always seemed drawn to men who either needed taking care of or gave the illusion of being able to protect them. But her mind knew better. He wasn’t her type.

She had always been drawn to men with honor—men who were authentic, kind, secure, fun, and unshaken by powerful women. And Draco Malfoy was not her type.

The streets of London were surprisingly busy for a Sunday, but she navigated them with ease, even stopping for a coffee before continuing her path toward the red telephone booth.

She stepped inside the ministry and walked directly to Draco’s office, not even bothering to knock.

He was at his desk, focused on his work. She took a moment to look at him—still in his suit from last night. That’s when it hit her—she should have brought his coat back this morning. But she had forgotten. He heard her at the moment she opens the door but probably not sensing a threat, he finishes what he was doing on his book.

"Good morning," she said.

He acknowledged her with a brief nod, gesturing for her to sit across from him.

She took a closer look at him. He looked exhausted—dark circles standing out against his pale skin, his hair a mess, likely from running his hands through it too many times.

"So, tell me—what should I know?" she asked.

Draco leaned back slightly. "Why don’t you start by telling me what you know about the Tenelabrith?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, suspicion creeping in.

"I thought we were collaborating, not just me handing over information."

Draco exhaled and leaned back in his chair, studying her. "You’re right. Old habits die hard."

Then, he told her everything she needed to know about the Tenelabrith. Even about the house-elf found dead in the cave, its mouth sealed shut.

"That’s why yesterday was such a shocking revelation," he added.

"Do you think the Greengrasses have something to do with this?" Hermione asked.

"It’s possible. We don’t know yet…"

But she could tell he wasn’t saying everything. He was holding something back—especially considering that his girlfriend’s family seemed to be involved.

"So, what do you know about the Tenelabrith?" he pressed.

Hermione let out a sharp breath and pulled a book from her satchel. She flipped through her notes and began reading aloud:

"Tenelabrith. Dark creatures. Their existence cannot be traced back to any specific origin, and they have not been seen in every generation of witches and wizards. Some scholars believe they were hidden somewhere in the 16th century in America—"

"We know that, Granger. If I needed an encyclopedia definition, I would have summoned one," Draco interrupted.

Hermione shot him a sharp look and ignored the comment, continuing.

"For centuries, they have been known to bring back the dead—not as living beings, but as shadowed remnants. They possess a rare and dangerous magic, serving as the bridge between life and death. They are neither dead nor alive, nor have they ever truly been."

Draco listened intently; his gaze locked onto hers.

"They are the Veil between life and death," she said, her voice quieter now, the realization settling in. "They either created the Veil in the Archway at the Ministry of Magic… or they are the Veil itself. One way or another, they’re connected—I know that for sure."

Draco shot to his feet abruptly, moving around his desk to sit on the edge, closer to her.

"How do you know that?" he demanded. "Why has no one ever made this connection before?"

Hermione met his gaze steadily. "I think it’s all over the texts—hidden in bits and pieces. But again, it’s just a theory. Still, I’m almost certain I’m right. The Tenelabrith created the Veil… and I suspect there are more of them than just the ones that recently escaped. I just don’t know how they work, or what purpose they truly serve—even if they did create the Veil."

She snapped her book shut with a loud thud.

"Do you think you-know-who is trying to use them? Or that someone is trying to use them… to bring him back?"

Draco, momentarily startled by the sound, quickly recovered, his expression darkening as he sank back into thought.

"Maybe," he said. "Maybe."

Hermione straightened. "I haven’t had the chance to visit the Ministry archives yet, but that’s the plan for today," she told him. "I’ll dig deeper into this mystery and let you know what I find."

"You can reach out to me later today. I’ll be here," he said.

As she got up and started walking toward the door, Draco stopped her.

"Granger?"

She paused, her hand hovering just above the doorknob. She didn’t turn yet, keeping her gaze forward as she simply replied,

"Yes?"

She heard him move—his footsteps slow but deliberate—as he crossed the room, coming closer. The air between them shifted, charged with something unspoken.

Only then did she turn to face him.

His eyes were dark grey, intense, unreadable.

"For last night…"

Before he could finish his sentence, she raised a hand to stop him.

"It’s okay, no worries," she said quickly. "I had a champagne glass… or maybe two too many."

She bit her lower lip, her gaze flickering upward toward the corner of the room—clearly uncomfortable with the conversation.

Draco’s eyes, which had been dark moments ago, softened into a lighter shade of grey. She could feel that he wasn’t entirely satisfied with her excuse, but after a brief hesitation, he gave a small nod, watching her carefully.

"If you say so, Granger."

She held his gaze for a moment before turning away, opening the door to leave.

***

Hermione spent the morning in the archive room, searching for theories or an explanation of how the Tenelabrith and the Veil of Darkness were connected. She was certain there was a link, but she needed proof.

She wanted to see the Veil for herself, but it was in the Death Chamber, and she needed clearance to access it. With a determined sigh, she wrote Malfoy's name in large letters in her notebook with her quill, drawing two bold lines beneath it, right next to the words Veil and Access to Death Chamber.

She continued taking notes, flipping through texts and analyzing the scarce information available about the Tenelabrith. The lack of documentation surprised her. Once again, frustration simmered beneath the surface—while she understood why Dark Magic was forbidden, she firmly believed that learning about it, even in a controlled manner, was necessary to truly protect themselves from its dangers.

Her mind drifted back to their seventh year, when they had struggled to find information about Horcruxes and the Deathly Hallows. The memory of that frustration was still fresh. Time and time again, the so-called good wizards insisted on burying knowledge, believing that ignorance was a safeguard. But was it really? In hiding everything, weren’t they only making it easier for darkness to thrive in secrecy?

It was nearly 2 p.m. when Hermione finally closed one of the books she had been poring over: The Dark Wizards of America in 2000. She had taken extensive notes, meticulously detailing what she had learned.

Malfoy = Access to the Death Chamber = Examine Veil

They were a small but dangerous group of extremist wizards, concentrated in North America, primarily in the United States and Canada. Their ideology was rooted in the belief that magic should belong exclusively to wizards, and that all other magical beings were beneath them. Their headquarters was reportedly located in Utah, hidden deep within the desert, and they were firm believers that…

Hermione frowned as she skimmed through the next passage, a chill creeping down her spine.

Some extremist Dark Wizards believed that Muggle-borns did not inherit magic naturally but rather stole it—a twisted and dangerous ideology that led to the creation of a brutal and forbidden ritual known as "The Extraction."

The purpose of the ritual was horrifying to forcibly strip a Muggle-born of their magical abilities, leaving them permanently broken, both mentally and physically.

The Process Was Agonizing:

• The victim was immobilized as a Dark Magic Sigil—a cursed brand—was seared onto their skin, severing their connection to magic. The mark would only fade when their magic was fully extracted.
• A cursed artifact was used to siphon their magic, pulling it from their very core.
• As the magic was extracted, the victim endured excruciating pain, as though their soul was being torn apart.
• Many lost their memories, reduced to empty shells of their former selves.
• Others died from the trauma, their bodies collapsing under the unbearable strain of the severance.

The stolen magic was then harvested—used for forbidden experiments or to enhance the power of the extremists.

For those who survived, the aftermath was equally horrifying. Some were left as Squibs, forever severed from the magic that had once been theirs. But others suffered an even worse fate—twisted into something unnatural, unwilling conduits of dark magic.

Trapped in a half-living state, their stolen magic was drained and repurposed, their bodies serving as nothing more than batteries for their captors.

Hermione’s grip tightened on the edge of the book. This was beyond cruelty—it was a deliberate perversion of magic itself.

She closed the book and set it aside, her stomach twisting in horror at the thought of such atrocities being inflicted on other human beings. The weight of it pressed heavily on her, but she knew she had to keep researching—this book contained crucial information. Still, she needed a moment to clear her mind.

She remembered wanting to verify the existence of a book that Mr. Flourish had mentioned might be in the archives. Deciding to check, she stood and walked toward the aisle dedicated to memory-related charms.

Her fingers skimmed the spines of various volumes as she searched for The Dark Art: Obliviated, but after scanning the shelves twice, she realized it wasn’t there. Frowning, she made a mental note to ask Mr. Flourish if he could reach out to his network to track it down.

Just as she was about to leave the aisle, she heard footsteps behind her.

She barely had time to turn before she found herself face-to-face with Malfoy. He stood close, his expression serious and unreadable, his sharp grey eyes fixed on her.

She let out a small scream, her hand flying to her chest.

"You!" she exclaimed. "You should have announced yourself."

Malfoy didn’t smile, but he gave a small nod, slipping his hands into his pockets as he leaned casually against the bookshelf.

"Found anything interesting?" he asked, his voice laced with sarcasm. "In the memories aisle?"

For a brief moment, his words stung. He knows, she thought. But she pushed the feeling aside, refusing to let him get to her. Without acknowledging the bite in his tone, she simply shook it off and moved past him.

As she stepped closer, he suddenly reached out, grabbing her left forearm to stop her.

She recoiled instantly, yanking her arm away as if his touch had burned her.

Malfoy held her gaze for a moment before his eyes flickered downward, settling on her arm. His expression shifted—something unreadable. He knew it was that arm; he just didn’t think about it. It was the one scarred by his aunt, Bellatrix.

His eyes searched hers for an instant, and Hermione had the fleeting impression that he was about to apologize. But he didn’t.

Instead, he withdrew, slipping his hand back into his pocket, his usual guarded mask falling back into place.

"Wait," he said. "I’d like to know what you’ve learned today. But I didn’t sleep last night, and I haven’t had lunch. I need a shower and fresh clothes. How about we meet later? I want to go over the results from the sample I took in the cave in Utah and share it with you."

Hermione sighed. All she really wanted was a hot bath, an early night, and to curl up with Crookshanks, a glass of wine, and a bowl of pasta.

"Fine," she said. "Come to my place when you're presentable. We can go over the information we found."

Draco gave a nod and turned to leave when she hesitated. "Do you need my address?"

He glanced back at her, smirking. "I already have it, Granger."

Hermione walked back to her flat, her mind still tangled in the events of the day. She took a quick shower, letting the warm water wash away some of the exhaustion before pulling on a pair of joggers and an old, oversized Gryffindor shirt. It was probably Harry’s—Ginny must have forgotten it here at some point. Either way, she didn’t care. Comfort was her priority and wearing something loose and familiar felt like the right choice.

Malfoy was always hot and cold with her, unpredictable since the moment they had met again at the Old Bell Tavern. She tried not to dwell on his attitude, reminding herself that he was likely as manipulative as ever, playing his games with calculated precision.

She hated how attractive she found him. Hated how, despite herself, she was sensitive to the subtle ways he seemed different from the boy she had known at Hogwarts. But she knew better. It was all bullshit.

She put on some classical music, letting the soft melodies fill the quiet space, then opened a bottle of red wine and poured herself a generous glass. Before settling in, she made sure Crookshanks had his kibble, scratching his head absentmindedly before taking a sip of her wine.

The warmth spread through her chest almost instantly, loosening the tension she hadn’t realized she was holding. She knew she shouldn’t drink when she was stressed—it would only make the anxiety worse in the morning—but still, she took another sip.

She wondered what time he would come—if he would come at all.

Moving to the kitchen, she put some water to boil. She had a spaghetti sauce in her freezer that she had made a few weeks ago, precisely for nights like this. She leaned against the counter, waiting for the water to boil, when a sudden crack echoed from the living room.

She froze.

Had Malfoy just apparated into her flat without announcing himself? Was that even possible? Did he think he owned the place?

She started toward the living room, but hesitation rooted her to the spot. What if it wasn’t him?

Her hand instinctively reached for her wand—only to find nothing. Shit. She had left it in the bathroom. She was so used to her Muggle habits that she hadn't even thought to keep it on her.

For a split second, she stood frozen, her mind racing between two choices: hide or confront.

She chose the latter.

Grabbing a knife from the counter, she tightened her grip around the handle and walked cautiously toward the hall, the blade raised in front of her. She felt ridiculous. If someone apparated, then they were obviously a wizard. What the hell was she going to do with a knife?

Reaching the door to the living room, she took a deep breath and was about to push it open—when it swung open on its own.

Hermione let out a scream, her lungs burning with the force of it as she locked eyes with the intruder.

"Malfoy! What the fuck are you doing here?"

Draco apparated beside her in an instant, his movements sharp but controlled. His hand closed around her right arm, and with his other, he slowly pried the knife from her grip.

"Give me that before you hurt yourself," he said, his voice calm but laced with amusement. "Attacking a wizard with a knife. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it. You, of all witches, walking around without her wand."

His grip on her arm remained firm, his presence far too close. Hermione glared at him, her fury boiling over. His eyes were dark, locked onto hers, unwavering.

"Never, ever again apparate into my living room." Her voice was sharp, leaving no room for argument. "No one does it—not even Ginny, Harry, or Ron."

Draco's grip tightened at the mention of Ron. His jaw clenched. Why the hell was Weasley coming here?

Then, his gaze drifted lower. He hadn’t noticed it before, but now, he did. The loose Gryffindor shirt—it wasn’t hers. No way.

His fingers loosened around her arm, and he let go.

"Apologies if I interrupted your night with your lover," he said smoothly, his voice carrying that infuriatingly detached tone. He was looking at her from her naked toes to her wet hair up in a bun. "But we have more important matters to discuss."

Hermione shot him an insulted look.

“What do you mean?” she demanded. “I was expecting you! You told me you’d be there! And why does that even matter to you with who I am before or after?”

Her voice rose, frustration spilling over.

“Why are you like this with me? Every time I think we’re making progress, every time I believe we can be civil, you say something like that!”

She hadn’t even realized she had stepped closer to him, her anger pushing her forward. She was nearly shouting now, her frustration raw and undeniable.

She was so close to his chest that she had to tilt her head back just to meet his gaze. She noticed the way his breathing had quickened, slightly louder, slightly faster—but more than that, she noticed the way he was fighting to keep his composure. His eyes, usually a cool grey, had darkened, nearly black.

She instinctively started to take a step back, but before she could, he caught her by the arms, his grip firm but not harsh. He held her there, keeping the distance exactly as it was.

“I know,” he said, his voice low.

For a brief moment, she was certain he would apologize or try to justify his behavior—but that wasn’t knowing him correctly.

Instead, Draco smirked, and just like that, the darkness in his gaze faded back to a cool, light grey. “We have work to do, Granger.”

He let her go, putting distance between them. “Let me show you about what I found in the cave.”

Hermione, however, wasn’t having it. “Well, first, you’re going to follow me to the kitchen,” she said, already turning away, not sparing a second to check if he would actually listen. “I need to eat, I want to drink my wine, and then—maybe—we can talk.”

She left him standing on the porch of the living room and headed toward the kitchen.

Draco hesitated. He wasn’t used to people giving him orders—least of all her. But after a moment, with a reluctant sigh, he followed.

She poured him a glass of red wine, which he took—only to flick his wand and transfigure it into Firewhiskey. She rolled her eyes but said nothing.

“Spaghetti?” she offered, already twirling a forkful.

Draco scoffed. “No, thanks.”

She gave him a look before taking a huge bite, slurping up a stray noodle with a deliberately obnoxious sound. “You’re missing out.”

***

Draco watched her. She ate her spaghetti, sipped her wine, and listened to him with full attention. Her eyes—big, bright, and beautiful—reflected the way her mind worked, constantly making connections, analyzing possibilities, linking his findings to something she had read, whether today or sometime in the past.

He had to admit—partnering with her had been a good idea. They were making progress, and her way of seeing the world brought a perspective that benefited their work.

She took another bite of spaghetti, and his mind drifted, unbidden. He imagined her lips on his, trailing down his throat, his chest… A fleeting image flashed—her white teeth sinking into his bottom lip, grazing his skin—

His gaze lingered too long on her mouth. She must have noticed because she wiped the corner of her lips with the back of her hand and asked,

"Do I have something there?"

He gave a slight shake of his head, forcing himself back to reality. Without another word, he shifted his focus to her kitchen, unwilling to let her catch whatever had just crossed his mind.

All the samples were imprinted with Dark Magic—at a level she had never seen before.

"We know it’s ancient magic," she said, frowning. "And I assume it’s probably linked to that American magical cult still operating in Utah. What was it called again?"

"You mentioned something like Tenebrae Concordia."

"Yes, that’s it." She pointed a finger at him in acknowledgment before standing up, carrying her bowl to the sink, and turning on the water.

"You’re going to wash it by hand."

She looked at him for a second, confusion flickering across her face. Then, he saw it—the exact moment she understood. A laugh burst from her lips, rich and unrestrained, and Draco immediately got to his feet, stepping back instinctively.

Her laughter—it wasn’t just a sound. It reached her eyes, lighting them up in a way that made something deep inside him stir, something dangerous. Something irresistible.

But he knew better. He knew exactly what was at stake.

He could not afford to want her.

She was everything he wasn’t. And more than that—she was everything his parents, his upbringing, and Shacklebolt warned him to stay away from.

Yet, as she kept laughing, carefree and utterly oblivious to the war raging inside him, he wasn’t sure he could stay away.

She turned back to the sink, rinsing the dishes and setting them aside on the counter. Without a word, she poured herself another glass of wine and offered him one. He shook his head in refusal, watching as she took a slow sip.

The soft clinking of plates echoed in the quiet space, the sound oddly grounding.

"Bring me to the cave. I want to see it."

Draco's jaw tensed. "I don’t think that’s a good idea."

"Why not?"

He exhaled sharply. "You’ve been living in the Muggle world for the last eight years. You don’t even carry your wand regularly anymore. I doubt your spells are as sharp as they used to be. I can’t risk exposing you, and I don’t want to have to protect you."

She turned to face him, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then, she scoffed, tilting her head slightly.

"You’re an asshole," she said flatly.

Draco stepped toward her, an overwhelming urge surging through him—to pull her into his arms, to kiss her until she had no choice but to respond, until she melted against him, until she forgot who she was.

But it wasn’t just desire. It was something darker, more violent. A raw, unrelenting pull that made his hands clench into fists at his sides. He was furious—furious that she made him feel this way, that she got under his skin so effortlessly. And worst of all, that he couldn’t act on it.

He hated the way she was so perfect—everything he could never have.

She was fun, effortlessly intelligent, and unbearably kind. And that kindness… that was what unsettled him the most.

Kindness had always been a weakness in his world, a flaw to be exploited, something to be wary of. But with her, it was different. With her, it wasn’t weakness—it was strength. And worse than that, it touched him, seeping into the cracks of his carefully built walls, reaching places he had sworn were untouchable.

And that? That was dangerous.

She must have sensed the shift in his energy because she instinctively pressed herself closer to the counter, putting distance between them.

Draco stopped. The moment he realized she was afraid of him, something inside him twisted. But instead of stepping back, instead of calming the storm inside him, his frustration only burned hotter. He was angry—angry at himself, at her, at the undeniable pull between them. He could not touch her. He could not have her.

So, like always, he did what he did best—he chose to be a jerk.

"Anyway, thanks for the Muggle night," he drawled, his voice laced with deliberate boredom. "It was as dull as expected, but at least we learned something, so my night wasn’t a complete waste." He straightened his cuffs, adding with a smirk, "Now, if you’ll excuse me, Astoria and other real wizards are having a party, which I fully intend to enjoy."

She barely reacted, only shrugging her shoulders as if he was nothing more than an inconvenience.

He turned, ready to leave, but just as he twisted on the spot to apparate, he heard her voice, sharp and cutting—

"Don’t ever Apparate into my livi—"

And then he was gone.

Chapter Text

The next morning - November 2006

Shacklebolt sat behind his desk, comfortable in his chair, his fingers pressed together as he watched Draco, deep in thought.

"And you think this is a good idea? Letting me train her for combat?" Draco asked, shifting in his seat and resting his forearm on his thigh.

"I don’t like getting her involved," Shacklebolt admitted. "I don’t want to, but if You-Know-Who comes back—"

"When," Draco interrupted, his voice cold. "When he comes back."

Shacklebolt shot him an annoyed look but continued, "If he comes back, she’ll be a target, whether she hides or not. I doubt she'll hide, but even if she does, it won’t matter. I think you training her can help the cause."

Draco stood up abruptly, his body stiffening as his fists slammed onto Shacklebolt’s desk, one on each side of his body. "I do not agree with your idea."

"I know you don’t," Shacklebolt said knowingly. "And I have an idea why."

Draco locked eyes with him, his gaze icy and unyielding.

For the first time, Shacklebolt showed a flicker of apprehension, shifting slightly in his chair. "You’ve been practicing a lot of dark magic, Draco. You need to be careful. It will take a toll on you, and we don’t want to lose you. You need to be prudent. Practice your Occlumency and Legilimency carefully. Are you still taking the essence of Liriath every day? Do you have enough?"

"I’m fine," Draco replied, his voice clipped. "I just don’t want her involved."

"She will be," Shacklebolt said firmly. "Everyone will. And there’s nothing you can do except hope that the plan works. So, do you accept training her? If anything happens, this may save her, Draco. Be realistic. You were the one who brought this up this morning, saying she cannot defend herself."

Draco walked to the window, looking down at the Ministry entrance. Wizards passed by, the water in the fountain below still flowing. Life seemed normal—everything had been stable for the past eight years. He had learned politics in both the Muggle and wizarding worlds. His father was content, his mother was fine—though he always felt she looked at him with sadness. She knew nothing; she would have never allowed this.

But Draco had to do it. He had to consider that his family and friends would need protection when Voldemort returned.

He regretted mentioning the situation to Shacklebolt this morning—it had been a mistake. He asked himself, just for a moment, if this was exactly the result, he had secretly wanted all along: training her so she could defend herself when everything fell apart.

"Fine," he said without turning around. "I’ll do it. You’ll arrange the details, I assume?"

Shacklebolt seemed satisfied. "Yes. I’ll set up a secure place for both of you to meet and practice once a week."

"How do you know she’ll agree? She’s not particularly fond of me."

"I can be persuasive..."

Draco turned his head, fixing Shacklebolt with a cold, piercing stare.

"Yes," he murmured. "That, I know."

***

Hermione was with Samainiq for a lesson in Epping Forest when Shacklebolt Apparated in front of them.

Healer Samainiq watched him approach, then murmured to Hermione, “This one is an ally, yet he carries a plan in the shadows, like the hidden currents of a river. The otter, with its playful and sly nature, reminds us that not all is as it seems. Be cautious, my friend, for the ripples of this will shape your future in ways you cannot yet see. And beware, for a dragon, with its cunning and sharp teeth, can cause harm even when harm is not its intent.”

Hermione glanced at Samainiq, puzzled by her words, then turned to approach the Minister for Magic.

Shacklebolt greeted both women with a polite nod. “How are you? Are you managing the November cold?”

Healer Samainiq laughed. “Winters in Quebec are far worse,” she said, and Shacklebolt chuckled in agreement.

“Healer Samainiq, would you mind if I speak with Hermione for a moment?” he asked courteously.

Samainiq nodded and stepped away, returning to the riverbank where she and Hermione had been moments ago.

“Is something wrong, Minister?” Hermione asked as soon as they were alone.

“No, everything is fine,” Shacklebolt assured her, “but I need to ask you something.”

“I’m listening.”

“The other day, you were attacked by two masked figures in Diagon Alley.”

Hermione frowned. “How did… Oh, the Ministry? You spoke with Draco?”

“Yes. Draco reported the incident, and I believe it was the right thing to do. The Ministry is concerned, Hermione. We need to ensure your safety.”

“I am safe.”

“You haven’t practiced dueling since Hogwarts. You’re an excellent healer, both for Muggles and wizards, but you need to protect yourself. We have reason to believe that Muggle-born witches and wizards are being targeted.”

Hermione crossed her arms. “Okay. I’ll start practicing my dueling skills. Who would you like me to train with?”

“That’s the thing,” Shacklebolt said carefully. “I’d like you to train with Draco. Once a week.”

Hermione stared at him, bewildered. The idea of spending time with Draco Malfoy was almost laughable.

“With Draco? Why?”

Shacklebolt exhaled, choosing his words carefully. “In full transparency, I don’t just want you to practice dueling. I want you to learn hand-to-hand combat as well.”

Hermione let out a short laugh. “That’s ridiculous,” she said, but when she met his eyes, she saw that he was completely serious.

“What’s going on?” she asked, her tone shifting.

“As you know,” Shacklebolt continued, “we have evidence that You-Know-Who—or someone like him—is returning. We must take every precaution, especially since you were one of the three who brought him down last time. Your friends are already training. Ron and Harry would have gladly helped you, but their Auror duties and personal training take up all their time.”

“And Draco does have time?” Hermione asked skeptically. “To train a Muggle-born witch?”

“This isn’t optional for him either, Hermione. And you’re already collaborating with him—researching the Tenelabrith for us while learning magical healing with Healer Samainiq. We’re condensing your training sessions with the time you already spend with him to make the most of it while also gathering the intelligence we need.”

Hermione didn’t look convinced.

Shacklebolt clarified, “I strongly recommend that you consider it. It’s a great opportunity. I understand that you may not trust him or even like him, but you must recognize that he has become a skilled duelist and combatant. He was trained in the Dark Arts by Bellatrix as a child, and now he’s trained with us. He knows things we never did. Whether you like it or not, he’s one of our best fighters.”

Hermione was silent, lost in thought. Then, suddenly, an idea crossed her mind. She looked at him intently.

“I want to visit the cave. In Utah.”

Shacklebolt’s expression shifted slightly, suspicion flickering in his eyes. Hermione hesitated, debating whether to tell him the truth—that Draco had already refused her request. But instead, she said nothing and simply waited.

After a moment, Shacklebolt nodded slowly. “I can arrange that for you,” he said carefully.

Satisfied, Hermione gave a small nod. “Then I will consider your proposition and give you my answer by the end of the week.”

She hesitated briefly before adding, “Oh, and I need access to the Veil in the Death Chamber at the Ministry.”

For an instant, she thought he was about to refuse. His expression tightened, but instead of rejecting the request outright, he studied her carefully.

Then, after a long pause, he gave a small, approving nod.

To her surprise, he pulled her into a brief hug.

Then, with a final, amicable glance toward Healer Samainiq, he disappeared with a sharp crack.

Hermione walked back toward Samainiq, her thoughts heavy, her gaze drifting to the symbols the healer had drawn in the dirt near the river.

“Sorry, I’m a little distracted,” she admitted.

“No worries, my friend,” Samainiq said softly, her voice like the whisper of the wind. “No worries. Your mind, like the river, holds many currents—some swift, some still. The otter moves through them all, playful and sly, never hurried. It knows that everything has its time to surface. You have much to process, but in time, the waters will settle. Trust the flow.”

Hermione gave her a sidelong glance and continued examining the drawings in the sand.

"You seem to have a lot on your plate," Samainiq observed.

"Don’t we all?"

"Yes, but some more than others."

Hermione didn’t reply.

"Everything in Canadian magic is linked to our ancestors, our land, and nature," Saimaniq continued. "I’m going to show you something that isn’t related to healing magic but could still be useful to you. It’s called the Whispering Wind spell."

Hermione looked at her with curiosity.

Saimaniq’s voice remained calm and gentle as she explained, "This spell allows you to send messages through the air. But there are conditions—you must be in an open space when casting it, and the wind can be unpredictable, so messages don’t always arrive immediately. Your recipient must also be outside or have a window open to receive it."

She opened her satchel and handed Hermione a small leather bag.

That’s remind me that you need to come with me and choose your stone," she said. "We’ve been practicing magic together for a few weeks now, and it’s time for you to have your own magical stone. As you know, they are the equivalent of your wand."

Hermione nodded, turning the bag over in her hands. "How does it work?"

Saimaniq smiled. "You’ll need to come with me to Montreal. I imagine it’s much like wands—your stone will choose you. But first, we must visit the Stone Polisher, Mrs. Lapierre."

Hermione let out a small laugh. "Mrs. Lapierre is the Stone Polisher?"

Healer Saimaniq chuckled in return. "Lapierre is a very common surname in Quebec, especially among French Canadians. But in this case, it’s quite fitting, don’t you think?"

"When do you think you’ll be able to travel, with everything going on?" Saimaniq asked.

Hermione sighed, considering her schedule. "I just accepted some of Draco’s dueling lessons for a trip to Utah… maybe I can pass through Montreal on my way back?"

Saimaniq nodded. "That could work. I’m heading home after this practice and won’t be back for another month. You could come in December—we have beautiful weather then."

"I’ve heard it’s freezing," Hermione said with a slight smirk.

"It usually is," Saimaniq admitted, "but with the earth growing angrier at us, it’s not as cold as it used to be."

Hermione gave her a look of quiet sympathy. She knew how deeply Saimaniq connected with nature—how, to her, the land was more than just a place to live. It was a companion, as close as a mother to a daughter.

Now, let me show you how to cast the Whispering Wind spell.

She scooped a small handful of mud from the ground, cradling it alongside her emerald-green stone. "The gemstone plays an important role in this spell," she explained, "though it doesn’t necessarily have to be an emerald—other stones with similar properties can be used."

Closing her fingers around both the soil and the stone, she let them shift between her fingertips, absorbing their textures. Then, bringing the earth close to her lips, she whispered, "Éolispera."

"I use mixed magic," she continued. "As you know, Canada is a land of many cultures, a place where traditions intertwine. Over the years, our magic has blended, allowing us to draw strength from diverse influences. Éole is the god of the wind, and Spera means hope in Latin."

In her palm, the soil began to change—shifting, lightening—until it became a fine, shimmering dust that glowed under the sunlight. Hermione watched, mesmerized. It reminded her of sunlit dust particles dancing in a beam of light, ephemeral and weightless.

"They have probably carried more messages than you realize," Saimaniq said with a knowing smile.

She whispered softly into the floating dust, her words delicate as a breath:

"It will be great to see you in Montreal, Hermione Granger."

Then, with a graceful wave of her hand, she sent the dust into the air. The glowing particles rose, caught by the wind, drifting effortlessly toward Hermione. As they neared, the dust stirred, and suddenly, she heard it—a faint murmur, the voice of Healer Saimaniq, carried on the air, repeating her words in a soft, echoing whisper.

Hermione’s eyes widened in awe. "This is fantastic!"

Saimaniq nodded. "There are limitations, of course, but you never know when it might come in handy."

"Thank you. Let me try…" Hermione said eagerly.

Being a quick learner, she successfully cast the spell on her first attempt. The shimmering dust swirled, carried by the wind, and she listened as her own whispered words echoed back to her. A satisfied smile spread across her face.

As the evening settled in, Saimaniq glanced at the darkening sky. "It’s time to go," she said.

"Are you leaving tonight?" Hermione asked.

"Yes, I’ll be heading to Dublin first, then to Montreal. You’ll be joining me soon?"

"Yes, I’ll speak with Shacklebolt this week," Hermione confirmed.

Saimaniq tilted her head slightly, observing Hermione. "You’re going to work tonight, aren’t you?"

Hermione blinked, caught off guard. "How did you know?"

Saimaniq smiled knowingly. "I could feel it. You’re eager to get back to your patient at the hospital."

Hermione let out a small chuckle. "You’re good."

"In Canada, it feels like wizards interact with Muggles much more openly," Hermione observed.

"We do," Saimaniq confirmed. "We work alongside them, attend their schools, live among them… Our magic doesn’t separate us from the world—it’s just another part of who we are."

"During the First and Second War… was Canada impacted as much as we were?" Hermione asked.

Saimaniq shook her head. "No, not as much. But we could feel the echoes of it. The ideology was there—some wizards craved power, and groups began to form." Her tone sharpened, a hint of something unspoken lingering in her words.

Hermione nodded slowly, sensing that this was personal for Saimaniq. She didn’t want to press further, not now—not when they were about to part ways.

"Let’s go," Hermione said gently, reaching for Saimaniq’s hand. "We should leave now."

***

Hermione sat in her office at The Royal London Hospital, her eyes scanning the notes in front of her. It was late—her shift had started at 10:00 PM, and she knew she had a long night ahead.

Still, her focus lingered on one particular file—the patient from Room 105. She flipped through the pages, scanning the medical report. He was fine now. Discharged about a month ago.

The official notes detailed the treatment: Gentamicin and Ampicillin, the standard antibiotic regimen. But Hermione knew better. That wasn’t what had saved him.

She could still recall that night—the urgency, the weight of the decision she had made. She had rushed to St. Mungo’s Hospital, slipping unnoticed into the medical wing, her heart pounding as she carefully stole Liriath and Thestral essence from the restricted potion cabinet.

Back at the Royal London Hospital, she had administered the Thestral essence alongside the Liriath, her hands steady but her mind racing. She had been meticulous, ensuring the magical remedy blended seamlessly with the child's treatment. She knew magic couldn't cure Muggle illnesses, but this case had been different.

The infection wasn’t ordinary. It had been caused by magic, though the doctors around her had no way of knowing. That was the loophole—you couldn’t heal a Muggle’s wounds with magic, but when a Muggle had been exposed to magic, the rules changed.

She exhaled slowly, shutting the file. No one had questioned the baby’s recovery—it had been recorded as a miraculous response to treatment.

But she couldn't stop thinking about the dark, shadowy filament that had been inside the child's body. It hadn't behaved like any known infection. It had felt... alive.

Hermione had an unsettling intuition—one she couldn’t yet prove. The filament and the Tenelabrith were connected. She was sure of it. But why? What was the nature of this link? And more disturbingly, why a child?

Her mind raced through possibilities. What if the child was a wizard? A Muggle-born whose magic had not yet surfaced?

The thought sent a chill through her.

What if he had been targeted because of it?

Magic in Muggle-born children usually manifested later, around age five to seven, sometimes not until eleven. If something—someone—had sensed his latent magical abilities before he even knew he had them, then that meant there was a force out there hunting Muggle-borns before they had a chance to defend themselves.

Was that possible?

She swallowed hard, staring down at the closed file. If it was, then this child might not be the only one.

And the Tenelabrith?

She needed answers. Fast.

She placed the file back in her cabinet, locked it, and left her office to begin her night rounds.

Around 4 AM, she met Betty Watson for a quick coffee in the emergency department, where they were both working the same shift.

"I haven’t seen you since that drink the other day. How have you been?" Hermione asked.

"I’m good—exhausted, but good. You?"

"I’m fine too," Hermione replied, taking a sip of her coffee.

Betty grinned mischievously. "I need to introduce you to someone. He was just transferred from Chicago—single, tall, and absolutely delicious-looking."

Hermione laughed, shaking her head. "I’m fine, Betty. You should keep him for yourself."

"I’m already taken."

Hermione’s eyes widened. "Blimey! I didn’t know. Since when?"

"Super recent. We started dating about a month ago, not long after our drink. We met on an app—he’s a fun guy, an accountant."

"I’m so happy for you!" Hermione said warmly.

Before Betty could reply, a figure approached.

"Speak of the devil—here’s our new doctor. Let me introduce you."

Betty turned toward him with a friendly smile. "Dr. Alden, how’s your shift going?"

The man nodded in greeting. "Oh, Dr. Watson! It’s going well. Just settling in."

"Glad to hear it! I’d like to introduce you to Dr. Granger—she works in pediatrics."

Hermione extended her hand. He took it with a firm but polite shake.

He was tall—not quite as tall as Malfoy but still towering. His build was more lean than muscular, but impressive, nonetheless.

"Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Granger."

"And you as well," Hermione replied.

They exchanged polite conversation—she asked about his work in Chicago, he inquired about her experience at The Royal London Hospital.

He was older than them—early thirties, maybe? More experienced, but still young. She had to admit, he looked good and was interesting to talk to.

"Are you coming to my welcome party this weekend?" he asked. "They’re organizing a little gathering at a bar near the hospital."

Betty answered for both of them before Hermione could hesitate. "She’ll come—depending on her schedule, of course."

Hermione shot her a look but nodded politely. "And please, reach out if you have any questions. We’re happy to help our new colleagues."

Dr. Alden thanked them and left.

Hermione turned to Betty with an annoyed look. "What was that?"

Betty smirked, taking a slow sip of her coffee. "Oh, come on… You need to start dating. And that’s an order, not a suggestion."

Hermione groaned, rolling her eyes. "You drive me nuts." She playfully nudged Betty’s shoulder. "I’m going back to my shift. And maybe—maybe—I’ll come this weekend, depending on my schedule."

Betty grinned. "He’s cute, though, right? You think so too."

Hermione let out a laugh as she shook her head, turning to leave the cafeteria.

Chapter Text

December 1^st, 2006

The night was cold, and Hermione realized that it was already December as she took a quick run before her first training session with Malfoy. She entered her flat, took a quick shower, and dressed in a pair of jeans and a black long-sleeve shirt. She tied her hair back into a ponytail, grabbed her satchel, and kissed Crookshanks goodbye. With a flick of her wand, she apparated in front of the Royal London Hospital.

She walked across the street to Cavell Street and turned left onto Raven Row. She stopped in front of number 40, knowing the house she sought lay somewhere between 40 and 44. She strolled into the alley, and the door to 42 Raven Row materialized before her, reminding her of the headquarters of the Order—42 Grimmauld Place.

A smile tugged at her lips. She couldn’t help but wonder if it had been intentional—a little nod to the past. Was it Malfoy’s doing, or perhaps Shacklebolt’s? Either way, the door felt like a quiet reminder of how much had changed since the days of the Order.

She let herself in. The house was stunning—everything was white, from the flowing drapes to the pristine sofas. It felt like stepping into a dream, ethereal and untouched. Hermione wandered to the kitchen and marveled at its elegance. The surfaces gleamed, and the design was minimalist, almost weightless. There was no heavy fabric or ornate decor—just purity and light. The entire house felt calm, almost otherworldly.

Glancing at the clock, she noted it was 7:58 PM. Draco was set to meet her here at 8 PM, and she had no doubt he would be punctual. She poured herself a glass of water from the spotless kitchen and perched on one of the stools at the island, her fingers lightly tracing the smooth countertop as she waited.

He apparated at 8:00pm sharp, appearing across the kitchen island from her. She looked up at him, taking in his appearance: a fitted black t-shirt and black combat pants. He was immense, his height and muscular build more imposing each time she saw him. Even now, she still wasn’t used to this version of Malfoy. A small giggle escaped her as she couldn’t help but compare him to the wiry boy she’d punched in the face years ago. The memory felt utterly surreal.

He shot her a sharp look but remained silent, clearly uninterested in whatever had amused her. Sobering quickly, she waved her hand awkwardly.

“Hi,” she greeted, dropping her hand to the counter. It was obvious she wasn’t entirely comfortable. “How are you?”

He nodded curtly. “Fine. I’m fine.”

Her eyes narrowed, clearly insulted. “Good manners dictate that you should ask how I’m doing, even if you don’t actually care.”

His expression shifted to one of mild annoyance. “How are you?”

“I’m great, really great,” she replied with exaggerated cheerfulness, a smile tugging at her lips. “Excited to start this training session, even if it’s with you.”

She paused for a moment, noticing his perpetual seriousness, the air of tension around him. She wasn’t trying to flirt, but the idea of killing him with kindness seemed appealing. He could definitely use a moment to relax.

“Next time,” he said, his tone dry, “wear something more comfortable than jeans for training.”

She glanced down at her outfit, took a deep breath, and let her shoulders rise and fall. She didn’t bother responding.

“The training room is upstairs…”

“So, I’m dealing with the cold Malfoy tonight?” she muttered. “Something pissed you off today, and you’re going to take it out on me.”

His gaze flicked to her. “Who said it was something that pissed me off? Not someone?”

She looked at him with an incredulous expression.

“I didn’t ask for this training,” she said sharply. “It was forced on me. And I sure as hell didn’t want to get dragged into this whole Tenelabrith mess, yet here I am. So, if you’re looking for someone to be pissed at, find someone else.”

“And I suppose you didn’t ask to go to Utah either?”

Her mouth opened, but she snapped it shut just as quickly.

“That’s what I thought.” His voice was edged with frustration. “I told you I didn’t want to take you there, yet you went behind my back and asked Shacklebolt anyway. You knew exactly what you were doing.”

“You don’t have to come.”

He scoffed. “Who do you think the Minister is sending with you?”

“That’s not my fault,” she shot back. “I don’t need you.”

A low laugh escaped him. “Let’s see after this training session—if you can make it on your own.”

He stepped past her. “Come on. Shall we begin?”

They left the kitchen, crossing the sleek, modern space of the townhouse as they headed toward the staircase. She could feel that he was extremely mad at her, but she wasn’t sure she understood why. She could go by herself—she didn’t need him to accompany her.

She followed him in silence, her eyes wandering as she took in her surroundings. Everything was so new, so perfectly decorated, yet it didn’t seem like Malfoy’s taste. Nor Astoria’s. But then again, she didn’t really know them. It was the kind of place she might have lived in, in the Muggle world. She couldn’t resist asking…

“Whose house is this?” she asked, breaking the silence.

“Mine.”

She hesitated. “But… it’s so…”

He smirked. “Muggle?”

She exhaled, nodding. “Yeah. Muggle is a good way of putting it. Why?”

He glanced back, his voice almost casual. “For the past couple of years, I’ve been involved in Muggle politics. There, wealth isn’t just about heirlooms or family legacy. It’s about having new, clean things—things that never belonged to anyone else. At first, I hated the idea. But then I realized I liked it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You liked it?”

He gave a small shrug. “In Japan, I met a girl I really had fun with. She was an amazing witch from a very old wizarding family, but she was a bit of a rebel. She hated how everything in her family had to be steeped in history. She liked new things—places where everything was sterile, disposable. No sentimental weight. It looked good, it served its purpose. That was all.”

Hermione nodded, choosing not to respond. Instead, she watched his back, an unexpected feeling stirring in her chest. She had the impression that it was rare for him to confide in anyone, yet at the same time, the fact that he was openly sharing that he had fun with a pureblood witch unsettled her. She couldn’t quite explain why, but she had to admit—she was a little jealous. And that, in itself, was even more unsettling.

For a moment, she wondered what would have happened if Malfoy had been Muggle-born—or if she had been a pureblood. Would they have had fun together as well? She shook her head, wondering why she was having those intrusive thoughts recently about him…

They ascended to a room designed for training, and Hermione was taken aback by its sheer size. The entire second floor appeared to span the full footprint of the house’s first floor. It was filled with an array of equipment: strength training gear, cardio machines, and a dedicated area for combat practice. The combat zone featured floor mats, wooden and foam training weapons, focus mitts, climbing ropes, and wall bars.

Large mirrors lined the walls, reflecting her image and countless versions of Malfoy as she stepped inside. He seemed faintly amused by her impressed reaction, though his expression betrayed nothing more than a flicker of pride.

"This is an amazing—and intimidating—room you have here," she remarked, her voice tinged with awe.

Malfoy didn’t respond, but the hint of a smirk played at the corner of his mouth. He strode to the center of the room and drew his wand from his pocket, holding it with practiced ease.

"Are you ready?" he asked, his tone neutral but his eyes sharp.

Hermione set her satchel down and withdrew her own wand, gripping it tightly.

"I am," she replied, squaring her shoulders and stepping forward to meet him.

The practice was nothing short of a massacre. Hermione hadn't dueled since the Battle of Hogwarts eight years ago, and her rustiness was glaringly evident. Every move felt clumsy, every spell slower than it should have been. Meanwhile, Malfoy seemed to grow increasingly frustrated, his strikes becoming sharper and his tone more biting as the session wore on.

"Again," he demanded, his voice clipped, as he sent another Disarming Spell her way. She barely managed to deflect it, her wand nearly slipping from her grip.

"Malfoy, give me a second—" she panted, trying to catch her breath.

"You don’t get a second in real combat," he snapped, stepping closer. His wand movements were swift and precise, leaving her scrambling to keep up. "The moment you hesitate, you lose. Or worse."

His words were harsh, and his aggression felt relentless. He pushed her harder and harder, firing spells in quick succession, expecting her to counter, dodge, or shield herself. She struggled to keep up, her frustration mounting with every failed attempt.

"Malfoy, this isn’t training anymore—this is you taking your anger out on me!" she shouted, her cheeks flushed with exertion and indignation.

He lowered his wand but didn’t soften his glare. "Do you think your enemies will care how long it’s been since you last fought? Do you think they’ll give you a break because you're out of practice?"

Hermione’s jaw tightened. She knew he wasn’t wrong, but his methods grated on her. She glared at him, her wand clutched tightly in her hand.

"You’re a menace," she muttered under her breath, stepping back to prepare for the next round.

Malfoy’s lips twitched into a cold smile. "Good. Now use that, Granger."

They practiced from 8:00 PM to 9:30 PM sharp. By the end, Hermione was utterly exhausted. She hadn’t managed to land a single successful spell on him—not once during the entire session. Dodging his relentless hexes had been her only accomplishment, and even that felt clumsy and incomplete. Her body ached, her pride stung, and doubt gnawed at her.

She felt useless. Maybe she wasn’t as skilled as she’d once believed. The thought clawed at her, and despite knowing she needed to give herself time, she couldn’t shake the humiliation. Worse, she was certain Malfoy was disappointed in her performance, convinced she was wasting his time.

As she leaned against the mirrored wall, catching her breath, she finally spoke, her voice tight with frustration.

“We don’t have to do this,” she said, refusing to meet his eyes. “I’ll speak to Shacklebolt. I’ll tell him you’ve done your part, and I’ll train on my own. I’m a lost cause.”

Malfoy’s gaze darkened, his expression unreadable. He moved toward her, his steps deliberate, his presence commanding. The faint scent of whiskey and old pine lingered in the air as he approached—a smell as sharp and intoxicating as the man himself.

Hermione caught herself suppressing a smile. He smelled like an ancient forest, rich and weathered. But the look on his face quickly wiped the thought away; he was anything but pleased.

“You’re fine,” he said, his tone clipped but measured. “Not good, but fine. You’ll learn.” He stopped a foot away, his silver eyes locked on hers. “You were good at Hogwarts. All you need is practice. You’re not going to Shacklebolt, and you’ll be here next week for another session. Am I clear?”

Hermione’s jaw dropped, outrage flickering to life within her. “Who are you to give me orders, Malfoy?”

She hadn’t realized how close they’d gotten until her back was pressed against the cold wall. She had to tilt her chin up to meet his gaze, feeling the weight of his proximity. She could feel her breath hitch, her sweat-drenched clothes sticking to her skin, her hair a wild mess outside its ponytail. Meanwhile, Malfoy looked...perfect. Cold, untouchable, and impeccably put together, as though he hadn’t just spent the last hour and a half battling with her. His scent, hung in the air, sharp and familiar.

The tension in the room was palpable. He moved even closer, his arms bracketing her against the mirrored wall.

He arched an eyebrow, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“I’ll be damned if you ever willingly take an order from me,” he said, his voice low and razor-sharp. “But this isn’t about me. It’s a necessity that you learn to defend yourself, Granger. Don’t mess this up.”

Hermione’s chest heaved, a mix of exhaustion and indignation rising within her. She wanted to snap back at him, to throw some retort, but the words caught in her throat. She glared at him instead, her anger bubbling beneath the surface, knowing deep down he was right—even if she hated to admit it.

Hermione placed her hand on his chest, intending to push him aside and leave the room. But Malfoy’s hand covered hers, holding it there. The moment her skin contacted his, she froze. A surge of heat rushed through her—her blood seemed to boil, and her heart hammered in her chest. She was shocked, as was he. His dark eyes widened, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. For a moment, the air between them felt charged, as though the tension could snap at any second.

Without a word, he pulled away quickly, as though her touch had burned him. His hand fell from hers, and his eyes shifted to a deep, cold grey. He took several swift, stiff steps back, his body rigid and guarded.

“Malfoy? Are you ok?’’ Hermione asked, her voice trembling from the intensity of the moment.

He didn’t respond. Without a glance back, he apparated with a sharp crack, leaving the room heavy with silence.

Hermione collected herself and walked out of the room. As she passed through the corridor, she noticed a door at the far end, likely leading to a master bedroom. She made her way downstairs, poured herself another glass of water, and washed both glasses, drying them carefully before hanging the towel over the oven handle.

Still trying to make sense of the evening’s events, she Apparated back to her flat, her mind swirling with confusion over the strange turn everything had taken. It suddenly struck her that they hadn’t even discussed the Tenelabrith or her hypothesis that they were targeting Muggle-born babies before they could even discover their magical abilities.

They really needed to start collaborating—and faster than they were at this point.

***

Draco was back at 42 Raven Row later that same night. He paced in circles in his living room, glancing around. He shouldn’t have let her come here—he could feel that she had brought history into this house, something he had carefully kept at bay.

And yet, he liked having her here. Her presence breathed life into the space, bringing something intangible, something he couldn’t quite define.

He knew he was playing with fire, and yet, staying away from her was proving more difficult than he wanted to admit. He thought about talking to Shacklebolt about it, but at the same time, this was his personal life—if he even still had one. And his choices were his own.

Needing to clear his mind, he headed to the training room, stripped off his shirt, and started boxing. For the next three hours, he threw punch after punch, trying to rid himself of every thought that wasn’t his own, every choice he couldn’t make, and every decision he wished he could.

***

Hermione was at her flat, fresh out of a quick shower, when she decided she would join Betty and the others at the welcome gathering for Dr. Alden. She wasn’t sure if it was because she didn’t like the fact that she had felt jealous over Malfoy seeing other women—something she shouldn’t care about at all—but she figured it was time to put herself out there as well.

She slipped into a pair of jeans, black high heels, and a deep V-neck top with long sleeves. A touch of lipstick and a bit of curl-defining cream to tame her waves and curls completed the look. She really liked the result.

Before leaving, she gave Crookshanks some kibble and promised him she’d stay home after her shift at the hospital Saturday.

As she texted Betty to get the name of the bar, she was surprised to realize they were at The Old Bell Tavern.

“Why is everyone always there?” she muttered to herself as she climbed into the taxi, she had ordered twenty minutes ago.

By the time she arrived, the place was already packed. The crowd was lively—some already a little drunk—but she managed to weave her way through to the end of the bar, where her hospital friends had reserved a small alcove. It was more discreet, which she appreciated.

She ordered a pint of beer and spotted Betty sitting with Dr. Alden and with another man.

“Hey, guys! How are you?” she greeted them with a smile.

Betty was visibly excited to see her.

“Hermione! Let me introduce you to Math—he’s a friend of mine and an accountant for PwC,” she said with a wink.

“And you remember Dr. Alden…”

“Jonathan, please,” he corrected with a smile.

“Okay, but only if you call me Hermione,” she replied.

He moved the coat from the chair next to him and gestured for her to sit. She couldn’t help but notice how much taller he was than her—something she had always found oddly appealing.

Jonathan had striking features—warm brown eyes, full lips, and a strong yet youthful jawline. His face was smooth, unmarked by wrinkles or the weight of anxiety. He looked like someone who had grown up wrapped in cotton wool—protected, untouched by real hardship.

As she sat down, Hermione took a quick glance at Math. He, too, seemed like someone who had lived an easy, straightforward life. As she listened to them talk, she felt a little disconnected, as if she didn’t quite belong in their world. But she had to admit—Jonathan was making a real effort to engage her. More than once, she caught herself laughing at his jokes. He was pleasant, and that, in itself, was refreshing. She appreciated it.

The night passed quickly, and by 2 a.m., they were ready to leave. Jonathan offered to share a taxi with her, and just as she was about to decline, Betty accepted on her behalf.

“Thanks, Jonathan. It was a great night—I really enjoyed the evening.

“You’re almost done with your foundation, right?” he asked.

“Yes, I am,” she answered, feeling a swell of pride.

“Congrats! That’s a big milestone. Do you know what you’ll do next?”

“I was thinking of maybe going away for a bit, practicing medicine somewhere else. Maybe Canada.”

Jonathan nodded, giving her a thoughtful smile.

When they arrived at her flat, he asked the taxi driver to wait a moment. Stepping out, he walked around to her side and opened the door for her. As she stepped out, he took her hand to help her.

“Thanks again! It was fun. How much do I owe you?” she asked.

“Nothing, I’ll take care of it.”

“Oh no, I can pay my share.”

“I know,” he said with a small smile, “but I’d like to take care of it.”

“Well… thanks, looking forward to working with you,” Hermione said sincerely about to turn toward her building when he gently took her hand again.

“Hermione?”

“Yes?” Her heart beat a little faster.

“I’d like to invite you to dinner—next time we’re both off work.”

She didn’t know what to say. Then, for some reason, she thought of Malfoy. The Japanese girl. Astoria. The way he always looked at her like she was an annoyance.

“Yes. I’d love to,” she finally answered.

“Perfect. We’ll arrange something when we see each other on our next shift.”

She nodded and walked toward the entrance of her building, an unfamiliar mix of emotions swirling inside her.

She entered the lobby and called the elevator, stepping inside and pressing the button for the fourth floor. As the elevator ascended, she fumbled in her bag for her keys. The doors opened, and she stepped out, her mind already wandering to the comfort of her flat.

But then, at the far end of the corridor, she noticed something—or someone.

At first, she brushed it off, but a nagging feeling crept up her spine. Maybe it was her training, or the frequent conversations about dark magic. Perhaps it was spending too much time with Malfoy. Whatever it was, instinct kicked in.

She took a couple of steps back, her heart quickening, and reached to close the elevator doors before it was too late. At the same time, she reached into her satchel for her wand.

The doors seemed to take forever to close. In that brief moment, she caught a clearer glimpse of the figure. It wasn’t walking—it was floating toward her.

Her breath hitched. There was no wand in its hand, just a billowing black robe, shifting unnaturally as if made of shadow and mist.

She was frozen, paralyzed. The same crippling fear she had felt in Diagon Alley a month before seized her limbs. She struggled to move, to react, but it was like being trapped in ice.

For a split second, she thought she was about to lose consciousness.

The dark figure kept advancing.

The elevator doors jammed—they wouldn’t shut.

“Pro—” But her voice faltered, dying in her throat just as the figure reached the threshold.

Hermione let out a scream at the exact moment a masculine voice rang out—sharp, commanding, familiar.

“PROTEGO!”

A shimmering shield erupted around her, just as the dark entity nearly reached her. She gasped as she stumbled to her knees, her body trembling.

The creature loomed over her. It was like a living shadow, its form shifting, fluid, but thickened in places with a tar-like substance that clung to its body. Then, it opened its mouth—a grotesque, gaping maw filled with rows upon rows of razor-sharp teeth.

The voice shouted again—louder, more forceful this time.

“LUMEN EXSALO!”

A blinding, golden light exploded around Hermione, hot and all-consuming, like standing at the surface of the sun.

The dark figure screeched, its horrible, inhuman cry reverberating through the corridor before it vanished in an instant—swallowed by the light.

Silence followed.

Hermione remained on the floor, panting, her hands shaking as she tried to process what had just happened. The overwhelming fear still lingered, pressing down on her chest.

Then, she saw him.

A tall man, standing before her.

She didn’t recognize him.

Her panic surged, and before she could stop herself, she screamed—just before everything went black.

Chapter Text

Early Hours of December 2nd, 2006

Hermione woke up with a jolt, her heart pounding as the memories of what had just happened flooded back. She was in her flat, in her bed. Crookshanks was curled up near her feet, watching her intently from the end of the bed.

She glanced down at herself—she was still wearing her clothes from the night before, except for her high heels, which were missing.

She was alone.

But she distinctly remembered someone had been there. Someone had saved her. Someone had made that terrifying dark shadow disappear.

A noise from the living room—or maybe the kitchen—snapped her out of her thoughts.

Fear clawed its way up her spine, sharp and suffocating. She wasn’t alone.

Her fingers scrambled for her wand, finding it on the nightstand. She gripped it tightly and slowly got out of bed. Crookshanks followed close behind, his tail flicking anxiously as he padded at her heels.

She moved carefully, her steps slow and deliberate as she followed the sound. Her pulse thundered in her ears as she reached the living room—

Just as Malfoy stepped out of the kitchen, a mug in his hand.

A startled scream tore from her throat. Without thinking, she raised her wand—

"Expelliarmus!"

But before the spell could hit, Malfoy apparated right next to her in a blur. In that split second, Hermione saw the mug—suspended in the air, now without a hand to hold it—crash to the floor and shatter. The sharp sound of ceramic breaking echoed through the flat.

Before she could even process it, Malfoy’s hands caught her arms, pulling her toward him, holding her firmly but not painfully. His breath was warm and steady against her, grounding her in the chaos of the moment.

"It’s okay, Granger," he said quickly, his voice calm but firm. "I’ll explain. You’re safe now. I’m here. Please put the wand down. Let me take you back to bed."

Her entire body was trembling, her breathing uneven as she stared up at him.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Malfoy?" she snapped, her voice sharp, but there was a crack in it—she wasn’t as steady as she wanted to be.

He exhaled, loosening his grip slightly but not letting go.

"I came to see you and realized you weren’t home," he said, his tone measured. "I was about to leave, but then I heard voices downstairs. I looked out the window and saw you outside—with a friend."

His jaw tensed at the last word, and Hermione caught the slight shift in his expression.

He continued, "I decided to wait outside your flat, but by the time you arrived… something had changed. The air felt different. Darker. And then, I saw it."

A shiver ran down Hermione’s spine.

"The shadow," she whispered.

Malfoy nodded. "Before I could react, you were already down. I think you had a panic attack—it "Stopped you from casting Protego. So, I did."

He paused, his grip on her arms tightening slightly. "Which was a good idea, by the way. It gave me time to think of a way to attack it."

"I chose to use Lumen Exsalo to destroy it. But…" His expression darkened, his voice dropping lower. "It escaped. It vanished into the darkness before the light could fully consume it."

A heavy silence settled between them.

Hermione swallowed hard. "Lumen Exsalo—that’s dark magic, Malfoy," she said.

Draco didn’t answer. He just looked at her.

And for the first time in a long time, she was torn between what was right and what was wrong. She was grateful he had used it—it had saved her. But dark magic always took a toll on the one who cast it.

"Why… why did you come to visit me? Why were you here? How do I know I can trust you?" she asked him.

Draco gave her an annoyed yet understanding look and immediately, she felt a pang of guilt. He had just cast a dark spell to save her, and here she was, questioning his motives.

"We didn’t talk about our discovery of the week. I had the chance to speak with a group involved in Dark magic… but wait, before we discuss this, we need to make sure you’re okay. Can I bring you back to your bed? I’ll make you some tea, and we can go from there."

Hermione nodded, suddenly feeling extremely tired. Malfoy helped her walk to her bed.

"I want to take a shower first and put on some joggers," she said.

Malfoy nodded, though his irritation was evident.

"Please don’t take too long. We don’t know if it was just a panic attack that made you faint or something else. We need to cast a diagnostic spell and check."

"I’ll do it in the bathroom."

She could tell he disapproved—he clearly wanted to be able to monitor her condition himself—but he only gave a small nod and left the room.

Hermione stepped into the shower, letting the warm water wash over her. She didn’t stay long; it was already late, and if they needed to exchange information, she didn’t want to keep him waiting.

She rubbed herself dry vigorously and slipped into a pair of joggers and a warm Gryffindor sweater. Taking out her wand, she cast the diagnostic spell and examined the results. All her vitals were fine—her blood pressure was slightly low, but that was expected after fainting. With a small wave, she dismissed the golden globe displaying the results and made her way back to bed.

Malfoy was already there, placing a cup of hot tea on the nightstand.

"I’m fine," she said before he could ask. "My blood pressure was a little low, but that’s normal. I just fainted. Satisfied? Now, tell me—"

Malfoy didn’t respond right away. Instead, he walked over to the window, hands in his pockets, staring out as if searching for the right words.

"I just got news from the Ministry," Malfoy said, his voice tense. "What we experienced tonight—there were 400 other similar cases reported around the world. We're still assessing the damage, but many witches and wizards were injured. Others… have died. And some have vanished entirely."

Hermione gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

"We don’t yet know the full extent of the threat," he continued, his expression grim. "But from the information we’ve gathered so far, these attacks were coordinated—and they specifically targeted Muggle-born witches and wizards. They didn't discriminate by age… children, the elderly—everyone was a target."

Hermione didn’t know what to say. A sob rose in her throat, and before she could stop herself, she burst into tears.

"I don’t believe it… it’s happening again." She said, her voice shaking.

Malfoy exhaled sharply. "The world is becoming more and more intolerant of anything different from them," he said. "I know similar situations happen in the Muggle world as well—it’s ideology, it’s fear."

She reached for a tissue from the nightstand and blew her nose.

"Yes, I suppose you’re right," she admitted.

"I’m expected at the Ministry. We’re in crisis right now. Your friend—Ginny, Harry, and Ron—will be there."

Hermione nodded absently, her gaze drifting to Crookshanks.

"Granger, I don’t think you should stay here."

"But this is my flat."

He gave her a knowing, contrite smile, as if he had expected her protest.

"I know. But you were attacked tonight. By sheer luck, you weren’t asleep—by sheer luck, you were with that Muggle. Maybe that delayed the attack. And I say this without any intention of nagging you, but if I hadn’t needed to talk to you tonight…" He trailed off, shaking his head.

"I don’t need protection."

"Yes, you do. But it’s okay. There are plenty of things you can do that I can’t. But I have orders to bring you back with me." He hesitated, then added, "Times are serious, Granger. I know you want nothing to do with the wizarding world. I know you don’t look at us the same way you used to—not after what happened to your parents. But whether you like it or not, you’re in danger."

"Don’t ever talk about my parents. All of this happened because of a stupid ideology that you and your parents believed in!"

Draco raised a hand to stop her, his gaze steady as he met hers.

"Fair enough," he said. "I won’t. But now, you need to come with me."

"I won’t."

Draco let out a sharp sigh, pinched the bridge of his nose, and exhaled slowly. "Should I send a Patronus to fetch Potter? Or that idiot Weasley? Maybe they can knock some sense into that stubborn, brilliant head of yours?"

Hermione knew she was being difficult. Maybe it was the shock of the night’s events, her frayed nerves, or sheer exhaustion, but she didn’t want to leave. She just wanted to stay in her flat and pretend none of this had happened.

"And we need your help, Granger," Draco added. "People died today—just because they were Muggle-born."

She looked at him, her decision made. She would go. She had insights she hadn’t had the chance to share yet, and now wasn’t the time to let her emotions cloud her judgment.

"Please leave the room. I need to change."

Draco had been about to say something, but at her request, he shut his mouth, gave a curt nod, and stepped into the living room.

Hermione pulled on a pair of jeans, a long-sleeved black shirt, and her leather jacket. She tied her hair into a ponytail before joining him.

"Will I be coming back?" she asked.

Malfoy looked at her for a moment before replying. "That’s the plan," he said. "Why?"

"Crookshanks. Do I need to bring him with me?"

"Oh," he said, blinking as if he’d forgotten about the cat. "The stupid furball. Not for now. I’ll make sure someone comes to pick him up if we don’t come back here."

She shot him a glare sharp enough to cut as she laced up her combat boots and grabbed her satchel. He smirked in response and extended his hand toward her.

"Ready?"

She hesitated for a second before placing her hand in his.

Malfoy pulled her closer, wrapping his arm securely around her.

"Let’s not take any chances. Your blood pressure was already high, and tonight was nerve-racking enough. Wouldn’t want you to lose an arm while Apparating to the Ministry."

She looked up at him, and he met her gaze. For a brief moment, the world seemed to stop. Being in his arms felt strangely natural, and the tension of the night melted away in an instant.

Malfoy must have felt it too—his grip tightened slightly as he noticed her other hand move around his waist, holding onto him more firmly.

His eyes darkened, shifting into an intense shade of stormy grey, and Hermione studied him curiously. But before she could say anything, he abruptly looked away and muttered,

"Let’s go."

And with that, they apparated straight into Shacklebolt’s office.

***

The Ministry was in a state of chaos. From Shacklebolt’s office, Hermione sat in a large armchair, gazing out the window as witches and wizards rushed about below. Even at this early hour, the building was teeming with activity.

The scale of the attacks was staggering—450 wizards had been targeted, all Muggle-born. Thirty were dead. Twenty had been abducted. The rest had either managed to defend themselves, escaped through Apparition, or held out long enough for the attackers to retreat—but many were left wounded, some with serious injuries.

Whoever had orchestrated these attacks had planned them with ruthless precision, but something—or someone—had forced them to stop before they could finish their work.

Patronuses zipped through the air, carrying urgent messages to various offices. The Floo Network flared to life every few minutes as Prime Ministers and international officials reached out, seeking either Draco or Shacklebolt for answers. It was madness.

Through the large open door connecting his office to Shacklebolt’s, her eyes drifted to Draco Malfoy, who was deep in conversation with various Prime Ministers and international liaisons. His posture was rigid, his expression unreadable as he relayed grim reports.

She thought to herself, taken aback by his confidence—if he hadn’t arrived early that morning, she might have been among those who had been taken or killed.

Her gaze lingered on him for a moment. He sat in his chair, his usually neat hair a mess, yet he still managed to look professional. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing the strong lines of his forearms. He spoke with both compassion and confidence, clearly conveying the information Shacklebolt had decided on earlier. Despite the chaos, his empathy for the foreign officials mourning their losses seemed genuine, his words honest.

While speaking with the Italian officials, Draco cast her a quick sideways glance. Hermione immediately looked away, not wanting him to realize she had been watching him. But when she stole another glance, she found him looking at her again. This time, it was obvious. She needed to stop.

She let her gaze drift around the room, feeling useless. She knew that Harry, Ron, and Ginny were gathered downstairs with the other Aurors, preparing to travel to different parts of the world in an attempt to understand what was happening. Sooner or later, someone would claim responsibility for the attack.

Determined to be of use, she stood up, ready to go see Shacklebolt and tell him she needed to help—but before she could take a step, a Patronus appeared before her. A hare. Healer Stroud’s Patronus.

St. Mungo’s needed help.

Relief flooded her—finally, she could do something. She turned, ready to leave, when a sharp voice cut through the air.

"You. You wait here."

She spun toward the voice. Draco, still deep in conversation with the German official, was pointing at her, his expression unreadable.

Hermione stared at him, bewildered. Wait? Why should she wait? St. Mungo’s needed her. And on what grounds did he think he could speak to her that way?

She was about to storm off when, suddenly, her wand flew from her grip. She whirled back toward him, insulted.

"Who the fuck do you think you are, Malfoy?"

He didn’t even spare her a glance. Holding her wand in his hand, he simply lifted a finger in a one-minute gesture, as if dismissing her entirely.

Hermione was fuming and was about to march straight to him when a calm voice spoke from behind her.

"Hermione."

She turned, still seething. Shacklebolt stood there, his gaze steady.

"Shacklebolt," she snapped. "Tell your stupid soldier to give me back my wand and let me help St. Mungo’s. Right now."

Shacklebolt gave a small nod and summoned her wand from Draco’s hand. Malfoy let go of it—reluctantly.

"While I do disapprove of Mr. Malfoy’s technique, I agree with him that you need to be cautious, Hermione."

Hermione stared at Shacklebolt in disbelief, but she managed to restrain herself before bursting into anger. Instead, she gave him her most hypocritical smile.

But before she could even respond, the control freak himself—Malfoy—was suddenly with them.

"I’ve been in contact with a group of Dark wizards since our night in your Muggle kitchen," he said. "The Tenebrae Concordia. They are firm believers that Voldemort was right—that Muggle-borns should be exterminated. But they’re taking it even further. They want to eradicate every Muggle, every creature they deem beneath us."

Hermione looked at him and immediately saw the frustration in his eyes.

"I was supposed to tell you this tonight, before our training," he admitted.

She nodded. "I’ve been doing research as well. And while it’s just a hypothesis, I think Patient 105 is connected to all of this—to the Ministry, too."

Draco’s gaze sharpened.

"Think about it," she continued. "What if they’ve found a way to detect magical abilities in children before they even show signs of magic? What if they’re attacking babies before they can ever know they’re wizards?"

She took a breath, her mind racing. "I think that’s what happened to the patient in Room 105. And I think that’s why I was summoned to court—because I saved him. Someone within the Ministry is corrupt."

Draco ran a hand through his hair before resting it on his hip.

"Smart, Granger. I agree—this is a lead we need to investigate."

"I need to go to St. Mungo’s now. They need me—I can make a difference."

Shacklebolt nodded in agreement. She glanced at Malfoy, and it was easy to see he wasn’t happy about it.

Turning back, she grabbed her satchel and was about to Apparate when Malfoy took a few steps closer to her.

"How are you feeling? You were attacked this morning."

"I’m okay. Please, don’t worry."

"Oh, I’m not worrying, Granger. I’m just making sure you stay alive considering your poor dueling skills."

She looked at him, and for the first time, she saw it clearly—beneath the sarcasm, he really was worried about her.

"Right," she said, smirking as she winked at him—then Apparated.

Shacklebolt let out a small laugh. Draco shot him a look, and Shacklebolt simply said,

"She’s right—you’re extremely worried about her. Everything has been about her for a while now. I thought we talked about this. It was supposed to be handled."

Draco didn’t answer and ignored the comment.

"If you’ll excuse me, I’m expecting a call from Japan."

"Wait."

Draco turned back to look at Shacklebolt.

"She needs a place to stay for a couple of days. I was thinking 42 Raven Row."

Draco’s body tensed.

"I don’t think that’s a good idea, and you must agree with me. How am I supposed to handle this if she’s always around?"

"I don’t care how you do it," Shacklebolt said firmly. "For her protection—for her sake—handle it. She needs a safe place to stay until we can put enough wards around her flat to ensure this doesn’t happen again. She is just as important as the other two."

Draco exhaled sharply and nodded.

If someone had told him years ago that he would one day become the protector of the stupid Golden Trio, he never would have believed it.

As he spoke with his good friend, Keiko, the Japanese official, he couldn’t help but feel that he was paying for his parents’ sins—especially his father’s.

***

Hermione had been at St. Mungo’s for the last twelve hours. She was exhausted, but she was grateful to be there.

The attacks had spread across the world, but at least twenty people had ended up at St. Mungo’s that were attack in UK. Most suffered from eyes injuries, bites, or open wounds. Some were in emotional shock—either because they had witnessed their spouse or children being taken or killed.

But she was a good healer. She moved from one patient to the next, quickly assessing who needed urgent care and compiling lists for the nurses, ensuring that each patient received the right treatment in time.

She didn’t have to perform any surgeries—Healer Stroud and several of his colleagues were handling those—but she focused on diagnostics and post-treatment care, ensuring patients were stabilized before and after procedures.

She moved in rotation, casting diagnostic spells on each patient to monitor their condition and adjusting treatments as needed. She also administered counter-curses to those affected by dark magic, carefully reversing harmful spells where possible.

By the time the clock struck 5 PM, she had just finished applying Essence of Dittany to a young child suffering from burns on his eyes. His parents had used an intense Lumos spell in a desperate attempt to ward off the dark shadows.

Hermione was stunned. Everyone had fought back using light magic—defensive spells meant to repel, shield, and deter. Only Draco had used dark magic.

And yet… she was the only one who had seen one of the creatures up close and walked away without a single injury—at least, none that had been reported.

She exhaled sharply, her mind racing. If this was only the beginning, the third war would be far more intense than they had imagined. This time, they needed to be better prepared—if they wanted to survive.

It was about 9:00 PM, and she was ready to go home—completely drained.

Sitting in her office, she was finishing up reports, ensuring everything was properly documented when a knock came at the door.

Healer Stroud stepped inside.

"Thanks for your help today."

"It’s natural, Healer Stroud," she replied, her voice tired.

He nodded and took a step closer.

"You won’t like what I’m about to say, but I need you to wait for Mr. Malfoy. He’s finishing a conversation with some officials and will be here shortly. He needs to speak with you, and it’s important that you don’t leave before he does."

Hermione nodded. She didn’t have the energy to argue—not this time.

She sat behind her desk and gazed out the window. From here, she could see the streets of London, filled with Muggles who had no idea what was coming—who had no clue that their lives would soon be impacted as well.

It didn’t take long. Soon, Malfoy was standing outside her door.

She looked at him.

"You told me not to apparate into your living room," he said, smirking. "I assume your office follows the same rules."

She gave him a small, tired smile of gratitude.

"You won’t like what I’m about to say to you," he began.

Hermione let out a laugh, and Draco looked momentarily disoriented.

"I feel like everyone has started their conversation like that for the past twelve hours," she said. "What do you need me to do, Malfoy?"

He looked at her with a faint smile, and for the first time, she truly noticed it—he looked tired. Exhausted. Completely drained.

She stood up and moved toward him quickly.

"I’ll do whatever you ask," she said, taking his hand. "But first, I’m casting a diagnostic spell on you."

As she pulled him toward a chair, she caught sight of his knuckles—bruised, reddened, and slightly swollen.

"What happened to you?" she asked, examining them closely. "You… what did you do to yourself?"

Draco pulled his hand away as if she had burned him.

"I did some training. On my punching bag—not long after you left the training room," he admitted. "I may have forgotten to tape my hands and wear proper gloves."

She frowned slightly, studying him. She hadn’t noticed the injuries at all this morning. A pang of guilt hit her—he had been there for her, offering comfort and taking care of her, and she hadn’t even realized something was wrong with him.

"Let me take care of it, please," she said softly. "While I listen to whatever it is I won’t like hearing."

He exhaled but allowed her to guide him to the chair, where he sat without protest.

She reached for her satchel and pulled out a Muggle medical kit.

"Your knuckles don’t need magic—they’re purely physical wounds caused by reckless activities," she muttered, shaking her head.

She began by gently washing his hands, then applied a soothing cream before carefully wrapping them in sterile gauze.

"Tell me," she said as she worked.

Draco watched her intently, impressed by how precise and professional she was. Every movement was careful, practiced.

She seemed so serene, completely in her element, and for a moment, he felt that whatever he was about to tell her, she would take it with quiet composure. Medicine was undoubtedly something she was meant for.

He was used to a combative Hermione—the one who spoke her mind without hesitation, always ready to argue. But as she tended to his hands, she was different. She was calm, composed, fully in control of everything happening around her.

He found himself missing the more spontaneous Hermione, but he had to admit—this side of her was just as fascinating.

"You can’t go back to your flat for now. We’ll keep you at my place—42 Raven Row."

She looked at him, her eyes sad, but he continued before she could protest.

"The Ministry has sent a team of Aurors to ward your flat. It’ll be ready in seventy-two hours, but in the meantime, they need to keep you protected. My place is safe. No one knows it exists except for you, me, and Shacklebolt. Nothing can happen to you there—it’s already warded."

"I was able to find it," she pointed out.

"Yes, well, I’m really good at warding," he said. "You were authorized."

"Are you going to stay with me?" Hermione knew the logical answer was no, but somehow, she found herself hoping for a yes.

"No, I won’t. It’s not a good idea, and it’s not something I can explain to Astoria."

Hermione held his gaze for a moment before nodding. "Right," she said softly.

"I’ve arranged for Crookshanks to be picked up. He’s alone at my place right now—you should come home soon."

She looked at him, surprised.

"I meant, it’s your home, for as long as you’ll be staying there."

Hermione nodded. She was completely drained. All she wanted was a hot shower and a few hours of sleep.

"Okay, I’ll come. Let me cast a diagnostic spell on you first, and then we’ll go."

"No, you can do it at home. We’re leaving now—you’re exhausted."

Before she could protest, Draco pulled her into his arms, just as he had this morning. She felt the warmth of his embrace—comforting, steady, natural. Soothing.

He held her for a moment longer than necessary. Then, with a sharp crack, they apparated away.

Chapter Text

Twilight hours of December 4th, 2006

Hermione was in the kitchen, cooking ground beef for a taco night—just for herself, with a bottle of red wine to accompany it. She had research to do on the Tenelabrith and an early shift at the hospital the next morning, but her mind wasn’t entirely on her work. It had already been 48 hours since she arrived at Draco’s place, and she was counting down the hours until she could return to her flat.

Not that she was with him—they weren’t seeing each other at all. He hadn’t visited since leaving her on the porch. She simply felt out of place here, in his home.

Two days ago, he had left her in the lobby of 42 Raven Row. After a brief exchange, he told her that since she was already familiar with the place, she could do as she pleased. He had mentioned sending a house-elf to assist her, an offer she politely declined. She remembered the faint smile he gave her in return.

"As you wish," he had said.

And without another word, he apparated away, leaving her alone with Crookshanks.

She had tried to reach for his hand, to stop him—she needed to cast a diagnostic spell on him—but he was already gone. Frustration twisted in her chest. With a sigh, she turned and walked toward the fireplace. Raising her wand, she ignited a fire with a soft ‘’Incendio’’. Warmth flickered to life, casting shadows along the dimly lit room.

She remembered Crookshanks sitting on the coffee table, his tail flicking, his large amber eyes fixed on her with unmistakable discontent. She also recalled that, though she couldn’t be entirely certain, she had the distinct impression that Malfoy himself had fetched Crookshanks. It was just a feeling, but she was almost sure of it.

She was lost in thought when a sudden knock on the front door jolted her back to the present. She froze.

No one knew she was here—except for Shacklebolt and Malfoy. She hadn’t had a single visitor in the past two days, and she wasn’t sure she should open the door. A wave of panic began to rise within her, but she forced herself to breathe while reaching for her wand in her back pocket.

She walked slowly to the door and was about to look through the peephole when a loud knock echoed through the apartment, followed by a familiar voice.

"Granger, open the door. It’s me—Malfoy."

Hermione took a step back, her grip tightening on her wand. She called out, "Why didn’t you just Apparate inside the apartment?"

"Because you told me not to, and I assume the same rule applies to whoever you are." His voice was dry, impatient. "Now, open the door."

She hesitated. "How can I be certain it’s really you?"

There was a brief silence, and for a second, she thought he might have left. Then he spoke again.

"Yeah, I get it—you want proof." His tone shifted, as if he was carefully choosing his words. "We started training together last week. We’ve known each other since our Hogwarts years, and in third year, you punched me in the face—a punch I deserved but definitely didn’t appreciate."

Hermione relaxed slightly and opened the door. Malfoy stood there, dressed in a pair of jeans, a white polo, and pristine white Lacoste sneakers. She had to admit—he looked amazing. It took a conscious effort to close her mouth and compose herself, forcing her expression into something more casual.

Malfoy didn’t bother waiting for an invitation. He simply strode past her, brushing by as he owned the place.

"How are you? Are you coming in?" she asked, stepping aside.

"This habit of yours—making us apparate outside the flat—is quite annoying," he said, eyeing her with mild irritation. "I had to concentrate way more."

Hermione blinked, realizing she had never really considered that before. She had never been one to apparate into someone else’s home uninvited, but then again, she wasn’t in the habit of visiting people often.

Suddenly, she caught the faint scent of something burning. Without responding, she turned and rushed to the kitchen. Malfoy followed close behind, his voice trailing after her.

"Where the fuck are you... going?" he asked, sounding more perplexed than angry.

She was already at the stove, frantically removing the pan with the scorched ground beef. The smell of burnt meat filled the air, and she waved her wand to clear the smoke.

"I was cooking ground beef for tacos," she said hastily. "I got a bit distracted."

Malfoy crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, smirking. "Once again, like a Muggle."

Hermione shot him a pointed look. "I am a Muggle, Malfoy."

His smirk faded, replaced by something more serious. He held her gaze for a moment before saying, "Yes, you are. And that is precisely the problem."

"What?" she asked, frowning.

"You’re a Muggle-born witch," he said plainly. "And that’s the reason you’re here."

Hermione nodded absentmindedly, her focus shifting back to the burnt beef. She tried salvaging what she could, but it was too far gone. Malfoy stepped closer, pulled out his wand, and with a simple flick, cast a spell that cleared the burnt smell and restored the meat as if it had never been overcooked.

"There we go," he said smoothly.

She exhaled in relief. "Thanks," she muttered. Then, after a pause, she added, "And thank you for the food and everything. I didn’t have to go out and was able to rest these past two days. I did a lot of reading about the Tenelabrith and also researched how they detect magical capabilities in Muggle babies."

She moved to one of the cabinets and took out two plates. "Are you hungry?"

She expected him to decline, but to her surprise, he gave a quick nod. Without a word, she placed two plates in front of them and grabbed another glass, pouring him a serving of red wine.

Malfoy took the glass, examined it for a moment, then flicked his wand, changing it to white wine. "I prefer white with tacos."

She smiled and began assembling their tacos, carefully separating the portions onto each plate. She garnished them with tomatoes, lettuce, and corn, setting out salsa and sour cream. As she reached for the guacamole, Malfoy suddenly stopped her.

"Not a fan," he said simply.

She nodded and placed it only on her plate. The entire moment felt both completely natural and utterly bizarre, standing in Malfoy’s kitchen, making tacos for him, learning something as mundane as the fact that he didn’t like guacamole. He seemed just as aware of the strangeness of the situation as she was.

She handed him his plate and moved to the opposite side of the island with hers. "Wanna eat here? Or in the dining room?"

"I’m fine here," he replied.

So, she settled next to him and took a bite of her taco. He waited until she had put down the half-eaten piece before speaking.

"What did you find about Muggle-born babies?"

Hermione looked at him, suddenly suspicious. "Why are you here?"

Malfoy arched a brow. "It’s my place."

"Yes, but you said you’d leave it to me for the time being, and you disappeared two days ago without any explanation."

"Did you miss me?" he teased.

She scoffed. "You can dream, Malfoy."

He raised his hands in mock innocence and took a bite of his taco before finally answering.

"I was waiting for you to eat something before engaging in conversation—since I remembered last time, you were very particular about finishing your spaghetti before talking."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. "You remembered that?"

Malfoy shrugged, taking another bite. "Of course. You looked ready to hex whoever interrupted you mid-bite. I figured I’d play it safe this time."

She rolled her eyes but smirked despite herself. "How considerate of you."

"I have my moments," he said smoothly, dabbing his mouth with a napkin before leaning slightly toward her. "Now, Granger, are you going to tell me what you found, or do I have to wait until dessert?"

She took another bite of her taco, defiance in her eyes.

"I didn’t make much progress," she finally admitted, staring at a piece of corn that had fallen onto her plate. "I need to immerse myself more in dark magic. They used it, after all. But I’m sure they’ve also found a way to track Muggle-born babies before they even know what they are—before they can defend themselves. That means they can be killed before they ever have a chance."

She exhaled sharply, frustration evident in her furrowed brow.

"In one of the books I got from the Ministry last time, The Dark Wizards of America in 2000, there was a section about a ritual—a cult that had discovered how to strip magic from a Muggle-born. Or from any witch, actually." She paused, trying to recall the details. "And while I kept reading, they mentioned something even worse. They experimented on Muggles, trying to detect magical abilities before they manifested."

Her voice faltered. The weight of what she was saying settled between them like an unbearable shadow. The thought that a baby—helpless and innocent—could have been used in such experiments made her feel sick.

Draco, who had been listening intently, reached out, his hand covering hers.

"It's okay, Hermione," he said softly. "We’ll find them. We’ll stop them before anything happens."

She looked down at their joined hands, her fingers twitching beneath his. Slowly, she withdrew.

She remembered what he had said two days ago—that staying with her wasn’t an option. That there would be no way to explain it to Astoria. She remembered the insidious jealousy that had coiled in her belly then, and now, that same feeling was crawling inside her once more. Letting him comfort her, despite the warmth of his touch, wouldn’t be a good idea.

"You still haven’t answered why you’re eating tacos with me and drinking wine," Hermione said, narrowing her eyes at Draco Malfoy.

Draco smirked, twirling the stem of his wine glass between his fingers. "Would you prefer I break the bad news over tea and scones?"

Hermione gave him a flat look. "What bad news?"

He sighed, setting his glass down. "I’ve been assigned to bring you to the cave in Utah."

Hermione blinked. "The cave? In Utah?"

"Yes, Granger, try to keep up," he drawled. "The cave you asked the Ministry to investigate behind my back."

Hermione stiffened, her grip tightening around her wine glass.

Draco leaned forward, his smirk sharp. "Trust me, I told them you weren’t ready and that it was dangerous, but they insisted. They need you to investigate something inside." He took a slow sip of his drink before adding, "We leave tomorrow night after your shift at the hospital."

She scoffed, setting her glass down with a sharp clink. "I can’t just leave like that!"

"Don’t you have any vacation days as an intern?"

"I’m a Senior House Officer, Malfoy," she corrected sharply. "And yes, I do, but I didn’t plan on taking them last-minute for a high-risk mission."

Draco leaned back, watching her carefully. "Can you ask for time off? I’d wager you haven’t taken a single day since you started your foundation training."

Hermione hesitated, her mind working fast. "I haven’t," she admitted, annoyed that he had a point.

Draco looked smug. "Thought so. I asked for someone else to come with you, and Weasley volunteered."

Hermione felt her stomach tighten. "Ron?"

"Yeah," Draco said with an exaggerated eyeroll. "Shacklebolt said it’d be better to send someone who’s already been inside the cave, though."

Hermione exhaled, but she wasn’t sure if the weight in her chest was relief or something else entirely. Over the past few weeks, she had noticed Ron hovering—acting as though he wanted to rebuild what they once had rather than accepting the friendship they had carefully established.

She forced herself to focus. "And you’ve been inside?"

Draco’s smirk faded. "Yes. And that’s why I know this isn’t a good idea."

"You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into," he said.

Hermione met his gaze, unflinching. "Trust me, I do. I was the one who fought You-Know-Who the first time."

Draco fell silent, his eyes flickering to her left arm. Hermione pretended not to notice and took another bite of her tacos.

"So, we’re leaving tomorrow night?" she asked.

"Yes. We’ll use multiple Portkeys to get to Utah. I’ve already reserved two rooms at the Obsidian Ho...—"

"Can we stop in Montreal?" she interrupted.

He frowned. "Why?"

"I’d like to visit Saimaniq. Her family has a shop in the Old Port for magic, and I can get my stone there too."

He didn’t respond immediately. His expression tightened, as if he were rapidly weighing possibilities, reluctant to spend any more time with her than necessary.

"You don’t have to stay," she added. "I can come back on my own."

"I know you can," he said, exhaling sharply. "I’m not sure I want you traveling internationally alone."

"Why not?"

He let out a slow breath and pressed his fingers against his temple, as though warding off a headache.

"The world isn’t safe for you anymore. Why do you think you’re in my house while we reinforce the wards around your flat? Until we know what’s going on, you need to be cautious. I don’t understand what’s unclear about that. You were attacked three days ago, Granger."

She sighed. "I’ve lost the habit… I’ve been in the Muggle world for a long, long time now—eight years, exactly. My life was normal. I… aside from magical healing, I wasn’t part of the wizarding world."

"I know," he said. "I know. Probably the smartest move you ever made."

She looked at him, insulted.

"I didn’t mean it like that," he added quickly. "But at least in the Muggle world, you were protected."

She raised an eyebrow, sensing that he wasn’t just talking about her.

"What do you mean? Is someone else in danger?"

"Aren’t we all?" he said with a smirk.

She stood up, gathering their plates and carrying them to the sink. He stood up too and helped her. They were next to each other. As she filled the sink with water and soap, she asked, "What will you do if You-Know-Who comes back? I don’t remember you being so against him the first time. In fact, I remember you taking the Dark Mark."

She turned to look at him just in time to see something flicker in his eyes—something dark, hurt. It was gone in a second, replaced by his usual pale grey stare and the ghost of a smirk on his lips.

"Be ready tomorrow night," he said. "I’ll come to get you. Pack for three to four days."

"Wait—what about Crookshanks?"

"No clue. He’s your cat, not my problem."

"Can you send a house-elf to look after him while we’re gone?"

Draco nodded. We should practice tonight, are you ok to do it? He asked her concern, his eyes sliding to her wine glass.

Hermione wasn’t particularly excited, but she gave a quick nod. Then, remembering his comment about her jeans, she added that she would change first. Malfoy didn’t say anything as she left the kitchen, brushing past him on her way out

.She went to the room she had taken downstairs, just across from the living room and next to the staircase. After changing into black leggings and a long-sleeve white shirt, she stood in front of the mirror, taking several deep breaths before heading back to the living room. The room was cold, and she immediately regretted not bringing her favorite sweater.

As she stepped in, she saw him pass through the living room. He didn’t say a word, simply making his way toward the stairs. Hermione watched his retreating figure, and on an impulse, she flicked her wand and cast Stupefy.

If she had any doubts about Draco’s dueling skills, they were shattered in the next four seconds. He deflected her spell with a swift Protego, then disappeared with a silent Apparition—only to reappear behind her. Before she could react, his hand was around her throat, pulling her back against him, his wand pressing hard against her ribs.

Hermione was completely immobilized. She tried to use her hand to bring her wand closer, but she heard Draco murmuring next to her ear,

“Granger don’t even think about it. Let your wand go now."

Hermione hesitated, her grip tightening on her wand as she stood frozen. The tension in the room was palpable, and Draco's voice, though calm, held a dangerous edge. She could feel the weight of the situation pressing down on her, the uncertainty gnawing at her.

"I won’t," she replied firmly, her voice steady but defiant. "I don’t trust you."

Draco's grip on her tightened for a moment, and then, with a sigh, he released her. "You’re right," he muttered. "You don’t, and I can’t blame you."

He stepped in front of her, partially blocking her path, his presence imposing but not aggressive. His gaze lingered on her a moment longer than necessary, a flicker of something unreadable beneath his usual frustration—something he couldn’t quite name.

Hermione remained still, her chest rising and falling with steady breaths, her emotions still raw from the tension between them. Draco didn’t move right away. Instead, his posture shifted, the rigid edge of his stance softening just enough to betray his uncertainty. He wasn’t used to being this close to her—wasn’t used to seeing her like this, vulnerable yet unyielding. And in the quiet space between them, the weight of unspoken words pressed down heavier than any they had exchanged.

Hermione wrapped her arms around herself, shivering slightly not sure if it was from the cold or Malfoy’s proximity. She tried to warm herself and Draco noticed it immediately. With a flick of his wand, he muttered something under his breath, and a fire erupted in the chimney, its warmth filling the room.

"Next time, you can light it yourself," Draco said, his voice sharp. "I’m not your house-elf."

Hermione shot him a pointed look, her arms still wrapped around her. "I didn’t ask you to," she replied coolly, trying to keep her voice steady despite the frustration bubbling inside her.

Draco smirked; the flicker of the fire casting shadows across his face. "Just thought I'd offer," he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

The warmth of the fire contrasted sharply with the chill in the air between them.

"Can I turn my back to you and try to reach the training room, Granger, or will you try again to attack me sneakily? Not really a Gryffindor way of fighting, I must say."

Hermione’s face drained of color, a flush of shame spreading across her features at his words. Her gaze dropped to the floor, and for a moment, she struggled to find a response.

Draco started up the stairs, glancing back over his shoulder. As he ascended, he immediately noticed the effect his words had on her. A brief flicker of guilt crossed his mind.

For a moment, he considered just walking away, letting her deal with whatever emotions he had stirred. She was clearly uncomfortable, and he knew she hadn’t always been like this. Had the years changed her as much as they had changed him? She had always been fierce, unrelenting. But now, there was something more subdued about her. Not gone—just buried. He could still sense that fire smoldering beneath the surface, but maybe she had been burned too many times.

He exhaled sharply, frustrated with himself. Hermione made him more aware of other people’s feelings—something he had never given much thought to before. And yet, when she was in the room, he couldn’t help but notice how she felt. No one else. Just her. As if whatever capacity for empathy he possessed extended only to her well-being.

And knowing that he was the reason for her doubts, that he had caused even a fraction of her pain, was unbearable. It made him feel like the worst kind of bastard.

He was frustrated, especially by how much she was making him confront his own feelings—something he had no intention of doing. His mind swirled with these thoughts as he paused, turning to face her. He leaned his forearm on the banister of the staircase, looking down at her.

"Granger," he said, his tone more measured now, "It was a good move. I appreciate it—your fight, your initiative. You did what you had to do. I wasn’t expecting it, and I should have."

She let out a small laugh, her lips curving into a faint smile. "You weren't expecting it?"

Draco froze at the sound of her laugh. For a moment, it was like a warm sensation spread through him, filling him with something he couldn’t quite place. His body stiffened immediately, and he clenched his fists at his sides, fighting to control the unexpected rush of feeling.

"Come on, Granger," he said, his voice a little rougher now as he tried to push down the thoughts invading his mind. "We don’t have all night."

The moment the words left his mouth, he was already irritated with himself. The thought of spending an entire night with her in this house sent intrusive thoughts racing through his mind, ones he didn’t have the energy to unpack.

Hermione noticed the shift in his mood even as he spoke, his expression darkening with something she couldn’t quite place. Without another word, she turned and started up the stairs, regretting the quiet night she was supposed to have.

The rest of the night was filled with hexes upon hexes. Draco wasn’t just teaching her how to protect herself but also showing her new spells to attack. Hermione grew more confident with each exchange, her reactions sharper, her shields stronger. They traded spells back and forth, and she became increasingly adept at holding her ground.

The climax came when she cast a final hex and managed to disarm Draco. He stared at her, surprised, and she caught something unexpected in his expression: pride and genuine satisfaction. There wasn’t even a hint of wounded ego or frustration.

“I think we can take a quick pause,” he said, lowering his wand. “We still have thirty minutes until 9:30, and I’d like to start showing you some hand-to-hand combat.”

With a flick of his wand, he summoned two bottles of water from the fridge and handed one to her.

“You’ll be good at dueling if you keep practicing, Granger.”

She smiled, accepting the bottle.

He moved closer, handing her a small training knife. “You need to grip it tighter, and don’t let go. Hold it like this—yeah, that’s better.”  He said while showing her how to hold it with his hand. Though he wasn’t touching her, he stood close enough that she could feel the warmth of his presence. “Now, always aim for the vulnerable spots.”

He raised a hand, gesturing to the side of his neck. “Here.” Then to his ribs. “Here.” Finally, he tapped his thigh. “And here. These can disable someone long enough for you to run.”

She nodded, absorbing his words.

“Let’s try,” he said, stepping back.

Hermione lunged, aiming for his neck, but Draco caught her wrist with practiced ease. “Too slow, Granger.”

Before she could react, he moved behind her, his arm slipping around her neck. His grip wasn’t tight, but it was firm enough to simulate a real attack.

“What do you do if you’re stuck like this?” he asked, his voice low in her ear. “I’d recommend aiming for the thigh.”

Hermione shifted her weight and tried to strike his thigh with the knife, but Draco twisted her arm and immobilized her effortlessly. She was trapped, his grip strong yet controlled.

He was about to release her when, without warning, Hermione let all her weight collapse against him.

Draco hadn’t expected that, but his reflexes were quick. He caught her as they fell, twisting his body to absorb the impact and ensuring he hit the floor first. The moment they landed, he moved swiftly, rolling over her and pinning her wrists above her head.

He saw it in her eyes—she had caught him off guard, and he was impressed.

For a second, he hovered over her, his gaze locking onto hers. The air between them felt charged, heavy with unspoken tension.

“I trained at Hogwarts before the war, Malfoy. I’m not a novice,” she muttered, a flicker of defiance in her voice.

He smirked, his grip on her wrists unwavering.

"I definitely underestimated you and your skills."

His demeanor shifted suddenly, his expression turning serious as he looked at her intently.

"That can be a strength—if you know how to use it," he said, his voice firm. "Don't forget that, Granger."

She could feel the tension in his body, the weight of his words settling between them.

She nodded.

With a lighter tone in his voice, he said, “Next time,” he murmured, breaking the silence, “I’d recommend bringing a T-shirt for combat.” Hermione shot him a suspicious look.

He was still holding her wrists. “Do what you want, but you’re soaked. You’d be more comfortable in a T-shirt or a sports bra. That long sleeve you’re wearing today is white—and wet—and I can already see everything. If there’s anything to see, that is.”

Draco fully expected her to get mad, to explode at him with fury. Instead, her face went pale, and her gaze flickered—just for a second—to her left forearm.

And in that instant, Draco cursed himself for being an idiot.

That’s why she always wore long sleeves.

The scar his aunt had carved into her eight years ago was still there.

Draco moved slowly, leaning forward, his eyes settling on her left forearm. His large hand was still pinning her small wrist to the floor, holding her in place. He could feel her shallow breaths brushing against his neck as he shifted, his gaze fixed on the pale limb beneath him.

Through the damp, clinging fabric of her white sleeve, he could just make out the faint outline of a scar. It wasn’t as prominent as he had imagined, but it was unmistakably there: Mudblood. The cruel word carved into her skin by his aunt.

His hand moved instinctively, his thumb brushing against the raised ridges of the scar through the fabric. It was real. He could feel it.

He looked back at her face, his gray eyes searching hers. Their gazes locked for what felt like an eternity. The weight of unspoken words settled heavily between them. Hermione’s tongue flicked across her lips before she bit down, breaking the eye contact and turning her head away from his piercing stare.

“I was there,” Draco said quietly, his voice rough, the confession dragging itself out of him. “I never saw it, but I was there when it happened.”

Hermione shook her head, her expression unreadable.

There were so many things he wanted to say—that he was sorry, that he was angry, that her screams had haunted him for years, lingering in the darkest corners of his mind until recently, until he started seeing her again. That while he still believed in preserving wizarding traditions, no one should have endured something so brutal, especially not her.

But the words caught in his throat, refusing to come out.

Instead, what came out was clumsy, awkward.

“You shouldn’t hide it. Don’t be ashamed. You were—” he hesitated. “You were courageous.”

Underneath him, Hermione shifted slightly, her voice soft but firm.

“Don’t ever tell me what I should or shouldn’t do, Malfoy. My family and I have suffered enough because of yours.” Her voice wavered, but her resolve didn’t. “Now, please let me go. I think we can call it a night.”

Within seconds, Draco was on his feet, his movements swift and deliberate. He extended a hand to her, hesitating only briefly before helping her up.

"We're leaving tomorrow. Be ready," he said before Apparating away.

Chapter Text

December 5th 2006

Hermione was exhausted. She lounged on the sofa, her legs curled beneath her, absently stroking Crookshanks while sipping from a tall glass of cold water. Malfoy had left the night before after casually informing her that she was heading to Utah—and that she had less than twelve hours to prepare.

She had to request a few days off from the hospital, notify Healer Stroud of her absence, and send a house-elf to her flat to fetch clothes suitable for the trip. At the last minute, she bought a new pair of white Converse and managed to pack everything into a single backpack. She had nearly taken more than one suitcase, but then she’d reminded herself—this was the magical world. That kind of overpacking wasn’t necessary.

Now, she was waiting for him, frustration simmering beneath her exhaustion. He hadn’t given her any indication of when or how they were leaving. Dressed for practicality—combat boots, a simple pair of jeans, and her favorite black long-sleeve shirt—she had pulled her hair into a high ponytail, out of the way but still slightly messy from the rushed morning.

The night before, Malfoy had sent Mimsy, his house-elf, to assist her with packing. The elf would also be staying at the house to take care of Crookshanks while they were away.

While waiting, her eyes was looking at the fire in the fireplace, hypnotize by the flame, Hermione was confused. She had always thought of herself has being well-balanced, careful, the kind of person who steered clear of men like him—the ones who carried their demons like a second skin, the ones who pulled you into their chaos. She wasn’t just good at avoiding them; she understood that you couldn’t fix them. And yet, Malfoy was dragging her into something she shouldn’t be part of.

She knew this would end badly. The way he made her feel, the way he looked at her, the way he carried that air of mystery—aware of it, wielding it to his advantage—she could see the danger. And still, she was stepping closer. Like a moth to a flame, she knew she would lose feathers if she got too close, but she was being dragged into it anyway.

Mimsy arrived in front of her, holding a bowl of popcorn.

"This is so nice of you, Mimsy. Thank you."

Mimsy looked up at her with wide blue eyes.

"Madam Hermione is very kind to Mimsy. Mimsy really appreciates what you are doing."

"It's normal, Mimsy. Everyone should talk to you that way."

"Master Draco gave Mimsy a message for Madam Hermione."

"Yes, Mimsy, what is it?"

"Master Draco would like permission to Apparate into the house tonight. He said he will be here in thirty minutes."

"Yes, Mimsy, you can give my permission to Draco."

"Thank you, Madam Hermione." With a snap of her fingers, Mimsy Apparated away.

Hermione took a piece of popcorn and ate it, lost in thought. She stood up and walked to the fireplace. The room was so empty, so white—so unlike Malfoy.

For the past few days, she had wondered if he even lived here, or what the purpose of this place was. She was sure he still lived with his parents at Malfoy Manor.

A flicker of jealousy stirred in her chest as an insidious thought, one she had been trying to suppress for the last three days, crept back into her mind. Was he bringing his girlfriend here? Or just brief liaisons?

She shook her head, trying to banish the thought. She shouldn’t be thinking about this. Who cared who Malfoy brought home at night?

A sharp crack sounded behind her. She turned, already knowing that the man who had been occupying her thoughts had just materialized behind her.

"Malfoy," she said as she turned.

"Granger…"

They looked at each other for a few seconds, neither speaking.

Hermione admitted to herself that he was stunning—and that she really needed to stay away from him as soon as possible. Something in her expression must have changed because his eyes narrowed slightly, watching her with suspicion.

"You ready to go?" he asked.

She nodded. "Yes."

Grabbing her backpack from the sofa, she took her leather vest as well.

"The first Portkey is at the Leaky Cauldron. It'll take us to Ireland, then we’ll use another one to get to Montreal, and finally, the last one will bring us to the hotel," Draco explained. He smirked, as if he already knew the answer to the question he was about to ask.

"Have you ever traveled internationally using a Portkey?"

"No… I haven’t," she admitted. "I used to travel by plane with my parents, and after the war… I traveled with friends. Muggle friends."

"This Weasley never took you anywhere? Did you even date him?"

"My personal life is none of your business, and I won’t let you diminish Ron. He’s a better man than you’ll ever be."

Draco looked at her, his eyes darkening to near black.

She had made him mad.

Hermione took a deep breath and let out a small sigh.

"This isn’t working, Malfoy. I understand that you hate me, that you were ordered to come with me, that I’m keeping you away from your magical life, that I’m depriving you of your bachelor freedom so you can’t bring your pureblood women here to fuck—and that you probably hate the fact that you have to spend time with a Mudblood. But please, I don’t want to be here either. Can you at least try to be civil? You were the one who forced me out of my flat! You didn’t want me to go to St. Mungo’s to help—you brought me here!"

Her voice kept rising despite her efforts to stay calm.

He cut her off, his voice low and steady.

"You don’t want to be here?" He let out a short breath. "Next time, don’t insist on visiting the cave I told you was too dangerous." His gaze held hers, unreadable. "And is that what you think this is? That I hate you because you’re a Mudblood?" His tone remained calm, almost too calm. "You think that’s why I’m annoyed?"

She nodded, trying to catch her breath.

"Believe whatever you want, Granger. I don’t care."

Draco turned away. "We have to go. The road is long, and I have no interest in spending more time with you than necessary."

Then, without another word, he Apparated away.

Her eyes caught a movement near the wall, shifting toward the kitchen—Mimsy was there, watching.

"I'm sorry, Mimsy," Hermione said softly. "Please take care of Crookshanks while I’m away. We should be back shortly."

Mimsy nodded and stepped closer to Hermione.

"Madam Hermione, please take good care of Master Draco. He is not as bad as Madam Hermione thinks. He has a great heart for the ones he loves. He is loyal and will protect them."

Hermione looked at her with wide eyes.

"I don’t think I’m someone he loves—that’s the thing, Mimsy. But thank you."

And before the house-elf could say anything else, Hermione Apparated away to join Malfoy at the Leaky Cauldron.

Draco was sitting at the end of the bar, nursing a glass of Firewhiskey, his wizarding robes draped loosely over his frame. As Hermione approached, he lifted his glass slightly in greeting.

"What took you so long?" he asked, his tone casual but expectant.

"Let's just get this over with so we can move on," she replied, exhaling in frustration.

Draco gave a brief nod, downed the remainder of his drink, and signaled the barman for another.

"I don’t think you should be drinking that much," Hermione said, narrowing her eyes at him.

The barman placed an empty glass in front of them.

"I'm not," Draco countered smoothly, reaching for Hermione’s hand as he touched the glass.

Her stomach twisted, and before she could react, the bar around them dissolved. The world spun, and in the blink of an eye, they were standing in an entirely different pub.

"Welcome to Ireland," Draco said with a laugh, clearly amused.

"Funny, Malfoy," Hermione muttered, straightening herself.

Draco turned to the barman behind the counter—a stocky man with rough hands and a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Knuckle! How are you?" Draco greeted.

"Mate! Draco, my mate!" Knuckle boomed, beaming. "You just passing through, or do you have time for a proper Firewhiskey this time? And who's this delightful creature with you?"

Hermione crossed her arms and shot the man a glare.

"I'm Hermione. Not a creature."

Knuckle chuckled. "Oh, lad, you've got yourself one with no sense of humor."

Hermione braced herself, fully expecting Draco to join in at her expense. But instead, he simply smirked at Knuckle and said, "She's a brilliant witch, distinguished, so maybe you ought to be a bit more polite."

Knuckle let out a hearty laugh. "Fair enough, fair enough!"

"Sorry, mate, we have to go. We’re expected in California tonight," Draco added.

"Oh! Are you stopping by Montreal on the way?" Knuckle asked, turning to look at the shelf behind him. A multitude of shot glasses stood in neat rows, the kind you’d find in souvenir shops. He grabbed two small glasses with "Montreal" written on them, along with an illustration of an oval-shaped building with a tilted tower.

"Yes, we are," Draco replied smoothly.

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but before she could get a word out, Draco pulled her close, his arm wrapping firmly around her waist.

"The usual, then?" Knuckle asked.

Draco smiled and nodded.

Knuckle slid three shot glasses in front of them and filled them with Maple Flame, a Canadian firewhiskey. Draco lifted his index finger in a clear signal that Hermione wouldn't be drinking—but before he could stop her, she grabbed his hand, lowering it with an air of defiance.

"You don’t tell me what I can or can’t do, Malfoy."

Draco looked at her in surprise, and for a moment, she thought he might be annoyed. But instead, he smiled, his grip tightening slightly as he pulled her even closer. Then she felt it—his hand slipping beneath her shirt, warm fingers brushing against the bare skin of her back. A jolt of electricity shot through her. His touch was firm yet unhurried, his palm broad enough that she swore he could nearly span her entire back.

His eyes darkened, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them. Hermione's lips parted slightly as she drew in a breath, a shiver cascading up her spine, spreading from where his hand rested all the way to the nape of her neck.

"Ready, Granger?"

She met his gaze, unwavering. "Yes."

Together, they raised their drinks to Knuckle. The moment Hermione’s lips touched the rim of the shot glass, warmth spread through her, the fiery whiskey igniting on her tongue. But as she swallowed, the world around her twisted—and in an instant, everything shifted again.

The Montreal bar was crowded, buzzing with laughter and conversation. Malfoy smiled once again at the bartender, but this time, it wasn’t Knuckle. It was a woman.

She had pink hair, striking blue eyes, and a curvy figure, exuding a confident aura. Hermione glanced at her, unable to resist the urge to compliment her.

"You are absolutely stunning," she said, leaning over the bar to make sure she was heard over the noise.

The woman turned to Hermione, giving her an amused but warm smile before shifting her gaze to Malfoy.

"Ariel," Malfoy greeted politely.

"Malfoy," she replied, her tone far less welcoming than Knuckle’s had been.

"Where are you at this time?" she asked, arms crossed.

"Obsidian Hotel."

Ariel nodded toward a door at the far end of the bar. Without another word, Malfoy gave her a small salute, then reached for Hermione’s hand.

"Let’s go."

Hermione pulled her hand free and walked beside him instead.

"They're using an enchantment to make sure no Muggle sees us," she noted, glancing around. "This is a Muggle bar, and Ariel is a Squib."

Malfoy looked at her sideways.

"Fascinating," she continued, her voice thoughtful. "I've always been interested in Muggle-Repelling Charms. I did a lot of research on them. Did you know that some were specifically designed to repel Muggle-born witches and wizards as well? They were outlawed in 1945, just after Grindelwald was defeated by Professor Dumbledore."

"You still call him Professor Dumbledore?" Malfoy asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Of course. What do you call him?"

Malfoy shrugged. "Oh, still Professor for me, too. But I thought that for you, since you were in his will, it would be Albus."

Hermione’s eyes filled with tears.

"I’ll never forget the impact he had on my life."

They had stopped in front of a door that, at first glance, seemed to lead to a men’s restroom.

Malfoy’s voice softened. "And the impact you had on his, Granger. Without you, we wouldn’t be here today. The wizarding world owes you a lot. Professor Dumbledore does, too."

Before she could respond, he pulled her closer again, his presence steady, grounding. His hand found the handle of the door.

The world shifted just as she caught the look in his eyes—something unreadable, something that sent a shiver down her spine. And then, in an instant, everything changed.

Hermione was dizzy as hell. She knew this was a side effect of Portkey transportation, but she had never experienced it quite like this. She had used them during her time at Hogwarts, but international travel, it seemed, was far more taxing on the body.

Malfoy pulled her closer, his grip firm as she swayed slightly.

"I tried to warn you in Ireland," he murmured, his voice edged with amusement. "Alcohol wasn’t the best idea if this was your first Portkey jump overseas."

She looked at him, her lips curving into a faint, tired smile. "That wasn’t a warning," she muttered. "That was an order without an explanation. You should’ve known—I don’t take orders from you."

He smirked, but his expression sobered quickly.

"Let me show you your room," he said. "Our suites are connected."

"Suite?" she echoed, still slightly dazed.

He tilted his head, as if the answer should have been obvious. "You’re traveling with a Malfoy. Of course, we have suites."

She rolled her eyes but reached out instinctively, grabbing a fistful of his shirt as another wave of dizziness hit her. Malfoy stilled, his gaze flickering to where her fingers clutched at him before his expression shifted concern flickering in his eyes.

"We’ll go the Muggle way," he decided, his voice softer now. "We’ll walk. You’re in no state to Apparate."

There was a quiet care in his tone. She looked at him and nodded. He took her backpack and gently guided her arm around his shoulders.

"Just lean on me. We're really close to the bar."

"Why am I not surprised?" she said.

"Still fit enough to make jokes, Granger."

She smiled.

***

Malfoy stood in the room, glancing around. It felt strange to be here with her. They had traveled for less than two hours, yet somehow, she had already managed to get under his skin. But he wasn’t sure it was just because she was annoying.

Her laugh, the way she reacted to his touch, and that infuriatingly stubborn head of hers—it drove him crazy. 

He hadn’t meant to touch her. It had been an accident. But the moment his fingers brushed against her warmth, something in him hesitated. He should have pulled away immediately. Instead, a treacherous thought whispered that he wanted more. That was why his palm had lingered, sliding over the smooth expanse of her back, his fingers instinctively tightening around her hip.

The jolt of it shocked him, sent his mind down a dangerous path. His hand on her stomach, her thigh, her neck, her back—his bare skin against hers. He clenched his jaw and gave his head a sharp shake, trying to dispel the images before they rooted too deep.

She wasn’t his type. More than that, she was off-limits if he listened to Shacklebolt.

But for the first time in eight years, as he traveled with her, the weight of his life had lifted. The Ministry, Shacklebolt, his obligations, Astoria—everything that usually anchored him in duty had faded into the background.

With her, he had forgotten it all. And while part of him found that strangely restful, another part knew just how dangerous that was.

Forgetting his duty, even for a moment, was a risk he couldn’t afford. Especially now.

He exhaled sharply and walked to the shower, peeling away the weight of the day along with his clothes. As the warm water cascaded over him, he let his thoughts drift—just for a moment—allowing himself the brief illusion of escape.

His hand moved downward, slow and deliberate, fingertips gliding gently over heated skin. He was painfully hard just thinking about her—the way she laughed, the way she looked at him. He began to stroke himself slowly, imagining her kneeling before him, those captivating brown eyes locked onto his as she took him between her lips. Closing his eyes, he let out a sharp moan, surrendering completely to the desire that had been building inside him all day.

***

The next morning, Hermione woke up famished; she desperately needed tea and something to eat. She quickly showered, pulled on a pair of black leggings, a long-sleeved black t-shirt, and her combat boots, feeling prepared for the day ahead. She tied her hair up in a messy bun atop her head.

For the first time, she took a proper look around her room—last night, she'd been so exhausted that she had gone straight to bed. The room was minimalist, decorated entirely in tones of beige and sand. There was a large patio door that provided access to the pool, along with another smaller bathroom and a small kitchen. She hadn't noticed yesterday that the rooms were separated by a sliding partition, reminiscent of those in Japan, designed to disappear seamlessly into either side to connect the suites if needed.

She knew better than to open the door without invitation but briefly wondered how she might find Malfoy. Was he working, still sleeping, or fresh out of the shower?

Deciding it best, she knocked and waited.

"Come in," she heard him say.

Malfoy was seated behind his desk, writing something he stopped the moment he saw her.

"There's tea and breakfast in the kitchen," he told her.

Hermione smiled gratefully. "Merlin, I was starving. Thank you."

An amused smile crossed his lips, and he continued writing as she walked toward the kitchen. It was an American-style breakfast—bacon, eggs, and toast. She prepared a plate and returned to sit opposite him on the sofa, tucking one leg beneath her. She took a bite of toast topped with eggs, watching him curiously.

"So, what's the plan, Malfoy?"

Malfoy raised his eyes from the parchment, looking slightly annoyed but clearly trying to be polite. Hermione laughed.

"Am I disturbing you and your terribly important piece of parchment?" she teased.

He smiled back lightly. "Indeed, you are, but it's fine."

"Did you eat already?"

"Yes, a bit before you arrived."

"So, what's our plan then?"

"We'll apparate near the cave and then walk toward its center," he explained. "It will probably take most of the day. Once we get there, you'll be able to examine the scene."

She nodded, her bag and water bottle already waiting neatly at her side.

"I have a quick question," Hermione said softly.

Draco glanced up from the parchment, his expression distracted but not unkind. "Yes, Granger?"

She noticed his attention kept drifting back to the unfinished letter, sensing his urgency to complete the task.

"Yesterday, you told Knuckle we were heading to California," she began cautiously. "Why?"

He paused, meeting her gaze evenly. "Because I don't trust him," he explained calmly. "Knuckle sells information to whoever pays best. It's safer if he doesn't know our true destination."

Hermione nodded thoughtfully, absorbing this revelation.

As Hermione finished her meal, Malfoy completed his writing, stood, and walked to the patio, gazing up at the sky. A majestic golden eagle approached, landing gracefully on the large fence separating the adjoining rooms. Malfoy attached the parchment to the eagle, which swiftly departed.

"An eagle, huh?" Hermione asked, intrigued.

"It's a message for our collaborator here in Utah. He prefers golden eagles," Malfoy explained, shrugging casually.

He approached her, extending his hand. "Ready? We leave now."

Hermione took his hand firmly, and together they vanished.

***

The cave was humid, cold, and certainly not what Hermione had expected. She walked closely behind Malfoy, mindful of every step. They had already been traveling for several hours, and her mind was busy processing all the information she'd gathered so far. The Tenelabrith had been released sometime around May this year, and ever since, Muggle-born wizards around the world had reported strange and unsettling occurrences. There seemed to be a direct connection between the Tenelabrith and the Veil of Darkness. From what she'd read, there were likely multiple Veils in existence, meaning the Ministry wasn't in possession of the only one. She also recalled mention of an extremist wizarding group in America whose name appeared to be inspired by the Tenelabrith itself.

They took one final turn, and at last, they arrived. The cave opened into a large chamber, stalactites dripping downward from the ceiling like stone daggers. Hermione's eyes fell immediately on the chest; it sat closed and solitary, encircled by eerily still water.

Malfoy tensed, abruptly holding her back. "Someone's been here since the last time I came," he murmured, his voice low and cautious. He drew his wand and advanced slowly toward the water's edge, deliberately keeping his wand extinguished to remain unseen. With his left arm extended protectively behind him, he ensured Hermione stayed back. Instinctively, she reached out, gripping his forearm tightly with one hand, her other hand firmly holding her own wand.

The water remained unnaturally still, but Hermione's pulse quickened, sensing danger lurking beneath its surface. Malfoy sent a feather, once again on the water and nothing happen, like the charm as been left. We are good to go he said, but please stay close.

Hermione nodded, and they both entered the water, moving carefully toward the chest. Immediately, Hermione began examining it closely, cautiously running her fingers over the surface, wary of potential curses.

“It’s too easy, Granger,” Draco said, scanning their surroundings anxiously. “We need to leave. I can't put my finger on it, but something’s wrong. We need to go now.”

“One minute, Malfoy. I have to open it.”

“Don’t—”

Ignoring him, Hermione lifted the lid and looked inside. It was empty, except for an engraving at the bottom. She recognized the language instantly—Latin. Quickly, she grabbed her phone and snapped a picture. Draco stared at her in disbelief.

She closed the chest, and suddenly the atmosphere shifted. An uneasy chill washed over Hermione, sending a shiver down her spine.

“My Dark Mark is burning,” Draco warned urgently, gripping his forearm with a pained grimace. “They're coming. We have to leave—now.”

“How is that possible?” she whispered, her voice strained with dread.

Before Draco could answer, five figures materialized on the opposite bank, their black robes billowing menacingly in the twilight. Hooded and masked, the Death Eaters stood motionless, their mere presence a suffocating weight in the darkening air.

Malfoy swiftly stepped in front of Hermione, using his body as a shield.

“Don’t fucking move, Granger,” he hissed urgently. “You're more at risk than I am right now.”

“Malfoy,” one of the masked figures drawled mockingly. “Why am I not surprised to find you here?”

Draco didn't respond, his eyes narrowing as he strained to recognize the voice; they were clearly using a charm to distort their identities.

“You walked into our trap so willingly, Malfoy,” the Death Eater continued, voice dripping with derision. “Almost as if you wanted to be caught. Missing your Dark Mark, are you?”

Draco remained silent, poised and alert, every muscle tense and ready.

“Not going to talk to us, then?” the Death Eater taunted. “No matter—we're not here for you anyway. We want the Mudblood whore hiding behind you.”

Draco’s grip on Hermione tightened protectively.

“I'm not done with her yet,” he growled defiantly. “I won't be handing her over.”

“Really?” The Death Eater sneered with cold amusement. “How noble. But we'll take it from here.”

Malfoy visibly tensed, his mind racing. Hermione could see years of combat training rapidly calculating their next move. It happened in a split second—Draco cast a shimmering protective charm around Hermione before Apparating directly behind the speaking Death Eater. Chaos erupted as curses flew through the air, lighting the darkness in violent bursts of color. Hermione stood frozen, untouched by the curses, as Draco expertly evaded and deflected attacks, forcing the Death Eaters to desperately regroup.

Suddenly, the smallest Death Eater turned towards Hermione and aimed a curse directly at the ground beneath her feet. The earth began to quake and crumble, and Hermione knew instantly they'd cast a spell to remove the island from under her. She needed to escape the protective shield—but the moment she did, they'd seize her.

She drew her wand, preparing to leap clear and cast a protective charm mid-air, but with horror, realized she couldn’t perform any magic. Panic surged as the Death Eater watched eagerly, waiting for the ground beneath her to collapse fully.

The edges rapidly disintegrated as water rushed in from every side, filling the gaping void beneath her. She scrambled desperately, but the earth dissolved under her fingers. She slipped, barely catching hold of the crumbling edge, letting out a scream of frustration and fear. After everything she’d survived, she couldn't die like this—not here, not now.

Suddenly, one of the Death Eaters lunged forward, hand outstretched, moments away from seizing Hermione and Apparating them both away. Hermione knew it was over—the fingers reaching toward her meant capture, imprisonment, or worse.

But before the Death Eater could touch her, a voice sliced through the chaos, fierce and cold—Malfoy's voice, roaring the words of the Killing Curse: “Avada Kedavra!”

Hermione saw the flash of vivid green light, forcing the Death Eater to Apparate away mere inches from contact.

“We’ve seen what we needed—let’s go!” a voice shouted urgently from above, followed immediately by the unmistakable crack of wizards apparating.

Her relief lasted only a heartbeat; her grip failed completely, fingers slipping from the crumbling earth. Suddenly, Draco was there, his hand violently grabbing her upper forearm, pulling her roughly upward. Hermione felt an unbearable pain as her shoulder dislocated with an audible pop. A scream tore from her throat, and darkness quickly claimed her consciousness.

When she came to, pain surged sharply through her body. Hermione groaned, feeling the cold, hard ground beneath her. She was still in the cave. Nearby, she heard murmuring voices—one familiar, low, and urgent. Malfoy. He sounded furious, his tone tight and controlled, clearly arguing with someone, though she couldn’t yet make out the words.

Instinctively, Hermione shifted, immediately regretting it as intense agony shot through her shoulder. She must have injured it badly in the fall. When she tried to sit up, pain exploded from the joint, forcing a sharp cry past her lips.

The murmured voices abruptly ceased. Footsteps approached rapidly, causing her pulse to quicken in panic.

“Don’t move,” Malfoy said softly, kneeling beside her. His voice was surprisingly gentle, a steady anchor amidst her pain.

She stilled, forcing her vision to clear enough to focus on him. “What happened?” she managed weakly. “Who’s here? I heard you arguing with someone.”

He paused, briefly glancing away before meeting her gaze again. “You must have been dreaming, Hermione,” he said calmly. “There’s no one else here now—just us. They left, my Dark Mark stopped burning; they were recalled. But you're hurt—your shoulder looks badly dislocated.”

Hermione blinked slowly, trying to piece together what she'd heard, certain she hadn't imagined the second voice.

“Just rest,” he urged quietly, observing her confusion. “I didn’t dare fix it myself and risk making it worse. Do you think you can cast the spell?”

Hermione shook her head slightly, tears of frustration stinging her eyes. "I can't—My magic isn't working."

Draco looked into her eyes, steady and reassuring. "Try again, Hermione," he encouraged quietly. "You can do this."

Taking a shaky breath, Hermione summoned her remaining strength and raised her wand carefully, whispering, "Episkey."

A rush of warmth surged through her shoulder, followed immediately by a sharp, audible pop as the joint shifted back into place. Relief flooded her body, swiftly replaced by exhaustion. Her vision blurred, darkness edging back in as she began slipping into unconsciousness once more.

***

Hermione stood alone in her room, facing the mirror. Droplets of water still clung to her skin, remnants of her shower. She had slipped into a short black dress with delicate spaghetti straps, the fabric soft against her bare skin. She hadn't bothered with a bra.

Her gaze fell to her reflection, tracing the deep bruises marring her upper left arm. The imprint of Malfoy's fingers was unmistakable—dark blue and stark against her pale skin, a ghost of the moment he had caught her before she could fall into the cave. It was almost poetic, in a cruel way. His grip had saved her, but it had also left a mark.

Right beneath those bruises, the faint outline of another scar caught the light. Mudblood. The letters, carved into her flesh, were a wound that time refused to let fade completely. The contrast between the fresh bruises and the old scar felt heavy—one a mark of survival, the other a reminder of cruelty.

She exhaled slowly, forcing herself to look. To take it all in. She had been marked more than once now, defending an ideology she was spiraling into for a second time—without ever truly meaning to.

She shrugged and glanced around, searching for anything else she might have brought besides the leather jacket. It was far too warm for a night out in the desert, but she didn’t think she had packed anything lighter. In the end, she decided it didn’t matter—both scars had come from him anyway.

Turning away, she walked toward the wall that separated their suites.

She slid it open and stepped inside just as Draco emerged from his walk-in closet, wearing nothing but a pair of trousers.

He didn’t notice her.

His attention was elsewhere as he strode toward the large window overlooking the pool. The evening air drifted in as he unlatched it, stepping outside without hesitation.

Hermione remained frozen, her eyes trailing over him. She was always struck by how tall he was—broad-shouldered and undeniably strong—every movement fluid and effortless. His skin was flawless, almost luminous under the soft light, without a single scar or imperfection—smooth, pristine… perfect. He was speaking, but not to her.

A quill hovered beside him, scribbling furiously on a floating sheet of parchment as he dictated his thoughts. She barely registered his words at first, too distracted by the sight of him, but when she did, her breath hitched.

He was recounting the events at the cave. And he wasn’t blaming her.

She lingered there, watching, listening, until she realized she had been staring for far too long—and he had noticed.

With a flick of his wand, the quill and parchment vanished. Then, he turned to her, his gaze steady.

For a moment, she braced herself for some sarcastic remark, something teasing that would make her blush. But he didn’t say anything. Instead, he simply slipped his hands into his pockets, studying her.

"Granger," he said, his voice quieter than she expected. "How are you?"

"I’m okay," she replied. "Thanks to you."

His lips pressed together, as if about to dismiss it, but then his gaze dropped to her arm. His expression darkened.

The bruises.

His entire demeanor shifted as he took a step closer—fast, almost urgent. "I did that to you," he murmured, his voice tight with concern.

"Yes, but it’s fine," she assured him, glancing at the deep, almost shadowed marks. "It’s just from when you grabbed me while I was falling. The force of it, I guess." She gave a small, lopsided smile. "I should probably be grateful—I’d rather have bruises than a broken neck."

He didn’t seem convinced. His eyes lingered on her arm, unreadable, fingers twitching slightly at his sides.

He moved closer.

Instinctively, she took a step back. Then another—until the backs of her legs hit something solid. A chair. She reached behind herself to grasp its back but instead felt fabric beneath her fingertips—his silk shirt, smooth and cool. Turning quickly, she examined it. The shirt was beautiful, delicate, and without thinking, she swung it around her shoulders, slipping her arms into the sleeves.

"Can I borrow it? I didn't bring anything light enough for a desert night."

He nodded silently, stepping toward her again. She had nowhere else to go. Within moments, he was mere centimeters from her, and her nose brushed against the warmth of his chest. Instinctively, she pressed a palm gently against him, halting his approach. He reached out, capturing her chin delicately between his fingers, coaxing her to meet his eyes. As she looked up, she saw his gaze darken, becoming deeper, more intense.

"I fear my family will always hurt you," he whispered, voice raw with emotion. "No matter how desperately we try to walk the path of redemption, we always leave scars. Even today, despite my intentions, I've hurt you—left my mark. Promise me something: when all this is over, you'll stay as far away as possible from anyone bearing the Malfoy name. I have this terrible feeling that if you remain close, you'll burn… and I couldn't bear to watch you suffer any more than you already have."

She shook her head gently, her eyes bright but resolute. "You don't get to decide what's too dangerous for me. I've survived your family’s scars before; I'll survive them again."

He stared at her, both anguish and admiration reflected in his eyes. "You're too brave for your own good."

Chapter Text

December 6th 2006

Malfoy dropped his hand and put some distance between them.
"Are you sure you want to come? It’s really nothing important. We could probably skip it."

Hermione considered it for a second. She’d be alone in her room while he was in his. At least if they attended the party together, she wouldn’t be left waiting.
"I thought you wanted to speak with an informant."

"I can go alone and come back quickly. You can stay at the bar with Tony—I trust him."

"No, I want to see. I’ve never been, and I bet it’ll be interesting."

"Alright but promise me you’ll stay by my side. There have already been two kidnapping attempts on you this week."

Put like that, she had to admit—it was terrifying.
"Yes, I’ll stay close."

A moment later, Malfoy glanced at his watch and said, "I’ve arranged for a helicopter. I don’t think you should Apparate."

"I’m fine. I can—wait, a helicopter?" She arched an eyebrow. "Are you trying to impress me?"

"Will it work?" he asked, smirking.

She let out a laugh and shook her head, bringing a hand to her mouth as she bit her nail. "You shouldn’t have. I would have been able to apparate just fine. This is so…"

"Muggle?"

"Yes! So, Muggle of you. Even this hotel—it’s for Muggles."

"It’s the best way to stay incognito. And the hotel has been warded, several times, by me and my family. There are old wizarding families in America—the Karoudians. They created these hotels back in 1910 to help hide Muggle-born wizards. Some say they were Muggle-born themselves once, but they’re so ancient that no one really knows anymore."

Hermione nodded, intrigued.
"You know that, right?" Malfoy asked.

"It was interesting to hear it from you," she said, smiling.

They left the hotel and walked toward the helicopter waiting for them on the rooftop.

"I think this is a bit much, Malfoy."

"Yes, maybe," he admitted, glancing at the sleek aircraft. "It’s the first time I’ve found it odd to travel by helicopter. I usually don’t mind."

"Let’s just go. It’s fine," she said, giving in. "But I think we can Apparate back to the hotel later tonight."

He nodded and took her hand, guiding her carefully under the rotor blades before helping her into her seat.

The flight was breathtaking. The Grand Canyon stretched endlessly beneath them, bathed in golden sunlight. From above, she spotted bighorn sheep navigating the rugged cliffs, their curved horns gleaming in the warm glow. There were many of them, moving gracefully across the canyon walls, perfectly at home in the vast landscape.

"It was possible to take your broom," she said as they stepped outside.

"Yes, but you didn’t seem in a healthy state for more adrenaline today. I’ve never seen you on a broom, so I assumed it wasn’t your cup of tea."

"You’re right—I hate flying."

They arrived at the party, and it was magnificent. Three immense big tops stood tall, each housing a different stage for live music. People were scattered around in campers and tents, creating a lively, festival-like atmosphere.

As they entered one of the big tops, Hermione immediately noticed the presence of a Muggle-Repelling Charm.

"Interesting," she murmured.

Draco picked up a champagne flute and turned to her. "Do you want something?"

Still feeling dizzy, she asked for a bottle of water for now. With a flick of his wand, he summoned one and handed it to her. She thanked him.

Placing his hand lightly on the small of her back, he guided her further inside.

"Hungry?" he asked.

"Starving," she admitted.

"What would you like?"

"Pizza—with hot sauce."

He chuckled and led her toward the food trucks stationed inside the big top. Hermione realized just how massive the space was—it had been magically expanded. The tent’s multicolored fabric shimmered under the lights, and decorations of floating balloons and glowing lanterns created a whimsical atmosphere. It felt like a grand carnival.

People were dressed in elaborate costumes; some wore masks, feathers, and extravagant hats, while others dazzled in diamonds and elegant evening gowns. It was a spectacle of colors and movement.

Above them, the ceiling of the big top was transparent, revealing the dark sky speckled with stars.

"It's beautiful," she said, gazing upward.

"Wait until later—they usually have fireworks and flying stars."

She nodded, taking a bite of her pizza. Her eyes widened with delight.

"Oh! This is so good!"

***

Malfoy had a problem. The more time he spent with her, the more fucking cute and adorable he thought she was. And cute and adorable weren’t exactly the right words for what he was feeling.

She was a stunning young woman - kind, honest, authentic—and the way he felt around her was something entirely new, something he had never experienced before.

He knew he was in trouble. He had to let her go, and quickly.

Shacklebolt’s plan seemed to be moving faster than it was supposed to, and Malfoy had a strong suspicion that he wasn’t being told everything. He had the distinct impression that he, too, was just another moving piece in a much larger game.

The last thing he wanted was to drag Granger into it.

She took his hand, her warm palm pressing gently against his.

He looked at her.

"You seem preoccupied. Is it the meeting that’s stressing you? Can I help with anything?"

Guilt settled deep in his chest. It felt wrong—like he was using her. Like they were using her.

"No. I just... need to be alone for a moment."

He felt her warmth slip away, and he regretted it instantly, his fingers brushing against hers for as long as possible as she retreated.

"Oh. Okay, I understand," she said softly. "I’ll stay here while you go meet with—whoever it is."

He gave her a short nod before turning away.

"Stay vigilant," he told her before walking in the opposite direction.

***

Hermione wandered through the grand expanse of the big top, taking in everything there was to see. She stayed close to where Malfoy had left her, though it was frustrating dealing with him—always hot and cold. Sometimes he was almost friendly, and other times, he was exactly like he had been at Hogwarts.

She thought back to what Samainiq had told her, about the battle Malfoy was fighting within himself. Hermione had to admit—she was right. He did seem different, but at the same time, he still clung to his old beliefs.

Sighing, she made her way to the bar. A glass of wine wouldn’t hurt. It had been five or six years since her last real night out, and she felt like celebrating a little.

She sat down, observing the party around her. The music had grown heavier, the rhythm infectious, and more people had taken to the dance floor. A flicker of jealousy sparked in her chest—she wished she was out there too.

A man stepped up beside her to order a drink, then turned to her as he waited.

"Hi! How are you?" he asked with an easy smile.

She glanced at him, offering a polite nod.

"Do you like it so far?"

"Yes, it's amazing. Is it your first time?" she asked.

"No," he said with a grin. "I come every year. Do I catch a bit of a British accent here?"

She laughed and nodded.

"Guilty," she admitted. "I’m from London. You?"

"Minnesota," he replied. "You wanna dance?"

Hermione hesitated. A part of her wanted to refuse, but deep down, she wanted to dance—so badly.

"Yes," she said before she could talk herself out of it.

He grinned, took her hand, and led her to the dance floor. The music pulsed through the air, vibrant and intoxicating. As she moved to the beat, she felt free—weightless. For the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to simply feel good.

He was cute—tall, brown-haired, American, and clearly, she saw that he thought she was attractive and for a fleeting moment, it was fun to feel desired.

He pulled her closer, his movements fluid and confident as they danced. His hand traced a slow path from her shoulder, down her side, before settling at the small of her back. With a gentle but firm motion, he circled his arm around her, pulling her even closer.

She laughed, a mix of surprise and amusement, and playfully pushed against him. He let her create some space but kept moving with her to the rhythm of the music.

"What's your name?" he asked, his voice warm over the music.

"Hermione. Yours?"

"Brady. I studied at Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Did you go to Hogwarts?"

She was about to answer when she suddenly felt someone yank her away from Brady’s close embrace.

"Yes, she did…" a familiar voice said behind her.

Brady's expression shifted instantly, his eyes widening in alarm. He raised both hands in surrender.

"I'm sorry, dude, I didn’t know she was with someone."

"I am not," Hermione snapped, pushing Malfoy’s arm off her.

Brady took that as his cue and, without another word, turned and disappeared into the crowd.

She spun around to face Malfoy, fury flashing in her eyes.

"What the fuck do you think you’re doing?" she demanded, her voice sharp with anger.

"I told you to stay close," Malfoy shot back, his jaw tight.

"You were the one who needed space! You had an appointment with someone. I was alone," she fumed, her frustration bubbling over. A frustrated grunt escaped her lips as she clenched her fists.

"We are going home," Malfoy said, his tone firm.

"I am not."

"Oh yes, you are. You're following me."

"You'd have to force me."

He stepped closer, towering over her, their eyes locking in a heated standoff. Both were furious, neither willing to back down.

Then, he nodded. For a second, she thought she had won.

But before she could react, he suddenly pulled her into his arms. A startled scream escaped her lips as she felt the familiar, suffocating pull of Apparition.

"I'm sorry," was the last thing she heard before the world around them vanished.

They Apparated next to the patio, close to the pool.

Hermione was fuming.

"How dare you? Forcing me to Apparate with you? Forcing me to come with you? Who do you think you are? You can’t just do that!"

"Granger, please, calm down," Malfoy said, his voice edged with frustration.

"I will not!" she yelled, struggling against his hold, but his arms were too strong, locking her in place. "Let me go! I’m suffocating!"

She screamed in fury, and just like that—he let her go.

Abruptly.

Thrown off balance, she swung wildly, her footing slipping on the wet patio.

***

Malfoy reached out, trying to steady her, but the momentum pulled him off balance too.

He barely had time to wrap his arms around her again. For a split second, he considered Apparating them directly into the room to avoid disaster, but the thought passed too quickly.

Instead, he let it happen.

And just like that—both of them crashed into the pool with a loud splash.

***

Hermione looked at him, her clothes soaked, clinging to her skin. Her blouse had turned nearly transparent, and with a huff of frustration, she pulled it off, tossing it aside as she walked away from him.

Malfoy stepped forward, instinctively reaching out to help her, but she stopped him with a sharp glare.

"Stop, Malfoy." Her voice was firm, shaking slightly with emotion. "I tried. I really tried, but you are nothing that I can deal with."

He froze.

"I don’t like the way you treat me," she continued, her chest rising and falling with anger. "I don’t like the way you are with me. I don’t need this in my life."

Her voice cracked slightly, but she held her ground.

"I am proud to be Muggle-born. I am proud of my parents and the sacrifices they made. I love who I am. And yet, you—you make me doubt everything, just because you’re too much of a coward to let go of your old beliefs."

She took a shaky breath, her frustration bubbling over.

"I am worth attention, and I don’t care that you don’t believe it. Other wizards don’t care that I’m Muggle-born. Ron, didn’t care… Brady didn’t care."

The words hung between them, heavy and raw, before she turned away.

She was just about to reach the stairs when—crack! —Malfoy Apparated in front of her, blocking her path.

"Let me pass, Malfoy," she said through clenched teeth.

"Is that what you think this is?" he asked, his voice eerily calm.

But she could feel it—that fury simmering beneath his composure, barely restrained.

"Is it?" he asked again, his voice rising this time.

She looked at him, confusion flickering in her eyes.

"Fuck that," he growled, and before she could react, she felt his hand on the back of her neck.

He pulled her to his level and kissed her—hard. It wasn’t gentle, wasn’t sweet. It was violent, a punishment.

For a moment, she was too stunned to react, her mind blank, her body frozen. But then—Merlin helps her—her body melted against his, as if it had been waiting for this.

His teeth grazed her lip before he bit down, his fingers threading into her hair, tilting her head back so he could claim her mouth with more ease. She gasped, and he took full advantage, deepening the kiss, his tongue teasing, demanding.

His other hand moved from her jaw to her neck, then lower, tracing the soaked fabric clinging to her skin. His fingers brushed over her shoulder, down her back, gripping her waist, pulling her even closer—as if he needed her pressed against him, as if space between them was unbearable.

"Fuck," he muttered against her lips. And the moment his mouth left hers, she felt the loss like a physical ache, an emptiness clawing at her chest.

Like she hadn’t been breathing before that kiss.

His hands were everywhere on her, roaming with an urgency that neither of them could control. Without even noticing, he had slipped the strap of her dress off her shoulder, pulling it down to her waist.

She helped him remove his shirt, and the second it was gone, he yanked her against him, as if he needed to feel her bare skin against his. Her breasts pressed against his chest, heat radiating between them. His fingers slid up her thighs, tugging her dress higher as she kissed his neck, his jaw, biting his lips again and again.

They were pulling and pushing, caught in a feverish struggle, like they both knew—somewhere deep inside—that this was a bad idea. But neither of them could stop.

He guided her toward the stairs of the pool, where the water was shallower. The cool night air sent a shiver down her spine as he turned her around, his hands sliding up to cup her breasts, his thumbs grazing her sensitive peaks. His lips trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses down the back of her neck, igniting a fire low in her belly.

A soft moan escaped her as his fingers slipped beneath the soaked fabric of her slip, his touch deliberate, teasing.

His fingers found her clit, circling with just enough pressure to make her body tense. A desperate whimper left her lips before she grabbed his wrist, her nails digging into his skin.

“Draco, stop—” she pleaded breathlessly. “I don’t think I’ll be able to hold back if you keep going.”

“We don’t even need foreplay,” he murmured against her skin, his breath warm against her ear. “We’re already so fucking ready.”

He exhaled a low chuckle, his lips ghosting over her damp skin.

“I’m going to fuck you hard, Granger," he growled, voice thick with desire. "Like you’ve never been fucked before. We won’t last long this time—the second one will be slower, gentler, I promise. But this one?” He nipped at her earlobe, his grip tightening on her hips. “This one will ruin you.”

Before she could respond, he pressed her forward, bending her over slightly.

She gasped as the sharp sound of his belt unbuckling cut through the air. A tremor ran through her as the delicate fabric of her slip was torn away, leaving her completely exposed to him. Then she felt it—him—pressing against her, hot and hard against her clit. It was unbearable. A small gasp escaped her lips, her body already on the edge, but before he could move any further, a sharp pang of uncertainty twisted in her gut.

She reached back, her fingers grasping at his thigh, trying to straighten herself.

“Draco—wait,” she whispered, her voice unsteady. “Please… be gentle. I’ve never— It’s my first…”

The moment the words left her lips, she felt him freeze behind her.

She felt him pull away slowly, his touch lingering as he adjusted her dress. She heard him arranging himself, the quiet click of his belt buckle grounding them back into reality while she tried to lift the dress over her bare breasts. He turned her around and helped guide the fabric back over her body, his fingers grazing her skin with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the intensity from moments ago. As he reached for one of the straps, he realized it had snapped.

He hesitated, then glanced around before picking up the rest of her torn slip and handing it to her.

“Draco…” she said softly, looking up at him.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice laced with regret. “I lost control. I… if I had known… I would have— I didn’t know.”

“That’s okay,” she whispered, starting to step out of the pool, but before she could, he caught her wrist, pulling her back against him.

“Stay. Just for a second,” he said, his arms wrapping around her.

“Draco, we can—”

“No.” His voice was firm, but there was something raw beneath it. “Not tonight. Maybe never. I… I don’t want to do something you won’t forgive me for if things change.”

She looked up at him, confused by the weight of his words.

His thumb brushed over her lips, swollen and red from his kisses. His touch lingered, as if memorizing the moment.

“Go to bed, Granger,” he whispered.

Chapter Text

December 7^th, 2006

The next morning, Hermione woke up with a heavy sadness weighing down on her. She hadn’t slept well, and exhaustion clung to her like a second skin. All night, she had replayed the events over and over again, unable to silence the whirlwind of emotions in her mind. She wasn’t sure she was ready to face Malfoy.

She was ashamed—ashamed that she had lost control, that she had exposed herself to him, that she had insisted when he had managed to regain control and let her go, even forcing her to bed. He always spoke in half-finished sentences, withholding just enough to keep her guessing, giving her the cold shoulder half the time.

She hadn’t asked for any of this. She had only wanted to stay professional—maybe be friends, nothing more. Okay, fine, he was attractive. And yes, her body had betrayed her. But honestly, anyone would have reacted the same way to someone like him. He was so tall, so strong…

She caught herself before she let her thoughts spiral further and forced herself out of bed. She walked to the shower. She needed a long, hot shower to wash away any lingering remnants of the previous night.

It had been so strange, so utterly out of character for both of them that she had no idea what to make of it.

After drying off, she chose a simple white dress, her white Converse, and an old gray Oxford sweater. The familiar clothes grounded her, helping her feel a little more like herself again. She wasn’t entirely ready to face him, but she knew she had no choice. Taking a deep breath, she knocked softly on the wall and waited—but there was no answer. She gently slid the wall open, peering inside, and realized the room was empty.

Stepping inside, she glanced around carefully. Her eyes landed on the desk where he often sat, the untouched kitchen—everything looked as if no one had lived here at all. Her own room was cluttered with clothes, snacks, empty water glasses, but his was pristine and lifeless. Her gaze caught on a sweater draped over the back of a chair, and she found herself reaching out, fingertips gently brushing the soft fabric.

She knew she wasn’t supposed to enter the bedroom, but instinct drove her forward. She walked slowly toward the room and paused in. The sheets were untouched, the bed clearly unslept in. Malfoy hadn’t spent the night here. She close her eyes, her hand reaching to her upper chest, taking a deep breath while she felt the jealousy feeling twirling in her abdomen. She shakes her head and walk away the room.

Hermione was sitting at the hotel bar, quietly eating breakfast, when she saw Malfoy step inside, arriving through the Portkey. Their eyes met for a second, neither of them speaking.

He was wearing the exact same clothes as last night—except his hair was damp, as if he had just taken a shower. Hermione's stomach twisted. Where did he sleep somewhere else after our night? Was he with someone?

The thought made her blood boil. While she had spent the entire night overthinking, restless and nervous about seeing him again, he had apparently been off… doing whatever he wanted. Having fun somewhere, completely unaffected.

She clenched her jaw and took a slow sip of her tea, forcing herself to stay composed. She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing she cared.

"Granger," he acknowledged, his voice even.

"Malfoy," she replied smoothly, turning to him with a bright, almost too-sweet smile.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.

"Like a baby," she said, her tone light but edged with something sharper. Then, without missing a beat, she added, "But poor you… you look like your night was occupied."

His eyes widened slightly, darkening as he took her in from head to toe, his gaze slow and deliberate.

He finally exhaled, shaking his head. "You have no idea," he muttered. Then, as if dismissing whatever tension had flickered between them, he straightened. "I need new clothes. Send a note to Shacklebolt, and then we can leave for Montreal."

Hermione suddenly found herself fixated on a tiny chip in her coffee mug, running her finger over the rough edge.

"Oh… okay," she said, not quite meeting his gaze. "I’ll try the pool while you get ready."

He nodded once before disappearing with a sharp crack.

Hermione swam laps in the pool, her strokes steady and determined. She had chosen the smallest bikini she owned—not because she expected anything, but out of sheer defiance. It was petty, childish even, but she didn’t care. Clearly, Malfoy didn’t care about her. Last night had meant nothing to him. But if that was the case, she needed a small victory—a subtle revenge. A reminder of what he had lost.

She might be a Mudblood in his eyes, but she was worth it. She was amazing.

With every powerful stroke, she repeated the words in her mind like a mantra: I am great. I am smart. I am beautiful. She didn’t need an idiot like Malfoy to make her feel otherwise.

By the time she reached the edge of the pool, breathless and invigorated, she had made up her mind.

When she got home, she would contact Jonathan and will accept his invitation to dinner.

She was finishing her last crawl in the pool when Malfoy stepped onto the deck, dressed in his all-black combat gear, sunglasses perched on his face. She gave him a brief wave before dipping her head back into the water, letting it slick her hair back as she made her way to the stairs.

It was probably her imagination, but as she climbed out of the pool, she could have sworn she felt his gaze on her—heavy, dark, burning a path over her thighs, her back, her neck. The sensation lingered like a phantom touch, making her shiver despite the heat. She reached for her towel, wrapping it around herself as she tried to shake off the feeling.

“The sun is unbearable today, don’t you think?” she said while toweling off her hair.

He didn’t answer.

She turned to look at him and her stomach twisted. He seems furious, his body tense.

“We need to talk about yesterday,” he said, pulling off his sunglasses.

“No, we don’t.”

“Yes, we do.”

“You can’t force me to say anything.”

His eyes flashed as he took a step toward her. “Are you sure about that?”

She instinctively stepped back. “I dare you to use force. Or Occlumency. That would be outrageous—and illegal.”

Malfoy smirked. “Calm down, Granger. That wasn’t my intention.”

She scoffed. “Oh, Merlin, you thought about it.”

His smirk only deepened. “Just for a second.”

“Malfoy—”

“We need to talk about last night.”

“No, we don’t,” she shot back, her voice rising. “I don’t care. It was a mistake. I threw myself at you, you made a mistake, you don’t think I’m attractive—fine. I made a fool of myself. It’s okay. Just—leave me alone.”

She heard her voice crack, felt the heat prickle behind her eyes. She hated how fragile she sounded.

Malfoy inhaled sharply. “I don’t think you’re unattractive. And don’t reverse the roles here—I literally kiss you, without giving you a chance to say no. That wasn’t okay.”

She stilled.

“In fact,” he continued, his voice lower, rougher, “I’m having a rather hard time controlling myself right now. Especially after seeing you step out of that pool.”

She clenched her towel tighter. “You don’t have to do this, Malfoy. I know you spent the night with someone else. It’s fine. Just—please, let me go.”

He stopped in his tracks, eyes narrowing.

“Jealous, Granger?”

She shrugged. “Who wouldn’t be?” she muttered before turning toward the doors.

She barely took a step before his hand closed around her arm, stopping her. In one swift motion, he pulled her into his arms. She let him, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and she hated how much her body craved his embrace.

His arms wrapped around her waist, holding her close, but it was the gentle touch of his index finger under her chin that made her breath hitch. He lifted her face so she could meet his gaze—dark grey, turbulent, like a brewing storm.

“I was with someone last night, but not for the reason you’re thinking,” he said, his tone measured. “I’ll respect that you don’t want to talk right now, but only because we have urgent matters to attend to. We need to meet with Samainiq in Montreal, and we’ll be traveling back to Dublin tomorrow morning—then London. You snapped a picture of something in the cave; we need to take a closer look at it.” He paused, his gaze unwavering. “But make no mistake, Granger—we will talk about last night. You and me.”

She searched his face, unsure of what to say. Finally, she exhaled softly. “There’s no need,” she murmured.

He looked at her for a moment longer before loosening his hold, about to let her go—until she stopped him.

“I also lost my magic for a couple of minutes in the cave,” she admitted quietly.

Malfoy’s expression turned serious. “I know,” he said, hesitating for a brief moment. She had the distinct feeling he was about to say something else but changed his mind at the last second. His jaw tensed. “We need to look into this, too. Shacklebolt is already aware.”

She nodded and shifted slightly, intending to step away from his embrace, but he didn’t let her. Instead, his arms tightened around her.

He looked at her for what felt like an eternity.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, his voice low, polite, but edged with something deeper.

Hermione’s eyes widened. Then, before she could think, she rose onto her toes and pressed her lips to his.

Within seconds, he took control of the kiss, his grip firm, his mouth searing against hers. Fire ignited inside her as she melted into him, her fingers curling into his shirt. She deepened the kiss, teasing his tongue with her own, biting at his lips with barely restrained hunger.

She pressed closer, her breath hitching as she felt the undeniable proof of his arousal against her. His hands roamed lower, slipping beneath the fabric of her bikini to grip her ass, his fingers trailing over her bare skin with a tantalizing slowness. A shiver rippled through her as he claimed her fully, his large hands molding to her, possessive and unyielding.

With effortless strength, he lifted her, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. She felt weightless in his arms, as if she belonged there. She bit his lip a little harder, unable to contain the mix of fire and ice burning through her veins.

A low, guttural moan escaped him, and she felt his control slipping—his breathing ragged, his grip tightening. She hoped, desperately, that he wouldn’t stop, that he would take her right here, right now, without hesitation, without ceremony. But just as the tension coiled impossibly tight, his touch softened.

His kisses grew gentler, slower. He trailed his lips along her jaw, then down to the lobe of her ear, before burying his face in her hair—still damp, but starting to dry under the sun’s heat.

She heard his whispered confession, his breath warm against her skin.

“This is madness,” he murmured. “We’re mad. I can’t stop myself anymore, Granger.”

Her body trembled in response.

“What’s happening to us?” she whispered. “And… what about Astoria?”

At her words, he stilled. His hold on her loosened, his entire body tensing as he gently set her back down.

“That’s why we need to talk about this,” he said, his voice low, almost pained. “Astoria and I… we’re not together. I had to figure some things out for myself, so we decided to let go.”

His forehead rested against hers, his eyes closed as he exhaled heavily.

“I just need a minute to calm myself,” he admitted with a sad smile.

She nodded against him, her hands tracing the firm muscles of his arms, grounding herself in the warmth of his skin.

“You’ll need to stop touching me, though,” he muttered, his voice tight with restraint.

A soft laugh escaped her lips as she made to step back, but before she could, his arms tightened around her again.

“Stay,” he murmured. “Just a little longer. The world feels better with you in my arms. It feels… right.”

She didn’t say anything, didn’t move away. Instead, she rested her head against his chest, listening to the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart.

“We’ll talk about us later tonight,” he murmured, gently pushing her back just enough to see her face. “I have a reservation for dinner in Montreal. Just the two of us.”

She remained silent, still processing everything that was happening.

His grip on her softened, his thumb brushing lightly over her arm.

“Granger,” he said, voice low, almost hesitant. “Would you come on a date with me tonight?”

She looked up at him, surprised.

And then, before she could think too much about it, she heard herself say, “Yes. I will.”

A slow, almost relieved smile tugged at his lips. His hands trailed down her arms, lingering at her waist before he finally let her go—slowly, as if reluctant to break the moment.

***

What the fuck was he doing? He was playing with fire, and he knew it. Shacklebolt would be livid if he found out. Yet, for the first time in years, Draco felt genuinely happy—good, even. As he put his sunglasses back on, he watched her, struggling to sort through the chaos in his mind. He couldn't recall ever feeling like this before—like he was worth something, like redemption was possible, like he could finally become a better man.

But just as that hopeful thought settled, an intrusive memory surfaced, darkening his mood instantly. He shook his head sharply, dismissing it. Last night had been necessary. Knuckle had deliberately put something into Granger’s drink. Even though he kept denying it, Malfoy knew it was him. How else could she have ingested a potion invented by the Death Eaters—a potion designed specifically to block magic?

He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t told her about Knuckle yet, why he'd kept his suspicions to himself. Perhaps because she already seemed overwhelmed enough—clearly torn between the life she'd carefully built over the past few years and the harsh reality of the new war now looming over them. She was trapped between two worlds, and he didn't want to burden her further. Not yet. She was already carrying too much, and something told him that even greater challenges lay ahead. He knew he was wrong, knew that hiding anything from her, especially her, was a terrible decision—but deep down, he was convinced it was the right choice, the necessary choice, for both of them.
***

Hermione changed quickly, pulling on a pair of jeans, a black bodysuit, and her combat boots. She grabbed her grey Oxford jumper, knowing Montreal’s chill could bite deep. After tying her messy curls back, she slipped on her sunglasses and glanced briefly at her reflection, her heart still racing from their kiss. Taking a steadying breath, she grabbed her satchel and stepped out, ready to face whatever awaited them.

He was already in the room, sitting behind the desk, dictating notes to the quill and parchment hovering beside him. But the moment she entered, he stopped, his eyes instantly locking onto hers. With a flick of his wand, he sent them away.

He crossed the room swiftly, pulling her into his arms and placing a quick kiss on her lips, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Let’s go—we need to get to Montreal tonight,” he said quietly.

She nodded and followed him without hesitation.

They left, heading toward the bar, where the bartender already knew, they were returning to Montreal. Malfoy stopped her just before reaching the barstool, pulling her closer and capturing her lips in another lingering kiss. Hermione’s stomach fluttered at the intensity, her pulse racing. Then, without breaking their closeness, he leaned back slightly, one hand reaching behind him to grip the barstool—activating the Portkey. She felt the familiar magical tug pulling them away, unable to tell if the dizziness came from the sudden transport or the lingering warmth of Malfoy's kiss.

They arrived back in Montreal within seconds, the familiar sensation fading quickly. Ariel, the barmaid, stood behind the counter and simply nodded in greeting, clearly accustomed to Draco’s frequent comings and goings. Draco barely acknowledged Ariel, and Hermione found herself momentarily curious about his indifference, deciding to file it away as a question for later. She, however, took a moment to wave at Ariel with a bright, friendly smile.

Malfoy gently guided Hermione toward the back door, leading her out into a narrow alleyway softly blanketed with snow.

He took her hand, leading her quietly toward the main street. Just before stepping onto the crowded sidewalk, Malfoy paused suddenly, pulling Hermione closer and softly casting a warming charm around her with his wand.

She felt gentle warmth ripple through her, grateful that he had thought of it. For a brief moment, she recalled Mimsy's words—that Draco truly cared deeply for those he let close—but the implication felt overwhelming, and she quickly pushed the thought away.

The alley opened onto a bustling street filled with people, laughter, and the inviting glow of storefront lights. Hermione's eyes widened in wonder—the snow was piled high, sparkling like tiny crystals beneath the warm streetlamps. Music drifted softly through the air, and she had to admit that Muggles, in their own way, could create truly magical moments.

“It’s so beautiful,” she breathed, squeezing his hand gently. “I love it.”

“It’s cold,” Malfoy replied dryly, pulling up the collar of his coat and drawing her closer.

She smiled, nudging him playfully. “Don’t spoil it. Yes, it's cold, but it's new and fun, and I love it,” she said as she pulled the hood of her jumper over her hair.

“You’re still cold?” he asked, a hint of concern in his voice.

“Not at all,” she reassured him. “My hair just gets messier when it snows or rains—and it’s already a disaster.”

He smiled softly, brushing a stray curl away from her face. “I love your messy hair,” he admitted quietly. “It drives me crazy. You have no idea how many times I've dreamed about it.”

She smiled, and he cupped her face gently with his hand. “The hotel is a twenty-nine-minute walk. We can Apparate—or we can call a taxi. What do you prefer?”

She looked at him, sensing he was trying not to disrupt the last eight years of her life—the life she'd lived as a Muggle, a regular human.

“I’ll probably be a pain in the ass, but let's just Uber, please. I’m tired... emotionally exhausted.”

“I am too,” Draco admitted quietly. He took her phone and opened the Uber app easily, quickly ordering a car to take them to the Ritz Carlton.

Hermione watched him curiously. “How did you even learn to do that?”

He glanced up, shrugging casually. “Didn’t I mention the Japanese girl?”

A sharp pang of jealousy shot through her, and she instinctively pulled away—something Draco noticed immediately. He quickly caught her hand, stopping her gently.

“Whoa, wait a second! Nothing happened with her, Granger. Yes, initially I found her attractive, but it wasn’t like that. She was just fascinated by Muggles and taught me how to use the app. After that, I realized she didn’t mean anything deeper to me—certainly nothing compared to how I feel around you.” He paused, his voice softening. “Honestly, I've never felt this way around anyone else. I even think that because of you, I might eventually be able to summon a Patronus.”

He gave a nervous glance away, clearly vulnerable, attempting to turn aside the seriousness of his admission. But Hermione wasn't about to let him escape—not after what he'd just said.

“A Patronus?” she asked, curiosity brightening her eyes. “What do you think yours would be?”

“My Patronus?” Draco hesitated, brow furrowing slightly in contemplation. “I have no idea. I’ve never managed to cast one.”

“I imagine it would be something powerful—big and fierce—but also cunning,” she offered thoughtfully, meeting his gaze with quiet intensity. “Perhaps a wolf or even a dragon. You’re stronger than you realize, Draco.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, a subtle chill raced through her, a vague memory whispering at the edge of her mind. Samainiq had warned her about a cunning dragon before…

Before Hermione could linger on the thought, Draco stepped closer, his arms gently encircling her waist. His eyes softened as he leaned down, murmuring softly, “Have I ever told you how much I love hearing you call me Draco?”

Hermione smiled warmly, her worries dissipating as she lightly tugged at his shirt, pulling his lips toward hers. She kissed him slowly, deeply, hoping to communicate everything she hadn’t yet found the courage to say out loud. As their kiss deepened, Hermione realized her body had known long before her heart: she was falling for him—and had been for some time…

***

Hermione was in her part of the suite. Once again, Malfoy had reserved a single suite with multiple bedrooms and bathrooms. When she’d asked him why, he’d simply said that she’d been attacked recently, and he wasn’t willing to take any chances—he wanted to be close in case anything happened.

The Uber ride had been quiet. They sat next to each other, watching the snowy streets of Montreal as the car made its way toward the hotel. At some point, he had reached for her hand, and she had let him. It felt surreal, this closeness—this thing between them.

She knew they needed to talk about it. About them. There were so many questions she wanted to ask him.

It felt like a wall had finally come down on his side. For the first time since they’d seen each other again in September, he was just… not the Malfoy she’d known at Hogwarts. Not even the Malfoy from a few months ago.

This felt like an entirely different person.

The way he looked at her, the way he touched her—it was softer, more careful. And his intentions, especially when he took care of her or showed concern, felt real. Genuine. Unpracticed.

Still, she had to admit—this unguarded version of Malfoy, the one who smiled, laughed, and kissed her with passion—wasn’t the version she’d grown used to. It wasn’t the Malfoy she thought she knew.

She felt like she’d cracked something in him, and now she was part of that inner circle—one of the few people he allowed to see him as he truly was. The thought made her scoff softly, a smile tugging at her lips.

But the truth was… she had no clue. Nothing about this felt entirely natural or simple.

She pictured his face in her mind for a second—his blond, almost white hair, not too long, not too short. His eyes had returned to that silver-grey shade, their usual darker hue. Over the past few days, they’d seemed calmer, less haunted—and she couldn’t help but wonder what had changed inside him.

She took a long shower and recycled the short black dress she’d worn on their last night in Utah. The strap on her shoulder was broken, but she fixed it quickly with a soft “Reparo.”

She wrapped herself in a large grey wool vest with a hood—oversized, warm, and incredibly comfortable. It didn’t exactly match the dress, but it was fine with the weather outside. She looked at herself in the mirror, unsure of what to do. Her choices were her combat boots or her Converse. Given the weather, the combat boots seemed more appropriate… but still, she hesitated.

She wanted to look nice—it was their first date, after all—but it felt out of character. Something about it didn’t sit right. It wasn’t just nerves; it felt like she was betraying someone, somewhere. Or maybe it was something else entirely.

She knew Ginny wouldn’t care. Not really.

She sighed, studying her hair, then decided to leave it as it was. Just a touch of mascara, a swipe of clear lipstick. Nothing much.

She took a deep breath just as she heard a knock on the large door separating their rooms.

“Come in” she said, turning away from the mirror and stepping out of her bedroom to meet Malfoy.

He was standing in the doorway, leaning casually against the doorframe, one hand in his pocket. He wore black jeans, a white V-neck shirt, and a sleek black watch on his wrist. His hair was combed back, but a single strand had fallen loose, brushing against his forehead, almost touching his eyes.

He looked stunning.

And she had to admit—there was something about him that felt dangerous when his eyes locked onto hers.

She didn’t move. She wasn’t sure what to do. She still didn’t know how he would react—she was used to him giving her the cold shoulder whenever he felt like it.

“I can feel that you’re unsure, Granger. What’s wrong?” he asked, concern lacing both his voice and his eyes.

“All of this feels wrong,” she whispered.

“I know.”

He walked toward her slowly, like he didn’t want to startle her. When he was just inches away, he looked into her eyes.

“Can I hold you?”

She nodded silently.

He wrapped his arms around her, and she felt him bury his face in her messy hair.

“My hair’s a mess…” she murmured.

“I love it that way,” he said softly. “Don’t ever touch it or change it. I like the way it wraps around me.”

They shared another quiet moment. She closed her eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“It feels right… don’t you think?” he asked, pulling back slightly to look at her.

She lifted her hand to his cheek and rose onto her tiptoes to kiss him. This time, he didn’t take control—he let her lead.

She kissed him slowly, biting his bottom lip, then tracing the curve of his upper lip with her tongue. Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. They were losing control—she could feel it. Her stomach twirled, heat blooming through her body in anticipation of something more.

He groaned softly, his fingers threading into her hair, gently guiding her back just enough for her to deepen the kiss. Their tongues met in a slow, playful rhythm.

Then she felt his hands slide down to the small of her back. He pulled her in tightly, lifting her slightly off the ground. His touch was unlike anything she’d ever known—his hands burned against her skin, even through the fabric of her clothes. Every place he touched tingled, awakened.

She felt his grip tighten around her waist, his large hands holding her as if he couldn’t bear the thought of letting her go. There was something in it—possessiveness, passion, the raw desire to keep her close.

They stopped kissing, but stayed close—foreheads nearly touching, breath mingling, both of them trying to catch it again.

“We have to stop now, Granger, or I’ll take you to the bed and make love to you.”

She looked at him, and for a moment, she could see the conflict in his eyes—like he was genuinely debating whether he should. And she had to admit… she wasn’t sure she even wanted to resist. Every fiber of her body ached for him.

He let his hand drop and took a small step back.

“I made a reservation for dinner tonight. The restaurant’s on the rooftop. It’s wizards-only during the winter—they use warming charms so we can dine outdoors.”

He offered her his arm, which she took with a soft smile. They stepped out of the room and walked toward the elevator.

“Are you hungry?” she asked as the doors began to close.

“Yes,” he said with a deadly serious expression, pressing her gently against the wall of the elevator, “but not really for food.”

She laughed, pushing him away playfully.

“I’m starving—but for food, Malfoy.”

“Ouch. My ego,” he said, giving her a wounded look, though a smile played on his lips.

“You’ll survive, I’m sure…”

And then the elevator doors opened onto a magical terrace. Snow was falling over the city of Montreal, yet the terrace was as warm and cozy as the elevator. A transparent, enchanted ceiling above them revealed the soft snowfall and the stars twinkling high in the night sky. Classical music played gently in the background.

They were guided to a private alcove by the railing, offering them the best view of the Old Port. It was magnificent.

She looked at Malfoy, visibly impressed.

He chuckled softly and helped her into the curved booth that allowed them to sit close, side by side.

Casually, he rested his arm along the back of her seat, his fingertips brushing lightly against the back of her neck. With his other hand, he picked up the wine menu.

“What would you like to drink, Granger?” he asked, looking at her as if it were the most natural thing in the world—sitting here, on a date with her.

Chapter Text

The same night, December 7^th, 2006

Hermione ordered a glass of red wine, while Malfoy chose white. Their drinks arrived promptly, and Malfoy silently raised his glass. The soft clink as their glasses touched seemed to echo between them. He took a sip, set his glass down, and fixed his gaze firmly on her.

“We need to talk about this,” he said, vaguely gesturing between them with his index finger.

“Yes, we do,” she replied with a small smile. “But… do we have to do it now? I’d really like to just enjoy this version of Draco tonight.”

He smiled and nodded. "Fair enough," he said. After a brief pause, he added, "Tell me about your eight years after Hogwarts."

"What would you like to know?" she asked, leaning back slightly. "Eight years is a long time."

"I'd like to know everything, but let's start with whether you went back to Hogwarts to finish your seventh year."

“Yes, I did. You didn’t, right?” It was a question, but she already knew the answer. He hadn't been there when she, Harry, and Ron had returned to finish their last year at Hogwarts. She remembered wondering where he was during that year but had never looked into it, knowing his family had fallen into disgrace.

“I didn’t miss the previous year like you did, out looking for Horcruxes,” he said. “But the school was under Death Eater control then, so I finished my education at home with tutors my parents hired.”

“And what did you do after that?”

He smiled. “I asked you first, Granger.”

“Right,” she said, exhaling slowly. “After that year…it was painful, realizing my parents wouldn’t be part of my life anymore. They missed my graduation, and”—a sad smile touched her lips— “well, I decided to attend Oxford to study medicine. Both my parents were dentists, so I suppose it was my way of honoring their memory…the memory they lost because of me.”

He nodded and reached out, placing his hand gently over hers. He’d noticed she’d been nervously fidgeting with the stem of her wine glass. The subject clearly made her sad, and that was the last thing he wanted tonight.

“I travelled a lot in ’99,” he said, trying to shift the subject. “Went to the United States, Japan, Italy… I wanted to see the world, but I was also trying to understand everything that had happened. My family was disgraced after the war, and my father was in Azkaban.” His expression tightened, and though his hand still rested on hers, she could feel him begin to withdraw. She gently curled her fingers around his, maintaining the connection.

“Maybe we should fast-forward a couple of years,” she said softly, offering a sad smile.

His gaze had drifted toward the skyline, but at her words, it snapped back quickly.

He smiled faintly. “I agree, Granger.”

“I started at Oxford,” she said. “Got a job in a little coffee shop in London. I was living with Betty—she was in the same year as me, and we were doing our foundation at the same time. My parents had set up an account for me when I was young. They’d invested Muggle money—not millions, but enough to get me through my studies without debt. I even bought a small flat in Richmond upon Thames, moved in with Crookshanks. I was really dedicated to my studies, wanted to succeed… didn’t do much else, to be honest. Travelled occasionally—Portugal, the south of France with Betty and some of her friends. I liked it.” She paused for a moment, examining her natural nails. When she continued, her gaze drifted past Malfoy. “It might sound silly, but after everything, the way we were celebrated in the Wizarding world for defeating You-Know-Who—it was overwhelming. It gave me anxiety. Everywhere I went, I felt recognized.”

She paused, then added, “The plan was to move to Canada after my foundation. I just… want to get out of England for a while.”

He was about to ask her something when she took the lead instead.

"You? How did you end up at the Ministry of Magic, working for Shacklebolt?"

She noticed the way his jaw tightened at the question, but he masked it quickly with a smile—a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“After travelling, I had the chance to speak with Shacklebolt. He supported my father’s release from Azkaban. I know not everyone agreed with that decision, but… he’d done his time. My joining the Ministry helped my mother too. She struggled—really struggled—with how the wizarding world cast her aside. Being left alone after the war nearly broke her. My parents come from generations of pure-blood wizards, raised with the idea that they were superior. Being shunned… it was difficult for them.” He looked at the skyline again and continued. “I started enjoying the work, surprisingly. I met with representatives from magical ministries around the world. My travels helped, I already had contacts. Occasionally, I had to liaise with Muggle prime ministers and presidents too, which is how I became a bit more familiar with their world.”

Hermione nodded slowly, processing it all. Then, with a hesitant smile, she added, "Yes… I hope this isn’t too forward, but that’s something I’ve been wondering. You hated us, and yet here you are now—ordering an Uber, staying in a Muggle hotel, paying with a Muggle credit card, interacting with Muggle ministries across the world..." She paused for a second and looked him directly in the eyes. "Kissing a Mudblood."

The last words were spoken softly, without bitterness, but the weight of them hung in the air between them. He reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, leaning in just slightly.

"I was an idiot, Granger," he said quietly. "I think… in some ways, the way I was raised will always leave traces. I can be elitist. I still have biases. I’m probably even still a little bit racist—" he gave a faint, self-deprecating smile—"but I’m aware of it. And I'm working on it."

"After the war, my family was disgraced. Not many wizards wanted anything to do with us. We still had money, but I thought it necessary to diversify our portfolio. The Malfoys had always maintained connections with questionable people, so we quietly transferred funds from Gringotts to a bank in Switzerland, exchanging Galleons for Muggle currency. From there, we invested in houses, apartments—real estate that we rented out to Muggles. I also started dabbling in the stock market, and when I say 'dabbling,' that's exactly what I mean. But somehow, my instincts proved good, and I managed to earn quite a bit." He smiled, scoffing softly. "Someone once told me fortune favors the shameless, and I think the Malfoy family perfectly embodies that saying."

He paused, his eyes locking onto hers.

"As for you… I’m sorry I ever called you that," he said, voice low. "For a long time, I truly believed it was better to keep our worlds separate. Muggles and their so-called inferiority on one side… Muggle-borns somewhere in between… and then the so-called real wizards—the pure-bloods—on top."

He let out a slow breath, his expression distant for a moment.

"Even now, I sometimes catch myself thinking that way. Outdated habits. Stupid ones. But over the last five years, I’ve come to understand that it’s not sustainable. Our bloodlines—if we want to talk in those terms—they need fresh blood. Marrying within for generations… it leads to problems. Illness. Infertility. Madness. And the ideology? It rots everything it touches. It has to be dismantled.

"Even with magic, we have a lot to learn from the Muggle world."

She smiled gently. "I agree," she said. Then, after a pause, added, "And they need protection too."

Draco’s expression darkened. "That’s just it, Granger. The world’s moving in the opposite direction. Tolerance is shrinking. Extremists aren’t just re-emerging—they’re being elected."

He leaned forward slightly, his voice low.

"In the United States, there's a new party seeking power. Their leader made his stance perfectly clear: Muggles should be controlled, monitored—used. 'Like house-elves,' he said. Stripped of rights. Stripped of freedom."

Hermione gasped, her hand frozen around her glass.

"And he’s not alone. There are whispers now—talks about aligning with certain factions in Canada. Pressure to ‘secure the North American territories.’ It’s all coded language, but the meaning is clear."

He looked away for a moment, jaw tense with suppressed anger.

"A storm is brewing. The next war won't be just about Voldemort or ancient bloodlines. It'll be political. Institutional. Global. The battle lines will blur—less obvious but equally lethal. A war is lingering in the shadows.’’ He said taking a sip of his wine. ‘’ The ambiance was heavy, and Hermione wasn’t sure what to say, especially noticing Malfoy’s closed-off, tense expression.

She glanced down at her empty glass. Malfoy quietly observed her, reaching for the bottle and refilling her drink without speaking. He then picked up the menu, gently holding it out for her to share.

“Feels like no matter what year we talk about, there’s always something waiting to weigh us down,” he murmured softly.

She didn’t answer right away, just looked at him with a thoughtful expression. Then, with a slight smile, she leaned closer.

“I have another topic that might make us tense,” she said softly, fingers reaching for the collar of his shirt. She pulled him in and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips.

He reacted immediately, one hand finding the back of her neck, drawing her in as he kissed her back—deeper, slower, as though he'd been waiting for this.

That was when the server arrived.

They pulled apart at once, a little breathless, as the server stood patiently, ready to take their order.

“I have no idea what I want to eat, but I am starving” Hermione said, her voice still slightly unsteady.

“Okay,” Malfoy offered smoothly, “Let me choose for you.”

She nodded, and he ordered confidently—far too much food. When the server finally left, he turned back to her, amusement in his eyes, and slid just a little closer.

“You're right, we were sharing another topic that creates tension between us. Now, where were we?” he asked with a smirk, leaning in to kiss her again.

***

It was well past midnight, and Hermione had drunk a little too much, but she didn't mind—it felt good. The night had been amazing; they'd laughed, talked, shared comfortable silences and kisses. Their meal had ended long ago, and Malfoy had ordered a second bottle of red wine, which they'd shared while reminiscing. They didn't have many memories together, but Hogwarts had given them a few worth recalling, each with distinctly different perspectives. Yet, once again, their recollections were tinged with sadness—the day she'd punched him after he'd laughed about Buckbeak; the night they'd saved him from the Room of Requirement, and he'd lost his friend to the Fiendfyre.

“You saved me that night,” Draco said softly.

“The same way you did the night we were brought to Malfoy Manor that year” Hermione replied gently.

He briefly glanced at her forearm, his jaw tensing. "I clearly didn’t do enough."

A quiet melancholy settled over them, each lost in thought, realizing simultaneously that none of their shared childhood memories held true happiness.

Draco offered her a sad smile. "We always gravitate toward sadness. Everything we remember is difficult. But I do have one memory of you that isn't."

She raised an eyebrow skeptically and took another sip of wine. "Go on, then—I don't believe it."

"The Yule Ball, fourth year."

Hermione stared at him, recalling the tears she'd shed that night. "Speak for yourself. That wasn't exactly a nice memory for me. You mocked me for going with Viktor Krum."

He lowered his gaze slightly, looking genuinely remorseful. "I did—but it was because I was jealous. I thought you looked amazing."

She put her glass of wine down on the table and studied him closely. His eyes were sincere, open in a way she'd rarely seen. Hermione felt warmth rising in her chest, her heartbeat quickening.

"You never said anything," she murmured, voice soft with surprise.

Draco gave a gentle shrug, meeting her gaze with quiet vulnerability. "What could I have possibly said back then?"

Hermione smiled faintly, feeling the delicate intimacy between them deepen. "Something kinder, perhaps."

His lips curled upward softly. "I suppose I wasn't capable of kindness then."

"And now?" she asked, reaching out tentatively to touch his hand.

He threaded his fingers through hers, squeezing gently. "Now, I'm learning," he said softly, his eyes locked onto hers.

Hermione’s vest had slipped from her shoulder, revealing smooth skin and the delicate curve of her collarbone. Draco slowly reached out, brushing his fingertips lightly across her skin as he gently adjusted the fabric back into place. Just before fully releasing it, he leaned in, gently pressing his teeth against her collarbone.

Hermione grasped his arm, a soft gasp of surprise escaping her lips.
"There are many kind things I'd very much like to do to you...and others, not so kind," he murmured quietly against her skin.

***

The next morning, Hermione sat quietly in bed, looking around the spacious room and appreciating the stunning view overlooking the Old Port. Today they were visiting Samainiq, and Hermione felt a sense of excitement—it had been too long since they'd last met. She was also eager to finally collect the magical stone from Mrs. Lapierre’s magical stone-polishing shop in the Old Port.

Still, beneath her anticipation lingered a deep yearning to return home. She missed Crookshanks, her cozy flat at Raven Row, Betty, and her simpler, Muggle life. Hermione knew Malfoy had genuinely tried to keep disruptions minimal, even if she hadn’t asked for it, and she truly appreciated the effort. Yet, she felt utterly exhausted by it all. Too many questions remained unanswered, too many mysteries still needed unraveling—the Tenelabrith, the attacks on the Muggle babies, the cult, and the unsettling reason she'd lost her magic in the cave.

A brief surge of panic rose in her chest, but Hermione forced herself to take a calming breath. She still needed to train with Malfoy and Samainiq, and she had to deepen her understanding of the intricate political web unfolding around her. A meeting with Harry, Ginny, and Ron felt essential—after all, as Aurors, they likely had access to information she wasn’t privy to.

She caught herself—her thoughts spiraling again. Once more, she’d been dragged into something dangerous, something she never asked for. All she truly wanted was to become a doctor, marry someone she loved, have children, own a beautiful home, and enjoy quiet morning runs. Hermione longed for a normal life. But deep down, she knew it was something she might never have—not in the wizarding world, not in times like these.

Her thoughts drifted back to the night before. After the late supper, Malfoy had walked her back like a proper gentleman. At the door to her room, he had kissed her gently, then promised they’d see each other in the morning.

A soft smile touched her lips at the memory. She headed for the shower, wanting to be ready to meet him soon—they needed to see Samainiq as quickly as possible. She had to return to her life. At this point, it felt more crucial than ever.

Chapter Text

The morning of December 8th

Mrs. Lapierre’s store, L’Atelier Lapierre Poli, was a veritable capharnaum filled with Canadian souvenirs: mugs, shot glasses, spoons, Christmas ornaments, hats, umbrellas, and countless other items. Shelves lined the walls, displaying beautifully polished stones and crystals. The store was overflowing with tourists, bustling with an almost frenetic energy. It was December, Christmas just around the corner, and Hermione had to admit that the Old Port's atmosphere reminded her slightly of Hogsmeade village, though perhaps with a touch more of France. Christmas decorations were everywhere, and shoppers carried bags filled with gifts from their visits to other stores.

Malfoy stood beside her, clearly annoyed by the crowd pressing in from all sides, but Hermione felt joyful. She smiled and laughed, delighted by the charming trinkets she discovered along the shelves. She paused at a little figurine representing an otter. It was carved from white stone, and the otter looked incredibly playful and adorable. Hermione felt Malfoy's fingers gently intertwine with hers, and she turned to him. He gave her a warm, affectionate look, and her heart melted a little—he was genuinely sweet, she thought.

He leaned closer, his lips near her ear, and whispered that the "real stone shop" was hidden just behind the wall in front of them. They simply needed to pass through it, just like the barrier at King's Cross. Smiling, Hermione took his hand and together they stepped through the wall.

The other side was just as crowded as the Muggle one, except here everyone was a witch or wizard. Ahead, the path branched into two directions: one led toward a hidden street—the local version of Diagon Alley, or as Malfoy whispered softly, "La Rue des Enchantements," promising Hermione they could explore it later—and the other led directly into the shop itself, the true L’Atelier Lapierre Poli.

At the far end of the store, near the door opening onto "La Rue des Enchantements," Mrs. Lapierre stood conversing with a young wizard. He was tall, exceptionally thin, with angular features and dark hair. He wore a serious expression, becoming visibly displeased by whatever Mrs. Lapierre, still perfectly calm, was gently explaining to him.

Mrs. Lapierre herself was striking. An older witch of about sixty-five, she wore an elegant, vintage purple hat adorned with pearls. Her robes were impeccably tailored, highlighting an impressive figure, and her neckline tastefully suggested that beauty and grace remained timeless, even at her age. Beside her sat a Great Dane—calm, motionless, yet attentively observing every passerby.

Malfoy and Hermione moved through the crowd and reached Mrs. Lapierre’s side. Malfoy greeted her with genuine respect, even lifting her hand to kiss it. Mrs. Lapierre laughed warmly, quickly pulling her hand away and jokingly insisting her husband would be terribly unhappy if he saw them. Then she leaned closer to Hermione, whispering playfully that a little jealousy wasn't a bad thing after being married to the same man for thirty-one years. She winked, looking warmly at Hermione.

"You are a beautiful young lady—truly beautiful."

Hermione blushed lightly, offering a shy thank-you in return.

"Let me introduce you to Damien," Mrs. Lapierre continued. "He is Samainiq’s brother."

Hermione felt Malfoy tense immediately at the mention, abruptly releasing her hand to tuck his own into his pocket. She wasn't the only one who noticed; Mrs. Lapierre promptly took Hermione gently by the arm.

"So, you must be Hermione?"

"Yes, Mrs. Lapierre."

"Please, call me Amandine. Viens avec moi, ma belle—we have stones to find for you. Or rather, I should say, stones that needs to find you," she added with a knowing smile.

The Great Dane beside her rose and began walking alongside them, matching each of Amandine’s steps closely.

"Do we know if Samainiq will be here?" Hermione asked hesitantly.

"Oh, she's already here. We'll all have supper together tonight—me, you, her, my husband, and your soldier—in my apartment upstairs," she said, pointing upward toward the ceiling. "You'll see her shortly. Malfoy, Damien, and Samainiq have matters to discuss first."

Hermione stiffened slightly.

"I understand you're upset about being left out," Amandine continued gently. "I’d feel exactly the same way in your position. Honestly, I hope you'll confront your man about it. I always confronted mine—though he's a Muggle, so he rarely faced truly dangerous situations." She smiled affectionately. "You'll meet him later—he's a very intelligent man."

Hermione clearly sensed the pride and enduring love Mrs. Lapierre felt for her husband.

As they walked deeper into the shop, Mrs. Lapierre chatted warmly, speaking of magic and how deeply she adored England. Hermione listened but remained disturbed by the fact they were meeting without her. She tried not to care, reminding herself she wasn’t interested—after all, she’d refused to join the Ministry’s efforts, preferring a peaceful life.

Amandine suddenly stopped, staring intently at the shelves. She turned slowly to Hermione, her eyes wide, and Hermione immediately sensed something had shifted within her.

« L’Obsidienne noire brute... » Amandine murmured, her voice suddenly emotionless. She reached toward a heavy black stone on the shelf. The stone was smaller than the others, raw, and completely unpolished.

"This is a particularly interesting stone, Hermione," she said softly, placing it gently in Hermione’s palm. "It's extremely powerful, especially when raw—unpolished. Deeply connected to shadow energy…" she trailed off, taking a deep, steadying breath. "I almost want to say, la Magie noire… I'm unsure what you're getting yourself into, ma Jolie, but please keep this stone close to your heart. Especially between you and your soldier."

Hermione was puzzled. Malfoy wasn't a soldier—he was trained for combat, certainly, but definitely not a soldier. She was about to speak when Mrs. Lapierre let out a joyful cry.

"Le quartz rose, de plus, ma très chère! This is a good omen, especially following the black obsidian—the raw one, if I may say. This stone is for unconditional love, kindness, and" she continued, her expression sobering, "forgiveness."

Hermione now held both stones in her palm, gazing down at them in astonishment. They had chosen her, yet she had no idea how. She hadn’t seen them move, react, or sense her.

"How do they know, Amandine?"

"Stones are deeply connected to the world, to the energies that fill a room—they are part of that energy themselves. By entering this space, you've awakened their deepest magic. Earth, fire, water, and wind each hold immense power, and minerals resonate profoundly with these elements. From the moment you were born, these stones knew that one day they would belong to you."

Hermione stared at the two small stones resting in her palm, deeply impressed and somewhat overwhelmed.

"Et il nous reste à nous rendre à la toute dernière. With the two you currently possess, I must admit, Hermione, I'm extremely curious to see which one you'll ultimately choose."

The Great Dane, quiet until now, suddenly stirred, becoming visibly happier and excited. Mrs Lapierre gently stroked his head, smiling warmly at Hermione. "He senses that a choice will soon be made by you. This is rare, Mrs Granger," she said, returning to formality. Her expression turned grave, concern deepening as she spoke quietly. "As I was saying, stones always recognize their rightful companion at birth. But sometimes, destiny is so uncertain that a witch or wizard must deliberately choose, hoping the stone they select will aid them precisely when the critical moment arrives. Life, the spirit of Earth, will always seek to guide you, yet sometimes the only person who can truly foresee their choice is oneself. Still—" she paused, unease flickering in her eyes, "this can also be a troubling sign, a possible omen."

Hermione nodded slowly, sensing the weight of the words and feeling a sudden surge of apprehension about what lay ahead. Just then, the Great Dane softly picked up a bag from the table in the center of the room and gently brought it over. He placed it down and sat quietly beside his mistress, his playful demeanor momentarily subdued by the seriousness in the air.

"Achille is a dear friend of mine," she murmured affectionately, placing a comforting hand on the dog's head. "He is the gentlest giant I've ever known—aside from my companion, Morosal. You’ll meet him shortly, ma très chère."

She handed the bag to Hermione. Strangely, it appeared empty now, despite seeming full when Achille had carried it over.

Watching closely, she motioned gently. "Go ahead, ma très chère, choose your stone—but be cautious."

"I—" Hermione began uncertainly. Yet, as soon as her hand entered the bag, she immediately felt two distinct stones. Before she could pull out, the bag tightened around her wrist, preventing her from withdrawing her hand.

Her guide gasped softly, eyes widening in alarm. "Oh no... They don’t even want you to see your choices beforehand? This is very unusual—and possibly troubling, mon enfant. It suggests that even life cannot yet see clearly the path you'll have to take. Be wary; le destin a placé un lourd fardeau sur tes épaules.

Hermione felt her heart quicken. She turned both stones over between her fingers, their smooth surfaces cool against her skin. They were both polished, both calling to her in different ways.

"I don’t know which one to take, Amandine," she said, her voice tight, her eyes flicking toward Mrs. Lapierre, anxious.

"I know. It’s a difficult choice—and I have a feeling you must choose wisely."

Mrs. Lapierre’s expression had turned serious, grave, as if something heavy was hanging in the air, waiting.

Hermione heard a noise behind her and turned, Malfoy was walking toward her.

Inside the bag, the two stones reacted. One turned icy cold, the other grew intensely warm.

She closed her hand around both, heart racing, still uncertain which one to choose. But deep down, she felt it was connected to her future—their future. Somehow, hers and his were intricately intertwined in ways neither of them fully understood.

She looked up, locking eyes with him as he approached—fierce, determined, unstoppable. She felt his power pressing around her, a shield of protection, whether he meant to cast it or not. And under it, she felt more.

Danger.
Choice.
Warning.
Hurt.
Healing.
Forgiveness.
Cruelty.
And a deep, aching sadness.
The kind that settles in your bones when you lose someone—and spend years longing for them.

The cold stone in her palm burned like ice, too much to bear. She let it go. Her fingers closed tightly around the warm one instead, her gaze locked on Malfoy’s.

She knew.

She was certain she had chosen the right one.

As he reached them, she withdrew her hand from the bag. Just before he arrived at their side, she turned to Amandine and opened her fingers, revealing the center of her palm.

"The bloodstone… L’héliotrope…" Mrs. Lapierre’s lips curled into something unreadable. "Intéressant, ma très chère." She spoke.

The rest of the day was fun.

They walked along Rue des Enchantements. Just before leaving, Hermione paused in front of Mrs. Lapierre’s shop window—there, nestled among other delicate items, was a small replica of the otter, carved in pale white stone. It looked just like the one she’d seen earlier. She stood there for a couple of minutes, quietly taking it in.

They planned to return later that evening for supper and would spend one more night in Montreal. Tomorrow, they would begin the journey to Ireland—and then England.

Malfoy had been kind, attentive. He walked beside her, pointing out the different shops lining Rue des Enchantements: the charming bookshop, Sortilèges & Parchemins, and another one dedicated to magical creatures.

He had also arranged a brief visit to the local hospital—Sanctuaire Saint-Aurélius.

"Saint Aurélius," he explained, "was a highly knowledgeable healer from Canada. He’s still revered in certain circles for his groundbreaking magical methods."

Hermione looked at him with a small smile tugging at her lips.

"I know," she said softly.

He chuckled. “Please excuse me—of course you know. And here I am, trying to impress you.”

“You are,” she said, laughing softly. “But just by being kind. It’s… an amazing feeling, to trust you. To be with you.”
She glanced up at the sky. The sun was warm, and though the weather had softened, it was still a Montreal winter. A light snow had begun to fall—delicate, unhurried—casting a quiet magic over the moment. Romantic, in a way she hadn’t expected. She looked at Malfoy and smiled.

“Look at the snow,” she said. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen a white Christmas like this. With that much snow in the street—and piled up on the sides, too.”

She stepped ahead of him slightly, tilting her face upward to feel the snow melt against her cheeks.

They reached the hospital doors, and she paused. Turned to face him. Her hand lifted to his cheek, fingers brushing softly against his skin.

“There are things you’re hiding from me,” she said, her voice low but steady. “Things I know I could help with—if you’d just trust me. You don’t have to carry it all alone. You could share the weight with me.”

She fell silent, holding his gaze.
Trying to read what he wasn’t saying.
Trying to see if any part of him might let her in.

He kissed her—briefly, almost distracted. She felt how far away he was.

Then he pulled her close. His head rested against her hair, and she felt the strength in his arms as he held her tighter.

“I have something for you,” he murmured. “I was going to give it to you at the hotel… but I have a feeling now is the right time.”

He stepped back slightly, slipped a hand into his pocket, and pulled out a delicate golden chain with a tiny otter charm carved from polished white stone.

Hermione’s smile appeared instantly, happiness lighting up her eyes—but she turned away almost at once.

“Please fasten it, Malfoy,” she said, lifting her hair. “It’s the… the pendant version of the otter I was looking at in the store!”

His fingers brushed the back of her neck as he clasped the chain. He lingered there, fingertips tracing the line of her skin, then leaned in and kissed the nape of her neck. Once again, she felt his head settle gently into her hair.

“If you knew how good it feels… being lost in your hair,” he whispered. “The way it looks, the way it smells… it’s unreal. Never cut it—promise me.”

She turned slowly, eyes shining, and kissed him—gently—holding the little otter pendant between them. Then she laughed softly and turned around, her voice light as she added, just before stepping through the hospital doors:

“I’ll keep it long… for as long as I think of you.”

***

St-Aurélius Sanctuary was a vast magical hospital—sprawling, solemn, and humming with quiet power. Hermione paused at the entrance, her gaze sweeping over the large board listing each wing and its location. It was the largest hospital in North America, and the second largest in the magical world. The only one bigger stood in California, in the heart of the United States.

St-Aurélius housed an impressive range of specialized wings: the Pediatric Magic Wing, for children affected by spells, curses, or magical conditions; Spell Damage & Curse Reversal, treating patients suffering from long-term hexes, jinxes, or misfired spells; and Potion Poisoning & Toxicology, which handled potion overdoses, accidental poisonings, and experimental potion mishaps.

The creature-Related Injuries unit specialized in bites, venom, scratches, and infections caused by beings such as werewolves, dragons, or acromantulas. The Mind & Memory Restoration wing tended to victims of memory charms, Obliviation, trauma, or magical psychological disturbances, while Magical Contagions & Infectious Diseases treated conditions like Dragon Pox, Spattergroit, and newer magical epidemics.

The Psychomagical Therapy wing, quiet and securely warded, focused on emotional and psychological healing through both magical and therapeutic methods. Rehabilitation & Spell-Integrated Physiotherapy provided long-term care following major injuries or limb regrowth. There was even an Obscurial Support Unit, a highly confidential division for rare and volatile cases linked to suppressed magic.

The Maternity & Magical Births ward handled high-risk pregnancies, half-species births, and charm-related complications. At the forefront of magical innovation, the Experimental Magic & Research Trials wing tested groundbreaking treatments, while the Forensic Spellwork & Magical Trauma Investigation unit worked alongside Aurors and High Reeves to uncover the origin of magical harm. Lastly, the Auror & Combat Unit Recovery wing—a highly restricted area—was reserved for elite operatives wounded on the front lines.

"I’ve arranged meetings with two different healers, Granger. One from the Pediatric Magic Wing, and another with the head of the Mind & Memory Restoration department," Malfoy said as they entered the lobby. "They’re both eager to meet you—not just as a Muggle doctor, but as a magical healer, too. Apparently, it’s pretty rare to find someone who’s both."

"I'm still technically a student," Hermione replied, a little sheepishly.

Malfoy smiled and placed a hand at the small of her back, guiding her toward the elevator. He pressed the button, then handed her two business cards.

"Here—times and locations are written on both. I’ll let you take the visits from here," he said. "I’ve got other matters to attend to, but I’ll pick you up in two hours."

Hermione nodded, torn between a flicker of disappointment that he was leaving and a flutter of excitement at meeting the healers.

Before she could say anything, he pulled her gently into his arms and kissed her softly on the lips.

"I’ll miss you," he murmured.

"I already do," she answered, almost breathless.

He held her tighter for a moment. She could feel the hesitation in him—the quiet, internal tug-of-war. For a second, she thought he might change his mind and stay.

Instead, he kissed her forehead and whispered, "Be careful. If anything happens, send me a Patronus."

She nodded and stepped into the elevator, turning to wave at him—but just as the doors began to slide shut, she reached out and stopped them. Then she stepped forward and took his hand.

He looked down at their joined hands, then up at her, his brows lifting slightly.

"Draco," she said softly, holding on to him. "Thank you. For everything. For arranging the visit with the Mind & Memory Restoration department… it means more than you know."

He looked briefly uncomfortable, shifting on his feet. Then his eyes met hers, softer this time.

"It’s fine, Granger. Don’t make a big deal out of it."

She studied him for a beat, then nodded. Still holding his gaze, she pressed the elevator’s close button. The doors slid shut between them.

Chapter Text

The same day, December 8^th

Hermione was nearly vibrating with excitement as she waited to meet the head of the Department of Mind and Memory Restoration. This wasn’t a professional consult—it was personal. And she was immensely grateful that Malfoy had used his connections to make this possible.

The woman who greeted her was tall—no, immense—with an aura of calm authority. She reminded Hermione immediately of Madame Olympe Maxime. She took her hand and shook it with genuine enthusiasm.

“My name is Coraline Tremblay,” the woman said with a warm Quebecois accent.

She was half-wizard, half-giant—her father had been a giant, and her mother a witch. They’d met, quite romantically, at the École de Magie du Nord. Coraline was striking—graceful and intelligent, with a kind of timeless elegance. She had spent her life studying the mind, both magical and Muggle. Being half-human had granted her access to McGill University, where she had trained in medicine. Hermione felt a pang of recognition; in many ways, Coraline’s path echoed her own.

Now, Coraline led the prestigious Mind and Memory Restoration department at the St. Aurelius Sanctuary.

They toured the wings together, discussing new spells, breakthroughs in neurological magic, and the fragile art of memory restoration. Coraline was a vocal advocate for the abolition of the Obliviate spell—especially when used on Muggles.

Hermione nodded, her throat tightening. Guilt settled deep in her belly like a cold stone.

“Have you found anything?” she asked softly. “Anything that could restore what’s been lost?”

Coraline gave her a gentle, understanding look. “Everything is a question of time. After the one-year mark, the chances of retrieval are minimal. And the more time passes, the closer we come to impossible. The brain, ma chère collègue, is a curious organ. However…” She paused, her tone brightening slightly. “If the memories were preserved—if they were stored in any way—there’s a slight chance for recovery.”

She began walking slowly, leading Hermione down a hallway lined with softly glowing sconces and enchanted glass. “Many of our patients live comfortably, even fulfilling lives without ever retrieving their memories. But we’ve discovered that if they are exposed to elements of their former life—people, places, objects—they can, over time, begin to remember. Not everything. But fragments. Moments. Sometimes even emotions tied to those memories.”

Hermione’s heart surged with a fragile, dangerous hope.

Coraline’s tone grew more cautious. “However… this exposure can be traumatic. We’ve seen some patients fall into a deep coma when confronted with too much, too fast—when they realize how much of their life has been taken from them.”

She sighed. “We’re currently working on a stabilizing potion. One that might prepare a subject for exposure, to strengthen the mind before recovery begins. But so far… nothing has worked.”

Hermione bit her lip, blinking rapidly as her eyes filled with tears. She took a deep, steadying breath, forcing herself to stay present as Coraline opened the doors to one of the sanctuary’s main laboratories.

Inside, a soft hum of magical instruments filled the air. The team looked up as they entered, and Coraline introduced Hermione as a colleague from the Royal London Hospital.

The researchers greeted her warmly, asking eager questions about her experience with Muggle neurology and memory disorders. She answered each one with composed precision, her voice steady—despite the quiet storm rising inside her.

After having meeting everyone, they walk to the hallway, the visit almost done.  Coraline's voice dropped to a more confidential tone as she led Hermione toward the elevator, as she knew she had a meeting with their collègue, in the pediatric wings.

“We’re also working to find a cure for a new curse. It’s still rare, thank Merlin—but it’s dangerous.” Her brow furrowed. “The subjects are poisoned by an unknown potion. We don’t yet know what’s in it. They begin to lose themselves… slowly at first.”

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat.

“At the beginning, it reminded me of Alzheimer’s disease,” Coraline continued, “but this is faster. Much faster. Within a week, the subject no longer recognizes themselves, their family—nor can they perform even the simplest spells. They lose everything.”

Hermione gasped in horror. “Who would do something like that?”

“We’ve only had one case here in Canada,” Coraline said gravely. “The second was reported in California. The teams are investigating, but…” She hesitated, her eyes darkening. “It’s troubling. Someone is experimenting. And they’re getting bolder.”

Hermione nodded slowly, the weight of the conversation pressing down on her chest. Then she glanced at the clock and realized she was about to be late for her next appointment.

“Oh—I should go,” she said, stepping back and offering her hand.

But Coraline smiled and pulled her into a warm, protective hug instead.
“Take care, ma chère. I hope to see you soon. Let’s share our research together—if you ever need me, you can always reach out with a Patronus.”

Hermione smiled and waved as the elevator doors began to close. Coraline’s presence lingered like a protective charm around her shoulders.

The head of the Pediatric Wing was already waiting. He was young—surprisingly young for someone in his position—and stunning, Hermione noted before catching herself.

Then she realized.

He was a Veela.

Hermione had only ever met female Veela before—mostly during the Triwizard Tournament at Beaux batons, and of course through Fleur Delacour, who had once been her sister-in-law, back when she was still dating Ron.

His name was Arucan, and there was something disarmingly easy about him. He was charismatic without arrogance, kind without pretense. His voice was low and melodic, with a trace of laughter tucked into every sentence. He made small jokes as he walked, just enough to lighten the mood without ever seeming unprofessional.

He led her through the ward with practiced grace. This was his rotation, and he took it seriously. He greeted every child by name, knew their conditions intimately, and was up to date on all their treatments and responses. Most of the patients were young—toddlers to teens—but a few were as old as eighteen.

And the children adored him.

Even the most withdrawn ones lit up when Arucan entered the room. They clung to his every word, spoke eagerly when he asked questions, and obediently took their potions and charms under his gentle watch.

Hermione watched, quietly moved. It wasn’t just his Veela magic, she thought. It was something more.

There was compassion in the way he crouched down to eye level, patience in his smile as he listened, tenderness in the way he tucked a blanket around a sleeping toddler.

This wasn’t charm. This was heart.

He led Hermione through the corridor and into his office—a calming space lined with softly glowing potions, floating charts, and shelves of both magical and Muggle medical texts.

As they sat down, Arucan explained what they were working on: the research, the clinical trials, the fusion of old healing charms with modern theories. He was curious about her own work, and she found herself opening up more than she expected.

She spoke about her Muggle studies, how pediatric care and magical conditions often intertwined—how Muggle medicine had helped magical children, and how healing magic had sometimes revealed things that Muggle diagnostics missed. She told him about the young Muggle she’d saved recently from a lingering dark curse—one she was still investigating.

Arucan listened carefully, his golden eyes focused, his posture attentive.

Encouraged, Hermione went on, mentioning her brief exchange with Samainiq, the Canadian healer she had met months ago. A woman who had since become a friend and mentor, guiding her through the complexities of Canadian healing traditions.

But the moment she said the name—Samainiq—everything changed.

Arucan’s expression faltered. The warmth vanished from his face, and something ancient and terrifying flickered through his features. His skin paled, his face lengthened subtly, and his eyes—previously golden and kind—narrowed into slits. Hermione caught a glimpse of sharp, elongated teeth just before he turned away.

Her heart thudded. Instinctively, she rose and stepped back toward the door, slipping her wand into her hand.

“Arucan?” she asked softly, her voice calm but laced with concern. “Are you alright?”

He didn’t answer right away. His back was still to her, shoulders rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths. The room was thick with energy now hot and ancient, like standing too close to a storm.

Then, gradually, the transformation ebbed. His skin warmed. His jaw softened. His teeth and eyes returned to the beautiful, composed man she’d met only an hour ago.

He turned back to her, eyes now dim with regret.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I wasn’t expecting to hear her name. It triggered... a visceral reaction.”

Hermione kept her wand lowered but ready.

“We know each other,” he continued, voice more composed, though a shadow lingered beneath it. “And we chose different paths. I couldn’t stand beside her—not after what her brother did.”

He leaned against the edge of his desk, gaze distant now.

“Her brother was once a member of the Tenebrae Concordia—a radical faction devoted to bloodline purity. But they rebranded, of course. Took on something softer to seem palatable. They now call themselves the Pact of Thorn. Poetic, isn’t it?” His tone was bitter.

Hermione remained silent, a knot forming in her stomach.

“They were monsters,” Arucan said, voice low and flat. “Fifteen years ago, we received a wave of children—Muggle-borns, half-bloods—as young as eight. They had been subjected to something called the Extraction Ritual.”

A chill raced down Hermione’s spine.

“They stripped the magic right out of them,” Arucan whispered. “It’s a mutilation of the soul. We tried everything. But we couldn’t save them.”

He looked down, jaw tight. “They died here. In this very ward. Broken.”

Hermione’s throat closed. Her wand lowered at last, her hand trembling slightly.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice barely audible.

Arucan nodded slowly, meeting her eyes. “You didn’t know. But now you do.”

He looked at her with quiet seriousness. "Tell me more about the young Muggle you saved. The one with the dark curse?"

Hermione met his gaze and explained everything—what she had found, what the likely outcome would have been if she hadn’t intervened, and how she ultimately saved the boy.
"I used a combination of Thestral essence and the essence of Liliath," she said. "The darkness was threaded deep into his core. I’d used a similar elixir once before, on a wizard who’d been contaminated with Dark magic. The response was nearly identical."

Arucan nodded slowly. "Brilliant," he murmured.

"We’ve used something similar too," he added. "To treat extreme exposure to dark magic. We didn’t fully understand what we were dealing with at the time—only that the magic was coursing through his veins like poison."

Hermione leaned forward slightly. “I’ve been thinking… I believe this is connected to the Tenelabrith.”

That name made Arucan’s eyes narrow sharply. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers tightening around the rim of his cup.
“The Tenelabrith,” he repeated. “I wasn’t aware it had been released.” His voice dropped lower, almost to a whisper. “I hadn’t heard that.”

A chill crept through Hermione’s spine. “We believe it happened around May of 2006. That’s when attacks on Muggle-borns escalated—but not on children. Not at first. I only started piecing it together after I examined that boy. He wasn’t even magical. A Muggle. But the dark magic mark on him—it was ancient. It was in his blood.”

Arucan grew still, his expression hardening. “What did it look like?” he asked quietly.

“I cast a diagnostic spell,” Hermione admitted. “Even though I wasn’t supposed to. In the golden globe, I saw the dark filaments moving inside him—like shadows threading through his bloodstream.”

“Veil-bound blood,” Arucan whispered.

“You know what it is?” she pressed, leaning forward on the desk, eager. “Tell me—what does it mean? Why is it linked to the Tenelabrith? In the cave, there was an incantation…” She pulled out her phone and showed him the photo she had taken.

"Eximo Virtutem Ex Invenusto. Ligatura Tenebrae, Vincula Sanguinis."

He stared at the image for a long moment, clearly torn. She could see it in the tight line of his jaw, in the flicker of hesitation in his eyes—the fear, the weight of something he’d carried far too long.

“What I’m about to tell you stays between us,” he said finally. “Not even Mrs. Malfoy can know.”

Hermione nodded once, her heart pounding.

“It’s just a theory,” he began slowly, “but I believe they think Muggle-born infants stole their magic. That it wasn’t meant for them—that it should’ve gone to pure-bloods. In their eyes, every Muggle-born is proof that something sacred was taken.”

Hermione felt her stomach twist.

“They’ve tried to extract that magic before,” he continued. “Through dark rituals. Brutal ones. But they always failed. The children didn’t survive… or they couldn’t be identified young enough—before their magical cores stabilized.”

“And the Tenelabrith?” she asked softly.

“With the Tenelabrith, I think they’ve changed the equation. They can keep the child alive. Contain them. Drain the magic slowly. Stabilize the soul long enough to harvest what they need. What’s left behind isn’t a child anymore—it’s an empty envelope. Useful. Controllable.”
He paused. “They can do it to children, yes… but also to creatures. Even to fully grown Muggle-born wizards.”

The horror settled over her like a shadow.

She looked at him, voice low. “How do you know all this, Arucan?”

He hesitated, then answered with quiet weight. “Samainiq and I… we were together back then. She was probably the woman of my life. But her brother got involved with the Concordia. She believed he was just influenced, that he didn’t fully believe in their ideology.”

Hermione’s breath caught. “Damien.”

He nodded. “We had dinner with her family once. Damien was… vocal. He never liked that she was with me. A Veela. They think we’re demons—manipulators, creatures that use charm as a weapon.”

Hermione gave him a soft, sad smile. She didn’t want to push, but she wanted him to know she understood.

“I can imagine how that felt, Arucan. I’m… questioning my own situation right now, with the man I’m seeing.”

“We had to take different paths,” Arucan said. “When I realized she would never let him burn for what he’d done. She still believed there was good in him—even when he said I was the devil and deserved to burn.”

The silence between them was heavy. Not awkward—just filled with a quiet understanding. A warning neither of them had to say aloud.

A moment later, Hermione glanced at the clock. It was time to go.

She stood, then reached out to shake his hand.

Arucan slipped a small, folded piece of parchment into her palm.
"This is my business card," he said. "But if you ever need to reach me urgently, just write on the back that you’d like a meeting. I’ll make the arrangements."

Hermione smiled, touched by the gesture.
"That’s genius. Thank you, Arucan."

"My pleasure, Hermione. And… I apologize for my earlier reaction. Children are my life."

She nodded with understanding, then quietly closed the door behind her.

Malfoy Apparated just as Hermione stepped out of the hospital. Without hesitation, he walked toward her with a smile and pulled her into his arms. Before she could say a word, he cupped her chin and kissed her—slow, deep, and full of longing.

The way he held her tight told her everything. She felt just how much he’d missed her until that kiss.

She laughed softly, pushing him back a little.
“Malfoy, calm down—we were apart for two hours.”

“It felt like longer,” he murmured, resting his chin gently on top of her hair. “Tell me—how was it? Did you learn anything interesting?”

“It was…” Her voice wavered slightly. “It was interesting.”

She wasn’t ready to tell him everything—not yet. Something inside her twisted at the thought of keeping it from him, but the weight of what she’d learned felt too dangerous, too fragile to speak aloud. Not here. Not now.

Still, she couldn’t lie. Not entirely.

“When we’re back,” she added, stepping slightly out of his arms, “we need to visit the Dark of Veil. There’s a connection between the Muggle-born babies, the Pact of Thorns… and whatever’s hiding behind that Veil.”

She looked up at him then, her eyes searching his. “I’m starting to think that sentence I found in Utah—it’s not just a phrase. It’s an incantation. They’re performing dark rituals, Draco. Dangerous ones.”

His expression shifted immediately. The warmth drained from his face. His jaw tensed, and something behind his eyes flickered—gone in a second, but unmistakable.

Hermione felt it. The wall. The distance.

She took a step back, needing air between them. Her voice softened, but her resolve didn’t waver.

“You knew about the Pact of Thorns.”

He didn’t respond right away. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“I did. I didn’t want to expose you to that… terrorist organization.”

Hermione stopped walking. She turned just enough to meet his eyes, a small, sad smile tugging at her lips—one edged more with disappointment than anger.

Oddly, there was also a trace of relief.

If he believed it was necessary to keep that from her… then maybe it wasn’t entirely wrong that she hadn’t told him everything either. Maybe that was part of what this was—two people learning how to navigate the weight of what they each carried. A relationship still building the foundation of trust it needed.

“That’s why you met with Samainiq and Damien this morning,” she said softly. “Without me. You knew.”

Draco didn’t deny it. He held her gaze for a moment—long, unreadable—before looking away.

“The Pact of Thorns has been active for over a decade now,” he said. “They’ve been operating under different names, hiding behind charitable fronts, political think tanks, research groups. But the core has stayed the same.”

Hermione listened, her heart sinking as the pieces came together.

“They’ve spread everywhere,” he continued. “Canada, Australia, parts of Europe. There are high-ranking officials in magical governments—some even inside the Ministry of Magic in London.”

He shoved his hands into his coat pockets, jaw tightening. The tension radiated off him.

Hermione took a step closer, her voice low but firm.
“What are you not telling me this time?”

He hesitated. Just for a moment. Then he moved toward her, wrapped his arms around her, and with a sharp twist—they Apparated.

They landed in the quiet of their hotel room.

“Here, we can talk freely,” he said.

Hermione didn’t speak. She waited.

“I’ve been asked to infiltrate them,” Draco confessed. “To figure out what they’re planning. With my blood status, and my family’s history… I’m the perfect candidate. Damien’s already involved. Samainiq told me herself.”

Hermione’s expression shifted—shock, pain, understanding, all at once.

“Arucan hates her…”

Draco gave a slow nod.

“She covered for her brother when they were younger. Thought he’d made a mistake. But now…” Draco shook his head. “She knows he wasn’t just influenced. She realizes now—this is what he believes. This is who he is.”

He looked at Hermione, voice lower, harder.
“They’re purebloods, Hermione. And for Damien, that still matters. Samainiq is helping me earn his confidence.”

Hermione’s eyes flashed.
“This is dangerous. You can’t just do things like that.”

“I have no other choice,” Draco said firmly. “This is what I’ve been working on for the last eight years. Building relationships. Infiltrating networks. Trying to understand how they operate—how they spread, how they infect everything. If I can stop another war before it starts… I have to try.”

His voice wasn’t angry—it was tired. Burdened. Weighted with years of pretending, hiding, waiting for the right moment.

She stepped closer and placed her hand gently on his cheek. Her eyes studied him, the sharp lines of his face, the unexpected softness in his expression. He was beautiful in a way that caught her off guard—his hair a little longer than usual, a lock falling over his forehead. She brushed it back slowly.

His eyes—stormy grey—always looked darker when he was with her.

She wanted to ask him more. Ask what he was hiding. Why he never answered certain questions. But something in his posture stopped her. He looked like a man who just wanted a day off from being interrogated. A moment of quiet. Of peace.

He was so tall, his arms wide and strong, his chest broad. Even the shape of his waist—solid and steady—made her feel strangely small.

She stood there, utterly in awe of him. And in that moment, she felt completely protected. Safe. As if nothing in the world could ever harm her, not while she was with him.

"You know," she said quietly, "when I’m with you, I feel like nothing bad can ever happen to me."

He pulled her into his arms, tightening his hold as if anchoring them both.

"And when you’re in my arms," he murmured, "I feel like everything’s finally where it should be. Like I’m home… Hermione."

She lifted her head to look at him, startled.

He had never called her that before.

She was always Granger to him—sharp, distant, guarded.

But Hermione... there was something different in the way he said it. The sound of her name in his voice stirred something in her she couldn’t quite explain. Something that felt like truth.

And strangely… she liked it.

She rose up on her tiptoes and kissed him—softly. It wasn’t demanding, not meant to stir passion or claim anything. She just wanted to share the moment, to seal with her lips the fact that he had called her by her first name—for the first time since they’d known each other.

He kissed her back, and almost immediately, she felt the shift. The softness faded, replaced by a hunger she’d come to recognize in him. His fingers slid into her hair, fisting it, angling her head back as he deepened the kiss—confident, controlling, entirely Draco.

Hermione pressed her hands to his chest, a gentle push—not to stop him, just to breathe.

“You don’t have to devour me every time,” she said with a breathless laugh. “I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.”

He chuckled, his gaze never leaving hers. She could feel the heat still lingering on her lips—swollen from his bite—and the faint blush warming her cheeks. Her heart fluttered when she saw how intently he was watching her, like she was something rare and dangerous and his all at once.

Then he kissed her again. Longer. Slower. Possessive in a way that made her knees weaken. His tongue moved with deliberate care, his teeth catching her lip. Every motion felt like a claim.

When he finally pulled away, Hermione had to steady her breath—because for a moment, she wasn’t sure where she ended, and he began.

“We have to go shortly,” he said, voice low. “Mrs. Lapierre is expecting us for supper. You have time to change, if you’d like.”

She nodded, still a little stunned—not by his words, but by what she felt. There was something unsettling in the way he couldn’t simply be tender. Every kiss was a claim. Every touch, a quiet act of possession. And strangely… that didn’t frighten her. It intrigued her.

But as she turned away, a chill crept down her spine.

For the first time, she wondered if whatever was shifting between them… wasn’t meant to last.

***

Mrs. Lapierre’s apartment was quintessentially Montreal—narrow and elongated, with a long hallway branching off into several rooms before opening into a cozy shared space: a small dining room, a bright kitchen, and a charming patio. But the real treasure was hidden above. A narrow colimaçon staircase led to a beautiful rooftop terrace, enchanting even in winter. Dozens of candles floated gently in the air, their flames flickering against the snowy backdrop. A transparent dome arched over their heads, much like the one that had covered the restaurant terrace the night before, casting a warm glow over the space.

Hermione stood beside Draco; they had arrived first.

Mrs. Lapierre introduced them to her husband, Morosal. He was striking—tall, broad-shouldered, and built like a fortress. Hermione found herself thinking he must’ve been just as imposing as Draco in his younger years, if not more. His hands were massive, like two sculpted blocks of stone, and the contrast with Mrs. Lapierre—so tiny and delicate—was almost comical.

But despite his size, Morosal had the warmth of someone who didn’t take himself too seriously. He laughed often, poured them each a glass of wine, and made affectionate jokes at his wife’s expense, calling her his ‘’Germaine’’ with playful affection. Mrs. Lapierre laughed along, swatting his arm gently and pressing light kisses to his cheek.

They were soon joined by Samainiq, who arrived alone. She offered a brief apology—her brother had a last-minute matter to attend to. Hermione immediately sensed a subtle shift in the air. Mrs. Lapierre looked quietly relieved, but Draco tensed beside her, his body language sharpening just slightly.

Hermione reached for her glass of wine and raised it toward Samainiq’s. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Samainiq. Montreal is beautiful, and I’m truly happy to finally have my magical stones.”

Their glasses clinked softly. Beneath the dome, the candlelight shimmered around them, but Hermione couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something unspoken had settled between them all.

The night had been lovely filled with laughter, stories, and the kind of warmth that made the snowy world outside feel distant. Morosal had outdone himself. Around midnight, he surprised them with a dish he called ‘’poutine’’. It was greasy, indulgent, and absolutely delicious.

They spoke of Samainiq’s training methods, and at some point, she suggested Hermione join her the next morning for an early session. Hermione was about to agree when Draco cut in immediately, his voice low but firm, reminding them they were expected back in England.

Hermione simply placed her hand on his for a moment, then turned to Samainiq with a smile. “I’ll be there.”

She glanced at Draco. “They can wait a few hours. We don’t have anything planned the day we return.”

He nodded, eventually, but she could tell—he wasn’t pleased she hadn’t followed his lead.

They reached the hotel just after 1:00 a.m., and Hermione felt it the moment she stepped into the room. Something was wrong.

He didn’t kiss her. Didn’t touch her. He walked her to her door like a stranger escorting a guest. Polite. Distant.

“Malfoy?” she asked, turning to him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he replied flatly. “Good night, Granger.”

She stepped forward, catching him by the wrist before he could turn away.

“Tell me,” she said, eyes searching his. “What is it? You can’t seriously be mad because I agreed to train with Samainiq tomorrow morning.”

He didn’t respond right away. Then he looked at her—and smiled. But it wasn’t warm. His eyes were cold, dark grey, unreadable. Furious.

“Oh, Merlin,” she muttered. “You are mad. Because I didn’t obey you?”

His smile twisted. “You do whatever you want, Granger. Don’t flatter yourself by thinking your choices matter that much to me.”

The words struck harder than she expected.

“I’m going out,” he added coolly. “I’m expected at a soirée tonight.”

He paused just long enough to make it sting.

“We’ll see each other tomorrow—after your training session.”

She stared at him, confused. Hurt. And when their eyes met again, she saw something shift behind his carefully composed mask—like he hadn’t expected her reaction. Like even he didn’t fully understand why he’d said it.

Hermione exhaled sharply, trying to steady herself.

“This,” she said, her voice steady but low, motioning between them with a small wave of her finger, “this is toxic, Malfoy. And I’m not playing that game.”

She stepped back and opened the door.

“Have a great night,” she added, coolly.

Then she closed it behind her, leaving him standing alone in the hallway.

Chapter Text

The hush of dawn - December 9th, 2006

Hermione was alone. It was painfully early—barely five in the morning. Samainiq had sent her a Portkey the night before, a simple object she only needed to touch to be transported to the forest she so wanted Hermione to see.

Now, she stood at the summit of Mount Royal, wrapped in silence, waiting. The cold air bit at her cheeks, but she welcomed it. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs, and watched as the city below slowly stirred beneath the rising sun. It looked ethereal bathed in hues of gold and lavender, like something out of a dream.

She was focused on her breath, calm and steady, when a sharp crack echoed behind her.

Samainiq appeared suddenly, much closer than expected, and before Hermione could react, she had taken hold of both sides of her body, steadying her with urgent strength.

Hermione startled and tried to pull away. “What’s going on, Samainiq?”

“I needed to see you. Alone. Are we?”

Hermione turned toward her, confused. “Yes, we are. Why?”

“Did he follow you?”

“Who?”

“Malfoy.”

“No. Why would he?”

“You're so naïve…”

The words stung. Hermione blinked, pulling back further, unsure whether it was fear or offense rising in her chest.

“They're using us,” Samainiq said, voice sharp. “Both of them.”

Hermione frowned. “Samainiq, are you alright? What are you talking about?”

“I know you spoke with Arucan—he told me,” Samainiq said, her voice low but intense. “I was once like you, believing what they told us. But they’re liars, Hermione. They’re dangerous.”

Hermione tried to follow, but the words were unraveling too fast. She felt a step behind, unsure where the truth ended, and fear began.

“Who is manipulating us, Samainiq?”

“Your boyfriend. And my brother,” she said without hesitation. “They have their plans—and they need us. Because we hold knowledge. Because we’re powerful. They know that.”

Hermione nodded slowly, silently. A chill ran through her—not from the cold, but from the creeping realization. Why would Arucan have reached out to Samainiq last night? He had specifically told Hermione not to mention their meeting to anyone…

“I’m not sure I follow,” Hermione said carefully.

“Don’t be stupid,” Samainiq snapped. “You know. You felt it. Just like I did.”

Samainiq began pacing, her breath visible in the morning air. There was a wildness in her eyes now—part instinct, part warning.

“Now, more than ever, it’s important we train together,” Samainiq continued, her voice taut with urgency. “I’m moving to England. The U.S. Ministry of Magic election is just days away—and if the frontrunner wins, we’re finished.”

She hesitated, then added more quietly, “And your boyfriend knows. He’s not just aware—he’s involved. Deeply. He’s embedded in politics, Hermione. He hears everything—every shift, every whisper, across borders. I’m certain he’s working with them to influence the vote.”

Hermione stood frozen, stunned by the weight of the revelation. The forest around them was still, but inside her, questions swirled like a rising storm. Her mind reached for logic, for explanations, but nothing settled.

“I know this might sound childish,” she said quietly, “but he’s not my boyfriend. So please—get your facts straight. Especially if you’re going to make accusations like that.” She took a step closer, her eyes narrowing. “You seem completely off balance, Samainiq. What’s really going on?”

Samainiq took a deep breath and stepped closer. Her voice softened, but there was a weight behind it—something fragile and tired.

“I need to tell you everything,” she said. “About my brother. About Malfoy. About the Pact of Thorns.”

Hermione remained still, her chest tightening.

“My brother’s a low-ranking officer,” Samainiq went on. “Not smart enough to climb higher in the hierarchy. But a few months ago, Malfoy approached me. He came to see me first—alone—and slowly, I let him in. I introduced him to my inner circle: Mrs. Lapierre, her husband, my brother, even my mother and father.”

She exhaled, bitter.

“We flirted for a while. Went on a few dates. It felt… intentional.” Samainiq hesitated, then added with a faint, bitter smile, “We slept together a couple of times. He’s… quite impressive.”

Hermione’s face shifted instantly—her expression shattering into something raw and exposed. Hurt rippled through her like a sudden break in glass.

“He did the same thing to you?” Samainiq asked softly.

Hermione didn’t answer. She didn’t move. Her silence said more than words ever could.

“He left me,” Samainiq whispered. “Said it wasn’t me—that he was the problem. That he was a mess.

She looked away, her voice trembling at the edges. “Then he asked me to train someone. A young wizard who needed help with healing practices. Someone not as powerful as I was.”

A dry laugh slipped from her lips. “Merlin, he’s good at keeping us around—if not as lovers, then as useful friends.”

Hermione nodded, numb. “When are you leaving for England? Do you need a place to stay?”

“I’m good for now,” Samainiq replied. “I’ll send you a Patronus as soon as I arrive.”

Hermione gave another small nod, her hand already reaching for the Portkey when Samainiq suddenly caught her arm.

“Don’t share this with Arucan. Or with Malfoy. Please—I’m trusting you.”

Hermione looked at her, searching her face. “You don’t want me to confront him? After everything you just told me?” Her voice cracked slightly. “He sent me to train with you—told you I needed practice. And might I remind you that, while he’s technically not my boyfriend, we’ve been kissing like our lives depend on it for the last three days.”

Samainiq’s eyes were pleading, desperate to convince her—of what, Hermione wasn’t sure. Of the truth? Or of the danger in uncovering it?

“This isn’t just a fleeting romance, Hermione,” Samainiq said, her voice low and fierce. “This is war. The possible return of Voldemort—only more organized, crueller. They’re targeting children now.”

Hermione's chest tightened.

“I warned you back in November,” Samainiq continued, her voice steady but weighted. “He was torn—between old beliefs and new ones. But I was wrong. He never let go of the old ones.”

Then came the pause—sharp, deliberate.

“Did he sleep with you?” she asked bluntly.

Hermione blinked, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

“Did he?” Samainiq repeated, her voice colder now. “He did with me. I’m pureblood—you know that. But he would never willingly sleep with a Muggle-born witch.”

The words struck like a slap, precise and cruel.

Hermione froze, breath lodged in her chest. No answer came to her, only a slow, rising burn in her veins. A silence filled the space between them—thick with disbelief, betrayal, and something dangerously close to heartbreak.

You have to go, don’t wait for him. Go back to England. Speak with your friend Potter. They will know how to act.

Hermione nod. Still numb.

“If you take this Portkey, it will bring you to Iceland. My friend Elowen—she’s a fairy—will help you get to England from there.”

Hermione hesitated. But deep down, she knew meeting with Harry and Ron was the right thing to do. Her backpack was already slung over her shoulder, ready. With the tips of her fingers, she reached out and touched the Portkey.

***

Afternoon, December 12^th, 2006

The office smelled like parchment and old coffee—too clean, too quiet. Ministry light flickered against the dark wood paneling, catching the gold trim of Draco’s uniform. He stood at attention, eyes forward, though his body ached from three nights of poor sleep.

He had returned from Montreal just three days ago, and everything was already unraveling faster than he could anchor it.

“This is a big, bloody mess, Malfoy.”

“I know, sir,” he answered coolly, his voice clipped. “I’m fully aware.”

“Are you in?”

“Yes. I am. They believe it—for now. I still need to prove myself, but… it’s working.”

He didn’t nod. Just watched him too closely.

“And what about…?”

Draco’s jaw tightened. His fingers, wrapped around a folded letter in his palm, subtly squeezed the parchment. He didn’t look down.

“All handled,” he said flatly. His face gave nothing away.

“Fully handled? Or are there loose ends?”

“Almost done, sir. It’s going well.”

A pause. Then the Shacklebolt gave a small nod, satisfied.

“Perfect. You’re doing the right thing, Malfoy.”

Draco looked at him then, just briefly. “That’s what you keep telling me.”

***

Late hours of December 12^th 2006

Hermione was back in her flat. She bent down to pet Crookshanks and filled his bowl with kibble before heading straight to the bathroom for a long, hot shower. It had been three days since her return, and she had already thrown herself back into hospital work—extra shifts, long hours—anything to avoid thinking. Anything to keep the hurt at bay.

Malfoy’s behavior on the last night of their trip still haunted her. The way he had acted—furious that she left with Samainiq—left her reeling. And then there was everything Samainiq had told her. Those words echoed in her mind, leaving her numb. She didn’t know what to think anymore.

That morning, she’d arrived with Elowen, the Elf. Elowen had been striking—long black hair, a strong Elvish accent, dark red lips. Stunning, really. And kind. She had helped Hermione make her way to England, and Hermione had been relieved to finally step back into the quiet of her flat.

She’d sent a Patronus to Shacklebolt to let him know she was back. Not long after, Mimsy delivered Crookshanks. No word from Malfoy.

He probably knew she was back—Shacklebolt must have told him. But still, the silence stung.

She wrapped herself in a hot towel and placed another over her head, twisting it around her damp hair. She was exhausted—bone-deep tired—and needed time to pull herself together. Tomorrow, she was meeting Ginny for lunch. It was Wednesday, her day off, and she intended to use it to think things through.

She had a text from Jonathan—he was wondering if she wanted to grab a drink later tonight. She wasn’t sure it was the best idea, but she didn’t feel like being alone. The truth was, she was clearly trying to avoid herself—and her thoughts about Malfoy.

She chose a simple white shirt, black skirt and layered it with an oversized grey sweater, her leather jacket, and combat boots. She pulled her hair up, added a touch of makeup, and for the first time in days, she felt like herself again. It was good to be home.

She decided to use magic—they were meeting at the pub near the hospital. It was perfectly Muggle, perfectly ordinary, and everything she thought she’d wanted for the past eight years. Jonathan was fun, charming. He paid for the beers, they shared a plate of French fries and talked about work and life in general.

Jonathan was American—his parents were from New York, though they had moved to Australia. It was somewhere he hoped to return to eventually, though for now, he was working in London. The weather, he admitted, was difficult for him—always grey—but he took the opportunity to tell Hermione she was a bit of sunshine in this gloomy country.

She laughed. He touched her hand, slipped his arm around her shoulders. It felt good—easy, warm, uncomplicated. And yet, even as she smiled at him, she knew. She felt comfortable around Jonathan… but it wasn’t the same.

Her stomach didn’t twist like it did with Malfoy. Her skin didn’t tingle from his touch. When Malfoy brushed against her, even accidentally, her breath caught. When he looked at her, truly looked at her, her mouth would go dry. And when he kissed her—Merlins, when he kissed her—it felt like her soul was being pulled from her body, shattered and remade all at once.

Jonathan was attractive, yes. But he was a friend. Nothing more.

“Are you seeing someone?” he asked gently, his fingertips playing with hers.

Hermione hesitated, her throat tightening around the sip of beer she’d just taken. She looked away for a moment, untangling her hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“Not really,” she said quietly. “It’s… complicated.”

Jonathan nodded and slowly pulled his hand back from the table. “I like you, Hermione. And I’d really like to get to know you better. But I’m not the type to beg, or chase after someone who isn’t interested. That’s not who I am.”

He gave her a small smile. “We can be friends. I’m in no rush to be with someone—but I’d be lying if I said you weren’t incredibly attractive. You’re smart, successful, funny... the whole package. Whether as a girlfriend or a friend, you’re the kind of person anyone would be lucky to have in their life.”

Hermione felt a wave of gratitude. It was nice, being with someone like him—no pressure, no confusion. Just the freedom to be present, to enjoy the moment, and see where things might lead.

When Jonathan offered to drive her home, she accepted. They rode through the quiet streets with old music playing softly on the radio, reminiscing about their university years. He told her about a girl he’d once dated—a full-blown goth who was convinced she was a witch. Hermione let out a soft, amused laugh, which quickly turned into a coughing fit.

Jonathan immediately looked over, concerned.
"You, okay?"
She waved a hand with a smile. "It’s nothing. Just a bit of a tickle—I need some water, that’s all."

As they pulled up in front of her flat, she hesitated for only a second before turning to him.
"Would you like to come up for a last drink?"

He smiled. "Sure."

To her surprise, Crookshanks immediately warmed to him, padding over and allowing himself to be scooped up and cradled in Jonathan’s arms, belly exposed.
"That’s new," Hermione said, raising an eyebrow. "He usually hates everyone."
Jonathan grinned, clearly pleased. "Guess I’m charming even to cats."

She poured them each a glass of wine, and they settled onto the sofa, still caught in the nostalgic rhythm of their conversation. He told her about his time at Mount Sinai Hospital—long shifts, wild nights, unforgettable patients. They laughed easily. It felt... easy.

They were sitting close now. Too close. Jonathan gently reached out, tucking away a loose strand that had escaped her bun. She looked at him, smiling, but something in her expression wavered. She wasn’t sure if she wanted this—whatever this was. She hesitated. And in that breath of silence, he leaned in, closing the space between them…

His lips were just about to brush hers when a sharp knock sounded at the front door.

Startled, she pulled back, eyes flicking toward the entrance.
"I have no idea who that could be," she murmured, standing quickly. Jonathan followed her into the hallway.

She leaned toward the peephole—and froze.

Malfoy.

His silver eyes stared straight at her through the glass, cold and unblinking.

"Granger?" His voice was low, impatient. "Are you opening this door?"

She turned slightly, catching Jonathan’s gaze over her shoulder.
"He’s a friend. No worries."

"You sure?" he asked, stepping forward. "Want me to open it for you?"

She glanced at him. Tall, athletic—but not that tall. And definitely not a wizard.

"It’s fine," she said quietly. "He’s a good guy. I’ll handle it."

Jonathan didn’t look convinced.
"You’re sure?"

"I’m sure."

She opened the door and stepped outside, forcing Malfoy to take a step back. His eyes immediately darted past her, locking onto Jonathan inside the flat.

His jaw clenched.

Hermione folded her arms.
"This better be important."

"Tell your friend to go home. We have matters to discuss," he said, resting one hand against the doorframe, crowding her back against the door.

"I won’t do any such thing. You’ll have to come back another time, Malfoy."

"I won’t," he replied coolly. "You left three days ago without telling me."

His demeanor was calm, but there was an unmistakable edge in his voice—anger simmering just beneath the surface.

"You were mad because I didn’t obey you," she whispered. "This is fucked up, Malfoy. I don’t deal with shit like that."

"Let your friend go," he said, voice low. "Or I’ll do it with magic. Obliviate him if I have to."

"You can’t do that—that’s illegal!"

"You have no idea what I’m capable of, Granger."

"This is insane," she hissed, fury rising in her chest, her eyes blazing.

"This is important," he said, unmoved. "And you have until three to make a decision."
He began counting. "One…"

She let out a sharp, frustrated breath and turned back inside, Malfoy following close behind.

"Jonathan," she said, forcing a composed smile, "this is Draco Malfoy. We went to school together. He’s working with some friends of mine—I’m helping with a research project, and he just learned something new. He wanted to share it with me."

Jonathan, clearly unconvinced, took her hand gently.
"You’re sure you’re, okay?"

"I’m totally fine," she said quickly. "I’ll call you tomorrow."

"Alright… but if anything feels off, please don’t hesitate."

Malfoy offered him a tight, polite smile and stepped toward the door.
"That won’t be necessary."

Jonathan hesitated, then leaned in and kissed Hermione on both cheeks. He grabbed his jacket, cast one last warning glance at Malfoy, and left.

The moment Malfoy closed the door, she exploded.

"What the fuck, Malfoy? What do you think you're doing?"

He turned to her slowly, and the look in his eyes made her pause. They were dark—almost black with fury. She stood her ground, jaw clenched, but a flicker of unease stirred in her chest.

"Who the hell is he?" he snapped. "Don’t tell me you’re dating him. He’s a Muggle. Is that what you want?"

She blinked at him, momentarily thrown.
"What do you mean—if I want him?"

"Don’t twist my words, Hermione," he said, voice low and tight. "Are you on a date with him? Do you want him?"

A wave of confusion and disbelief washed over her. Why did it matter? Why did he want to know?

He took a step forward, reaching toward her shoulder. She flinched. His hand stopped mid-air and dropped back to his side.

"Why do you care?" she shot back. "This has nothing to do with you."

"I asked you a simple question," he said, colder now. "Answer it."

She stared at him, breath quickening.
"Why? So you can sneer at me? Call me disgusting again? Because he doesn’t. He actually thinks I’m worth something."

He moved too fast. Before she could react, he grabbed her by the arms and yanked her closer, his grip rough, unforgiving.

"Do you?" he demanded.

"Do what?" she asked, voice catching.

"Fuck him?"

The words hit her like a slap. Harsh. Vicious. His jaw was locked, and his hands were like ice on her skin. The fury radiating from him was almost unbearable—it pressed against her, filled the room.

"What's wrong with you?" she gasped. "Let me go!"

"Not until you tell me." His voice dropped again, so close to her ear it sent a shiver down her spine. "Did you fuck him?"

She tore herself from his grip and stumbled back until she hit the edge of her desk. Her eyes caught on the mirror behind him. She barely recognized the woman reflected back—tense, guarded, cornered. For a second, something like fear sparked in her chest. Not fear of him—she had never truly feared Malfoy. But this version of him… this moment… it rattled something inside her.

She straightened her spine and lifted her chin, folding her arms tightly across her chest.

"What if I did?" she snapped.

His eyes darkened impossibly further, lips tightening as though her words had wounded him deeply.

She took another step back, pulse racing. Why did he always have this effect on her? How could her body betray her, still responding—still flushed and alive under his gaze?

Then suddenly, he was on her again.

In one swift motion, he closed the distance between them. One hand tangled in her hair, the other curled firmly around her throat—not painfully, but commanding. Possessive.

"Let me go," she demanded, voice shaking. "You fucked Samainiq," she spat bitterly. "I didn't come knocking on your door demanding explanations."

His eyes narrowed dangerously, realization flickering through his gaze. "She told you already," he said softly. "That's why you left..."

He studied her intently, and for a brief moment, something shifted in his expression—a hesitation, a crack in his armor. She sensed he was on the verge of revealing something, but the vulnerability vanished almost instantly, replaced by a mask of cold anger.

"You didn't fuck him," he hissed through clenched teeth. "You kissed me like you were starving three nights ago, and now you expect me to believe the golden girl just throws herself at someone else? At him?"

She shoved at his chest, but it was useless. He didn't budge—not even an inch.

"Maybe I want him," she snapped through gritted teeth. "Maybe he makes me feel things I never feel with you."

He leaned in, his mouth mere inches from hers, breath hot against her, voice dark and menacing.

"Let me remind you, Hermione," he said, low and dangerous. "Exactly how much I make you feel."

His lips crashed onto hers.

For a moment, she was frozen—too stunned to react. She didn’t feel anything but shock, breath caught in her throat, her body rigid. But then he bit her lower lip, hard enough to sting, and the sharp edge of pain jolted her back into her body. A rush of heat surged through her veins like fire.

The world tilted.

Everything else—her flat, the air between them, even Jonathan—ceased to exist. There was only Draco. His mouth, his scent, his presence overwhelming every sense. She responded before she could think, her fingers gripping the front of his shirt, yanking him closer. Her kiss turned fierce, desperate. She bit his lip in return, tangled her tongue with his, slid her hand into his hair and tugged until he groaned.

Draco let her take control—for a moment.

Then his hands slid to her waist, rough and wanting, and she felt the restraint crack. His touch ignited something dangerous inside her. He pushed beneath her shirt, fumbling slightly until he freed her breasts from the tight clasp of her bra. His thumb brushed over her nipple.

She moaned—deep, involuntary, primal.

That was all it took. With fluid strength, he lifted her and placed her onto the edge of the desk. The cool wood beneath her thighs contrasted sharply with the burning heat that was rapidly building inside her. Her fingers found the hem of his shirt, tugging at it desperately, aching to feel his skin beneath.

Their mouths broke apart, and she released a soft, frustrated noise.

Draco let out a low, husky laugh, his breath hot against her cheek.

God, she could feel him, hard and pressing insistently against her—she knew she was only making it worse.

Her skirt bunched around her hips as he stripped away her clothing—first her shirt, then her bra—until she was bare from the waist up. When he eased her back onto the desk, his gaze never wavered. He paused for just a moment, his eyes moving slowly over her body as though committing every detail to memory. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, unsteady breaths beneath his intense stare.

Her nipples peaked in the cold air. Her hair was a mess of curls and static, her lips red from kisses and bites.

He looked at her like she was something sacred.
"You're so fucking beautiful, Granger," he murmured, voice full of awe. "You’re… amazing."

Heat flooded her cheeks. Without thinking, she reached to cover herself with her arm.

But his hand was there in an instant, stopping her.
"Don’t," he said, the edge of command unmistakable.
"I like you like this. Naked. For me."

She swallowed hard. There was no space to hide here—no distance, no defense. Just the wild thrum of her pulse and the raw intensity in his eyes.

He raised two fingers to her lips.

"Lick."

She hesitated. Just a breath. But then she obeyed, letting her tongue curl around his fingers, warm and soft. Something about the way he watched her made her thighs press tighter together. Her body was betraying her—no, not betraying. Revealing her.

Draco withdrew his fingers from her mouth and slid them down between her legs.

She gasped.

He didn’t even glance down—his eyes stayed locked fiercely on hers as he stroked two fingers slowly across her clit before easing them deep inside her, drawing out the movement in a torturous rhythm.

"I didn't even need your saliva," he whispered roughly. "You're already dripping wet for me."

His thumb pressed firmly against her clit, moving in tight, deliberate circles as his lips claimed hers, swallowing every moan she made.

"I'll be the one to give you your first orgasm," he murmured possessively. "Not him. Not anyone else. Me."

She could sense how hard it was for him to hold back. She lay nearly bare beneath him—vulnerable, trembling—while he remained fully clothed, perfectly composed. And yet, instinct told her that if he slipped, even for a second, he’d lose himself entirely to her.

His fingers moved faster, drawing soft, broken moans from her lips. Her thighs closed tightly around his hand, hips rocking as her head tipped back, throat exposed to his kiss—his bite. She was close, so close.

“Draco,” she gasped, breathless, desperate. “Please—”

“That’s it. Come on,” he murmured, voice thick with want. “Look at me.”
He cupped her jaw, pulling her forward until their foreheads touched, lips brushing without kissing. “I want to see you. I want you to remember that it was me—me—who gave you your first orgasm.”

Her eyes fluttered open, locking onto his just as the climax tore through her—sharp, overwhelming, undeniable. She let out a strangled cry, her body shaking, undone. One hand clutched his forearm, nails digging into taut muscle. The tension beneath her fingers, the solid strength of him, only pushed her higher.

Her head dropped back against the wall, breath catching, chest heaving. Her body was still humming, nerves alight, skin flushed and oversensitive. She looked at him through half-lidded eyes, biting her lip. He hadn’t moved—still fully clothed, still watching her with that storm in his eyes, dark and conflicted.

She reached for his belt, fingers brushing the buckle, needing him—needing more.

But he caught her wrist.

Gently. Firmly.

He raised it above her head, holding it there as his other hand came to rest on her cheek.

“Please don’t, Granger,” he whispered, voice ragged, trembling at the edge. “We can’t. We shouldn’t.”

His breath was uneven, his jaw tight. He looked at her like she was both salvation and ruin.

She froze, her chest tightening with something that felt too raw to name.

"Because I'm a Mudblood..." she whispered, the word sharp on her tongue, daring him to flinch.

He didn’t flinch.

He stared down at her, eyes dark with something that looked so much like sorrow it made her ache.

“If only you knew…” he murmured.

Then his lips were on hers again—soft, aching, full of reverence and restraint. It wasn’t like before. This kiss was slower. Sadder. Like an apology and a goodbye in one.

Her fingers threaded into his hair, pulling him closer, legs tightening around his waist, desperate to hold him there. His fingers brushed her jaw, feather-light, as though she might break.

“Tell me…” she breathed against his mouth. “Tell me, Draco. What is it?”

He drew back slightly, and for a heartbeat, she saw it—all of it. The war behind his eyes. The fear. The wanting.

And for that one suspended second, she was sure he would trust her. That he would finally let her in.

But then his gaze shifted—cooling, shuttering. The storm in his eyes faded into that familiar, polished grey. Controlled. Detached.

He looked at her like a man standing on the edge of a cliff who’d just reminded himself why he couldn’t jump.

“Don’t ask me for what I can’t give,” he said quietly.

Then he let her go.

Chapter Text

Greengrass Manor, December 20th

“I’m glad you could join me, son,” came the deep voice from the entry to the salon.

Draco turned slowly, jaw tight. He schooled his features into something neutral and stepped forward, extending a hand with practiced politeness.

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Greengrass.”

“You can call me Malcom, son. We’re nearly family now,” the man replied, gripping Draco’s hand with too much familiarity before pulling him into an embrace.

Draco didn’t resist, but he didn’t return it either. The word family rang hollow in his ears.
“Tell me, sir,” he said coolly, “is there anything else I should bring to the table to ensure I’m truly part of the pack?”

“Sit, sit, my boy. Let’s have a glass of Firewhiskey first—we’ll talk after.”

A house-elf appeared silently with a silver tray bearing two glasses. Draco took one and swirled the amber liquid, watching how it caught the light.

“Are they all muted?” he asked, eyes still fixed on his glass.

Malcom raised a brow, momentarily confused—until understanding dawned.
“The elves? Ah. Yes. Daphnée can’t stand their voices—says they scratch at her nerves. My Daphnée...”

His voice softened with unexpected fondness.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he added, leaning back in his chair, “I hold both my girls in high esteem. Astoria takes after her mother—graceful, composed, deliberate in every move. But Daphnée... she’s mine through and through. Passionate, stubborn, a little unhinged, maybe—but by Merlin, does she know how to fight for her beliefs.”

He raised his glass in Draco’s direction.
“That’s what I value most, you know. Fire. Conviction. Everything else is just polish.”

Draco nodded once more.

Merlin, the man grated on him.
There was something about Malcom Greengrass—so intense, so performative—it set his teeth on edge. Yet beneath the theatrics, Draco could see the truth: the man was clever. Cunning, even. He wielded conversation like a wand, twisting words into power, posture into dominance.

And he was mad. Not the harmless sort. No—his madness was dangerous. Obsessive. The kind that burned behind pale green eyes and whispered of futures written in blood.

Draco knew—without a shred of doubt—that if it came to a duel now, precision wouldn’t be enough. Not even strategy. You needed something darker. The kind of magic Hogwarts avoided until seventh year. The kind whispered in drawing rooms at midnight, passed down through generations polished in legacy and lies.

And even then… it still might not be enough.

He sat across from Malcom, dressed in black from head to toe—tailored suit, silk shirt, narrow tie. It felt ceremonial. Like slipping into an old memory. Somewhere, somehow, the same story was being told again.

“They’ll come to you shortly,” Malcom said, swirling his drink. “They’re impressed. And even if they have doubts—which I told them they shouldn’t—they’re pleased to welcome you into the ranks. It’s not every day they receive the youngest Death Eater to ever serve the Dark Lord.”

Draco’s jaw tightened. “They know I failed the assignment he gave me.”

“They do,” Malcom replied without missing a beat. “But they also remember they joined much later, with far less at stake. None of them were seventeen. None were asked to do what you were asked to do. And very few succeeded every time.”

He leaned forward, his voice lowering to something confidential, conspiratorial.
“They’re not here for your shame, Draco. Well—” he allowed himself a small smirk, “maybe a few are. Jealous, most likely. You’ve risen again. You’re about to be engaged to the daughter of the most influential Death Eater still standing. A member of the Pact of Thorns.”

He lifted his glass.
“We’re not just reclaiming England. We’re laying the foundation for something far greater. A new order—one that will stretch across borders.

You’ve threaded your way through the political web. Embedded yourself among the Order’s ranks. Uncovered fragments of their strategy. You got your parents pardoned—brought back into society without too much time in Azkaban for your father. Not many can say the same.”

Malcom’s eyes gleamed now—feverish, almost reverent.

“And soon, we’ll uncover the purpose of the Tenelabrith. The key to bringing him back. And this time, there’s no Dumbledore. No Severus. No one strong enough to stop him.”

He leaned back again, letting his words settle like ash in the silence.

“So, believe me when I say this: they’re not coming because of your failure. They’re coming because of your redemption. Because you fooled the Order. Because you survived. And now… they want to know what you’re ready to give.”

“They’re coming tonight?” Draco asked, the words cool, carefully detached.

“Yes. And they will ask you for the truth, my son.”

Draco gave a short nod and set his untouched drink on the table.

“You don’t like your Firewhiskey, my son?”

Draco rose, struggling to keep the heat in his blood from spilling into his voice.
“No. It’s excellent, as always. I just need to keep a clear head when they arrive. I want to offer them as many details as I can.”

Malcom’s gaze gleamed with paternal pride.
“You’ll make a fine second-in-command when the time comes… when I take my place as Prime Minister.”

Draco met his eyes—those cold, pale green eyes that mirrored Astoria’s. Calculating. Empty.

But he suddenly had hazel eyes lingered in his mind. Brown, warm, pleading, asking, for the truth and for a fleeting moment, he almost wished he could.

***

Hermione’s flat, December 20^th, 2006

It had been eight days since she last saw Malfoy. Eight days since he gave her her first…
She shook her head, willing the thought away—and he stormed out without a word.

Their training sessions had been cancelled last week, but they were supposed to meet today, at 42 Raven Row. Hermione wasn’t sure if it was still on. Maybe it had been called off again, and she’d just missed the owl. Deep down, she knew she was looking for an excuse not to go.

She was hurt.

The Ministry had asked for her help in their search against the Tenelabrith. She had felt useful, even trusted. But now… it felt like she’d been pushed aside. Especially by Malfoy. Like she'd been a pawn in some larger game she didn’t understand—and worse, that she’d let herself fall for it.

At twenty-seven, she should’ve known better.

Still, she pulled on a pair of leggings and a dark long-sleeved shirt, tied her hair back with little care, and Apparated to just outside 42 Raven Row.

She hesitated.

Then knocked—half-hoping no one would answer.

But the door creaked open on its own.

She stepped inside, heart thudding, unsure what she even wanted to find.

And there he was.

Sitting on the couch, one leg crossed casually over the other, his posture relaxed but watchful. He looked at her—slowly, deliberately—his gaze moving from her boots to her eyes.

“Granger,” he said, cool and unreadable.

She swallowed, her voice tight. “Malfoy.”

“Ready for some combat lessons?” His voice was cool, almost mocking. “We’ll go upstairs.” And before she could answer, he apparated with a crack.

Hermione made her way slowly to the staircase, trying to steady herself. She climbed up, nerves jangling, and stepped into the training room—just as a spell slammed into her right arm.

Her wand clattered to the floor. Pain jolted up her arm.

“Aie! Malfoy—what the fuck?”

He was on her in an instant, pressing his wand to her temple. His expression was hard, but beneath it, she saw something else… Worry. Frustration. Care.

“We’ve had this discussion before, Granger. You need to be ready. You need to take this seriously.”

His hand came up, firm on her jaw, forcing her to meet his eyes. They were searching, concerned in spite of his harshness.

“Are you okay?” she managed, breathless.

He released her, summoning her wand and placing it back in her hand.

“Please, Granger. Fight back. Take this seriously.”

For the next two hours, spells and curses flew between them. He didn’t hold back—dodging, countering, showing her again and again how to deflect, how to shield, how to strike. He was relentless, and so was she.

Now, breathless and flushed, she sat before the old mirror in the training room, her hair tangled and a faint bruise already forming on her forearm. She caught his gaze in the reflection—he was watching her, silent, unreadable.

Their eyes locked.

"I don’t understand," she said, voice low but firm. "You storm into my place, you ask me to say goodbye to my friend, you kiss me like you mean it—and then you vanish. You said you had something important to tell me."

She turned to face him now, her tone rising with each word.

"And now this? The cold version of you again? I’m tired, Malfoy. This is not okay."

His eyes didn’t waver, but something flickered in them—guilt, maybe, or pain. She couldn’t tell.

"Why won’t you just tell me the truth?" she asked. "What’s going on?"

He stepped toward her.
Slow. Deliberate.

His voice, when it came, was quiet. Controlled.

“We’ll visit the Veil. I was supposed to tell you that the other day.”

“Eight days ago?” she snapped. “And we still haven’t gone!”

“I… We got busy with other things.”

She crossed her arms, eyes narrowing. “Don’t give me that. You kissed me, vanished, and now this cryptic half-truth. What the hell is going on?”

“I’ll take you tomorrow night. Before training.”

“Training? It’s once a week.”

“We need to train more often,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind.

She stared at him. “You know something, Malfoy. Something’s happening.”

He didn’t answer. But his silence said enough. That’s when she noticed how close he was—just inches away.

He extended his hand.

For a heartbeat, she hesitated.

Then, she placed hers in his.

He helped her to her feet and, without a word, pulled her into his arms. His hold was firm—protective, desperate. His breath ghosted against her hair.

“I…” he began, voice rough, but the words caught in his throat. He lowered his head, burying his face in her hair, clinging to her like she might vanish.

She stood frozen for a moment, heart pounding—then pushed back just enough to meet his eyes.

“Stop,” she whispered. “You can’t do that.”

His brow furrowed.

“You don’t get to hold me like this and shut me out,” she said, voice trembling. “I won’t allow it. This—whatever this is—it’s toxic. It’s cruel. And it’s not fair.”

She stepped back fully, leaving the space between them wide and cold.

“Stop playing with me, Malfoy.”

He nodded, jaw tight. “Let’s meet tomorrow at six, at the ministry. Is that okay with you?”

She hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Fine.”

And without another word, she apparated away.

***

Ministry of Magic, December 21^st, 2006

Hermione walked through the entrance of the Ministry, her footsteps echoing in the quiet corridor. It was the holiday season, and most Ministry employees were already on leave, spending Christmas with their families.

This year, she was heading to the Burrow—she’d join the Weasleys, Harry, and a few other friends.

She took the stairs instead of the lift, letting her hand trail along the cold brass of the rail. Her thoughts drifted.

If her parents were still here, she probably would’ve spent Christmas with them. The familiar ache settled in her chest—a quiet compression she’d grown used to. She closed her eyes briefly, shook her head, and kept climbing toward the joint office of Shacklebolt and Malfoy.

They were both there when she stepped in.

“Minister Shacklebolt how are you?” she greeted politely.

He smiled warmly and moved toward her, arms already open.
“What did I tell you, Hermione? Please—just Shacklebolt. Like everyone else.”

She laughed and stepped into the hug.
“How’s everything?” he asked, pulling back.

“I’m good. Busy. Lots of work at the hospital. I’m finishing my foundation in January, and then I’ll be working full-time.”

“Congratulations, Hermione. That’s really great news.”

Malfoy stood silently in the doorway of his office, hands in the pockets of his grey trousers. He wore a crisp white polo and spotless white Lacoste shoes.

She suddenly felt out of place in her winter hat, Gryffindor scarf, and scuffed combat boots over faded jeans.

“Granger,” he said politely, stepping forward.

The room, so warm and welcoming a moment ago, shifted—cooler now, tense.

She gave a curt nod. “Malfoy.”

“Shall we? I’d like for us to train tonight as well.”

She glanced back at Shacklebolt and gave a small wave goodbye.

“Anything new on the Tenelabrith, Hermione?” he asked.

“Not yet, sir,” she replied. “But I was hoping to gather more information once I visit the Veil here at the Ministry.”

He nodded, expression serious. “Be cautious—both of you. The Veil is dangerous.”

Hermione’s mouth twisted into a sad, wry smile. “Unfortunately, I’m aware. We lost Sirius to the Veil… when Draco’s aunt killed him.”

She saw him tense beside her. For a moment, she wasn’t sure why she said it—whether it was petty or pointed—but it felt good, in a way. Like reclaiming something.

Shacklebolt looked between them, his tone measured. “One shouldn’t bear the sins of their family.”

Draco’s eyes flicked to him—sharp, glacial.

“That’s what I’ve been told… many times,” he said quietly. Then, turning to Hermione, “Shall we go, Granger?”

They left the office, footsteps echoing as they made their way through the quiet corridors of the Ministry. The stillness of the holiday season made the space feel cavernous, almost eerie.

They descended in silence until they reached the lift, and Draco pressed the button for Level Nine.

“The Department of Mysteries,” Hermione said, more to herself than to him.

Draco gave a short nod. “The Death Chamber.”

She glanced at him. “I’ve never seen it… I was knocked out by a silent curse—Dolohov’s—on the day Sirius died.”

Draco’s jaw clenched. She noticed the way his hand curled into a fist at his side.

“Have you?” she asked softly.

“Cursed by Dolohov? No,” he said, lifting a brow, trying to lighten the mood. “I have standards.”

She rolled her eyes, but he caught the small smile tugging at her lips. He smirked, satisfied.

They lapsed into silence again, each falling back into their own thoughts.

“Yes,” he said eventually. His voice was quieter now. “A long time ago. Shacklebolt gave me a tour of the Ministry—back when they were still trying to reintegrate me. He brought me to Level Nine, told me what happened to Black... I think he meant it as a warning.”

Hermione looked away, unsure how to respond.

The lift doors slid open with a soft ding, revealing the dim corridor that led to the Department of Mysteries.

“I remember,” she murmured. “It’s always cold here.”

Draco didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.

They walked in silence, their footsteps softened against the worn stone floor. At the end of the corridor, the heavy door clicked open on its own, as if the shadows themselves were expecting them.

The room beyond was frigid—deathly cold. Quiet, too, in that unsettling way that made it feel like sound itself had been swallowed whole.

It was shaped like an amphitheater, carved entirely from ancient grey stone. Tiered benches circled the vast chamber, descending toward a central dais.

It felt like a courtroom. Or a tomb.

At the heart of it stood the archway.

The Veil.

It was impossibly old—arched stone weathered by time, cracked and pitted. A tattered grey curtain hung within it, fluttering ever so slightly, though there was no breeze. The whispering began immediately, soft and distant—like voices calling from underwater, just out of reach.

Hermione took a few steps forward, drawn to it by something she couldn’t quite explain.

“Granger,” Malfoy said sharply, catching her wrist.

She turned, startled.

“Be careful. Let’s go together.”

She paused, eyes locking with his. Then, gently, she pulled her arm from his grip—but didn’t protest.

“Fine,” she said quietly. “We’ll go together.”

They descended the last few steps side by side, the Veil waiting—breathing, almost—as if it knew they had come.

Hermione faced it fully now, the whispers curling around her ears, soft and strange. She stepped a little closer, eyes tracing the carved letters etched into the ancient stone of the archway. Her fingers reached out, brushing against the inscription.

Eximo Virtutem Ex Invenusto. Ligatura Tenebrae, Vincula Sanguinis.

“It’s the same incantation we found in the cave,” she murmured. “The one on the chest.”

Draco stood beside her, his expression grave.

“They must’ve used it for something,” she said. “The Tenelabrith... they’re connected to this. I’m certain of it.”

The voices from beyond the Veil grew louder in her ears, not words exactly—more like emotion, sensation, memory. She didn’t notice right away that Malfoy had taken a step forward.

His eyes had gone almost silver, pale and cold. His skin looked strange under the shifting light—thin, nearly translucent.

“Malfoy?” she asked, her voice sharp with alarm. “What’s going on?”

“This thing... it’s extremely powerful,” he said, his voice low and distant. He took another step toward the Veil, eyes locked on the undulating shimmer as if something unseen was calling to him. His hand lifted, fingers stretching out, drawn by an invisible tether.

“Draco!” she cried, grabbing his wrist just before his fingers touched the surface.

He froze.

His eyes flicked to hers, confused at first—as though it took him a few seconds to remember where he was. Then recognition flickered through them, and he blinked rapidly, stumbling back a step.

“Please,” she said more gently, her grip still firm on his wrist. “Step back. I think it’s pulling you in.”

He stared at her, visibly shaken. “I—I didn’t even realize…”

“This is a powerful instrument of dark magic,” she murmured. “I can feel the negative energy radiating off it. Can’t you?”

He looked at her, wide-eyed. “I only feel its power,” he whispered. “The line between good and evil—it’s nearly invisible here. I know it’s dark, but I can’t sense the wrongness. It just… calls.”

She studied him, both fascinated and deeply unsettled. “That’s… interesting. And terrifying.”

She reached out, brushing her fingers against his sleeve. “Stay back. Don’t come too close. It’s calling to you in a way it’s not calling to me. It’s speaking to you.”

He gave a tight nod and stepped away. “Be careful, Granger,” he said, voice low and rough.

He remained behind her now, unwilling—or perhaps unable—to approach again. She was able to see how unhappy he was about this, he didn’t seem to be used to be behind and that was taking a toll on him.

Hermione opened her satchel and pulled out her weathered notebook, its pages covered in frantic scribbles, diagrams, and translations. She unfolded a scrap of parchment, eyes quickly scanning the ancient script she had copied in the cave.

Drawing the small stone from her pocket—the bloodstone—she cast a series of protective spells. The incantations were whispered, steady, and deliberate. Pale light shimmered briefly around the archway.

“They’re Canadian wards,” she said, not looking back. “White magic. Protective in nature… They should at least stop you from jumping in.” She added the last part with a dry attempt to lighten the mood, but it fell flat.

Malfoy didn’t smile. His expression tight with displeasure, clearly not amused at being brushed aside.

Her voice dropped as her fingers traced the runes carved into the stone.

“I don’t think the Veil is just a threshold between life and death. It’s a passage… for the Tenelabrith. A way to move between worlds. I think they can use it—to bring back the dead. Not all of them. Just the ones who were killed, but never truly gone. The ones whose spirits are still… tethered.”

She paused, her voice thinning into a whisper.

“Like Voldemort.”

The name hadn’t even faded before the Veil reacted. A cold gust swept forward. A whisper followed—high, sharp, like a scream wrapped in silk—curling through the chamber like smoke.

Hermione gasped, stumbling back. Her instincts took over. Without thinking, her hand reached for Draco’s arm. He caught her, steadying her, and pulled her close.

“That’s enough, Granger. Let’s go,” he said, voice low but firm.

“No,” she answered, pulling away from him and stepping closer to the Veil again. “That’s it,” she whispered, circling the archway. “They’re going to use it to bring him back. I don’t know how, not yet, but the Tenelabrith are involved. I’m sure of it. And it’s connected to the attacks on Muggle-borns—maybe they need conductors, more magic. Maybe it’s tied to the Extraction Ritual. The Pact of Thorns—the old Tenebrae Concordia organisation.”

At the name, Draco stiffened. His jaw clenched, lips thinning into a hard line as he stared at her.

“I said that’s enough, Granger,” he repeated, voice sharper now, angrier.

“Wait,” she said quickly. “I need to see it—just one last time.”

She stepped forward once more, toward the whispering stone. Her palm met its cold surface again. At first, she didn’t notice—but then, a small hand emerged from the grey veil beside hers, and a tiny finger curled tightly around her thumb.

A scream tore from her throat as the hand tugged—not just on her body, but on something deeper. She felt her soul lurch forward, breath caught in her chest, as if life itself was being pulled from her.

The Veil stirred, unfurling like a gust of wind.

And then they saw her.

A small child stood within the archway. Long blond hair spilled over her shoulders, and her eyes—icy, piercing blue—locked onto Hermione’s.

Hermione’s heart clenched. A wave of grief surged through her. The child’s sadness was immense—ancient—and it pressed against Hermione’s very bones.

The little girl reached out again, her hand trembling, trying to pull her in.

“Hoc fatum est: furum stirps sumus, et quod suum fuit, receperunt.”

At first, it was a whisper, barely audible over the low hum of magic. But then the girl began to scream the words—louder, higher, until her voice echoed off the stone walls. Her form began to unravel, limbs melting into something black and shifting. Something no longer human.

“Hoc fatum est: furum stirps sumus, et quod suum fuit, receperunt.”

She felt Draco’s hands on her waist, firm and steady, wrapping fully around her as he pulled her against him. His breath brushed the crown of her head, shallow and tense—he was just as stunned as she was.

And yet… she didn’t feel afraid.

She didn’t know if it was the Veil’s influence or the solid press of Draco’s body behind her. But somewhere, deep down—buried beneath the static in her mind—she knew he wouldn’t let anything happen to her.

The creature was still shifting. Its limbs writhed unnaturally, its form unraveling and reforming—into something disturbingly familiar.

She narrowed her eyes.

I’ve seen this before…

The thought came from nowhere, sharp and certain. But before she could place it, her mind veered—pulled sideways like a current dragging her off course. She wasn’t in the Department of Mysteries anymore.

She was with him.

Malfoy.

Her thoughts locked onto him, disjointed and overwhelming. He had hurt her—over and over, for the past two months. And yet here she was, held in his arms like something precious. She breathed him in like he was safety itself.

Focus, she told herself. But the Veil was working on her—she could feel it now. Her mind was fraying at the edges, reality bending.

Her gaze flicked back to the creature. It was still changing—still becoming.

Where… where have I seen it? Her fingers twitched at her side.

She felt Draco shift beside her, the warmth of his arm moving as he drew his wand in one swift, practiced motion and aimed it at the Veil.

She blinked, dazed.

I didn’t even think to draw mine.

The realization hit like a slap. Shame rose in her throat, thick and bitter like bile. What kind of Witch forgets her wand? she thought, wincing. Pathetic.

Then the scream came—high, sharp, unnatural.

The creature opened its mouth, and its body glided toward her in that weightless, horrifying way. And still, she didn’t move.

Her arm lifted, slow and uncertain, finger pointing toward the figure like she was caught in a trance.

Draco yanked her back with a sudden force, shielding her with his body. She barely registered the motion before she felt it—his magic, raw and electric, surging like a storm through the narrow space between them.

He cast the spell low and steady, voice tight with focus.

“LUMEN EXSALO!”

The magic ripped from him like lightning, cracking the air as it tore through the chamber. It wasn’t like the last time. This time, it was darker—deeper. Sharper. Controlled. Burning with purpose.

He was in control now. She could feel it in the way the spell moved—precise, deliberate.

He’s been practicing, she thought, the certainty settling in her chest like ice.

Dark magic. Dark art.

And he wielded it with confidence.

The creature reeled, its form flickering violently before it slipped backward, retreating into the depths of the Veil. It didn’t vanish—not completely—but it no longer pressed forward. The Veil held it now, as though protecting them. Or caging it.

Hermione could feel it—how the dark magic pushed the entity back, repelling it with violent force… and yet, in some twisted way, feeding it too. Nourishing its existence even as it rejected it.

Her head spun.

She was still dazed, her thoughts cloudy and stretched thin—threads of memory tangling like spider silk. Visions. Voices. Flashes of something that didn’t quite belong to her. Not entirely.

Her heart pounded—not just from fear, but from something older. Deeper.

Something ancient.

Something waking.

Her vision blurred. The world tilted.

And then—she felt her body collapse into Malfoy’s arms, weightless.

“Hermione,” he breathed—tight, raw, laced with worry… and something else. Something that sounded like pain.

Then the dark swallowed her whole.

Chapter Text

Suspended between moment, December 21^st, 2006

Hermione awoke in darkness, disoriented, her shoulders burning with searing pain. Her wrists were shackled, the cold metal biting cruelly into her skin. She must have lost consciousness—she felt as though she'd been suspended, her body's full weight relentlessly pulling at her limbs.

Voices whispered through the shadows, indistinct murmurs slipping like smoke through the gloom. Panic sharpened her senses, and she realized abruptly she could stand. Her legs trembled violently as her feet met solid ground. Pressing her back against the chill of the stone wall, she struggled to steady her breathing.

Where the fuck am I?

She narrowed her eyes instinctively, desperate to pierce the dense darkness. Who was speaking? Who else was here with her?

A metallic scraping noise shattered the silence—the unmistakable sound of a key turning in an ancient lock. Footsteps echoed, slow and deliberate, across a stone floor. A dungeon. She was in a dungeon. But how? She’d been at the Ministry with Malfoy moments ago… hadn’t she?

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. Something burned fiercely along her arm, warm and wet, trickling steadily down toward her wrist. It hurt—deeply, sharply. What the fuck is happening? Hermione battled the panic clawing at her chest, struggling to breathe evenly.

The air shifted suddenly, growing colder, as if someone had stepped closer. Even without seeing clearly, she felt the oppressive presence looming near her.

“The bastards,” a low, familiar voice drawled, edged with grim amusement. “They’re getting creative.”

Hermione’s pulse quickened, recognition sparking a flood of confusion. She strained harder into the darkness, desperate and wide-eyed. Someone else was here. Someone she knew. She recognized that voice…

“Malfoy?” she whispered weakly.

But the darkness surged again, pulling fiercely at her consciousness. Her world twisted violently, slipping from her grasp as everything faded into oblivion once more. Sounds became distant, distorted. A voice called her name urgently through the haze.

“Granger? Granger, open your eyes—it's me. Malfoy.”

His voice was clearer now, insistent, pulling her back into awareness. Hermione forced her eyelids open, flinching at the stabbing pain that immediately throbbed behind her eyes.

“Malfoy?” she murmured, disoriented. Her vision blurred, gradually sharpening to reveal his pale face hovering anxiously above her. “What… what happened? Where are we?”

Instinctively, she pulled away, panic reigniting within her. The dungeon’s chill and the memory of burning pain lingered vividly, though now dulled and muted beneath her confusion.

“We’re still in the Death Chamber,” Malfoy said quietly, voice controlled yet strained. “You’re all right now—but the Tenelabrith attacked you again. They were pulling at you. Something was leaving your body, pale and white, like a mist. I've never seen anything like it.”

Hermione stared at him, dread twisting coldly in her stomach. She felt his grip tighten protectively around her, anchoring her against the shudder that passed through her.

“The more they took, the stronger they became,” he continued grimly. “I could feel their power growing, feeding off you.”

“They were stealing my magic, Malfoy,” Hermione whispered, voice raw and hollow.

Malfoy’s gaze hardened, almost fierce, as his arm tightened further around her.

“When I attacked them—when they released you—everything rushed back into your body.”

She nodded faintly, again trying to pull away from his embrace and rise. This time, he let her. As she stood shakily, she could see clearly the worry etched into his face.

“Are you okay?” he asked cautiously.

“I’m fine, Malfoy,” she answered softly, though her voice wavered.

But she wasn't fine. Her mind spun, a chaotic storm of confusion and doubt. The vision of the dungeon had felt horribly real—the shackles biting into her wrists, the slick, warm trail of blood running from the reopened scar on her arm—the Mudblood scar. Someone had deliberately opened that wound again, mocking it. Mocking her. And she'd heard Malfoy’s voice clearly, coldly amused in the darkness.

It was him. She was sure of it. It had felt entirely, terrifyingly real.

A battle raged silently within her. Should she tell him what she'd seen, confide in him?  Could she still trust him? Her stomach knotted sharply, a surge of intuition screaming at her from within—no. She couldn’t trust him, not anymore. Something bigger was unfolding, something dark and dangerous, and Malfoy knew more than he was letting on.

It explained everything—why he was always running hot and cold with her. He was hiding something, she was sure of it now… and it terrified her.

"You need to be seen by Healer Stroud," Malfoy said sharply. "I’ll bring you."

"No," she said, louder than she intended. Her voice echoed harshly against the stone walls. "I’m fine. I need to report to Harry and Ron—Ginny too. They need to know. Something’s going on here. And I have a feeling…" She hesitated, the words heavy on her tongue. "The Tenelabrith—there might be other Veils. Elsewhere."

Malfoy nodded stiffly, but she could see it—the tightness in his jaw, the way his eyes darkened. He was furious.

She wasn’t sure if it was because she had refused to see a Healer…
Or because she planned to talk to her Auror friends.

Either way, the sick feeling twisting in her stomach only grew tighter.

They walked together toward Shacklebolt’s office. Malfoy insisted on doing his report immediately—and thought Hermione’s account would serve as valuable intel as well. They moved in silence down the long corridors, the cold air between them feeling heavier than stone.

As soon as they stepped into the office, Shacklebolt rose sharply from behind his desk, his expression tightening with concern.

“Granger—what happened?” he asked immediately.

Hermione froze, momentarily disoriented. How could he tell? She hadn’t even seen her own face since the incident.

“What?” she muttered, looking quickly at Malfoy.

“You’re white,” Malfoy said grimly. “Pale as a ghost. It’s obvious. Looks like the blood’s been drained straight from you. You should barely be standing.”

Hermione waved a shaky hand, trying to brush it off, but her legs betrayed her. She sank down onto the same battered sofa she’d sat on the night she was attacked in her flat—the night Malfoy had saved her.

The second time he’d saved her.

“She was attacked,” Malfoy said tightly, arms crossed over his chest. “And we can't be certain yet, but we believe it’s the Tenelabrith.”

Without hesitation, Shacklebolt raised his wand and sent his Patronus soaring through the office wall. Hermione realized too late what he was doing.

“No!” she shouted, throwing her hand out as if she could catch the silver wisp. But it was already gone.

“Yes, Granger,” Shacklebolt said firmly. “You need to make sure you’re truly all right.”

Before she could argue further, Malfoy was beside her, pressing a cold bottle of water against her forehead. The chill seeped into her skin, easing the pounding in her temples. She looked up at him, a flicker of gratitude softening the tight lines of her face.

“How did you know—” she started to ask, but the words were barely out before a crack split the air.

Healer Stroud Apparated directly into the room, a blur of green robes and sharp focus. Hermione barely had time to register his arrival before he was in front of her, tilting her chin gently with two fingers.

"Dark magic," he muttered under his breath, his voice grave. Without hesitation, he uncorked a vial filled with shimmering silver liquid and held it out to her.

"Drink," he ordered.

Hermione scowled, reluctant, but she knew better than to argue. She took the vial and swallowed it in one grim gulp, grimacing at the bitter taste.

Stroud immediately cast a diagnostic spell. A golden globe shimmered into existence between them, swirling with dark filaments twisting like smoke inside it.

Hermione gasped, watching the tendrils writhe and coil.

Stroud’s face remained impassive, unreadable.

"That's all right," he said finally, glancing at Malfoy. "This gentleman saved you just in time. Like the Muggle you saved, Granger, we’ll neutralize the infection. You’ll recover fully within a few days."

He turned back to her, more serious now.

"You need immediate care. I’m bringing you to St. Mungo’s. You’ll need an intravenous infusion of Thestral extract and a five-day course of Liliath essence."

Hermione nodded, the weight of it all settling heavily on her chest. This wasn’t minor.

"Do you have somewhere to stay for the next five days?" Stroud asked. "You’ll need someone to look after you."

Hermione hesitated. She had no family nearby, no one she could easily call. Her voice came out quieter than she intended.

"I was supposed to spend Christmas at the Burrow," she said. "I can probably ask Molly if I can arrive a little earlier."

Stroud nodded, satisfied.

"Good. Rest is critical."

He helped her to her feet, steadying her as she swayed. Then his gaze flicked toward Malfoy.

"I assume you can give your full report to Shacklebolt without her?"

Malfoy nodded stiffly. But Hermione caught the dark flicker in his eyes—the barely restrained anger—and how he didn’t say a single word to her. He simply turned, clapped a hand onto Shacklebolt’s shoulder, and led him toward the far side of the office without looking back.

Leaving her alone with Healer Stroud.

"Are you feeling well enough to Apparate?" Stroud asked, eyeing her carefully.

She nodded, though she clenched her teeth against the fresh wave of pain gathering behind her ribs. She would endure it. She had to.

Just before Apparating with Healer Stroud, she glanced toward Malfoy. He barely flicked a glance at her—cool, distant—before turning back to continue speaking with Shacklebolt.

And then she disappeared, the sharp pull of magic tearing her away.

December 24^th, 2006

The Burrow was illuminated by a million tiny bubbles of light, flickering gently like fireflies. They floated through the crisp evening air, each one a small, enchanted flame, casting a warm, golden glow against the deepening twilight.

It was cold—the kind of biting chill that clung to your clothes and reddened your cheeks—but no snow had fallen yet. Still, everyone remained hopeful. They said by midnight, a soft snowfall would finally blanket the ground, promising a white Christmas at last.

It was December 24^th, but Hermione had arrived at the Burrow 3 days earlier, on the night of December 21^st, still reeling from her attack at the Ministry of Magic.

She had reached out to Ginny, who had asked Molly if Hermione could come earlier. According to Ginny’s whispered account, Molly had been mildly offended that Hermione hadn’t asked her directly—something Hermione had only half-registered as she stumbled out of the Floo, coughing up soot and exhaustion.

They had tucked her away in a small, cozy room under the eaves. Harry had already been here, staying with Ginny, while Ron was down the hall. Bill and Fleur had taken one of the larger guest rooms upstairs. Percy and his wife were expected later tonight, as Percy had been tangled in Ministry work until the last possible moment. Charlie—elusive as ever—was still overseas, working with dragons, though there was a faint hope he might make it home by Christmas morning.

George and Luna were due to arrive tonight as well. George had stubbornly insisted on keeping the joke shop open for every frantic last-minute shopper.

Hermione remembered dropping her bag at the foot of the old, creaky mattress, sitting down heavily as the familiar scents of pine, cinnamon, and fresh baking rose from the kitchen below.

It should have comforted her.

But it hadn’t.

The unease coiling in her gut—the darkness that had wrapped around her in the Death Chamber—remained, stubborn and cold, refusing to be banished even by the Burrow’s warmth.

She had told Ginny everything.
Every detail about the attack.
Every unsettling truth about the Tenelabrith.
Even her complicated, messy involvement with Malfoy.

Ginny’s jaw had dropped at the confession. After a few stunned seconds of silence, she had burst into laughter—sharp, incredulous—but sobered quickly when Hermione hadn’t even cracked a smile.

"Are you an Auror or not?" Hermione remembered teasing, a small, reluctant smile cracking across her face. "The only thing you seem to care about is the fact that I kissed Malfoy."

She could still hear Ginny’s laugh ringing in her ears—warm, a little wicked.

Ginny had tossed her hair over her shoulder and gave Hermione a knowing grin.
"Honestly, Hermione, you're lucky. Malfoy had changed so much since Hogwarts—I could totally see why you'd be interested."

Ginny had promised she'd tell Harry and Ron everything—but had assured Hermione she would leave out the details about Malfoy's kisses. Ron was still deeply in love with Hermione, and there was no reason to hurt him more than necessary. Hermione had given Ginny a grateful smile and had pulled her friend into a tight hug.

"Thank you, Ginny," Hermione whispered, "for always being there for me."

Ginny had hugged her back tightly. "You've always been there for me, Granger. It's my turn to return the favor." Pulling away gently, Ginny added with playful authority, "Now take your potion."

Hermione had been diligently taking her prescribed potions for the past 3 days, and she had to admit—she was beginning to feel better.

Every morning, she cast a diagnostic spell on herself, watching the swirling globe of magic as the dark filaments shrank smaller and smaller. It reassured her more than she cared to admit. The infection was nearly gone now—just faint wisps of darkness clinging to the very edges.

Part of her—the curious part she could never fully silence—had almost wanted to preserve the last traces, to study them. To understand what the Tenelabrith had tried to do to her.

But Healer Stroud had caught the gleam in her eye during their last check-in, a days ago, and had given her a look so sharp it stopped her cold.

"Don’t be a fool, Healer Granger," he had said sternly before disappearing through the Floo network.

Now, Hermione was in her room, preparing herself for the night.

She stood by the window, her mind drifting away from the warm, cozy world of the Weasleys just beyond her door.
Standing briefly by the small landing window, she watched the fields beyond the Burrow stretching out under the dimming sky. Still no snow yet—only frost glittering faintly along the edges of the garden. She pressed her palm briefly to her ribs where the last traces of pain still lingered.

Her gaze unfocused, and she found herself thinking about Malfoy—wondering where he was tonight.
Probably at Malfoy Manor, she thought, tucked away in Wiltshire with his family.

Was he thinking about her, the same way she was thinking about him, missing her? she wondered.
Probably not, she told herself, turning away from the window and catching her own reflection in the mirror.

You’re a great person, Granger. And you have good friends. Stop thinking about him. He’s not what you need.

She was dressed simply: a black jumper over a white turtleneck, her hair pinned up loosely, black knee-high socks beneath a pair of worn white Converse.

Downstairs, she could hear the unmistakable sounds of a Weasley Christmas taking shape—Molly shouting orders over the clatter of pots and pans, Ginny and Ron bickering over who had eaten the last treacle tart, Harry's laughter drifting faintly up through the stairwell. Fleur’s soft, accented voice wove through the din, and she thought she heard Bill teasing her in return.

The warmth and noise felt distant somehow, muffled behind the heavy wall of everything Hermione had lived through in the past week.
But she told herself to push forward. She was alive. She was healing.

And tonight, she would pretend—just for a few hours—that nothing dark and terrible was waiting just beyond the Burrow’s protective wards.

Hermione made her way downstairs, one hand trailing lightly along the worn banister.

The sitting room was already decorated: the Christmas tree stretched nearly to the ceiling, decked in shimmering baubles that changed color every few seconds. Little enchanted candles floated lazily among the branches. Crookshanks was curled up in front of the hearth, his tail twitching with contentment. Fleur was setting out plates in the kitchen, Harry was lighting the candles on the mantle, and Molly was conjuring more chairs than Hermione thought could possibly fit around the battered kitchen table.

"There you are, dear!" Molly called the moment she spotted her. "Come sit, come sit—you look like you could use a bit of warming up!"

Without waiting for Hermione to argue, Molly thrust a steaming mug into her hands. Hermione caught the scent immediately; hot cider laced with cinnamon and cloves.

She smiled—a real one this time, small but genuine—and murmured her thanks.

Ginny slid up beside her with a grin. "Feeling a little more human today?"

"Getting there," Hermione said, taking a cautious sip of the cider.

"Good," Ginny said brightly, linking her arm through Hermione’s. "Because after dinner, we’re making you help decorate the last of the Christmas biscuits. Mum won’t let me do the ones that go on the actual cake anymore. She says I’m too 'creative.'"

Hermione huffed a small laugh—the first real one she’d managed in days.

For the first time since leaving the Ministry, since the Death Chamber, she let herself relax—just a little—as the warmth and noise of the Burrow wrapped around her like a thick, enchanted quilt.

Just for tonight, she could pretend the world was still simple.
Safe.

***

Later that night, they all gathered outside to watch the snow drifting softly from the sky. A small fire crackled gently, marshmallows floating lazily on magical sticks around the firepit. Ron brought Hermione a thick quilt, wrapping it around her shoulders as he sat beside her, drawing her closer with an affectionate arm. Soon, Ginny and Harry joined them, settling nearby in comfortable silence.

"We're going after the Tenelabrith, after January 1st," Ron said quietly, breaking the peaceful hush as he glanced around, making sure no one was close enough to overhear. "They've returned to activate the Veil and bring Voldemort back."

Hermione nodded slowly. Her chest tightened at the mention, but she kept her gaze fixed on the gentle snowflakes drifting from the darkened sky.

"Thanks to your research—and your unfortunate encounter—we finally understand how they've managed to survive," Ron continued, his voice low, firm yet gentle. "They've been stealing magic. From Muggle-born wizards."

A shiver ran down Hermione's spine, one that had nothing to do with the chill of the night.

"You identified the group responsible," Harry added quietly. "The Pact of Thorns. Malfoy managed to approach them, gain their trust. It was easy for him—pureblood, family in disgrace after the Battle of Hogwarts. They let him in without much suspicion, and he's been feeding the Ministry their plans ever since."

Hermione remained silent, her fingers tightening around the edge of her quilt as Harry's words settled over her. A strange unease twisted in her chest, thoughts of Malfoy tangling through her mind, sharp and complicated, like the thorns themselves.

Malfoy had told her… She had felt the weight of his choice when they traveled together to the cave in Utah. His words had echoed sharply against the damp stone, the shadows casting harsh, fractured lines across his face. She couldn’t shake the feeling that he hadn’t truly had a choice, that he had been pushed into this role, as much a pawn as anyone else in this twisted game.

Ron tightened his hold around her, resting his chin atop her head, his breath warm against her cold cheek. "The only thing we're missing is the how and the when. We need you, Hermione. You’re not the only Muggle-born who's been attacked. Children are missing. And now that we know their purpose, we can't let them succeed."

"You don’t have to come with us to hunt down dark creatures," he continued, his tone both protective and pleading. "But if you can work with the Ministry, piece together the research we gather, and use whatever Malfoy has provided, we might stand a chance. We need to figure out when and the how before they do. We don’t have much time."

"Why after January 1st?" Hermione asked, pulling back slightly to look at him.

Ginny, sitting nearby, exchanged a glance with Harry before leaning in, her face serious. "The Malfoys are hosting a ball."

Hermione blinked, her brows knitting together in disbelief. "A ball? You’re waiting to attend a ball?"

Ginny let out a small, bitter laugh. "I wish. But no, the Malfoy ball is a diversion. They’re using it to gather the entire magical elite. Malfoy has promised to identify those he suspects are involved."

"It’s a trap," Hermione whispered, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

"Yes," Ginny admitted, her voice dropping even lower. "Kind of."

Hermione’s heart twisted sharply. "It’s dangerous. If they find out, they’ll kill him. They’ll kill all of them."

The small circle around the fire fell into a heavy silence, each of them watching the snow as it continued to drift softly down, the fire crackling faintly in the dark.

"And Malfoy is well aware of the danger and the risk," Harry added, his jaw tight, his eyes hard as they met Hermione's. "He made his choice."

The weight of his words hung in the air, thick and unspoken, like storm clouds gathering on the horizon.

"We’re all in this with him, Hermione," Ron said softly, pulling her closer, his arm tightening around her shoulders. She felt the warmth of his breath against her hair, the steady beat of his heart beneath the layers of fabric and cold.

She nodded, letting herself sink into the familiar comfort of his embrace, her head resting against his chest as the fire crackled gently beside them, casting flickering shadows across the snow-covered ground.

"Alright," she whispered, her voice steady despite the tension coiling within her. "I’ll join the Ministry’s efforts, but only if I can finish my foundation at the Royal Hospital of London and continue my work at St. Mungo’s."

Ron, Harry, and Ginny exchanged a brief, uncertain glance before Harry gave a firm nod, his jaw set in quiet determination.

"Right," he said, his voice low but resolute. "You do as you wish, Hermione. But we really need you to figure out what's going on with the information we have. We can’t afford to make any mistakes."

She nodded and stood slowly, the quilt slipping from her shoulders, pooling around her feet in a soft, forgotten heap. She felt Ron’s hand tighten briefly, his fingers clinging to her sleeve for just a moment before he let her go, respecting the distance she needed. His warmth lingered against her skin, a gentle, reassuring presence.

But even as she stepped away, her mind betrayed her, conjuring the image of another man—taller, stronger, the grip of his hands less willing to release her, the heat of his breath less restrained. A man who would pull her closer when she tried to leave, whose hold would be firm, unyielding, as if refusing to let her slip through his fingers.

And yet, despite the unsettling allure of that imagined grip, she found herself grateful for Ron’s gentleness, his steady, patient loyalty. It was a choice, a freedom, one she had always cherished. But deep down, she couldn’t help but wonder if the second man, the one who haunted the corners of her mind, might be gentler than he appeared—less torn between his desires and his duty, less fractured by the weight of his choices.

The snow continued to fall, silent and unrelenting, as she stepped away from the circle of firelight, her shadow stretching long and thin against the cold, white ground.

"I’m going to bed," she said quietly, her voice a thin wisp of breath against the crisp air.

They rose with her, brushing the snow from their coats, their movements slow and reluctant, as if unwilling to break the fragile peace of the moment. Ginny reached out, slipping her arm around Hermione’s shoulders as they made their way back toward the house, their boots crunching softly against the fresh snow.

"Merry Christmas," Ginny whispered, her voice warm and close, and it struck Hermione, with a sudden, bittersweet pang, that it was past midnight already. Christmas morning had come, slipping silently into their lives, unnoticed amidst the whispers of war and the flicker of uncertain shadows.

Chapter Text

Malfoy’s Estate, Wiltshire, England – December 25^th, 2006

It was Christmas morning, and Draco descended the grand staircase, his footsteps echoing against the polished marble. The manor felt colder in the winter, its vast halls filled with the muted light of the overcast morning. He made his way to the family dining room, where the breakfast buffet had already been laid out—a silver spread of eggs, back bacon, and fresh, steaming black tea. He helped himself, settling into his usual seat at the long, polished table.

A freshly printed edition of the Daily Prophet rested beside his plate. He reached for it, his fingers brushing the crisp parchment. The front page featured a moving photograph of himself and Shacklebolt from their recent diplomatic visit to France. The headline declared the Ministry’s tireless efforts to secure the wizarding world through new alliances, but Draco’s eyes lingered on his own image. He looked tired, his features drawn and severe, the faint shadows beneath his eyes betraying the toll of endless negotiations. He ran a hand over his face, a reflexive attempt to compose himself, to reset the mask he had worn for years.

The soft creak of the door interrupted his thoughts, and he glanced up as his father entered. Lucius moved with the same aristocratic precision as always, his silver-blond hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck, his posture straight despite the weight of his past. After selecting a modest breakfast from the buffet, Lucius took a seat directly across from him.

“Merry Christmas, Draco,” his father said, his tone measured, almost formal.

“Merry Christmas, Father.”

Lucius glanced briefly at the paper, then back at his son, a flicker of something unreadable in his pale eyes. “Your mother will be down shortly,” he continued, carefully unfolding his napkin. “She was hoping to give you your Christmas gift this morning.”

Draco inclined his head. “That’s perfect. I have yours as well.”

Draco held his father’s gaze for a moment, searching for any trace of warmth or sentiment, but found only the familiar, unyielding chill. Lucius Malfoy had always been a man of reserved affections, his emotions locked behind layers of aristocratic detachment. Even now, years after the war, it seemed that little had truly shifted. The same cold, proud man sat before him, the years in Azkaban having left their mark, yet perhaps not as deeply as they should have. Draco often wondered if his father had ever come to terms with his own mistakes, or if he still harbored the same bitter contempt for Muggle-borns that had led to his downfall.

The door creaked softly, pulling Draco from his thoughts. His mother entered the dining room, moving with her characteristic grace, and settled beside Lucius, a delicate porcelain cup of black tea cradled in her hands. She offered Draco a small, weary smile as she took her seat. For a fleeting moment, his mind jumped to Astoria, who shared this same habit—always sipping black tea for breakfast, never touching a single crumb, her appetite as refined and restrained as the woman herself. But his thoughts shifted once more, unbidden, to another witch—a very different one—sitting across from him in a sunlit hotel room in Utah, her hair tied up in a careless, messy bun, looking at him with her large, hazel eyes as she devoured a full breakfast as if she hadn’t eaten in days. The image was so stark, so unexpectedly vivid, that it nearly pulled a ghost of a smile to his lips.

“… the Ministry, don’t you think, Draco?” His mother’s voice cut through his thoughts, drawing him back to the present. He blinked, straightening in his chair.

“Sorry, Mother,” he said, his voice automatically slipping into the polished tone she had drilled into him from childhood. “I was lost in thought. Could you repeat that?”

Narcissa’s smile softened, touched by a faint, wistful sadness. “You work far too much for your age, my Draco. You need to learn to enjoy your time off, like everyone else. Perhaps I should have a word with Shacklebolt, ask him to give you a proper holiday. This is not right.”

Draco let out a quiet, almost amused exhale. “I’m fine, Mother. There are important matters that cannot wait for the holidays.”

She pressed her lips into a thin line, her disappointment clear, but she knew better than to push him further. She understood her son too well—knew that if she insisted, he would simply excuse himself, his withdrawal polite but final.

Instead, she reached for a small green velvet case beside her, her movements delicate yet purposeful. “I have your Christmas gift, darling,” she said, holding it out to him. The deep, forest green caught the candlelight, its color as unmistakably Slytherin as the family legacy it represented.

Draco accepted the box, lifting the hinged lid to reveal a heavy signet ring nestled within. His gaze flicked to his father, whose sharp, grey eyes were already on him, watching his every reaction.

“Father,” Draco murmured, his voice tinged with surprise. “Your signet ring.”

Lucius inclined his head, a rare hint of satisfaction softening the harsh lines of his face. It was a fleeting, almost grudging display of pride, but one that did not go unnoticed by his son. Draco slid the ring onto his left pinky finger, its weight both familiar and foreign. He had stared at this ring countless times as a boy, knowing it would one day be his—but not so soon.

“Shouldn’t we wait? This is not the usual custom,” he asked quietly, his eyes tracing the intricate crest etched into the polished gold.

The ring itself was a striking piece of craftsmanship—a heavy band of polished gold, its surface reflecting the dim, flickering candlelight of the Malfoy dining room with a cold, unforgiving gleam. The band was encircled with serpentine patterns, their scales meticulously carved to catch the faintest glint of gold, twisting around the circumference like the coils of a sleeping dragon.

At its center rested a deep, faceted emerald, its dark green depths alive with flickers of hidden power, catching and refracting the firelight like the gaze of a serpent. The gem was framed by a pair of curled dragon wings, their tips folding protectively around the stone as if shielding it from unworthy eyes. Just beneath the emerald, a gothic, intertwining "M" had been engraved, its sharp, angular lines evoking the fangs of a predator.

Inside the band, hidden from all but its wearer, lay an ancient Latin inscription, etched in thin, precise script: “Sanguis Nobilis Vincit” (Noble Blood Prevails)—a whispered reminder of the family’s unyielding pride and the pure-blood legacy they had fiercely guarded for generations.

The ring pulsed faintly against his skin, its enchantments woven tightly into the metal itself, offering a subtle, comforting warmth when the wearer was in danger, and an icy chill when betrayal drew near. It was a relic of a darker age, a symbol of power and privilege, passed from father to son, a physical manifestation of the bloodlines they sought to protect.

“You deserve it, Draco,” Lucius interrupted, his voice tight, the admission costing him something, as if each word cut him like a blade. The silence that followed was sharp, fragile, a moment suspended between pride and regret.

Narcissa, sensing the unspoken weight in the room, placed a slender hand on Draco’s arm, her touch cool and delicate. “You have done well, my son,” she said, her gaze steady, unflinching. “And we believe it is time for you to take over your father’s estate.”

Draco’s jaw tightened, his pulse quickening, the ring on his finger suddenly feeling heavier, colder. He met his father’s gaze, searching for a sign, a hint that this was not as inevitable as it felt. “Father, I… I can’t. Not now.”

“You must, Draco,” Lucius cut in, his tone allowing no room for argument. “The estate grants you a voice at the council, at the Ministry. My influence no longer holds weight, not after Azkaban. But through you, the Malfoy name can still command power. We must act wisely, and we must act soon.”

Draco’s mind raced, the pieces falling into place with chilling clarity. “Shacklebolt is the Prime Minister,” he said slowly, his tone sharp, laced with growing suspicion. “No one will unseat him...”

The realization hit him like a sudden, icy wave. “You spoke with him… recently…”

Draco shot to his feet, his chair toppling backward with a sharp crack against the polished marble floor. A house-elf appeared instantly, trembling as it righted the chair, its wide, fearful eyes darting nervously between the three Malfoys.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Draco said sharply, his tone a brittle veneer over the storm building within him. Without another word, he turned on his heel and apparated with a harsh, resounding crack, leaving his mother to crumple into quiet, desperate tears.

***

Ministry of Magic, the same morning.

Draco stormed into the Ministry of Magic, his footsteps echoing through the empty marble corridors, each step a sharp, staccato crack against the polished floors. The grand atrium, usually a bustling nexus of magic and whispers, was eerily silent, its gilded statues casting long, distorted shadows in the flickering torchlight. The air felt heavier, colder, the echoes of his steps swallowed by the vast, empty space.

He reached Shacklebolt’s office and pushed the heavy, oak doors open without knocking, the dark wood groaning in protest. Inside, the Minister sat behind his desk, his tall frame partially silhouetted against the enchanted window behind him, which currently displayed a snow-covered London skyline, the flakes drifting lazily past as if mocking the storm brewing within the room.

Shacklebolt didn’t look up, his steady, dark eyes still fixed on the parchment in his hands, fingers tracing the crisp, neatly inked lines as if Malfoy’s arrival was nothing more than a passing breeze. The only sound in the room was the faint crackle of the enchanted fireplace, its flames casting long, shifting shadows against the walls.

“I was expecting you,” Shacklebolt said, his deep, resonant voice breaking the heavy silence. “Merry Christmas. Please, take a seat.” His tone was calm, measured, as if Draco hadn’t just stormed into his office without so much as a knock.

“I won’t be sitting,” Draco shot back, his voice cutting through the stillness. His chest still rose and fell with the remnants of his fury, each breath sharp, the anger that had propelled him here now slowly seeping from his body, leaving behind a cold, vibrating tension. He clenched his jaw, his gaze flicking to the enchanted window beside him, where his own rigid reflection hovered against the backdrop of softly falling snow—a ghostly, restrained silhouette, pale and unyielding.

For a moment, neither of them spoke, the quiet of the empty Ministry settling around them like a shroud, the shadows of forgotten battles stretching long and dark across the polished marble floor.

“Why?” Draco’s voice came out sharper than intended, a crack in his carefully controlled demeanor. “Why now?”

Shacklebolt set the parchment aside, his broad hands folding together atop the polished mahogany desk, the dark wood reflecting the faint flicker of candlelight. His gaze met Draco’s, unflinching and sharp, the weight of unspoken truths settling heavily in the space between them.

“We have no other choice,” he said, each word deliberates, measured, as if the very act of speaking to them bound him to their consequences. “We can’t outnumber them. The United States has already shifted, its alliances slipping like sand through clenched fists. Canada stands on the brink, its future uncertain—a fragile line between resistance and submission, likely to be swallowed by its powerful neighbor. Our world is changing, and if we do nothing, we risk being swept away in its current.”

Draco’s fingers played with the newly claimed signet ring, turning it absently around his pinky finger, the cold metal pressing into his skin. The inscription inside—Sanguis Nobilis Vincit—seemed to pulse in time with his racing heart, a silent echo of the ancient power now resting on his shoulders. He could feel its weight, the cool, unforgiving metal a physical reminder of the legacy he had just accepted, the unspoken expectations that now clung to him like a second skin.

He caught Shacklebolt’s eyes flicking briefly to the ring, a subtle, almost imperceptible shift in the Minister’s otherwise unflinching gaze.

“Yes,” Draco said, his tone laced with a bitter edge. “They did as you asked. I am now the Lord of the Malfoy estate. My father has officially stepped down… I will be the one casting the vote now.” He paused, the words feeling heavier than he’d expected the finality of them settling in his chest like a stone. “And you’re certain this will happen?” he asked, his voice quieter now, the sharp edge of his anger dulled by a creeping, cold sense of inevitability.

“Yes,” Shacklebolt replied, his deep voice steady, each word heavy with the weight of countless unspoken truths. “It will happen, and you must follow the plan, or we are all lost.”

Draco turned, his hand already reaching for the polished brass door handle, the muscles in his jaw tight, his back a tense line of coiled energy.

“Wait,” Shacklebolt said, his tone cutting through the thick silence, pulling Draco back from the edge. “She’s here. In the archives. She arrived early this morning to do some research, now that she’s feeling better.”

Draco’s fingers tightened around the doorframe, his pulse quickening despite himself. He didn’t need to ask who Shacklebolt meant. The thought of her, wandering alone in the shadowed depths of Level 9, made something twist uncomfortably in his chest.

“I thought I was supposed to take care of it…” he said, his voice low, barely more than a rough murmur.

Shacklebolt’s dark eyes remained fixed on his back. “She still has valuable information. She must understand how important it is for her to train alone when you’re not available to guide her. She needs to learn to stand on her own.”

Draco’s fingers tightened against the doorframe, his grip turning his knuckles white. The cool metal of his newly claimed signet ring dug into the side of his finger, its weight a constant, pressing reminder of the legacy he now carried. The Latin inscription—Sanguis Nobilis Vincit—seemed to pulse with the rapid beat of his heart, each thrum echoing through the heavy silence of the room.

“Are we all just pawns to you?” he muttered, his voice dripping with quiet, bitter contempt. But he didn’t wait for the Minister’s answer. He pulled the door open and disapparated in a sharp crack, reappearing an instant later in front of the ancient, wrought-iron elevator at the far end of the empty corridor.

Without hesitating, he jabbed the button for Level 9, his jaw set, his mind already turning over the dozen ways this encounter could spiral out of his control.

He reached the Archive door, hesitating for a brief moment before pushing it open slowly, careful not to startle her. She’d been through enough the last time she was on Level 9 of the Ministry. The heavy door creaked slightly as it swung inward, the cool, dry air of the Archives brushing against his skin, carrying the faint scent of aged parchment and candle smoke. His boots sank into the thick, ancient carpet as he crossed the threshold, his steps muffled as he made his way toward the center of the room, where long, polished wooden tables stretched out beneath the soft, flickering glow of enchanted sconces.

He saw her immediately.

She was alone, her silhouette framed by the towering shelves of forgotten histories and crumbling parchment—a lone figure in the midst of countless whispered secrets. She had slipped off her boots, and her small, stocking-clad feet brushed slowly against the cool stone floor, the soft, absent movement catching his eye. There was something unexpectedly enticing about the sight—a quiet, unintentional allure that tightened the air between them, igniting a flicker of warmth low in his stomach.

Her posture was deceptively relaxed, yet there was an intensity in the set of her shoulders, a quiet focus that made every small movement seem deliberate. Her hair was piled into a careless, messy bun, a few rebellious strands slipping free to brush against the nape of her neck. She reached back absently, fingers grazing her skin as she toyed with the escaped wisps, her touch light, almost absentminded, before her fingertips traced the delicate chain that rested against her collarbone. She followed it slowly, as if the cool metal offered some small comfort, until she reached the small white otter that hung there—a gift he had given her a few weeks earlier. The small, unguarded gesture, her fingers gently cradling the little pendant, sent a sharp, uninvited thrill down his spine.

Malfoy paused, a dangerous thought flickering in his mind—a fierce, primal urge to close the distance, to press his lips against the soft curve of her exposed neck, perhaps even to bite gently, just to feel her breath hitch in surprise. The thought twisted something inside him, a dark, magnetic pull that threatened to unravel his carefully maintained control.

He moved closer, circling to catch a glimpse of her face. She was utterly absorbed in her research, her brows knitted in concentration as she leaned over a thick, leather-bound manuscript. Her slender finger traced the lines of ancient text, her teeth catching her lower lip in a way that made something feral, and possessive ignite within him.

Then he felt it—a sudden warmth coiling around his pinky finger, the sharp, tingling sensation of his signet ring activating, the ancient Malfoy magic responding to some hidden threat. He glanced down, his pulse quickening. The ring's runes pulsed faintly, a low, urgent hum against his skin.

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed, his confusion momentarily breaking through the haze of desire. What threat could possibly be here, in the quiet, book-lined depths of the Archives, with only her as his witness?

***

Hermione had slipped out early on Christmas morning, craving the quiet and solitude she hadn’t felt in days. Being surrounded by twelve people in the cramped, bustling warmth of the Burrow had been comforting at first, but the constant noise and movement had quickly become overwhelming. She needed space, a chance to breathe, to think, and to retreat into the familiar calm of her own mind.

She had dressed quickly, pulling on a simple black dress, thick black tights, and her well-worn combat boots. Over it, she had wrapped herself in her favorite grey wool vest, the one that hung comfortably past her hips and still carried the faint, reassuring scent of home. Her hair was twisted into a messy bun, a few loose curls brushing the nape of her neck as she bent over the passage she was currently reading, her brow furrowed in concentration.

She planned to head back to her flat later in the afternoon, the thought of returning to her small, quiet space filling her with a strange mixture of relief and dread. For now, she let herself get lost in the familiar comfort of old parchment and carefully inked lines, her mind momentarily free from the weight of what was going on around her.

She caught a flicker of movement from the corner of her eye and spun around, heart leaping into her throat as her fingers closed around her wand. She was quick this time, her instincts sharp, the tip of her wand leveled at the shadow that had crept too close.

Malfoy.

He had frozen mid-step, one foot still slightly raised, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of her, his wand already in his right hand, fingers wrapped tightly around the polished wood, ready to strike. His other hand lifted in a mock gesture of surrender, though the tension in his frame betrayed his readiness for a fight. The flickering torchlight cast harsh shadows over his sharp features, making his annoyance all the more palpable.

“For fuck’s sake, Granger,” he muttered, his tone a sharp, irritated whisper that still managed to echo off the cold, stone walls. “You scared me.”

She didn’t lower her wand, her chest heaving as the surge of adrenaline burned through her veins, her pulse roaring in her ears. She held his gaze, the sharp cut of his jaw, the tightness around his mouth, the way his pale eyes sparked with a mix of irritation and something darker as he took in her defensive stance.

A slow, ghost of a smirk curled at the corner of his lips as he straightened, his fingers flexing slightly around his wand. He tilted his head, the predatory gleam in his eyes making her fingers tighten on her own wand in response, the air between them crackling with a familiar, dangerous tension.

“Can you please stop pointing your wand at me?” he added, lowering his hands but keeping his gaze steady. “Though, I’ll admit, it’s impressive that you finally have it with you, and that you’re actually fast enough to use it when you sense a threat.”

She scowled, jaw tightening as she dropped the wand to her side, deliberately turning her back to him. She ignored the way his presence seemed to fill the room, the oppressive, magnetic pull that had always unsettled her.

He watched her, the silence between them stretching, thick and loaded. He took a slow step closer, the faintest creak of the old floor betraying his movement.

“What is it, Granger?” he said, his voice dropping to a low, almost taunting murmur. “Are you mad at me?”

She ignored him, her eyes never leaving the lines of the ancient manuscript before her, the scratch of her finger tracing the faded ink the only sound between them. She could feel his presence, a subtle shift in the air, the quiet tension that always seemed to thicken when he was near. She sensed him moving closer, his gaze heavy on her, the soft rustle of his clothing as he crossed the room. She noticed the nervous, almost absent way he twisted the ring on his pinky finger, the metal catching the low, flickering light.

"Are you planning to hover over me all day, Malfoy?" she asked finally, her tone cool, still refusing to look up. "Or did you actually have something to say?"

He hesitated, the pause stretching just a moment too long.

"My father retired this morning," he said, his voice low but steady, each word carefully controlled. "I inherited the Malfoy estate... and a vote at the council."

She turned a page, the dry parchment crackling softly under her fingers. "I suppose congratulations are in order," she replied, her tone neutral, still not meeting his eyes.

He took a slow, measured breath, his jaw tightening as he watched her continue to ignore him. "I know you’re angry with me. I know you don’t trust me," he said, his voice dropping a shade lower. "And I know you saw something in the Death Chamber... something that scared you when you lost consciousness the other day."

She felt the muscles in her back tense, but she forced herself to remain still, her gaze fixed on the yellowed parchment, her fingers continuing their slow, absent tracing of the faded ink. She refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction, even as his presence grew closer, his shadow stretching across the fragile pages beneath her hands.

She caught the faint, clean scent of him, cutting through the musty air of the Archives—a mix of pine and the sharp, lingering bite of firewhiskey. It was a scent that had come to unsettle her, one that carried too many memories of whispered threats and bitter, breathless arguments.

"Actually," he continued, his tone softening, a rare, hesitant note slipping into his voice as he hovered just behind her, close enough that she could feel the faint warmth of his breath against the back of her neck, "how are you? Are you feeling better?"

Hermione closed the book slowly, the cracked leather cover groaning beneath her tightening grip. She forced herself to look up, her eyes locking onto his, his pale, searching gaze sharp against the shadows of the towering shelves around them.

"I’m fine," she said evenly, each word carefully measured, her tone betraying none of the conflict churning just beneath the surface. "I spent four days with the Weasleys, and they took very good care of me, like they always do."

The words lingered in the air between them, sharp and pointed—a quiet, unspoken accusation that cut deeper than either of them was willing to admit. A reminder of the loyalty and comfort he had never been able to offer.

“Do you still practice your dueling skills?” he asked, his voice low but carrying a hint of genuine concern.

She hesitated for a moment, her eyes flicking to the towering shelves around them, the weight of centuries-old knowledge pressing in on all sides, before finally meeting his intense gaze. “I haven’t had the time, but I plan to pick it back up. I took an assignment with the Ministry. I’ll be spending more time here in the coming weeks. It should help me reimmerse myself.”

He nodded, a subtle dip of his head, clearly satisfied with her answer. “You’re doing the right thing.”

Hermione glanced at him, still standing close behind her. It was so disarmingly easy to talk to him, to forget how hurt and betrayed she felt. She let out a small, unexpected laugh, and his brow arched, a hint of confusion breaking through his usual stoic mask.

“Why are you laughing?” he asked, a faint smile curving his lips, though his eyes remained sharp, watchful.

“I just don’t know how you do it,” she said, shaking her head, a trace of warmth creeping into her tone. “I was furious with you two minutes ago, and now we’re talking like nothing ever happened.”

He let out a slow, measured breath, his gaze darkening as it settled on her.
“You have the same effect on me,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a deeper, more serious tone, the gray of his eyes turning stormy.

She turned to look at him—and realised he was much closer than she’d thought.
Their eyes locked. They stared at each other for what felt like an eternity.
She could sense him leaning in, his hands braced on either side of the table, encircling her. Trapping her.

It was a strange thing, she thought, to feel so completely trapped—and not want to run.

Instinctively, she placed a hand on his chest, meaning to push him back a little. But she didn’t.
She just left it there, fingers curled lightly against the fabric of his shirt, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath.

He came closer. Slowly, deliberately. Her breath caught. She inhaled deeply, parting her lips just slightly, anticipation humming through her veins.

Then—his hand. She felt it slide up to her neck, resting there with surprising gentleness. His thumb brushed along her jaw.
In his eyes, she saw something flicker. Vulnerability. It made her brow crease slightly in concern, her lips parting as if to ask what was wrong.

But he saw it coming. She knew he did.

Because in that exact moment, he smiled—just barely—and then his mouth brushed hers.
Soft. Barely touching.
A kiss that was almost not a kiss at all.

He drew back slightly, his breath warm against her lips, laced with the scent of Firewhisky—the same scent she’d caught earlier and tried not to notice.

“Is that the only way to stop you from worrying, Granger?” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, his fingers now tangled in her hair. “From asking questions I don’t want to answer?”

She smiled despite herself. Something wicked curled in her chest.
Her hands gripped the front of his shirt, pulling him back to her, teasing his lips with hers—biting, soft at first, then sharper.
She slid her arms up, hands curling around the back of his neck to draw him closer still.

That was the moment he lost control.

In one fluid movement, he gripped her waist and lifted her effortlessly onto the table.
His hands were everywhere—urgent, burning.
She gasped when she felt the heat of his palm on her thigh, sliding beneath the fabric of her dress, pressing firmly. His touch was bold, his fingers splaying wide, nearly encircling the whole of her thigh before trailing back to her waist. He pressed into her, and she could feel the tension in his body—the restraint, barely held.

She slid her hands beneath his shirt, fingers grazing hard planes of muscle.
His abdomen was sculpted, his waist broad, her arms barely able to reach around him.
She let her hands wander upward to his chest—solid and warm beneath her palms—and felt a sudden, maddening urge to kiss him there. She was about to tug his shirt up when he caught her wrist and trapped it gently, but firmly, in his hand.

“If you do that,” he warned, voice rough, “I won’t be able to control myself.”

“Who told you I still want you to?” she whispered.

His eyes darkened—impossibly so—and something shifted in him.

He guided her back until she lay flat on the table, his hand pinning her wrists above her head.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, breath catching as his hand slid down her thigh once more, this time guiding her hips to his, pressing deliberately against the throbbing ache between her legs.

A moan escaped her lips.
She was already soaked, already trembling—and he knew it.
He ground into her, slow and cruel, keeping her completely at his mercy.
She writhed beneath him, a frustrated growl slipping from her throat when he finally tore his mouth from hers.

“I feel the same, Hermione,” he murmured against her jaw.
“But not here. Not in the Ministry. You deserve better.”

It wasn’t just what he said—it was how he said it. The words didn’t sound calculated or controlled. They came from somewhere deeper. Raw. Unfiltered.

And it made her shiver.

For a fleeting second, she wondered if he really meant the place wasn’t good enough for her… or if he wasn’t.

Then—he let go of her hands. Stepped back just enough to rest a palm on her waist.
She felt his gaze move across her: her hair, tousled; her lips, parted and swollen; the flush blooming down her throat and chest.

Suddenly, shy under the weight of his stare, she turned her head and tried to sit up.

But he paused her with a quiet intensity.
“Don’t ever be shy in front of me, Granger,” he said. “You are everything I desire. Everything.”

He helped her sit upright, though he didn’t move from between her legs.

“Do you have anywhere to go today?” he asked, more gently now. “On this Christmas day?”

She hesitated, feeling the heat of shame crawl into her chest.
No, she didn’t. She wasn’t expected anywhere.
Of course, she could have joined Harry and the Weasleys at the Burrow—but the noise, the cheer, the overwhelming warmth of it all—it had felt like too much. She’d chosen solitude. Chosen quiet. Chosen home.

“Why don’t you come with me?” he offered. “We can have lunch. I’m not expected anywhere until later this evening.”

She looked at him, uncertain. Suspicious.

“What would you like to do?” she asked, voice guarded.

“Nothing to threaten your virtue, Granger,” he said with a small smirk. “Just lunch. A little peace on Christmas day.”

She slid off the table, pulling him closer as she did.
They stood face to face—her chin tilted up, his eyes trained down on her.
She had to crane her neck to meet his gaze properly, but neither of them looked away.

“Alright,” she said at last. “Let’s do it. I’m starving.”
She nudged him aside, brushing past.

He let her go, his eyes following her as she gathered her books and scrolls, tucking them back into her satchel.

“Of course you are,” he said with a low laugh. “Starving, naturally.”

Chapter Text

Same day, Christmas day, 2006.

They stepped out of the Ministry in broad daylight. It was likely around 1pm, and the snowfall that had begun the night before had just ended. The pavement was blanketed in white—even here, in the heart of London. There was still some movement in the streets, but everything felt quieter than a typical Monday.

She glanced at him, and for a moment, it felt like they were back in Utah—or that night in Montreal—when everything between them had felt so effortless, so natural.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed he was sneaking a glance at her. Without thinking, she reached for his hand and laced her fingers with his.

"Your hand is cold," he murmured.

She nodded silently.

He pulled her closer, wrapping an arm around her to shield her from the chill. Then, slipping his wand from his coat, he cast a gentle warming spell on her—just like he had in Montreal.

“Come on,” he said softly. “We need to get you somewhere warm. And where we can eat.”

She laughed and began walking beside him.

They reached the artery of Whitehall.

“There’s a small pub near Trafalgar Place that I really like,” she said, glancing sideways at him.

He gave a small nod, and they walked on in silence, their steps syncing without effort.

It took barely ten minutes to get there. The place was quiet—almost eerily so—with only three Muggles seated at the bar, murmuring low over their pints. She felt the hush settle around them like a woolen cloak, oddly comforting.

They ordered pints—his without hesitation, hers after a moment’s indecision—and she went for a burger, craving something familiar and grounding. He ordered the steak and ale pie, naturally.

She raised an eyebrow as their plates arrived. “Even in the Muggle world, you act so wizard.”

He let out a low laugh, surprising her with the warmth of it. “What does that even mean?”

She shrugged, smiling into her glass. “I don’t know. I just can’t picture you eating a burger. But "You did surprise me the other day—with tacos, no less.”

He leaned back slightly, his eyes catching the low light. “I might be traditional when it comes to wizardry,” he said, tone easy, “but I like food. And I’m not above trying something new.”

She watched him a beat too long, fingers wrapped around her pint, the coldness of the glass slow to reach her bones. You surprise me more often than you know, she thought. But you also hate what I am. Saimaniq mentioned it.

A silence fell between them—not uncomfortable, but weighted. She took a sip, using the motion to gather courage. Something had cracked between them that last time in Montreal. Left untended, it had begun to rot. Maybe it was already too late. But if they didn’t talk about it now, when?

“Saimaniq,” she said softly.

She saw the shift instantly. The way his shoulders tensed, the flicker of his jaw. He set his beer down with a little more care than necessary and looked at her, guarded.

“What about Saimaniq?” he asked. His voice had gone tight, brittle around the edges.

“She said…” Hermione hesitated, then met his gaze head-on. “She said you were using me. That the reason we kissed was because you wanted information.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just glanced toward the bar, as if buying time. When he looked back at her, something in his expression had shifted. He wasn’t his usual self—his usual mask.

“She lied.”

Hermione waited. The words hung there between them, sharp and unfinished.

“We…” He paused, then exhaled through his nose. “We had an affair.”

She didn’t flinch, but he must’ve caught something in her eyes, because he rushed to add, “It was before. Long before I ever touched you. It wasn’t serious. Not for me, anyway.”

She kept her face still, but her fingers had gone cold again.

“I ended it,” he continued, his voice quieter now. “She didn’t take it well. She didn’t like that I… that I care about you.”

Hermione didn’t speak. Didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t sure what hurt more—that he’d been with Saimaniq, or that his confession still carried hesitation, like he didn’t quite trust her with the full truth. Or maybe didn’t trust himself.

Outside, snow flurries clung to the windowpane, melting slowly, water tracking down the glass like time itself had softened.

He was still watching her. She felt it—his eyes, full of weight. She gave a small shake of her head, dismissive, not unkind.

“That’s okay, Malfoy,” she said quietly. “We don’t owe each other anything.”

“No. We don’t,” he agreed, but something in his voice said he didn’t believe it either. He hesitated, then leaned in slightly, his forearms pressing into the table as if he were about to tell her a secret. His eyes flicked around the near-empty pub.

“Draco,” she said with a small laugh, “calm down. We’re in the Muggle world. No one here is listening.”

He blinked, like he’d only just remembered where they were, and gave a slow, measured nod.
“We’re both pawns, Hermione,” he said quietly. “In what’s coming.”

She tilted her head, watching him closely.
Did he know how much she already knew? About Ron, Harry, and Ginny preparing to disappear off-grid? About the assignment the Ministry had given her in secret? About the ball—his ball—where he was meant to expose the Pact of Thorns to the Council?

She knew everything.
But she wasn’t sure if he knew that.
And she didn’t know if she should tell him.

So instead, she shifted the subject—but not entirely.

“The Tenelabrith,” she said slowly, “they’ll use them to siphon magic. I found the incantation—it’s old, obscure, American in origin. Used in dark rituals on Muggle-born witches during the Salem resurgence.”

His eyes sharpened.
“You know the ritual?”

“I found traces of it this morning,” she said, her voice tight. “And I’m almost certain it’s what happened to me at the Veil of Death last week. It wasn’t just a magical backlash. It was deliberate.”

He straightened, jaw tightening.
“How do you know?”

Hermione opened her satchel and pulled out her battered notebook. She flipped quickly through the pages until she found the one she’d marked with a strip of spellotape. Her finger tapped the parchment firmly.

“Eximo Virtutem Ex Invenusto. Ligatura Tenebrae, Vincula Sanguinis.”
She looked at him.
“Which means I strip virtue from the impure. Binding of Darkness, Chains of Blood - it was on the chest we found in the archives. And again, at the Veil.

And this—” she pointed at the incantation scrawled beneath it—
“Hoc fatum est: furum stirps sumus, et quod suum fuit, receperunt.”
“—this is what that little girl repeated, over and over.”

“And that means—This is fate: we are the descendants of thieves, and what was theirs… they have reclaimed.”

Then, more quietly, she turned the page. He leaned in.

His name was written there, with a small arrow pointing toward a sketched veil.
Pull Malfoy – difficult to resist.

And next to her own name:
Hermione – attempted extraction of magical core.

“They tried to steal my magic.”

A beat passed between them. Then she added, her voice low but firm,

“I don’t think the Tenelabrith were created just to bring Voldemort back. There’s another purpose. Something bigger.”

She looked up at him, eyes steady.

“Why are you doing this, Malfoy? Why are you helping us? We’re everything you used to hate. You were the one calling me Mudblood at Hogwarts. I’m pretty sure I heard you say, more than once, that Muggle-born witches had stolen magic from pure-bloods.”

She paused. “What brought you here—to the Ministry? To politics?”

“I told you in Montreal,” he said, voice low. “I was—”

“I’d like to know the real version, Malfoy,” she interrupted, watching him carefully.

She felt his eyes on her—measuring. Searching.

They sat in silence before he finally asked, “We never really trusted each other, did we?”

“It’s hard to trust you, Malfoy,” she said softly. “You answer questions with more questions—”

She caught the way he opened his mouth to protest, and her lips curled.
“Malfoy… you just did it again.”

He shut his mouth with a smirk, rolled his eyes, and leaned back, amused.

“You’re hot and cold by the minute,” she continued. “You navigate relationships like they’re transactions—things to gain from, things to discard once they stop serving a purpose.”

He finished the last sip of his pint and lifted a hand to signal the bartender for another.

“Do you want something?” he asked, gently cutting in.

“Red wine,” she said. “A glass of red would be perfect. But I wasn’t finished, by the way.”

“Alright,” he said, rising. “I’ll get it—and then I’ll listen to you completely while you describe this utterly disagreeable portrait of who I am.”

He laughed as he turned and walked to the bar.

She watched him go.

And gods—he was stunning. There was something in the way he carried himself: the confidence, the elegance, the effortless grace that made every movement feel like it belonged to another era—or another world entirely. He looked dangerous. Elite. Untouchable. Rich.

But there was more to him than that.

Now that she’d spent so much time with him—since October—she’d started to see the cracks in the façade. The quiet vulnerability beneath the surface. Like he was playing a part, always performing a version of himself written by someone else.
She’d seen the way he looked at her when he let his guard slip—how his eyes softened, how his touch turned gentle, like she might break if he wasn’t careful.
She felt connected to him, even when he ignored her, or snapped at her.

And more often than not, she couldn’t shake the feeling that his choices… weren’t truly his own.

He came back with a small smile and slid onto the banquette beside her. The bar had gotten busier while they talked, the low hum of conversation rising around them. She glanced at her watch—it was already two in the afternoon. They’d been there for hours.

“So,” he said, nudging her with his shoulder, “tell me again how disagreeable I am, Granger.”

“You’re insufferable,” she replied without missing a beat.

He let out a dramatic ‘’oh that hurt ‘’ biting his fist in mock injury.
“This is hurtful, Granger.”

She laughed, and for a moment, the tension between them thinned. He turned toward her, a little more serious now—but his smile stayed.

“My turn,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow, curious.

“You’re infuriatingly intelligent. Fierce. Some people call you a know-it-all, or Miss Perfect—but they’re just jealous. Honestly, I think everything you do feels... precise. Like it matters. Even when you’re not trying.”

He looked at her a little too long, and her breath caught.

“Take your hair,” he went on, quieter now. “You always throw it up in those messy ponytails, like you don’t care—but it looks like you spent hours arranging it. And you barely wear makeup, if ever. But it always seems like you’ve stepped out of a bloody magazine. Like you don’t even have to try to be—”

He stopped himself.

“—well. Stunning.”

She stared at him, unsure what to say. Her heart did something traitorous in her chest. And for a second, she forgot they were sitting in a crowded pub, caught in the current of something much too deep for daylight.

“Are you drunk, Malfoy?” she asked, trying to break the moment before it slipped too far into something that felt… off, especially after everything that had just been said.

He laughed. “No, I’m not. But why don’t we have a little fun?”
Then he turned to the bartender and called out, “Can you bring us some shooters? One for you too!”

The bartender gave a quick nod and returned moments later with three small glasses.

Hermione eyed them warily. “The last time I took a shooter with you, I lost my magic.”

Draco smiled, that same infuriatingly confident smirk. “Don’t worry,” he said with a wink, “it won’t happen again. Not on my watch. And they all took the shooters.

Two more glasses of wine later, Hermione was starting to feel a little dizzy. She was leaning lightly against Malfoy as they chatted with another couple, the conversation drifting into Muggle politics. Hermione mostly listened—half to them, half to him—and found herself impressed by how much he knew. He didn’t seem out of place at all. Confident, articulate. At ease.

She let her hand rest on his shoulder for a moment, steadying herself. The alcohol was catching up to her.

Malfoy noticed instantly. He excused himself from the man mid-sentence and turned to her, his gaze soft.

“Tired, Granger?”

“A little, yes,” she admitted. “What time is it?”

“Not that late—almost six. But we’ve been drinking for quite a while now.” He gave a short laugh. “You hold your liquor, I must say. But I think it’s time you went home.”

At the mention of it, something tightened in her chest. She didn’t want the night to end—not yet. And judging by the way his hand flexed just slightly around her waist, maybe he didn’t either.

She stood from the bench and reached for her winter coat.

“We’ll walk,” he said firmly. “You’re in no state to apparate or use the Floo Network.”

She nodded and reached into her purse, ready to offer her card for the bill.

But he caught her wrist before she could. “It’s already taken care of. Put that back,” he said, voice gentle but unwavering.

She paused. “I owe you dinner, then.”

“Good,” he replied, smiling. “I like the idea that we’re starting to owe each other things.”

Then he leaned in and kissed her forehead.

Outside, the sky had deepened into night, and the Christmas lights along the street glowed softly. Snow was falling—light, delicate flakes drifting silently from the sky.

Hermione closed her eyes and tilted her face up, letting the cold flakes land on her cheeks like tiny kisses.

“I don’t feel like letting this night end just yet,” she heard him say.

She opened her eyes in surprise and looked at him. “Don’t you have someplace to be? It’s Christmas night—surely your family or friends are waiting.”

He shrugged, his hands buried in his coat pockets, gaze turned toward the falling snow. “No one I’d rather be with right now.”

“I wish we could stop time,” she said softly. “Not forever—” she laughed a little, “—but maybe just for a bit longer.”

Malfoy glanced around, checking for witnesses, then slipped his wand from his pocket and cast a spell. The air shimmered subtly, like the world had exhaled and gone still. Hermione blinked. The cars on the street moved slower, the people visible through the pub windows frozen in mid-gesture, mid-laugh.

She turned to him, unsettled. “Malfoy… what did you do? This feels like… dark magic.”

He chuckled. “Don’t worry, Granger. It’s just a little trick—an illusion. I didn’t stop time. I only gave us the illusion that it has.”

She walked toward him, and he opened his arms, slipping his hands under her coat and wrapping them around her waist. The warmth of his touch cut through the chill.

“The spell won’t last long,” he murmured. “Just a bit of borrowed stillness. I’ve been practicing… a few things. This one felt appropriate. Romantic, even.”

She smiled, though she tried to mask it. “Did you use this on other witches? Is this some new move of yours?”

He grinned. “No. Not yet.”

Then he kissed her—slowly this time. No urgency. No desperation. Just the quiet certainty of the moment. He tasted like beer, whiskey, vodka, and wine—everything they’d sipped through the afternoon.

When they finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against hers.

“What if,” he said, voice low, “I bring you home. You take a shower, freshen up, and come with me? There’s a gathering tonight at Nott’s place. It’s small—just a few friends.”

She hesitated. “I don’t know… I doubt I’d be welcome with your Slytherin friends.”

He seemed to consider this seriously. “Astoria and Daphne are in France for the holidays. It’ll just be me, Nott, Pansy, Goyle, and a few others I barely know or care about.”

“I…”

“Come,” he coaxed. “It’ll be fun. I can even brew you a sobriety draught—get the alcohol out of your system.”

She looked up at him, then nodded. “Okay. I’ll come. But I need a shower. And new clothes.”

“Perfect,” he said, his smile widening. “I’ll walk you home, then head back to change. I’ll come get you in an hour?”

“That sounds like a plan,” she replied, smiling.

And as they started walking, the illusion of stillness gently faded behind them, the world returning to its usual hum—only now, everything felt slightly altered.

Later that night — Still Christmas Day

“You’re going out again?”
Draco heard his mother’s voice behind him just as he reached for the Floo powder on the mantel.

“Yes, Mother.”

“I thought we were having supper together. The Greengrasses are here.”

He froze. “They’re here?” he repeated, surprised. “I thought they were in France.”

“They came back early. Apparently, the Ministry needed Mr. Greengrass. But not tonight. Tonight, he’s with his family.”

He turned slightly toward her, guilt already stirring low in his chest. “I’m sorry, Mother. I have work.”

She looked at him—no anger, just something deeper. Something far more difficult to face.

“Mr. Greengrass had no obligations tonight. Why is it that my son cannot have a single evening off? On Christmas, no less?”

Her voice wasn’t sharp. It was soft, filled with quiet disappointment. It struck harder than anger ever could.

He stepped closer, hesitated, then reached out to touch her hand. “I know I should be here,” he said quietly. “With you. With Father. With the Greengrasses.”

With Astoria.

That was the truth of it, wasn’t it?

Everything about tonight was a polished supper. Pureblood politics dressed as cheer. The soft suggestion of a future bound by name and blood.

And he was walking away from it.

Not out of rebellion. Not out of recklessness. But because, tonight, he wanted something different.

He wanted her.

Being with Hermione felt like the last real choice he had left—the only one not already written for him by someone else. And for once, he wasn’t ready to surrender it.

“I won’t be long,” he added. “Save me a piece of dessert.”

She nodded faintly, the sadness still there in her eyes, but she said nothing more.

Draco stepped into the flames and disappeared, the echo of his decision trailing behind him like smoke.

***

Hermione didn’t know how she was supposed to dress. She felt a bit anxious—though she couldn’t quite put her finger on why. After hesitating for a while, she finally settled on a white silk camisole layered over a black bralette, paired with high-rise washed jeans and heels. She swept her hair up into a messy bun, letting a few strands fall loose to frame her face.

Gold earrings, her black leather watch, and the delicate white otter pendant he’d given her completed the look. It was confident. Beautiful. Casual. Just enough.

She slipped on her long black coat and had just started giving nibbles to Crookshanks when a knock echoed through the flat—almost exactly an hour after he’d left her on the porch.
“You can apparate inside,” she called, raising her voice over the soft clink of the dish.

A quiet crack split the air, and then he was there—standing right in front of her.

She startled slightly and looked up at him. Once again, he was stunning.
Dressed entirely in black—from a fitted Lacoste shirt to worn-in Converse—he looked effortlessly sharp. His nearly white-blond hair was brushed back but a single, rebellious strand had fallen forward, skimming just above his grey eyes. Dark grey. Watching her.

And in that moment, she knew—she hadn’t made a mistake with her outfit. Not at all.

He walked toward her and slipped an arm around her waist.

“Malfoy, wait—I need to feed Crookshanks,” she said, half-laughing, half-protesting.

“Yes, right. Please do.”

But as she turned away, he didn’t move back. Instead, he stepped in behind her, his hands still at her waist, and leaned in. She felt the scrape of his teeth against her neck—a slow, teasing bite—and then his mouth brushing softly over her skin.

“I don’t know why,” he murmured between bites, his voice low and warm, “but every time I see you with your hair in that messy bun, I want to bite the back of your neck. Lick it. Sink my teeth into that little hollow between your ear and your shoulder. It drives me mad.”

She laughed, light and breathless, trying to twist away from his grip. He released her easily.

Hermione quickly gave Crookshanks his nibbles, then straightened and turned back to face him.

“Off we go,” he said, a small smirk playing at his lips.

“Off we go,” she echoed, matching his smile.

Chapter Text

Christmas night 2006, Nott’s manor

They got there by 8:30 p.m. with the Floo network. Hermione had taken the sobriety potion just before leaving—only because Malfoy had insisted. When she’d asked if he’d taken his, he told her he had, hours ago, right before Apparating from her flat to his home. “I never take chances,” he’d said. “Splinching’s not on my list.”

She nodded, lips curling. “How responsible you are…”

He shot her a glance from the side, and she wasn’t sure if he thought she was being sarcastic or serious—and that only made it funnier. She pressed her mouth together to keep it not that obvious that she found it funny.

No one there yet, they were the first one, but Nott was at the entry of the Floo network waiting for them.

Malfoy.

Nott.

Malfoy reach for him and give him a hug, his hand in his. Hermione felt a soft resistance from Nott, but she didn’t give it more thought.

“Nott, Granger. Granger, Nott.”
“We know each other,” he said, eyes fixed on her. “The golden girl… in my home. Who would've thought?”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she felt Malfoy shift beside her—just a step forward, just enough to slide himself slightly in front of her. Barely noticeable, but she felt it. A quiet, protective motion. And he wasn’t happy.

She wasn’t the only one who noticed. Nott clearly did too. His eyes flicked down, then up again, and a smirk curled at his lips.

“Easy, my High Reeve,” Nott drawled.

Hermione blinked, confused by the strange title. She looked at him, brow furrowing, but Nott’s smirk didn’t waver.

Beside her, Malfoy’s jaw tensed even more. The resistance, the undercurrent of hostility—it was starting to make sense. Nott clearly had something against him. But was it about her? For a second she felt that she was narcissistic and try to remind herself that people never care about her usually and she was not the center of the universe.

She reached out instinctively, fingers brushing and then gently squeezing Malfoy’s forearm. Just enough to ground him. Just enough to say I’m here.

In an instant, everything shifted. He turned to her, Nott forgotten, his eyes softening with a flash of concern.
“Granger, are you okay?” he asked, voice low. “Do you want to go?”

She nodded, her eyes wide as they met his.

She wasn’t sure what she’d just done.

Eight years without a wand in her hand—eight years keeping her head down, away from the politics, the power, the darkness. And now she’d walked straight into the vipers’ nest, wrapped on the arm of the worst one of them all.

And yet…

It was his voice that steadied her. His presence that made her feel like maybe—just maybe—it would be fine, as long as he was on her side.

As Malfoy watched her, something shifted in the room. Hermione caught it—a flicker in Nott’s expression. Shock, sharp and brief, as his gaze snapped between her and Malfoy. Back and forth, rapid, calculating.

“Granger,” Nott said at last, his tone shifting, smoothing. “You are always welcome in this manor.”

He stepped forward, more composed now, eyes intent on hers. “Please don’t take the old childhood rivalry between me and Malfoy as any kind of hostility toward you. I apologize for my manners.”

Then he reached for her hand. Hermione hesitated but let him take it. She could feel Malfoy behind her—close, silent, steady.

He wasn’t stopping her. Which meant… he trusted Nott.

So, she followed, her spine straightening as they moved, one hand still in Nott’s, the other clinging to the quiet certainty at her back.

“You’re early, Malfoy,” Nott said, turning to him with a sly smile. “I wasn’t expecting you until…” He cleared his throat. “Later.”

Malfoy’s eyes drifted across the room. “The decorations are… interesting tonight, Nott. What exactly do you expect us to do?”

“Oh, I might’ve overdone it a bit,” Nott replied, clearly pleased with himself. “We’re attending a masquerade ball. Last-minute idea.”

Malfoy laughed—short, incredulous—until he realized Nott was being serious.
“You’re not joking? A masquerade? Tonight? I thought this was just a casual evening between friends.”

“I thought so too,” Nott said. “But then you showed up.”
He looked pointedly at Hermione, then back at Malfoy. Just enough for them to understand—they had changed the plan.

Hermione didn’t catch the implication right away, but Draco did. She could feel it in the way his body shifted beside her—tense, alert, calculating.

“You’ll thank me later, you fool,” Nott added with a grin.

Malfoy held his gaze for a long moment. Hermione felt the weight of the silence settle between them before Malfoy gave a slow, reluctant nod.

He was going along with it. And she knew—he understood that, for now, it was safer to play by Nott’s rules.

Before she could quite process what was happening, a glass of wine had been placed in her hand, and she was being ushered down a hallway into a high-ceilinged chamber where several house-elves stood waiting—lined up like staff before a royal procession.

She glanced sideways at Draco, who looked more curious than concerned. That, somehow, steadied her nerves.

Nott stepped forward, dramatically raising his glass.

“My extraordinary house-elves,” he declared, as though about to give the opening speech to a grand play. “Tonight, I want every guest unrecognizable. No exceptions. Illusions, glamours, costume—whatever it takes. No one enters this manor as themselves. Is that clear? And if anyone refuses, you come to me at once.”

The house-elves nodded, eyes gleaming with magic and excitement. Hermione stiffened as they turned toward her and Draco, their eager expressions oddly unnerving.

She opened her mouth to protest—out of habit, really—but Nott was already chuckling, swirling his wine as if this were the most entertaining thing he'd arranged in months.

“This is going to be mad fun,” he said, before taking a sip and stepping aside.

In an instant, chairs shimmered into existence, followed by floating brushes, bolts of enchanted fabric, and mirrors that looked more sentient than reflective.

Hermione blinked, then looked up at one of the elves cautiously tugging her toward a plush velvet chair.

“Wait—what’s the theme?” she asked, her voice firmer than she felt.

Nott paused in the doorway, eyes twinkling. “Enchanted Forest,” he said, grinning wide. “Surprise me.”

And then he was gone, disappearing into the next room with Draco following behind—silent, unreadable. But just before he vanished, he looked back at her.

There was something in his eyes. A flicker. Amusement, maybe. Or curiosity.

And then she was alone—with seven house-elves and no idea what she’d just agreed to.

***

Hermione took a deep breath, standing just beyond the ballroom doors, unsure if she was truly ready to step inside. She could already hear the music—soft, enchanting—and the murmur of voices. The guests had begun to arrive long ago; the party was in full swing now.

She had spent longer than expected in the transformation room Nott had arranged, chatting nervously with strangers who were also mid-glamour or half-dressed in their magical disguises. The house-elves had taken the lead with her look—she hadn’t even had the chance to protest. They'd decided, apparently unanimously, to disguise her as a bay otter. She hadn't mentioned her Patronus, but somehow, they knew.

They’d conjured a gown for her—ethereal and wintry—a soft white corset hugged her waist, delicate lace climbing up her arms like ivy. The full skirt flowed to the floor in heavy, snow-like folds, and the false fur trim around her collar made her feel both regal and out of place.

Her heels were white, impossibly high, and somehow didn’t hurt—likely another one of the house-elves’ silent enchantments. In her hand, she held a parasol crafted from fine lace and wand light—the elves had embedded her wand into its stem, making it both accessory and weapon, just in case. It glowed faintly, responding to her magic with every step she took.

But it was the mask that convince her.

Shaped like an otter, delicate and pale, the mask looked as if it had been grown from moonlight and bone. It clung to her face like a second skin—so light she barely felt it, and yet, when she looked in the mirror, she barely recognized herself. The otter’s soft features, the shimmering white, the detail of the whiskers—it wasn’t just a mask. It was a transformation.

And now, here she stood—heart fluttering behind bone-white silk—ready, or not, to step into the ballroom and face whatever the night might hold.

A sound behind her made her turn.

A woman approached, draped in shimmering green from head to toe. Her dress clung like liquid, slit daringly high up one thigh, and a serpent-shaped mask coiled around her face—too lifelike to be merely decorative. Short black hair framed her sharp jaw like a blade.

Hermione stared, unease prickling at her skin. She knew that face. Or she had, once.

“Pansy Parkinson,” the woman announced with pride, as if expecting recognition.

Hermione gave a curt nod but didn’t offer her name. Without Malfoy beside her, she didn’t feel safe—and worse, she was starting to get angry. He’d left her to fend for herself in a den of snakes. These were the people who had mocked and opposed her for years at Hogwarts. And now, with war whispers in the air and veiled loyalties all around, she no longer knew who she could trust.

“Hi,” she said carefully. “Your costume is... amazing.”

“Thanks!” Pansy rolled her eyes dramatically. “Honestly, I don’t know what’s gotten into Nott. This was meant to be a small gathering of friends. Now he’s invited half the bloody wizarding world. This party won’t stop until tomorrow afternoon, I swear.”

She lifted a manicured hand and snapped her fingers—summoning a house-elf with practiced ease, like she owned the place. “Two firewhiskey, and—” she glanced at Hermione, pausing.

“Red wine,” Hermione said quickly.

Pansy gave a vague wave. “Red wine for my friend here.”

The house-elf bowed and apparated with a soft crack.

Only then did Pansy actually take a second look at her. Her head tilted, a curious spark lighting behind her mask.

“That voice…” she mused aloud, gaze narrowing slightly. “You sound familiar.”

Hermione didn’t flinch. She met her eyes evenly, though the mask on her own face suddenly felt too thin, too fragile.

Pansy’s lips parted, the realization dawning with a slow, wicked curl. “Granger,” she breathed, amusement dripping from the name. “The golden girl. Here. At this party.”

Hermione gave a tight smile, neither confirming nor denying it.

“Well,” Pansy said, lifting an eyebrow, “Nott really has outdone himself.”

The house-elf reappeared with their drinks, and Pansy accepted hers with a purr of thanks. She held Hermione’s wine glass out to her with mock ceremony. “To old school ties and unexpected guests,” she said, raising her glass in a quiet toast.

Hermione took the wine but didn’t clink it. She merely nodded and sipped—because she needed something cool to ease the heat building beneath her fur-trimmed cloak. It was suddenly hard to breathe, not just from the layers but from the weight of old history pressing in.

Still no sign of Malfoy. Still alone in the viper’s nest.

Hermione nodded stiffly, her jaw set. The fur-lined cloak around her shoulders was beginning to feel suffocating, heat pooling at the nape of her neck—but she didn’t remove it. Not here. Not with the faint, silvery scar still coiled around her forearm like the ghost of old battles.

“Let me help you,” Pansy said, her voice smooth but sharper than velvet. “Let’s enter the ballroom together.”

Without waiting for permission, Pansy looped Hermione’s arm through hers and guided her down the staircase. She smiled with ease at every masked guest they passed, as if she belonged to this world of shadows and opulence—and maybe she did.

“I strongly recommend you don’t speak too much tonight,” Pansy murmured as they descended. “You’re unrecognizable in that adorable costume, but someone like me could still catch your voice.”

“And why wouldn’t I want to be seen here?” Hermione asked tightly.

“I’ll let Malfoy explain that one,” Pansy replied, her smile unreadable.

At the base of the stairs, they approached two tall men lingering near the bar. Hermione couldn’t immediately tell who they were beneath their extravagant disguises—one wore the sleek feathers of a white owl, the other stood like a shadow in motion: tall, commanding, draped in black. A dragon.

The dragon’s mask clung to his face like a second skin. His suit was tailored to brutal perfection—elegant, minimal, dangerous. His blond hair was slicked back, catching the light like tarnished silver beneath the chandeliers.

She knew. Instinctively.

And when their eyes met—sharp, searing—there was no doubt. It was him.

He looked at her like a predator studying prey, ready to devour the delicate little otter she was pretending to be. Her lips curled into a smile. She stepped forward, letting herself be claimed. Without hesitation, he slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his side with fluid, practiced ease. Together, they turned toward the crowd as if they’d always been standing that way—two halves of a secret.

Then Nott appeared, expression tight with urgency. He took Malfoy by the elbow and steered them a few steps away, lowering his voice.

“Listen, you two—you need to be less obvious. Malfoy, Astoria and Daphnée are coming tonight. I told them you wouldn’t be here. The last thing we need is for them to recognize you.”

With a quick flick of his wand, Nott cast a subtle glamour over them both.

“There. Just a touch—barely noticeable. But it’ll do. No one will look twice unless they already suspect. And half the bloody young wizarding world is crammed into this place tonight. Finding anyone specific is like chasing smoke.”

Draco took her hand the moment Nott gave them a casual wave of dismissal. As he led her toward the bar, she glanced back and saw Nott drifting away, merging into a tighter circle of costumed guests.

Aside from the owl and the snake—Nott and Parkinson—Hermione hadn’t the faintest idea who anyone else was. There was a hyena, a sleek black panther, a fox, a scorpion, and what looked like a shark. They were dazzling in their masks and tailored glamour—mysterious, elegant, dangerous.

“Pansy recognized my voice,” she murmured.

“She won’t say a word,” Draco answered instantly. “She’s loyal. To me, Nott, Zabini. We can trust her.”
He gave her hand a small squeeze, firm and reassuring.

Hermione hesitated. “But… why can’t we just say I’m here? What’s going on?”

She felt it—the slight tension in his shoulders, the subtle shift of his jaw. He was about to lie. Or at least, not tell the whole truth.

Maybe he realized she saw through him, because he stopped walking and turned to face her fully. One arm circled her waist. With his other hand, he tucked a strand of hair gently behind her ear.

“Astoria,” he said at last. “We’re not together anymore—but we’re still often seen together. Our families are close. Too close. There are expectations. They’d like us to get back together. Marry, even.”
He paused, eyes searching hers. “But neither of us wants that. Not right now.”

His voice softened. “I just… I don’t want it public that I’m seeing someone else. Not yet. I’d like to keep you to myself for a little longer.”

Hermione blinked, startled by the way her chest tightened. She’d forgotten. Forgotten that he was a Ministry official. That his name was practically a headline magnet. That she’d seen him with Astoria in the Daily Prophet after events like the Halloween gala.

“I forgot,” she said quietly. “I didn’t think about the implications of being seen with you.”

He chuckled under his breath. “I think it’s all stupid. And I was never fond of the attention. But it comes with the job—being a former Death Eater, working for the Ministry, and, well… being a Malfoy.”

He leaned in with a smile. “But tonight, I’m just Draco. And I’d like to dance with the most adorable otter I’ve ever seen.”
His gaze dipped to her dress. “Why white?”

She glanced down and shrugged. “They decided I’d be a baby otter.”

He gave a soft laugh. “That’s actually cute. Better than muddy brown, anyway.”

They locked eyes for a moment too long, something shifting in the air between them. She noticed the way his expression changed—how he seemed to realize what he’d just said.

Without thinking, she laid her hand gently on her forearm, hidden beneath the white fur draped over her coat. A small grounding gesture.

And then—he pulled her close. His lips hovered near hers, just a breath away.

“You’re stunning, Granger,” he whispered.
“Let’s forget who we are. Forget the past. Whatever comes next. Just be us tonight. I want to dance with you. Now.”

***

At one point during the night, they were dancing—surrounded by guests transformed into magical creatures from the enchanted forest. The music pulsed gently around them, cloaking the ballroom in rhythm and illusion. Everyone was unrecognizable beneath masks and glamour, and for a fleeting moment, it was easy to forget they were Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy—former enemies from Hogwarts, now… whatever this was.

Hermione let the music carry her a little beyond the edge of the dance floor. That’s when it happened—a sharp jolt, a sudden collision. Someone bumped into her, and a cold rush slid down her spine.

She turned.

A hyena stood before her, its manic, glinting eyes peering through a grotesque mask. Next to it, a raven—elegant, composed, and silent. Crimson lips curled into a knowing smile. The woman’s silhouette was flawless. Still. Predatory.

Hermione’s heart lurched—but before she could react, Draco’s arm slid firmly around her waist. He pulled her back against him, turning her gently so that he now faced the pair instead. She felt the shift in him—his body suddenly alert, coiled like a wire. He’d sensed the danger too.

He gave a subtle nod toward them. They didn’t speak—didn’t even acknowledge him—but for a heartbeat, Hermione thought they had recognized him. The raven’s expression twitched—annoyed, almost bored—and she turned away.

Then, like he had been summoned by the tension in the air, the Owl appeared, Nott. Silent. Watchful. And behind him, the Black Swan.

Tall. Immaculate. Moving with deliberate elegance, every step echoing old money and silent judgment.

Hermione felt Draco tense even more beside her, his grip turning to steel.

Astoria.

The Black Swan’s gaze flicked between them. For a moment, Hermione was sure—absolutely certain—that she knew. But just as quickly, Nott slipped his hand around Astoria’s arm, guiding her away before her eyes could linger too long on the small white otter in the arms of the dragon.

They crossed paths again a few moments later. As they brushed by, the Black Swan gave Hermione a cool, amused glance, her lips curving.

"Beautiful little prey," she said softly.

Hermione’s breath caught. “She knows,” she whispered.

Draco gave a nonchalant shrug. “Maybe. But she won’t care. Don’t worry.”

But Hermione had seen it—just a flicker, nothing more. In his eyes. The way he looked at Astoria and Nott dancing now, side by side. It was quick. Barely there.

But unmistakable.

A shadow of something.

Regret?

“Do you miss her?” Hermione asked quietly.

He turned toward her like the question had pulled him back to the present.

“Who?” he asked, though he already knew. “Astoria?” he added, glancing down at her.

She nodded, her stomach twisting. She didn’t want to hear the answer. She already regretted the question.

He let out a slow breath. “She’s a good friend. Sharp. Ambitious. We were never in love. Not truly. Just… useful to each other. We wanted the same things and pretended that was enough.”

A pause.

Then he met her eyes.

“But please, let’s not talk about this. It’s depressing.”

He offered her a faint smile, tilting his head just slightly.

“What would you like to drink?”

***

It was nearly 2 a.m., and Hermione was beginning to feel the weight of the night. Her third glass of wine sat unfinished in her hand, and exhaustion was creeping in. She didn’t want to admit it aloud, but she was ready to go home.

Draco must have noticed, because he quietly led her out to the terrace and helped her up onto the stone balustrade. The night air was brisk, almost biting—but after the warmth of the ballroom, it felt refreshing.

“I’d offer you my coat,” he said, brushing a hand over her arm, “but I think you’re already warm with all this fur. How didn’t you overheat in there?”

“I cast a cooling charm at the beginning of the night,” she replied, stifling a yawn. “Just took it off now.”

He smiled. “Clever.”

Then, gently, “Would you like one last drink before I take you home?”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Yes… why not.”
She didn’t really want another drink. But she also wasn’t ready for the night to end.

“Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

He turned and slipped back inside, disappearing into the glow of the party.

Hermione wrapped her arms around herself, gazing out over the shadowed garden. The wind rustled softly through the hedges. Somewhere far below, a fountain trickled like a whisper.

She felt the shift in the air before she heard the footsteps. Someone else had stepped onto the terrace.

She turned—and saw the Owl.

Nott.

He strolled over with the same calm confidence he always carried, his mask slightly tilted now, revealing part of his sharp profile.

“Golden Girl,” he greeted, his voice a low murmur.

“Nott,” she replied, managing a small smile. “Thank you for the evening. It was… fun.”

“It was interesting, at least,” he said, standing beside her and resting his forearms on the stone railing. “How did you find the Black Swan and the Raven?”

She shook her head. “Interesting… and stunning.”

“Astoria and Daphne,” he said simply. “Yes, they are. And they know.”
He paused, watching her closely.
“I don’t think they saw you. Or Malfoy, for that matter.”

“Thanks for that, actually.”

They stood in silence for a moment, watching the garden sway beneath the moonlight.

“He’s different,” Nott said suddenly, almost to himself.

Hermione glanced sideways at him. “What do you mean?”

He didn’t look at her. His gaze remained fixed on the distant hedges.

“He genuinely cares about you,” he said finally. “Draco. He’s a good friend to me. Like a brother, really. And I’ve never seen him like this—with anyone.”

Her brow furrowed. A quiet tightness bloomed in her chest—something fragile and uncertain.

“He’s carrying a lot,” Nott continued, his voice quieter now. “More than he’ll ever admit. And soon… he’ll have to make choices that most people would run from.”

He exhaled—slow, steady—still staring out at the moonlit hedges.
“I don’t envy him. Not even a little.”

Hermione shifted slightly against the stone rail, concern darkening her thoughts.
“What kind of choices?”

Nott tilted his head just a little, but didn’t meet her gaze.

“That’s for him to tell you—if he chooses to. But keep in mind… you’re not part of his world. Not really. You’re different from everything he knows. Choosing you might mean losing other things. And he may find himself facing a decision he simply won’t be able to make.”

She frowned. “You’re scaring me, Nott. I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“That’s exactly why I’m warning you,” he said, turning serious. “You’ve been out of our world for a while. You don’t see the currents underneath. But I do.”

He finally met her eyes. “Don’t ever go near Daphne. She’s dangerous. Mad, really. Unstable and cruel—and she hates everything you stand for. Especially that you’re a strong witch and Muggle-born.”

Hermione stiffened.

“As for Astoria,” Nott went on, “She’ll hate you too—but she’ll respect you. That’s something. And Pansy… Pansy can be trusted, strange as that may sound.”

Hermione didn’t speak. She just watched him.

“I see my old friend’s coming back now to guard his precious little otter,” Nott added with a smirk. “You’re beautiful, by the way. Just… be careful with him. He’s more fragile than he looks.”

And with that, he turned and walked away, crossing paths with Draco just before reaching the doors. They nodded at each other in a silent exchange. One breath later, Draco was at her side.

“What was our wise old Owl going on about?” he asked, arching a brow.

“I’m not quite sure,” she said honestly. Her voice sounded distant, even to her own ears.

She took the glass of red wine he handed her but didn’t drink—just placed it carefully on the stone rail.

“How about you bring me home, Malfoy?” she asked, her tone softer now. “I’m tired.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Your desires are my orders, Granger.”

He reached for her hand again and guided her toward the nearest fireplace.

“We’ll use the Floo to get closer to your flat,” he said, already pulling out the powder, “then we’ll Apparate from there. Do we need a sobriety draught?”

“I’m fine,” she murmured. “You?”

“I’m fine too,” he said with a slight smile. “Let’s go.”

And together, they stepped into the flames.

***

“You’re not entering?” she asked him when he left her in front of the door to her flat.

“If I do, I won’t be able to sleep,” he replied. “And I’m expected in four hours at the Ministry for a meeting with Shacklebolt. There are whispers… that they’re trying to move him from his post as Prime Minister. I need to be there—I have a vote on the Council now,” he added, showing her the signet ring on his finger.

She nodded slowly and unlocked her door to enter. “Good night, then,” she said softly.

But just as the door began to swing shut, he stopped it with his hand—and without a word, reached for the pendant resting against her chest—the little white otter charm—and cradled it gently between his fingers.

The gesture pulled her closer. Their faces were now only inches apart, his breath brushing her lips like a secret not yet spoken.

“Please remember,” he whispered, the words threading into her like a spell, “whatever happens… meeting you again, after all these years—that night at the Old Bell Tavern—was the best accident of my life. And that night in Montreal—” his fingers curled tighter around the charm at her chest “—I’ve carried it with me every day since. Always. And tonight, this moment… I’ll hold it in my soul, even when the world tries to tear us apart.”

His gaze searched hers, deep and unguarded.

Then he kissed her.

There was no warning, no hesitation. Just the sudden heat of his mouth on hers. As his hand slid to the back of her neck, deepening the kiss, she felt the small charm fall onto her skin—warmed by his touch.

“Granger,” he murmured against her lips, “I…"

He stopped, hesitating for a moment, the weight of unspoken words hanging between them. She felt his breath catch, the shift in his body, the way his fingers briefly tightened at the nape of her neck.

Then, softer this time, he continued, “I really enjoyed the night with you tonight.”

“I did too, Malfoy,” she whispered.

And just like that, he Apparated away—without a sound.

She stayed there for a long second, still floating on her cloud, the kiss lingering like magic. Slowly, she closed the door, locked it behind her, and moved through the flat in a daze. Her fingers fumbled with the clasps of her dress, her thoughts still caught in the way he’d looked at her.

It was only when she was half-undressed that the thought struck her.

He apparated away in complete silence.

That was unusual.

How did he do it? she asked herself, her brow furrowing slightly as she stepped into the shower, the water washing over her skin while her mind refused to let go of the question.

Chapter Text

December 27th, 2006

Hermione was deep in concentration, surrounded by what had to be a hundred parchment scrolls spread chaotically across her small living room. They were fragile manuscripts, long forgotten in the Ministry’s archives—never filed, never referenced, but unmistakably dated to the early whispers of the Tenelabrith. Her instincts told her these texts mattered, that somewhere in this mess lay a clue she couldn’t afford to miss.

She was curled on the sofa in nothing but a pair of pink boxer shorts and an oversized grey Oxford sweater. Her hair, still damp from the shower, hung loose around her shoulders—something she rarely allowed. A half-finished glass of wine rested on the table beside her, untouched for hours. For two days, she had done nothing but read, annotate, cross-reference.

Tomorrow, she’d be back at the hospital. And after that, five full days of double shifts—St. Mungo’s had requested her help on top of her regular schedule. She knew this was her only window to work through the documents before her time—and mind—were consumed again. So she kept reading, even as the words began to blur and the candlelight danced weakly against the walls.

Her hand drifted to the back of her neck, fingers pressing gently into the tense muscle. She was exhausted, but she didn’t want to stop. Couldn’t stop. Because every time she closed her eyes, her thoughts pulled her back to Malfoy.

He had left her on the morning of December 26th, quiet and unreadable as always. And she hadn’t heard from him since.

She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t reached out. Pride, maybe. Or habit. She was used to his vanishing acts by now used to the way he disappeared without warning, without explanation. But even knowing that, she couldn’t stop thinking about what Nott had told her that night at the masquerade.

That Draco would have to make a choice.
That he was more fragile than he appeared.

It had unsettled her, coming from someone like Nott—someone who usually masked everything behind biting sarcasm and smug indifference. But that night, he’d been sincere. Too sincere. The words had clung to her ever since, like a splinter buried just deep enough to irritate but never quite enough to remove.

She reached for her glass and took a slow sip, the wine dry on her tongue, her mind still racing.

Crookshanks padded silently across the floor and leapt onto the sofa, his weight settling beside her. He stepped delicately onto her thigh, his orange fur warm against her skin. She let her hand fall into his path, fingers running absently through his coat as he passed. His tail flicked playfully across her wrist, drawing the faintest smile to her lips.

The room was quiet, but her thoughts were loud—and they all led back to the same place.

To him.

With a groan, she pressed her fingers against her eyes, trying to release the tension building behind them, willing herself to stop thinking about him. But something shifted—something in the air, in the weight of the silence. She didn’t hear it, but she felt it.

She wasn’t alone anymore.

Instinct took over. She shot to her feet, wand drawn, pointed at the archway leading into her living room.

“Malfoy! What have I told you about Apparating into my flat—”

But he was already on her.

He crossed the room in seconds, grabbing her like she was the only thing keeping him upright. His mouth crashed into hers, rough, breathless, desperate. She was furious—but it all burned away the moment his arms locked around her, crushing her to him.

He cupped her jaw, kissed her again. And again.

She barely had time to think—his hands were everywhere. At her waist. On the soft swell of her bump. Holding her so tightly she thought she might lose consciousness from the sheer force of him.

Her hands found his waist, and she froze.

Something wet.

Sticky.

Her palm came away slick.

“Malfoy—wait, wait.” She tried to pull back, but he only held her closer.

“Stop—Malfoy.” She pushed harder this time, breath catching. “What’s going on?” Her voice steadied as she looked down at her hand. Her stomach dropped.

Blood.

“You’re bleeding.”

She didn’t scream. Didn’t panic. She was too used to this kind of chaos.

“Sit down,” she ordered, already guiding him toward the loveseat. “Now.”

He obeyed, collapsing onto the white fabric, leaving dark stains in his wake.

“Please,” she said, kneeling before him, searching his face. “Let me help you.”

He gave a shaky nod.

She moved quickly, grabbing the essentials from the corner cabinet—potion vials, enchanted gauze, her wand. She crouched beside him, muttering a diagnostic spell. A golden orb shimmered to life above his chest, rotating gently.

Vitals: stable.
Condition: superficial magical trauma.
He was losing blood, but he wasn’t dying.

Still.

“What happened?” she asked, her tone clipped now that she knew he was safe.

“Nothing,” he said flatly.

She gave him a withering look.
“You can’t just Apparate into my flat, bleed all over my loveseat, and then tell me it’s nothing.”

Silence.

Hermione stared at him, pulse pounding. This wasn’t just unexpected—it was insane. What the hell was happening? And why wasn’t he telling her anything?
Her mind raced, trying to connect the dots he refused to give her.

She watched him hesitate, his jaw tightening, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

“Fine,” she said, adjusting her tone. “Let’s start with something easier. Why are you here?”

He looked at her then—really looked. Pale. Tired. And still every inch the stubborn man she remembered.

“I knew I had to Apparate quickly,” he said, voice low. “And I’ve been thinking about you for the past two days.”
He let out a ragged breath. “So… here I am.”

Her arms crossed instinctively. “That’s a good, honest start,” she said. “Now tell me—what’s going on?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“I can’t,” he said finally. “Well—I could tell you something, but I don’t want to lie.”
His eyes found hers, guilt swimming in their depths.
“I’m sorry I came. It wasn’t planned. I’ll go.”

“You’re not moving,” she snapped. “Not until I stop that bleeding and figure out what curse hit you.”

“Hermione—”

“Don’t ‘Hermione’ me, Malfoy. You’re staying here until I’m done.”

He didn’t argue again. Good. He knew better.

She moved toward him briskly, taking control the way she always did in crisis. The blood was seeping through the fabric of his shirt. She cleaned it gently but efficiently, tilting his chin to check the damage properly. It was worse than she expected—deep, pulsing with residue. A poultice went on next, then three layered diagnostic spells. The results flickered in front of her, confirming what her instincts had already told her.

“No infection,” she muttered. “But you’ve been cursed. Dark magic.”

She glanced up sharply, eyes narrowing.
“Did you do this to yourself, or were you attacked?”

His expression twisted, clearly offended. “Do it to myself? Are you serious?”

She couldn’t help the half-smile tugging at her lips. “Alright, alright… maybe you were experimenting. But you didn’t take the easy out and say yes, which tells me the truth.”

His eyes narrowed. That calculating stare again.

“Clever witch,” he murmured. “Too clever for your own good.”

She shrugged. “Working in emergency care, you learn that sometimes you don’t want to know the truth—even when you can get it.”

He nodded, just once.

“I was attacked,” he said. “I don’t know by who. They were masked. For a second, I thought it was the same creatures that attacked you—here, in your flat. But it wasn’t. These were wizards. That much I’m sure of.”

Her breath caught. Her thoughts raced.

“Were they hooded?” she asked, heart sinking. “Like Dementors?”

“Yes. Exactly like that.”

She went very still. Her stomach twisted.

“Then we’re not just dealing with the Tenelabrith,” she whispered. “Something else is out there. Maybe behind it. Maybe pushing it forward.”

He didn’t flinch. Just said, flatly, “The Pact of Thorns.”

She met his eyes and nodded.

“Yes.”

But he didn’t relax. If anything, the set of his jaw tightened further.

“The war’s not creeping anymore,” he said. “It’s charging. Attacks are growing—more brutal, more deliberate. They’re targeting Muggle-borns. People like you. They also attack people that are supporting muggle born, the ministry… He seems tired, exhausted while looking at her, worried as well.

Her chest tightened, but she said nothing.

He took a breath, slow and controlled. “It’s not safe for you here anymore, Hermione.”

There it was.

She stared at him. For a second, she didn’t quite understand what he was saying—because it wasn’t what she’d expected. Not a warning about the world. A warning about her place in it.

“You think I should leave,” she said flatly.

“I think you should disappear,” he replied, carefully. “Just for now. Somewhere untraceable. Until this… shifts.”

She let out a bitter laugh. “Right. Because hiding has always worked so well.”

“Hermione—”

“No,” she snapped. “My life is here. My work. My friends. My foundation is almost complete. “I’ve spent months building something that matters.”
She motioned around the flat—small, cluttered, lived-in. “This is my home. I chose it. I built it.”

Her eyes flicked to Crookshanks, curled in his usual spot on the couch, twitching softly in his sleep.
“And I’m not abandoning it all because they decided to come knocking again.”

He didn’t argue. But his silence said more than words could.
He looked at her like she was already slipping through his fingers.

Her voice softened, just slightly. “You think running will keep me safe. But you of all people should know—there’s no such thing as safe anymore. Not for any of us.”

Still, he said nothing. Just stared at her with that same tortured intensity.

So, she looked him dead in the eye and said, voice steady as stone, “If the storm’s coming… let it come. I’m not going anywhere.”

A pause. A long one.

Then, finally, in a quiet voice: “Can you come closer?”

She hesitated only a second before moving toward him, careful not to bump his injured side as she sat beside him on the loveseat.

“I’ll cast a cleaning charm later,” he murmured. “When I feel stronger.”

“You don’t feel well?” she asked, eyes scanning his face again.

“I can feel the blood loss.”

“I already gave you a Blood-Replenishing Potion,” she reminded him gently. “You’ll feel better soon.”

He nodded faintly. “Okay. But… stay close. I want to hold you.”

Something in his voice—raw, almost broken—cracked something in her. Without another word, she leaned in and curled against him, her arm across his chest, her head just below his jaw.

“You’re lucky,” she murmured after a moment. “The curse they used didn’t bind. Most dark curses don’t stop unless they’re countered—or the caster dies.”

He nodded, his hand resting lightly against her back, lost in thought.

“I’m a Ministry official,” he said, voice distant. “By tomorrow, everyone will know there was an attempt on my life.”

Then, softer, more to himself, “Or maybe not. Maybe Shacklebolt will try to bury it. I don’t know anymore.”

She held him closer, wrapping her arms around his frame as if it could anchor them both.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen, Malfoy,” she said quietly. “I had no idea any of this was coming. Not the attack… not the war… not my parents.”
Her voice caught. “Winning the war against Voldemort was supposed to be the end. But then—eight years in the Muggle world. And now… the last six months have felt like someone pushed me back into a nightmare.”

She exhaled slowly, her words unraveling with each breath. “I’m overwhelmed. This… this isn’t the life I wanted.”

There was a pause.

“What did you want?” he asked, his voice surprisingly gentle.

She closed her eyes, letting the dream spill out like a secret she barely remembered she carried.

“Something soft. Kind. Peaceful. A little white house, near the sea… with black shutters.”
She smiled faintly. “A family. Children. A husband. Tall. Strong. Someone who could protect us—but who’s clever enough to argue with me and not lose every time.”

She felt his arm tighten around her. A silent promise.

“You’ll have it,” he said. His voice was low, firm. “I swear.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just stayed there, tucked into the hollow of his shoulder, listening to the faint thud of his heartbeat under her cheek—wondering, not for the first time, if fate would let them survive long enough for any of it to be real.

“It feels unreal,” she murmured. “Like we’re just being alarmist—talking in circles, bracing for something that might not happen.”
She paused. “But then I look at what’s already falling apart…”

He stayed quiet, letting her unravel the thoughts that had been coiling inside her chest for weeks.

“The economic war with the United States… Canada being slowly dragged into compliance through pressure spells, backdoor alliances. Magical neutrality doesn’t mean anything anymore.”
She hesitated, then added, “There are whispers that even the French Ministry is fractured.”

She pulled back slightly, her eyes searching his.
“And now the attacks. The masks. The dark curses. The Pact of Thorns.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper.
“It’s starting again, isn’t it?”

He didn’t deny it.

His hand moved slowly along her back—soothing, steady, but heavy with the truth they both didn’t want to name.

“It never really ended, Granger,” he said. “We just… pressed pause.”

She closed her eyes.
“I’m tired of always fighting. Always preparing to lose something.”

A beat.

“I don’t want to be brave all the time.”

He pressed his lips to her hair. No reply. No protest. Just the silence of someone who understood.

And she let him hold her.

They stayed like that until sleep took them both.

Sometime in the middle of the night, she stirred. He was pale, shivering slightly, his body tight with exhaustion. Without a word, she guided him to her bedroom. He didn’t resist.

She eased him onto the bed, helping him out of his shirt, then his trousers—careful, always, not to aggravate the wound. He let her, his fingers brushing hers once—lightly, unintentionally. Without expectation.

“Hermione,” he whispered.

“Mmm?” she murmured, focused on the task.

“I… I’m madly in love with you.”

She slowly turned to face him. And when their eyes met, something inside her gave way.

“I love you too.”

Their kiss was slow. Burning. Honest. Nothing hidden, nothing held back.

But then his hands began to move too quickly—urgent, desperate—and she caught them, gently steadying him.

“You’re hurt, Draco. Please… not like this. Our first time can be another time.”

He stilled. Just held her.

When she slipped in beside him, he pulled her close again. And in the quiet dark, she felt more than warmth. She felt his breath at the nape of her neck—soft, steady. The press of his face tucked into her hair. From time to time, his lips brushed against her skin—her shoulder, her throat—a ghosting touch, not meant to seduce, but to remember. To prove they were still here. Still alive.

His hand moved slowly over her belly, her thigh, her arm—as if memorizing her by touch alone. Not possessive. Not demanding. Just present. Steady.

Even when she shifted, restless with that low, aching pulse stirring in her belly, he didn’t move. He didn’t ask. He only held her closer. Like he believed the future still belonged to them.

And for that one night, wrapped in the hush of her room, she almost let herself believe it too.

Chapter Text

The next morning, she let him sleep. Quietly, she made herself a London Fog and sat down, eyes drifting toward the parchment still lying on the floor. Her loveseat was still stained with dried blood—so much of it—and just the thought of having to show up at St. Mungo’s made her feel nauseous. Exhausted. She didn’t want to go anywhere. She wanted to stay. Stay here, with him. Make sure he was okay.

Her mind wandered to his whispered confession last night. And hers.

A quiet warmth settled in her chest. She’d known, hadn’t she? From the moment she saw him again at the Old Bell Tavern. She had felt it then—something shifting. Something dangerous, undeniable. There were still so many things between them, so many tangled threads left to unravel… but they would find a way. Somehow.

She reached for the parchment, reading the same lines over and over, unable to make sense of them—until her eyes caught on a single passage:

Magia tenebrosa obscura — ritus vetus.
Ab eis erepta, ad nos redibit.
Bonum vertetur, malum ascendet.
Ipsos regetimus—
Donec ultimus cadat.

Which meant:

Dark black magic — ritual.
From them it was stolen, to us it returns.
The good will turn, the bad will rise.
We shall control them—
Until the last one falls.

Her breath caught. The parchment was incomplete, but suddenly, it all made sense.

The Tenelabrith weren’t just instruments of destruction—they were vengeance incarnate. Wizards stripped of their magic, cast into shadow. And now, they wanted it back.

They could bring death, yes—but only through magic. Any magic. But for the Pact of Thorns, that wasn’t enough. They believed it had to come from Muggle-borns… or from anyone not considered “pure.”

Saimaniq’s brother.
The children at the Montreal hospital.
The children in London.

Hermione’s lungs seized. Her chest locked tight.

They hadn’t planned to steal her magic immediately. They needed her alive. Needed her to complete the ritual.

And worse—they were turning others. Manipulating them. Twisting them from within. Drawing them in like moths to flame. The Tenelabrith weren’t just tools.

They were perfect weapons.

She was still trying to breathe when she felt the shift behind her—Draco stirring.

She turned, and he must have seen something in her face, because he moved quickly, his expression tightening. A flicker of pain crossed his eyes as the wound in his side reminded him it was still there.

“Stop,” she said quickly, rising to meet him. “Please—be careful. I’ll come to you.”

She crossed the room and knelt beside him.

“We need to talk.”

And she told him everything. Every connection she’d pieced together. The Tenelabrith. The Pact of Thorns. The children. Saimaniq’s brother. All of it. Every dark thread.

He listened in silence—jaw clenched, eyes unreadable.

Then, without a word, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“We’ll see each other soon,” he said softly. “Don’t worry if it takes a few days. I need to speak to Shacklebolt. What you’ve uncovered…” His voice dropped, heavy. “It’s bigger than you think.”

She hesitated—then whispered, “They’re trying to bring back Voldemort.”

His eyes darkened. “I think it’s more than that. Remember when I said they were working to unseat Shacklebolt? I don’t think it’s just the Ministry anymore. I think they’re planning a coup—across the country.”

Her breath caught. “You can’t go. You’re hurt. You can’t Apparate in that condition.”

“It’s all right, Hermione,” he said. “I’ll manage.”

“You should rest. Just for a few hours—”

He cut her off gently. “Please stay here. Your flat has wards. No one can enter—except me and Harry.”

“I’m expected at the hospital,” she said quietly. “And later tonight… at St. Mungo’s.”

He looked at her, frustrated. “This is serious, Hermione. You—”

“I know,” she snapped. “But you can’t force me.”

A pause. Then, a small smile tugged at his mouth. “No. I know I can’t. I’ll never be able to force you into anything.”

Her face softened. “Good.”

He nodded once. “Just… be careful.”

“I will,” she whispered.

***

Draco had gone home, changed quickly, and headed straight to the Ministry. He needed to speak to Shacklebolt—immediately. Hermione’s revelations couldn’t wait.

When he entered the Minister’s office, Shacklebolt stood with his back to the door, facing the tall bookcase behind his desk. His shoulders were rigid.

“I was expecting you,” he said, voice tight with restrained fury.

Draco felt the weight in his tone. He was angry. Very angry.

“You were cursed last night,” Shacklebolt said, his voice clipped. “And you didn’t report it. I just found out through the Daily Prophet. The article goes live in forty-five minutes. An attack on a Ministry official. Shacklebolt can’t protect us anymore.” He let out a small snort.

“I didn’t think—”

“No. You went straight to Granger. You exposed her.”

“No one knew I was there.”

Shacklebolt turned slowly, his face carved from stone. “Everyone will know in forty-five minutes.”

Draco’s chest tightened. “How is that possible?”

Shacklebolt’s eyes narrowed. “Your soon-to-be father-in-law.”

Draco blinked, stunned. “Greengrass?”

Shacklebolt didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

“All the work we’ve done for the last eight years,” Shacklebolt said, voice low and bitter. “Gone. Just like that. Because you couldn’t keep your distance from Hermione.”

“That doesn’t make sense. I—we didn’t—”

“The masquerade at Nott’s?”

Draco froze.

“They know, Draco. And they’re going to publish that too.”

His mind reeled. How? How do they know?

“You underestimated Daphne,” Shacklebolt said. “Maybe it was Pansy as well. Who knows. Could’ve been Nott.”

Draco’s stomach twisted. Every name he heard made it worse.

“They were watching,” Shacklebolt added. “Waiting. All it took was one misstep.”

He sank into the nearest chair. His limbs felt heavy, like someone had siphoned the blood from his veins. “She was already a target. Now that they know a pure-blood—me—is involved with her... she’s done.”

“I’m not involved with her,” he added quickly, too quickly.

Shacklebolt finally turned to face him. His expression was unreadable.

“What can we do?” Draco asked, quieter now.

“You accelerate everything,” Shacklebolt said without hesitation. “You’ve been cautious with the Pact of Thorns—maybe because some part of you still hesitates. That ends now. Marry Astoria. Sever every tie to Granger. Tell them everything she told you. Say you used her. Help the Pact finalize their coup.”

Draco stiffened. “If I do that—you’ll lose. We’ll lose the Ministry. And Merlin knows what they’ll do with it.”

“We’re already losing,” Shacklebolt replied, his voice like flint. “They’ve infiltrated us—not just here. Canada. The United States. Japan. And you know it.”

Draco’s jaw clenched. “And the Daily Prophet... How do we—how do we control that?”

“You control the narrative,” Shacklebolt said. “Go see Malcolm. Tell him everything—as if you have no idea he’s the one behind it.”

“He’ll never believe me.”

Shacklebolt looked at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “They will, Draco. Because you’re going to give them exactly what they want.”

Draco lifted his gaze to meet the Minister’s. His throat felt dry. “And what is it they want?”

Shacklebolt didn’t blink. “The return of Voldemort. And now, thanks to Granger, you know exactly how to do it.”

Draco stood, his chair scraping back sharply against the floor. “I can’t. This will be the end of us.”

“They’re going to do it anyway—with or without you. You’re the only chance we have of having someone on the inside. Someone close enough to buy us time.”

Draco shook his head slowly, disbelieving. “This is madness.”

“It is,” Shacklebolt agreed grimly. “But there’s no other way. You have forty-five minutes to decide your next move. But I’m telling you—if you stay on this side, we lose the only advantage we had. You. Feeding us the information we need when the time comes.”

He paused, then added, “You always knew this was the plan. Eight years ago, when I came to you—you knew. If the Pact of Thorns ever grew in strength and influence, you’d have to go to the other side. That’s why your father was released from Azkaban. Why the Malfoy name was reinstated. Why your mother was welcomed back into the society she loved to shine in.”

Draco’s voice dropped, cold and sharp. “Don’t talk about her.”

Shacklebolt didn’t flinch. “You have no other choice. If you don’t do this, you’ll expose everyone—and you’ll put Granger, Potter, and Weasley in grave danger.”

His stomach twisted at the sound of her name. Granger.

“I’ll visit Greengrass now,” he said quietly. “How will we stay in contact? I won’t be able to come here.”

“They’ll allow it for a while,” Shacklebolt replied. “Until they’re ready to expose you themselves. I’ll find a way to reach you when the time comes.”

Draco studied him. “You don’t trust me?”

“I do. It’s them I don’t.”

Shacklebolt held his gaze. “Occlude all of this, Draco. Every word. Every look. Bury it deep.”

Draco gave a small, bitter nod. “Already doing it.”

Then, without another word, he turned and Apparated away.

***

The Greengrass Manor was dressed for the holidays—flickering candles, rich velvet garlands, silver accents curling around every banister. A charmed snowfall drifted across the high ceiling, and faint music floated in from the next room.

Draco hated it.

It looked peaceful. Joyful. But beneath the gold ribbons and polished floors lay the true nature of this place—cold, calculating, and insatiable for power.

Malcolm Greengrass was exactly where Draco expected him: seated in the grand salon like a monarch holding court. He lounged in the armchair with one arm draped over the side, a crystal glass of Firewhiskey untouched at his elbow.

He looked up as Draco stepped in. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Ah,” he said. “There you are.”

Draco gave a slight nod of respect, a gesture more habit than sincerity. He’d changed before coming—black suit, sharp lines, hair still damp and slick from the shower. A soldier dressing for the gallows.

Malcolm didn’t waste time with pleasantries.

“Does it hurt?”

Draco shook his head once. “I received good care. From a skilled healer.”

“You’ve betrayed us.”

He didn’t answer right away. Let the silence stretch. Let the accusation hang in the air and rot. Then he let out a dry, quiet laugh.

Greengrass’s expression darkened.

“You don’t seem to understand, Malfoy.”
The use of his surname—sharp, formal, venom-laced—was a clear signal. He had always called him son. Greengrass’s patience had officially run out. Draco lifted his hands slightly, palms open in mock surrender.

“Malcolm,” he said evenly, “please let me speak. I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

Greengrass didn’t respond, but his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“I’ve worked with the Ministry for the past eight years,” Draco continued, voice smooth, composed. “Close to you. Close to every member of the Pact. I passed along what I could, when I could. You and I both know the Pact never fully trusted me—never gave me full membership. I never expected it. But I never betrayed you.”

He let the words hang in the air like smoke, letting them sink in. Then, quieter, with calculated restraint:

“I was under Shacklebolt’s orders to work with the Mudblood. She’s smart—smarter than we like to admit. But she was the fastest way to gather intel on the Tenelabrith.”

Greengrass’s jaw twitched, eyes sharp and burning.

“I knew something was in motion,” Draco continued, voice measured. “But I also knew I’d be kept out of the loop. I always am. Still, it was clear—the Pact hadn’t figured out how to bring the Dark Lord back.”

There—a flicker. The mask cracked. Just a little.

“And what makes you think we haven’t?” Malcolm asked, his voice like ice.

Draco let a crooked smile rise to his lips. “Is he here yet?”

Silence. Tense. Calculating.

“I know how,” Draco said, tone flat, assured. “And I’ve already shared the process with Saimaniq’s brother. I’m meeting him later today to finalize the last piece.”

“You were seen with the Mudblood.”

The words hit like a lash.

“I had to earn her trust,” Draco answered without missing a beat. “Which I did. This morning.”

He stepped forward, letting the sarcasm and bitterness bleed through his voice.

“Come on, Malcolm. Me? Falling for a Mudblood?” A dry, humorless laugh escaped him. “The Malfoys are pureblooded. Untainted. I would never disgrace that. And to prove it—”

He straightened, spine rigid, chin lifted, eyes locked on Greengrass’s.

“—I’m here to formally request Astoria’s hand in marriage.”

The air shifted.

“We can announce it at the Malfoy Ball. In two days.”

He held Malcolm’s gaze, steady and cold. Letting him see the move for what it was: a declaration. A symbol. A sacrifice.

Greengrass narrowed his eyes. “Why are you telling me all this?”

Draco exhaled slowly. “Because you nearly blew my cover. You attacked me. You risked exposing everything—to the Prophet, the Ministry, the Pact.”

He paused, then admitted, quieter, sharper:

“I played my hand wrong. I should have come to you first. Told you everything. I should have looped in Nott, maybe even Astoria. But I didn’t. And I nearly lost the only leverage I’ve been holding for years.”

Greengrass didn’t respond right away. But Draco saw it—the calculation behind his stare. He was a dangerous man, yes. But not a fool. If what Draco was saying was true, it meant the Dark Lord’s return could be accelerated. And with that, the final move to bring the Ministry to its knees.

Draco leaned in, voice low, pointed. “I also know you’ve had your eye on the Prime Minister’s chair for a long time. I’ll help you get there. You know I’m Shacklebolt’s most trusted advisor.”

They opened a bottle of champagne after that. A performance. A temporary truce.

Draco left soon after, feeling utterly hollow.

He wasn’t sure Greengrass believed him. But he knew the man’s ambition—his hunger for power, for bloodline purity, for vengeance—would override his doubts.

He had offered him a gift too tempting to reject. And for now, Draco was welcomed back. As his “son.” A role he had cursed just the night before.

Only now, it came with a darker fate.

Chapter Text

December 30th 2006

Draco walked toward the cave in Utah, flanked by Damien—Saimaniq’s brother. They were waiting inside, the others. Preparing to summon the dark spirit of Death itself. To bring back the Dark Lord.

Everyone around him buzzed with excitement. Eagerness. Even reverence.
Draco felt none of it. Only a tight coil of dread winding in his chest.

How could this possibly be a good plan? How had Shacklebolt ever believed this would end in anything but ruin?

He forced the thoughts away.

Dwelling on doubt was dangerous. In a place like this—with minds this volatile—conflicted emotions could betray him. He had to stay sharp. Cold. Occlude everything he knew.

The cave wasn’t the same one where he’d found the chest—the one that had kept the Tenelabrith imprisoned for decades. This one was deeper. Older. It reeked of rituals lost to time and soaked in too much blood.

Most of the Pact of Thorns was already assembled, cloaked and masked. The masks reminded him of the Death Eaters’, but with subtle differences—more jagged lines, silver etched runes, designs from all over the world.

He remembered asking Malcolm once why they didn’t simply wear the old Death Eater masks.

“Not all of them were Death Eaters,” Malcolm had said. “The Pact is older. Broader. International. You can be both, but not necessarily. This time, we unify under a larger cause—pure, untainted magic. We won’t repeat the mistake of isolating it to England.”

Draco hadn’t replied then. But the message had been clear.

Across borders and Ministries, more and more were aligning with this madness. Countries that wanted Muggle-borns banned. Erased. Labeled them as thieves of magic—as if blood alone gave someone the right to wield it.

He clenched his jaw and stepped further into the cave.

In the center of the chamber, a figure sat bound, wrists tied tightly together. He was crying. Mute—his mouth sealed shut, likely by the same kind of curse used on disobedient House-Elves.

Draco's eyes widened before he could stop himself. For all his years of preparation, for all the darkness he’d seen—this was the first time he was here, truly face to face with it. The living cost of the Pact’s ideology.

He did nothing. Could do nothing. Not now.

It took him a moment—just a second or two—to force himself back into the colder version of who he had to be.

He turned to Damien.

“He’s a Muggle-born,” Damien said simply. “We’ll use him to initiate the first ritual. Just to be sure everything works.”

Draco gave a small nod. Uncertain. Distant.

“We’re going to extract his magic,” Damien said, his voice steady, clinical. “Test it under the effects of the Aetherlock Draught. Just a single ounce knocks them out for hours—complete disconnection. Once it takes hold, there’s no coming back.”

Draco’s thoughts flickered—just for a heartbeat—to Hermione. To that moment, not far from here, when she’d collapsed before him. Her magic gone. Hollowed.

He’d always suspected Knuckle had slipped something into her drink. Now, there was no doubt.

She had been under the influence of the Aetherlock Draught.

Damien gave a smirk—subtle, almost admiring. “Your friend Zabini developed it. He’s gotten clever with potions. More ambitious by the day.”

Draco made a silent note: he would punch Zabini someday. Maybe twice.

He moved to the edge of the central chamber, where Damien and Samainiq were speaking with Daphnée. She looked as unhinged as ever—unstable, volatile—but he offered a curt nod of acknowledgment.

Her gaze swept him from head to toe before she stepped closer, her long fingers tapping deliberately against his chest.

“My future brother-in-law,” she purred, voice laced with something too close to desire. “Don’t think you’re fooling me. You’ll need to prove your loyalty eventually. I still remember you at that ball… with the Mudblood.”

Draco didn’t answer. He wouldn’t stoop to that level. Not with her.

He met her eyes and slowly, with clear disdain, brushed her finger off his chest.

“Daphnée,” he said coldly, “there’s a great deal you don’t understand. And just because you don’t understand it doesn’t mean you’re right. Your vision is narrow.”

Her eyes narrowed, fury darkening her expression—but Draco didn’t flinch. He offered only a slight, dismissive shrug and turned his back on her. She wasn’t worth his energy. Not tonight.

He had more pressing matters to face.

At the center of the chamber, Damien stepped forward, commanding silence without a word. Around him, the Pact members sat in curved tiers, their presence forming a jagged circle like a dark amphitheater. Their masks glinted in the flickering torchlight—some silver, some bone-white, others carved with runes in languages long dead.

There were more than a hundred of them. Representatives from across the globe.

They hadn’t come for politics. Not for debate. They had come for blood, for power.

They had come to witness the first Tenelabrith ritual.

And the creatures themselves—the Tenelabriths—were already there.

Hovering like wraiths above the congregation, their translucent forms shimmered in and out of sight, casting warped, shifting shadows on the stone walls. Their hunger was palpable. Draco could feel it. Magic drawn to magic, like sharks scenting blood in the water.

They were waiting for their share of the spoils.

And at the heart of it all… was the ritual Draco had helped decipher.

They knew how now.

And there was no turning back.

And they were ready.

Damien stepped in front of the figure—the Muggle-born man who was now violently shaking his head, tears streaming down his face. He tried to scream but no sound came out. His mouth had been sealed by a silencing curse, and though he fought to summon magic, his hands were bound, his wand lying useless beside him.

Damien spoke the first words in Latin, voice cold and precise: “Ligare Aethera, Obscurare Vim.”

Then he snapped the wand in half. A faint shimmer of golden filament rose from the broken core and snaked toward the prisoner’s chest, sinking into his body. The man’s eyes widened—he understood now. He was losing everything.

But instead of panicking, he stilled. Like a man who had accepted his fate.

Damien turned and gestured for Draco to approach.

“Your turn,” he said. “It has to be you. The ritual needs your imprint—it matters who takes the magic.”

Draco hesitated. Suspicion prickled at the edge of his mind. The man was under the effects of the Aetherlock Draught—no one really knew what might happen next. And Draco certainly didn’t want to be the one to kill him.

His thoughts raced.

He couldn’t back down. Not here. Not now. Doing so would expose him. It would unravel everything—Shacklebolt’s plan, the years of infiltration, the illusion of loyalty he’d fought so hard to maintain. And deep down, Draco knew… this moment had always been coming. A test. A line he’d eventually be asked to cross.

He was torn. Fractured. For the first time in his life, truly unsure of what to do.

He had never wanted to be a killer. Never wanted this.

But there was no time left to choose.

The Muggle-born met his gaze—eyes full of desperation, silent pleading.

Draco’s breath hitched.

Then—he felt it. A hand on his back.

He turned slightly. Samainiq stood behind him, fury etched into every line of her face, glaring at Damien.

“How dare you use him as your experiment,” she snapped. “He’s a Ministry official. He can help us. Help defeat Shacklebolt. He’s valuable.”

Before Draco could say a word, Samainiq stepped forward.

“I’ll do it,” she said sharply.

Then she closed her eyes and began the incantation, her voice steady, resonant:

Ex vase nato in luce furata,
Ius tuum sacrum nunc evacuatur.
Ubi silentium regnat et astra obliviscuntur,
Potestas tua nunc poenam sentiet.

“From vessel born in stolen light,
I strip thee of thy sacred right.
Where silence reigns and stars forget,
Your power now shall face regret.”

She raised the Ferrum Obscura, the obsidian dagger used for dark magic rituals and drove it cleanly into the Muggle-born’s shoulder.

The man convulsed, his face twisted in agony.

But Draco didn’t have time to react.

With the same blade, Samainiq slashed across Draco’s collarbone—swift and deliberate. He hadn’t even seen it coming.

“Here’s your vessel,” she whispered. “Take it all.”

A stream of golden light threaded with dark tendrils surged from the man’s body and shot into Draco’s chest. It burned—searing through his nerves, his blood, his bones. His breath caught. For a terrifying moment, he thought he might collapse.

But he held on.

Barely.

The pain ebbed slowly, giving way to a foreign, crackling energy that surged through him—unfamiliar and terrifyingly potent. His skin prickled, his heartbeat roared in his ears. And beneath the surface of his pale flesh, tendrils of dark magic pulsed visibly through his veins, like black lightning threading through glass.

He felt invincible.

And he hated it.

The Muggle-born collapsed face-first onto the stone floor. He wasn’t dead—but something vital had been torn from him. His magic. His mind.

Cracked wide open.

He twitched violently, his body shuddering with strange spasms. Though still silenced by the curse, his shoulders trembled as if laughing. But it wasn’t joy. His face was slack, eyes wild—completely lost. Madness had taken root where magic had once lived.

Draco stared at him, numb. Hollow.

And for the first time in years, Draco wondered if Shacklebolt had ever truly grasped the weight of what he was asking—the night he made the offer. The night he handed Draco over to the Pact… knowingly or not.

Eight years ago, they’d struck a deal.

Now, Draco wasn’t sure who had paid the higher price.
Or if the worst of it had even come yet.

***

Draco traveled back alone from Utah to Montreal. He made only one stop—Mrs. Lapierre’s.

He needed to speak with her. About Hermione. About the dark magic. About Samainiq.
There were questions that hadn’t stopped gnawing at him since the ritual.

By the time he reached the Plateau, night had already fallen. The streets of Montreal were wrapped in cold, the kind that hinted at snow just before the turn of the year. Everything was quiet, frozen, waiting.

Mrs. Lapierre was still in her shop, counting the petty cash while her husband stacked boxes in the back. She looked up when he entered—not surprised. No, she had known. Somehow, she always knew.

She offered a faint smile, but there was something in her eyes—wariness. Intuition. She could sense that something had shifted.

He needed help. He needed to believe there was still a way to protect Hermione. After what had happened in Utah—after what he’d done—he was afraid that even his Occlumency wouldn’t be enough. That one day, a moment of weakness would betray him. That the Pact would find, buried somewhere in the corner of his mind, what he truly felt for her.

She motioned him inside gently, closing the ledger. Her husband had disappeared into the back.

“Tell me,” she said simply.

He didn’t hesitate. “I need you to help me conceal my feelings for Granger.”

The words came out too fast, too raw. He felt exposed. Unsteady.

He didn’t know why he was telling her—only that he trusted her. That she was strong. That last time they’d met, she had liked Hermione, genuinely. And he knew—deep down—that if anyone would help protect her, it would be this woman.

“There’s no simple way to remove feelings from someone, Draco,” she said carefully. “I’m not sure I can help you.”

“There must be something,” he insisted. “A charm. A potion. A ward. Anything that’ll keep me from giving her away. I’m too deep inside the Pact now. I can Occlude as much as I want, but eventually, they’ll see it. They’ll know.”

She studied him for a long time, her expression unreadable.

“What you’re asking… is dangerous,” she said at last. “If they bring her to you—if she’s standing right in front of you—you won’t even know that you love her. You won’t be able to protect her.”

Draco’s voice was quiet, but resolute. “If it were only about me—if it were just my life—I wouldn’t care. But if they find out how I feel… they’ll tear through my memories. They’ll see everything she’s done. Everything she knows. She’s already a target. This would only make it worse.”

He paused, breathing out slowly.

“As long as I’m inside, I still have a chance to stop them. Before it’s too late. Before they take the Ministry.”

Mrs. Lapierre looked at him—truly looked at him.

And for a moment, he felt as if she could see through every defense he’d ever built, every lie he’d ever told himself to survive.

“I’ll help you,” she said softly, stroking the head of her giant Great Dane. “But know this—one day, you’ll regret it. Come back tomorrow.”

Draco gave a single nod. “I’ll return after midnight.”

She nodded once, then stepped forward and kissed his cheek. Her hand rose to his face, cupping it gently—steady and warm—her gaze searching his as if trying to memorize the man behind the mask.

“You’re making a terrible mistake.”

He held her eyes, unflinching.

“I made it eight years ago,” he replied.

Then he turned and apparated into the night.

***

Draco got home long past midnight, his body aching with exhaustion and his mind… wrecked. Every step through the Manor felt heavier than the last, like walking through fog thick with regret and second-guessing.

He didn’t know what he’d just done. Not really. Had he done the right thing? The necessary thing? Or had he crossed a line that couldn’t be uncrossed?

Was this what Shacklebolt had expected of him? Demanded of him?

Should he tell him?

The thought made him sick. He was already drowning in too many versions of himself—spy, soldier, son, liar. He didn’t know which one had walked into that ritual… or which one had walked out.

But worst of all was the silence. The empty, echoing truth that he couldn’t shake:

He missed her.

Granger.

Her voice. Her questions. Her stubbornness. The way she always looked at him like she saw through him—and forgave what she found anyway.

But he couldn't see her again. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Not as long as this war kept dragging its poison through every corner of their lives.

And tomorrow—tomorrow he’d play his part. He would stand beside Astoria Greengrass and announce their engagement at the New Year’s Eve ball. In front of everyone.

In front of Hermione.

The thought made his stomach twist.

He stepped into his room dropped into the armchair by the cold fireplace. With a flick of his wand, he summoned a half-full bottle of firewhiskey. No glass this time.

He uncorked it and drank. And drank again.

The burn was sharp, but not enough.

Not nearly enough.

For the first time in years, Draco Malfoy drank until his thoughts disappeared.
Until his name meant nothing.
Until even she faded from his mind.

Almost.

Chapter Text

December 31^st, 2006

The ballroom had been transformed for the occasion. Thousands of candles floated effortlessly in the air, casting a warm golden glow over the crowd. Above them, the enchanted ceiling had been replaced with a transparent dome, offering a breathtaking view of the winter sky. Snow fell softly beyond the glass, the stars glittering behind it like distant jewels.

Every surface was lined with abundance—towering displays of food from every region, crystal decanters pouring endless streams of wine, champagne, and firewhiskey. The Malfoys had spared no expense.

This was the event of the year. The Malfoy New Year’s Eve Ball.

Everyone had been invited. The entirety of high society. Key figures from the Ministry. Diplomats and dignitaries from across the globe. Even those whispered to be aligned with the Pact walked freely among them.

The Manor, already immense, had been magically expanded to accommodate the crowd. The room itself seemed to breathe—fireplaces along the edges enchanted to subtly shift the temperature, warm and comforting early in the evening, cooler and crisp as midnight approached.

A live orchestra played classical pieces, occasionally pausing for modern interludes that catered to the younger guests. The music was flawless. The lighting, immaculate.

And Draco was bored out of his mind.

He had been drinking since the start of the evening—first with Nott, then Zabini, Goyle, Daphnée, and Pansy. His glass was never empty, his mask never slipped. Not completely.

He wasn’t drunk, not quite.

But he was far from sober.

Earlier in the evening, he had quietly told them all that he was preparing to announce his engagement to Astoria Greengrass.

They had celebrated with mock toasts and sly smiles—some genuine, others sharp with implication.

At one point, somewhere between the third and fourth glass, Pansy leaned in close and asked, “Have you seen Nott? He disappeared a while ago.”

Draco shook his head lazily, not bothering to look around. “No idea,” he muttered. “Don’t care.”

And he didn’t.

Not tonight.

He already knew the real performance hadn’t started yet.

That would come when she walked in. When she looked at him.
And he would pretend it meant nothing.

***

Hermione was still at the Burrow, tucked into one of the upper bedrooms with Ginny and Molly fussing around her like it was a wedding day rather than a covert mission. Outside the frosted windows, the countryside was bathed in moonlight, calm and cold—nothing like the tension brewing inside the house.

“We have to go, Hermione,” Ginny said fastening a clasp on her own cloak. “We have a regime to bring down.”

Hermione nodded.

She was standing in front of the mirror, adjusting the sleeves of her dress. It was deep midnight black velvet, long-sleeved, and heavier than what she usually wore, but it fit like a second skin. Delicate black lace traced over her arms, chest, and across her midsection like creeping ivy. The skirt fell in soft, full drapes to the floor, elegant and fluid when she moved. She had chosen black heels—tall and silent.

Her hair was slicked back behind her ears, long and glossy, framing her face with severe precision. Around her neck, she wore her otter’s pendant—a quiet, personal anchor that glinted faintly against the velvet.

She looked… stunning. Regal. Powerful.

And for the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to feel it.

Hermione exhaled slowly and reached for her cloak.

She wasn’t sure why she felt the knot tightening in her chest. It wasn’t just the mission. It wasn’t the danger. It was something else.

Someone else.

The last time she’d seen Malfoy, he was bleeding—slumped against her doorframe, too pale, too silent. And still, even then, he had looked at her like she was the only truth left in a crumbling world. That night had ended with whispered secrets, him reaching out to Shacklebolt, and the beginning of something terrifying that will expose the Tenelabrith and the pact of torn.

Hermione pulled on her cloak and squared her shoulders.

“Let’s go,” she said. “It’s time.”

***

They arrived by Floo Network promptly at 9 p.m.

Hermione stepped out first, brushing a bit of ash from her cloak, followed closely by Harry, Ron, and Ginny. They positioned themselves near Shacklebolt, who stood tall and composed—but even from a distance, Hermione could see it in his posture. He was tense. Alert. Nervous, maybe for the first time in his life.

The ballroom was breathtaking. Elegant, gleaming, and heavy with expectation. But something was off. She couldn’t name it—not exactly—but the air had a charge to it, a subtle shift beneath the glamour. A tension threaded through the candlelight and polite laughter. She scanned the space instinctively.

Something’s wrong, she thought. I can feel it.

She tried to distract herself, moving slowly through the crowd, greeting familiar faces—old classmates from Hogwarts she hadn’t seen in nearly eight years. Some gave her warm smiles, others looked unsure whether they should acknowledge her at all. The war had changed them all, scattered allegiances and rewired friendships.

She smiled politely, exchanged pleasantries, made her way through conversations she didn’t really care about. But her eyes were searching.

She knew who she was looking for. But she wouldn’t ask. Couldn’t.

He knows I’m here. He’ll come to me.

Still, her heart beat a little faster each time she turned a corner or caught sight of blond hair.

Ron appeared beside her with a crooked grin, offering his hand. “Dance with me?”

She blinked, pulled from her thoughts, then nodded. “Of course.”

They moved together to the dance floor, and for a few minutes, it felt almost normal. Familiar. His hand in hers, the low murmur of the orchestra, the hush of silk dresses sweeping polished floors. They spoke quietly—about who was present, who wasn’t, and what might be waiting behind the evening’s glamour.

At one point, while they sat to eat, Ron leaned closer and whispered, “Kingsley’s rattled. Have you seen his hands? He never fidgets like that.”

Hermione glanced toward the corner where Shacklebolt stood, deep in conversation with a foreign ambassador.

He was fidgeting.

It made her chest tighten.

Something was coming.

And still—he hadn’t shown himself.

But he would.

She could feel it.

Draco had seen her the moment she arrived—four hours ago.

She hadn’t noticed him. But he had been watching her, always from just far enough away to go unnoticed, hidden among the shadows, the crowds, the endless parade of diplomatic masks.

She was… stunning.

More than he remembered. And that was saying something.

The black velvet clung to her like it had been stitched by starlight and rebellion. Her hair was sleek, her posture regal, her presence effortless. Every smile she offered someone—Weasley, a Ministry official, some wide-eyed young wizard trying too hard—sent a fresh pulse of jealousy twisting through his chest.

He hated it.

The way she laughed. The way she listened. The way she pretended nothing about tonight felt wrong. As if she weren’t the brightest mind in the room. As if she hadn’t been his greatest secret for years.

She moved like grace incarnate, but he knew better.

There was nothing innocent about Hermione Granger—not anymore.

She was full of secrets. She was hiding something beneath that perfect poise. And he admired her all the more for it.

But admiration wouldn’t protect her.

And he had a role to play.

It was time.

With a breath that tasted like firewhiskey and regret, Draco turned from the shadows and began climbing the grand staircase. The noise of the ballroom dimmed behind him, replaced by the thrum of blood in his ears.

In a few minutes, he would announce to the world that he was engaged to Astoria Greengrass.

And he would do it with her watching.

Because that was what the Pact required.

Because that was what war demanded.

***

Hermione’s gaze drifted toward the grand staircase.

They’d been told to expect an announcement—something important, something grand. But the moment the music shifted, and the room quieted, she felt it.

Something was wrong.

She’d been at the Malfoy Manor for four hours, and still—no sign of Draco. Not a glimpse. Not a glance. Just silence where there should’ve been something.

And now… this.

Her stomach twisted.

A hush fell over the crowd as two figures emerged at the top of the stairs. Malcolm Greengrass and Lucius Malfoy. Regal. Cold. Smiling the way men smile when they’re about to drop a blade.

The look on their faces chilled her.

She glanced around the room. Ron was suddenly at her side, slipping his arm around hers as if sensing her unease. She felt the firm tug as he began to steer her gently away from the main crowd. Harry and Ginny had already moved to the edge of the ballroom, eyes sharp, scanning.

She followed Ron’s lead—slowly, reluctantly—then stopped.

She saw him.

Draco.

He stepped into view at the top of the stairs, Astoria Greengrass at his side, her arm looped possessively through his. They looked—

Perfect.

He was devastating in formal black, his expression unreadable but elegant as ever. And Astoria… she was radiant. Dressed in silver and pale green, her blonde hair cascading down her back like spun silk. She was glowing. Confident. Poised.

And smiling.

That kind of smile.

Hermione felt Ron’s grip on her tighten slightly, but she pulled away without thinking, stepping forward slowly. The sounds of the room faded behind the rushing in her ears. She didn’t even realize she was moving.

She just needed to see Draco’s face. To read the truth.

Astoria turned to the crowd, beaming like a bride already crowned.

Malcolm’s voice echoed through the ballroom, deep and smooth.

“We are gathered tonight for a most joyous occasion,” he began. “A moment of alliance, of celebration.”

Lucius took over, his tone equally rehearsed. “For years, Malcolm and I have worked side by side, guided by shared vision and purpose. And tonight, we are proud to announce the engagement of my son—Draco Malfoy—and his daughter, Astoria Greengrass.”

The room erupted. Applause. Cheers. Fireworks burst into gold and green above the enchanted dome ceiling. Balloons appeared out of thin air, confetti rained from above, champagne glasses clinked like laughter.

Hermione couldn’t breathe.

And then—she saw it.

Astoria turned to Draco, reached up with careful fingers, and touched his cheek. Gently. Deliberately. She leaned in, and Draco—without hesitation—tilted his head, the corner of his mouth lifting into a faint smile before he kissed her.

Passionately.

Hermione took a step back and collided with something solid. She turned.

Ron.

He was watching her, his eyes full of sympathy, his mouth curved into a soft, helpless smile.

“You knew?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He hesitated. “We heard the rumor an hour ago. We didn’t know how to tell you. You never said anything to us… just to Ginny. And she’s with Harry, and—well, you know how it is.”

He reached out to touch her arm, to comfort her.

She didn’t feel it.

She was cold.

Numb.

Shattered, but not allowed to show it—not here. Not now.

She needed to get away.

Just for a moment. To breathe. To gather herself before she completely unraveled.

It was nearly midnight, and the ball was still in full swing, but she felt like she was barely holding herself together. She muttered something to Ron—an excuse, a quiet apology—but he caught her arm gently.

“Stay close,” he reminded her, voice low. “We’re still waiting for Malfoy to expose members of the Pact. Kingsley needs confirmation before midnight.”

She nodded, forcing a small smile. “I just need the bathroom.”

He let her go, and she slipped out of the ballroom without looking back.

The moment the heavy doors closed behind her, the music and laughter fell into muffled echoes. She walked quickly, not caring where she was going, not paying attention to the turns. The hallways blurred past her—ornate, cold, unfamiliar. Somewhere along the way she found a large door, carved and old, and without thinking, she pushed it open and stepped inside.

The room was vast, dimly lit.

A library.

It was stunning—towering shelves, ladders, books so ancient their spines looked like they could turn to dust under too much light. Tomes bound in dragonhide. Scrolls that pulsed faintly with wards. She could almost feel the weight of centuries pressing down on the room.

Her fingers brushed one of the shelves, trailing along the gold-embossed titles.

She didn’t know what she felt. Not exactly.

Grief. Humiliation. Disbelief.

Just days ago, he’d told her he loved her. She had trusted him—truly trusted him—with the secret of the Tenelabrith. With herself. And now he was engaged to Astoria Greengrass, as if none of it had mattered.

Maybe it never had.

Maybe it had all been a dream—her hope, her stupidity, dressed up as something more.

The sound of the door closing behind her cut the air like a blade.

She froze.

She didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

His voice followed a heartbeat later. Cold. Sharp.

“What are you doing here?”

She turned slowly, her cheeks still damp with tears. The shame of it stung more than the cold in the room—being seen like this. Exposed. Fragile. By him.

And yet, as her eyes found him, she froze.

She notice the enchanted dome overhead cast soft moonlight down through the library’s arched ceiling. A narrow shaft of pale silver cut through the space and landed directly on him—framing him in otherworldly light. It clung to his shoulders, shimmered across his hair, and deepened the sharp lines of his face.

He looked unreal. Like something conjured from memory or dream. Too perfect. Too still.

Too far away from the man she thought she knew.

She swallowed, her throat tight, and didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

Because beneath the beauty of that moment—beneath the moonlight and silence—she could already feel the storm waiting in his voice.

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

He walked toward her. Measured. Controlled. Something about him was different. The way he carried himself. The weight in the air around him.

He was… wrong.

Darker.

She looked down at her trembling hands—and then she felt him. His fingers brushed her cheek, catching the trail of tears and tracing them to her chin. Then his hand tilted her face upward, forcing her to meet his eyes.

They were pale.

Too pale. Lifeless. As if the warmth she once knew in them had been erased.

She swallowed hard. Reached for his forearm.

“Are you okay?” she whispered. “What happened to you? I can feel it… there’s something darker in you.”

He didn’t answer. Just stared at her.

But for a moment—just a moment—his expression shifted. His hand moved to her neck, fingers grazing the small white otter pendant resting against her collarbone. The one he’d given her.

His thumb played with it. Gently. Almost tender.

Her breath caught.

He was going to kiss her.

She was sure of it.

And then—his eyes darkened, and she felt the shift. The snap.

“You’re Occluding,” she whispered, voice cracking. “You’re Occluding this moment. Why would you… How—?”

She stopped. Her words choked as something changed in his gaze.

It became colder. Crueler.

He held the pendant in his fingers, staring at it.

Then he spoke.

“Did you really think,” he said, voice slow and cutting, “that I could ever love you?”

Her blood went cold.

“You? The Mudblood who helped disgrace my family? The one who played a part in my aunt’s death? You’re the reason we fell. You—and your kind.”

She couldn’t move. Could barely breathe.

“I love perfection,” he continued, his hand moving from the pendant to the scar on her forearm. “And you’re not perfection. Not with that filthy blood. Not with your broken skin.”

His fingers slid down to her waist, pulling her closer.

“I used you,” he said softly, like a confession. “And I’ll admit, I enjoyed it. Every kiss. Every lie. They were right about one thing—playing in the mud can be fun. And you, Granger, weren’t a bad whore.”

With one sharp tug, he ripped the otter pendant from her neck.

“You should leave,” he said, voice flat. “You’re not welcome here anymore.”

She didn’t scream.

Didn’t flinch.

Her heart was cracking open in her chest, but her spine straightened.

With quiet dignity, she wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand, held her chin high, and stepped past him.

She didn’t look back.

***

He heard the heavy wood door close behind her with a dull, final thud.

It was done.

He let the silence settle, trying to breathe through it. His eyes dropped to his hand, still curled around the small white otter pendant. The chain had snapped when he’d torn it from her neck, but the charm itself remained whole—cool and light in his palm.

He stared at it for a long moment before slipping it into his pocket.

He didn’t let himself think about why.

He had to be in Montreal soon—just after midnight. There were expectations. Plans. Layers of deception he could no longer afford to lose control of. He rolled his shoulders, fixed the perfect Malfoy expression back onto his face: poised, charming, unbothered. He was expected to kiss his bride-to-be in front of a hundred witnesses. And he would.

Because that was the role.

Because that was the price.

He left the library with measured steps, but the echo of them sounded too loud in the silence. Inside, something twisted.

It felt like he was walking deeper and deeper into something he couldn’t undo.

Mistake after mistake. And still—no turning back.

Chapter Text

January 1st, 2007, 1 :00am

Draco moved through the snow-covered streets of Old Montreal, the night air sharp against his face. Muggles were everywhere—laughing, drinking, ringing in the New Year with joy he couldn’t touch. Families gathered around street performers. Children clutched sparklers. Couples kissed beneath string lights and garlands.

But Draco didn’t feel like celebrating. Not tonight.

His polished black shoes crunched against the icy pavement until he reached the familiar storefront: L’Atelier Lapierre Poli. The shop’s warm, flickering lights spilled onto the snow. He pushed open the door without knocking. He didn’t need to. She was expecting him.

Still in his tailored black suit from the Malfoy ball, he hadn’t changed. When he slipped his hand into his pants pocket, he felt it—a cold, delicate shape pressing against his palm. The white otter pendant. Hermione’s.

He yanked his hand away, jaw tightening. Not now.

Mrs. Lapierre was already in the back room, the magical chamber cloaked in heavy incense and spell-threaded drapes. She sat alone in the center, surrounded by flickering candles arranged in a pentacle.

"Come in, Draco," she said softly, her voice echoing with solemnity. "If, you’re sure. There’s no turning back."

"I’m sure," he said, slipping off his coat and folding his white sleeves up to his forearms.

She nodded and motioned for him to sit across from her.

In her hands, she held a rough black stone. It looked heavy, jagged, unrefined. Yet it floated effortlessly above her palms, spinning slowly. Dark magic hummed around it.

"We will be calling upon old magic," she warned. "Black magic. Videnthra—She Who Unthreads."

The air thickened. The candle flames hissed and tilted inward. The stone began to spin faster, glowing faintly from within. Draco noticed they were encircled by runes carved into the floor, flickering softly with silver light.

"Name the one," Mrs. Lapierre intoned. Her eyes had turned an eerie, clouded white.

He hesitated, didn’t wanted to say it aloud, she stopped him with a raised hand. "Too late. She already knows. You loved her too much, too deeply. Videnthra has already sensed her name in your blood."

Draco closed his eyes and said nothing.

Mrs. Lapierre began to chant in Latin, her voice ancient and unwavering:

"Amor ligatum fuit; nunc voluntate mea solvitur. Pro proteccione, pro silentio, pro oblivione. Etiam si amor semitam invenit, hunc abscindo. Videnthra, solve me."

("Love was bound; now by my will, it is released. For protection, for silence, for forgetting. Even if love finds a path, this one I sever. Videnthra, release me.")

The stone flared. Draco gasped as the magic ripped through him. A hot, searing pain shot from his chest to his temples, down his spine, into every nerve. He clutched the edge of the circle, but his fingers curled involuntarily. His jaw locked. He wanted to scream, but no sound came.

His hand closed around the pendant in his pocket, unconsciously.

And then—nothing.

Silence.

When he came to, he was on the floor. Cold. Disoriented. The pounding in his skull echoed the remnants of the spell. The candles had burned low, their wax puddled and dripping. The air reeked of iron and burnt cedar.

Above him, Mrs. Lapierre stood quietly, wand in hand, already ushering fresh air through the opened windows.

“What… what happened?” he rasped.

“You lost consciousness,” she said gently, not quite meeting his gaze. “The magic did what it was meant to do. But dark rituals take their toll. This room must be cleansed. And you—you need rest.”

Draco sat up slowly, muscles trembling, limbs heavy. He spotted his coat draped neatly over the back of the chair. Every part of him felt wrong. Off-kilter.

“You should stay the night,” she added softly. “I’ve never performed this ritual before. I’d prefer to monitor you until morning.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Lapierre,” he said, forcing himself upright, “but I can’t. I have an appointment tomorrow I can’t reschedule.”

She studied him for a long moment. Sadness crept into her expression.

“You made a grave mistake tonight, Draco.”

“I had no other choice.”

“You’ll feel the dark magic creeping in soon enough. Damien did something to you… and now I have too. My family hasn’t exactly shown you mercy lately.”

“I asked this of you,” Draco said. “You know I trust you. Shacklebolt trusts you. He told me if I wanted to protect her, this was the only way.”

Mrs. Lapierre sighed. A long, weary sound.

“I know. But I still think you’re too young to carry the burden they’ve placed on you.”

“I don’t think this is about politics anymore,” he said. “This is war.”

She didn’t argue. She only looked at him, truly looked at him, like she was trying to memorize what little of him still remained.

“Then go,” she said at last. “But please—watch yourself. It’s easy to lose your way in dark magic. Just look at Samainiq. Look at Damien.”

Draco gave a stiff nod. The memory of Samainiq killing for him—cold, calculated, necessary—flickered behind his eyes. He hadn't even had time to process it. Everything was moving too fast. Spiraling.

But this? Hermione?

He was glad it was done.
Even if—
He couldn’t feel the difference.

Not yet.
And that terrified him most of all.

***

He got home well past four in the morning. The new year had barely begun, and it already tasted like ash. At ten, he had a meeting scheduled with Shacklebolt at the Ministry. He wouldn’t cancel. But he couldn’t think about it now. Not when he couldn’t even stand still without feeling like he was unraveling.

He stripped his coat and trousers, hanging them neatly in the closet—muscle memory more than intention. Then, naked and bone-tired, he crossed to the bathroom.

He paused in front of the mirror.

There it was—barely visible but unmistakable: black veins trailing just beneath the surface of his skin, like ink slowly blooming under glass. The residue of dark magic. It pulsed faintly, unnaturally.

He stared at it.
Waited for the horror to come.
But nothing did.

No dread. No anger. No sorrow.

He stepped into the shower and let the hot water scald him, steam fogging the glass, curling around his frame like smoke. It used to help—after missions, meetings, deaths. It used to wash something away.

But tonight, it couldn’t touch whatever part of him had gone cold.

He turned off the water, stepped out, and began drying his hair. That’s when he froze.

He hadn’t thought of her.

Not since he left the Atelier.
Not when walking through the snow.
Not once since the ritual.

He had thought about Hermione every single day since October. She was the echo behind every breath, every plan, every crack in his resolve. But now—

Now there was only stillness.

And the worst part?

It didn’t hurt.

There was no panic, no longing, no ache of absence. Only the quiet certainty that something once vital had been stripped from him.

He finished drying off, shrugged, and walked to his bed.

When he lay down, the silence followed him—settling in his chest like a stone.

And for the first time in months, Draco Malfoy slept.

Dreamless.
Weightless.
Alone.

***

Draco stood in the Grand Suite of the Obsidian Hotel in Utah, staring out at the cold glitter of the desert below. The arid night stretched endlessly, silvered by moonlight, motionless and dry. He pressed his forehead against the windowpane—the chill grounding him in the moment, in the silence.

Behind him, his glass of whisky sat untouched on the low table, half full. He exhaled slowly, not from emotion, but out of habit. There was nothing to feel.

The sharp crack of Apparition behind him didn’t startle him. He didn’t flinch.

“I’m pretty sure you have your own room,” he said flatly, voice devoid of warmth.

“It’s time, Draco,” came Shacklebolt’s voice—steady, low, calm. “You’ve known it all along.”

Draco gave a slow nod, eyes still fixed on the window. His reflection was hollow—pale and rigid, like a ghost trapped between two worlds.

“I know. I’m ready.”

“You know I won’t be able to tell—”

“I said I’m ready,” Draco cut in, his tone clipped and final. “Everything is handled.”

Shacklebolt stepped closer. “You had to let her go…”

That made Draco turn. Slowly. His eyes—once sharp with calculation—were vacant now. Cold. But beneath the surface, something stirred. Something dangerous. Not grief. Not sorrow. Just the remnants: the pulse of fury, the crackling edges of madness, and lust still clinging to his bones like an echo. The only things left.

“I said,” he repeated, voice low and razor-sharp, “everything is handled.”

Shacklebolt didn’t move. “Is it?” he asked, meeting Draco’s eyes. “Did you see her recently?”

“That,” Draco said through clenched teeth, “is none of your concern.”

“It is,” Shacklebolt insisted. “She’ll be the first they come for when he returns. And you—standing at his side—will make her death inevitable. Unless you do everything to sever that connection.”

“I don’t have a connection,” Draco said, jaw tightening. “Not anymore.”

Shacklebolt studied him for a long moment. There was a subtle shift in his face—something like grief—but it passed. “You’re risking the Resistance. You’re risking her.”

“I’ve done what was required,” Draco said simply. “I let her go.”

Shacklebolt said nothing. The man he had recruited eight years ago was gone. The boy was gone. Something had been carved out of Draco, hollowed with precision, replaced by something colder. Something capable.

“I hope you’re right,” Shacklebolt said at last, his voice quieter now. “For all our sakes.”

Draco turned back toward the window. His grip on his wand tightened. No guilt rose in him. No fear. Just the hum of black magic in his blood—vibrating, patient. Just the memory of ruin breathing steady at his back.

The room fell quiet again.

Shacklebolt stepped forward, placed a firm hand on Draco’s shoulder.

“You’ve been given a chance to change things,” he said. “To make them right.”

Draco didn’t move. His voice, when it came, was low. Flat. Final.

“Right is dead,” he said. “But I’ll finish what I started.”

And outside, the desert night held its breath—cold, vast, and unforgiving. Just like him.

Chapter Text

March 3^rd, 2007

They were all in Utah.

Tonight, they would bring their mentor back from the dead—their idol, their myth made flesh.

The last three months had been a storm of blood and diplomacy. Draco had moved like a shadow between fractured alliances, threading the needle through rising tensions and the first unmistakable sparks of war. He had seen it coming long before the world admitted it. For now, the Muggle-borns were merely being asked to identify themselves—formally, politely, under the guise of security. But everyone knew what came next.

Many had already fled Britain, the United States, Canada. The lucky ones had found refuge in Germany, in France, scattering like ash on the wind. But escape was no longer a guarantee. Borders were closing. Names were being listed.

The Pact had grown. Not just in number, but in strength. Real strength. They were no longer just fanatics in dark corners. These were scholars, politicians, CEOs—calm, calculating, and utterly convinced.

This time, they hadn’t just resurrected ideology. They had merged it. Voldemort’s obsession with blood purity and Grindelwald’s vision of magical dominance had been reforged into something more cohesive. More seductive. And far more lethal. It was no longer fringe—it was infiltrated, embedded. In governments. In the Ministry. In global finance.

And now, under the desert sky, the elite had gathered—unified beneath a blood-soaked banner.

From every continent, the powerful had come. Witches and wizards cloaked in wealth and darkness, standing shoulder to shoulder. Not in fear. In hope.

Hope for a world reborn.
A world without weakness. Without dilution.
A world where blood dictated worth—and magic ruled all.

They stood at the edge of midnight. The celestial hour had arrived.
And the blood moon rose—low, swollen, drenched in the promise of resurrection.

Granger had been right. The Tenelabrith was the key. It had always been more than a weapon—it was a door. And with their newfound ability to manipulate the Veil of Darkness, the boundary between life and death had become negotiable.

Draco knew Voldemort wouldn’t be the one pulling the strings this time. He was a symbol now—an idol raised to unify a fractured vision. The true architect behind this movement was Malcolm Greengrass. With Voldemort's image, the last of the Death Eaters, and the brutal efficiency of the Pact of Thorns behind him, Greengrass had built something enduring. Something unstoppable.
And Draco? He had risen with it. Commander of the Pact’s military wing. Second only to Greengrass in this new totalitarian order.

And yet, as the red light of the blood moon spilled across the ritual circle like spilt blood, Draco couldn’t help but feel it:
This wasn’t history repeating itself. This was evolution.

At the center of the ritual triangle—marked by three black candles crafted from bone, ash, and Myrkur oil—they had placed a single, precious relic: a fragment of Voldemort’s ash. Preserved all these years, it had been kept by the Carrows, who had retrieved it in the chaos after the Battle of Hogwarts.

Draco barely remembered them being present. They had been taken out early, stunned and left unconscious by Minerva McGonagall herself. According to their later claims, they'd taken the ash to ensure Voldemort received a proper burial. They hadn’t known that one day, those remains might be used to bring him back.

The ritual required more than just ash, of course. It demanded blood—blood of the same line. And that had proven far more difficult to obtain.

For years, they believed Voldemort had no living relatives. Until recently.

Delphini.
The daughter of Bellatrix Lestrange and Lord Voldemort. Draco’s cousin, by blood and by curse.

She sat beside Greengrass now, perfectly composed, hands folded neatly in her lap. And yet, beneath that poised exterior pulsed an unmistakable energy—restless, electric. The same febrile intensity that had once defined her mother. The same sharp-edged hunger that flickered behind Daphne Greengrass’s smile.

Delphini’s eyes were locked on the ritual’s center, unblinking, too bright. There was something feverish in her stillness—like a blade held just before the strike.

Draco stood at the edge of the circle, his expression unreadable.
Blood. Fire. Legacy.
The spell was nearly ready.

At the center, two Muggle-born wizards were bound in iron restraints, their mouths sealed shut with jagged runes—a crude, personal touch from Daphne Greengrass. Her cruelty always wore a signature.

They had been forced to drink the Aetherlock Draught, a shimmering, bitter potion perfected by Zabini. It was engineered to neutralize the stolen magic—as the Pact of Thorns firmly believed that Muggle-borns had no natural claim to power. In their eyes, the magic had been stolen from pureblood lines, and this ritual was simply taking back what was rightfully theirs.

The potion burned through the captives slowly, paralyzing and preserving them, freezing the magic inside their bodies while locking it away. The power remained, simmering under their skin—untouchable. Their wands had likely been broken days ago.

They sat motionless, eyes wide, minds unraveling in silence. But Draco didn’t flinch.

He was used to this now.

This was his fourth stolen-magic ritual in as many months. Each one more violent, more precise, more blasphemous. And each time, he had served as a vessel—a receptacle for the redirected power. A part of their magic had passed through him.

More than once, he had wanted to refuse.
But dark magic had a way of claiming you. The more it touched you, the harder it became to pull away.
And Draco was starting to realize that what had begun as duty was becoming something closer to dependence. Refusal would raise suspicion. Worse, it would make him weak in their eyes. And weakness was not tolerated here.

Tonight, however, he wasn’t meant to receive.
He wore his black combat uniform, reinforced with protective runes, the insignia of the Pact’s High Command stitched in silver thread at his collar. His role tonight was not ceremonial—it was strategic. He was here to secure the perimeter, to ensure the ritual ran without disruption, to protect the operation with his army.

And tensions were razor thin.

Rumors had reached Greengrass.
There was a mole—someone feeding information to the Resistance. Their numbers had shrunk to whispers, scattered and hunted, but not erased. Not yet.

Draco’s jaw tightened. His hand hovered near his wand, the other resting lightly on the sword strapped to his hip.

It was no ordinary weapon.
A pureblood-forged blade, shaped in the image of Gryffindor’s sword but far deadlier. Crafted from white gold, infused with basilisk venom, and enchanted by the finest blood-ritual smiths still alive. Lethal. Unforgiving. A weapon of status and execution.

Greengrass had given it to him not just as a gift—but as a testament. A symbol of trust, of allegiance. Proof that Draco had earned his place among the Pact.

And tonight, he would have to prove it again.

Draco stood just beyond the perimeter, the desert wind raking the sand across his boots like whispers from the Veil itself. The security net was sealed wards layered deep beneath the stone, obscuring the ritual site from Muggle satellites, magical trace, even time itself. No one would come in. No one would come out. He had made sure of it.

The circle pulsed with sick light—three black candles flickering with flame the color of dried blood. They stood in a perfect triangle, enclosing the vessel: a hollow shell sculpted from grafted flesh, stitched together from remnants taken in secret from Voldemort's ashes. The corpse reeked of formaldehyde and magic too old to name.

Malcolm Greengrass stood at the head of the triangle, his voice low as he murmured the first protection seals.
Draco moved to his place at his right. He didn’t speak.

Delphini stepped forward.

She looked almost serene, a living thread between what was and what should never be. Dressed in dark ceremonial robes, her arms bared, veins trembling with adrenaline or anticipation. Her hands did not shake as she uncorked the vial at her belt and tipped her own blood onto the vessel’s cold sternum.

“Per sanguinem, per legatum, animae vinculum firmatur.”

The blood hissed on contact. The skin beneath it blackened and pulsed. The Veil Thread had already been tied around the corpse’s throat like a noose—gleaming, unnatural, quivering like it could think. In the mouth of the vessel, the Tenelabrith Core had been lodged—jagged obsidian soaked in magic so dense Draco could feel it vibrating in his spine.

The ritual deepened.

Draco turned his eyes to the edge of the circle, where the two Muggle-borns knelt, forced down on their knees. Malcolm gave the signal.

Daphne stepped forward, blade in hand—basilisk bone, etched with ancestral runes that shimmered faintly in the ritual light.
She drove the dagger beneath the ribs of the first victim with a precision so fluid it was almost beautiful.
The body jolted once, then stilled.
Blood soaked the sand, hissing as it touched the edge of the circle—like a pact accepted.

The second sacrifice followed.
Slower.
Crueler.
The blade lingered this time, twisting just enough to make the body writhe before it went limp.

And then—
The circle ignited.

Magic, once bound inside stolen veins, ripped free of the corpses in a slow, glowing mist.
It bled into the runes, feeding the ritual, illuminating the darkness with power born of suffering.

“Tenebra revoco. Ex umbris voco. Anima fracta, redi per voluntatem meam.”
Malcolm’s voice cracked the air.
The chant began—low and steady, picked up by Delphini, by the others around the circle, until it formed a rhythm that scraped against the world itself.

“Tenebra revoco. Ex umbris voco. Anima fracta, redi per voluntatem meam.”

The vessel twitched.
Then arched violently, mouth open in a silent scream, eyes bulging with black ichor.

It began to bleed from the eyes, the sockets foaming with a sick green mist. Its limbs spasmed. Its chest shuddered, cracking with unnatural movement. Draco didn’t move—he’d seen worse. But this felt different.

Wrong.

Delphini stepped forward again, this time bleeding herself, pressing her hand to the Tenelabrith lodged in the corpse’s mouth. Her voice joined the chant, breathless, fanatic.

The body jolted.
A sound escaped it—wet, gurgling, as if lungs remembered air too late.

Then the voice came.

Not a cry, not a word. Just a rattle. A moan thick with rot and hate. The soul had come. Dragged through the Veil and shoved into a dead shell. Weak, malformed, bound.

It was him. But it wasn’t.

Voldemort had returned—but he was less. Only ash had remained. What rose now was twisted, raw, and incomplete. But the power was there. Flickering. Growing.

Malcolm didn’t hesitate. He tossed the Veil Thread into the blue fire that burned beside the circle. Flames hissed violently as the tether severed.

“Et in carne, manebis. Et in carne, servies.”
You will remain in the flesh. You will serve.

And it was done.

The body—Voldemort—collapsed forward, smoke curling from its lips. The magic in the air thickened to the point of suffocation. Draco could feel it under his skin, like insects. Greengrass turned to him with that familiar, satisfied sneer.

Draco didn’t return the look. His eyes stayed locked on the vessel, still twitching on the bloodstained stone. The body was initially a young wizard—someone Draco didn’t recognize. But now, slowly, grotesquely, its features were shifting. The skin grew paler, thinner. The eyes sank, the mouth twisted. Bone sharpened beneath the flesh.

It was becoming him.

Becoming the Dark Lord.

Not the myth. Not the dark god they all whispered about.
The version Draco remembered from Hogwarts—
Cold. Reptilian. Incomplete.

Then it happened.

A ripple. A fracture.
He felt it before anyone said a word—the unmistakable pull in his gut, the shift in the air.

The wards had been breached.

“Chancellor Greengrass,” he said sharply, turning toward him, “the perimeter’s compromised. We need to move.”

Greengrass didn’t panic. He never did.
He stepped calmly toward the gathered inner circle, his voice amplifying with practiced authority.

“My faithful,” he declared, “tonight we have done something history will never forget.
We have brought back our Lord. Our Dark Lord.”
He turned slightly, gesturing toward Draco. “My second, High Reeve Malfoy, has informed me that the wards have been breached. The Resistance dares to approach.”

A hush fell. Wands shifted in nervous hands.

“But I ask you—do not engage. Not tonight. Let no blood spill on this sacred ground.”
His voice darkened, reverent.
“Let this night remain untainted—not by Mudblood defenders, not by desperate traitors. Tonight, we honor resurrection.”

He lifted a hand.

“Go. We will reconvene soon—to celebrate what we have reclaimed.”

They obeyed without question.
One by one, they vanished—Apparating in precise silence. Within seconds, the circle was deserted.

All but one.

Draco remained. Sword at his hip. Wand in hand. Eyes fixed on the desert’s edge.

Waiting.
To see who would dare come for the dead.

They arrived within minutes.
Harry. Ginny. Ron. Hermione.
All dressed for war, wands raised—each pointed directly at him.

“Traitor,” Ron spat, his voice thick with disgust.

Draco didn’t respond. He only smiled—slow, sharp, almost bored.

“This is it?” he drawled. “This is what the Resistance sends?”
His gaze moved across the four of them, landing—inevitably—on Granger.

He lingered.

It felt, somehow, like seeing her for the first time in years.
Still fierce. Still defiant.
Still—annoyingly—beautiful.

But a Mudblood, all the same.

“Tell me,” He said, voice light and poisonous, “did you register your little Mudblood with the Ministry?”

Silence.

He smiled wider.

“No, of course not. This is against the law”
He gave a mock sigh, clicking his tongue. “You should correct that soon. It needs to be register and assign to a real wizard.  Eventually, it will become a punishable offense.”

“She’s not an object, you filthy animal,” Ginny snapped, stepping forward.

His eyes didn’t move from Hermione.

“Don’t be stupid,” Draco said calmly. “Eventually, helping her will be a problem. You know that. All of you.”
He looked at Harry. Then Ron. Then Ginny.
His voice dropped.

“You still have time to change sides,” Draco said, his voice cool and effortless.
“Before that option disappears entirely.”

He adjusted the grip on his wand, his tone shifting to dismissal.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have far more important matters to attend to.”

“Don’t move,” Harry ordered sharply, stepping forward.

Draco turned his head slowly, unimpressed.

“And why exactly would I obey that?” he asked, almost amused. “Am I under arrest? Here? In the middle of the desert? By three Aurors who’ve abandoned the Ministry to play hero in a Resistance that’s falling apart?”
He gave a faint, mocking shrug. “I don’t think so. I haven’t done anything—at least, nothing you can prove.”

Harry didn’t flinch. “We know you’ve participated in multiple stolen magic rituals. We know what tonight was—you were trying to resurrect Voldemort.”

Draco laughed. A quiet, cruel sound.

“You sound desperate, Potter. And pathetic. You have no evidence, no jurisdiction, and no real power left. I’m not under arrest. And there’s nothing you can do.”

Harry raised his wand, his voice sharp with fury. “Stupefy!”

The red jet of light flashed—

—but Draco was already gone.

His laughter echoed as a swirl of black smoke tore through the space, and in that flicker of a heartbeat, he moved—not toward safety, but toward Hermione.

She didn’t speak.
Didn’t raise her wand.
Didn’t flinch.

But as he passed close—too close—Draco felt it.

Something.

Something that unsettled him.

A pull he didn’t expect.
A silence that spoke.

And then—
He was gone.
The ritual circle empty.
The air still heavy with smoke, blood, and something else neither of them could name.

Chapter Text

April 3rd, 2007

They were at yet another celebration. Shacklebolt had been officially voted out. Draco had cast his ballot alongside the others, betraying the Ministry he'd once served. That final, silent nod to Greengrass's ascension had sealed it. Britain now belonged to the Pact of Thorns.

Their grip was absolute—especially within the Ministry. Every corridor, every department, every whisper now bent to the Pact’s will.

A month ago, they had launched the Muggle-Born Registry. Not all were arrested. Just the ones who refused to register. The ones who hid. As if hiding didn’t already speak volumes. As if innocence ever needed a veil.

Everything felt suspended. Still. Like the moment before a storm breaks. Shadows pressed against the edges of power—waiting in alleyways, behind doors, beneath masks.

There were whispers of rebellion. Of moles embedded on both sides. Of names traded in exchange for safety.

Economic sanctions had already begun Germany first, then France. Magical trade routes were disrupted. Portkey restrictions tightening. Europe was watching, calculating. But not intervening. Not yet.

Draco walked the length of the ballroom at Malfoy Manor, dressed in a tailored black suit. Astoria moved at his side, poised and silent, her arm curled through his like it had always belonged there. They weren’t married—yet. But it was coming. Within the year, if Greengrass had his way.

They attended every Ministry event, flawlessly polished. The perfect couple. The perfect image. The perfect lie.
People loved them. Or feared them. It didn’t matter. Their ideology was in fashion now.

Pureblood supremacy reborn, washed clean in elegance and silk. They represented the new future—the one carefully built on the bones of the old.

Earlier that day, after a closed-door meeting with Greengrass, the discussion had turned to Muggle-borns.
More specifically: how many to arrest.
How many to offer to the Dark Lord.

The thought didn’t stir anything in Draco. Nothing at all. He had long stopped reacting. Whatever part of him had once screamed, once resisted—had rotted in silence. There was only the void now.

Voldemort had returned. Acclaimed. Revered. But weak. A shadow of the monster he'd once been.

They needed more Muggle-borns.
Needed their magic.
Needed to feed him, again and again, until he was whole.

A new wave of arrests had taken place the day before. The ritual was scheduled for tomorrow.

Draco, as always, had a role to play—securing the perimeter, maintaining the wards while the others performed the incantation. And more than that—offering himself as a vessel. A siphon for any excess magic not absorbed by the Chancellor or the Dark Lord.

He didn’t care anymore. Hadn’t for a long time.
He needed that dark magic now. His body craved it every few days—like breath, like blood.

Greengrass appeared at his side. Draco gave him an annoyed glance but quickly masked it, forcing a smile for his future father-in-law. He’d had enough of the man for one day.

“We’re moving forward with Harvest Moon tonight,” Greengrass said without preamble. “There’s word of a Resistance compound in Dartmoor. You’ll take a unit and raid it.”

Draco nodded. Of course. The first phase was beginning. He knew exactly what this was.

“I’ll kiss my future wife and be on my way,” he said flatly.

He left the celebration shortly before midnight. After changing into his combat gear, he Apparated directly to the military barracks.

Six of his best-trained men were roused within minutes. In the dark silence of the war room, Draco laid out the mission details.

Operation Harvest Moon was about to begun.

***

Draco had finished briefing his men. There were no women among them—none had been recruited into the Pact of Thorns army. According to Greengrass, they weren’t strong enough. Too soft. Too emotional.

Draco disagreed. Quietly.

But he wasn’t about to challenge Greengrass. Not yet.

After dismissing the squad, he returned to his quarters in the military barracks. Beneath a loose wooden floorboard, hidden under an enchantment that only he could break, was a small locket. He retrieved it with care.

Inside, a thin layer of silvery powder shimmered like stardust. Draco pinched a small amount between his fingers and released it into the air. The magic shimmered, pulsed once—and then opened.

Without hesitation, he stepped into it.

Within seconds, he was standing in a wide clearing—remote, quiet, overgrown with tall grass that brushed against his hips. It was hidden near a small Muggle village not far from Malfoy Manor.

He crouched low, hidden in the swaying green, and waited.

Shacklebolt had exactly three minutes.

If he didn’t show, the message would not be delivered.

Less than a minute passed before Draco heard the familiar shift in the air.

Shacklebolt Apparated into the clearing, cloaked and alone.

“Malfoy,” Shacklebolt said.

“Shacklebolt,” Draco replied, curt.

They nodded at each other—formality, nothing more. But the tension radiating from Draco was unmistakable. He was furious. Barely holding it in.

There were so many things that should have been avoided. So many failures that shouldn’t have happened. And Shacklebolt—he was at the center of too many of them.

“There’s a compound in Dartmoor,” Draco said, voice tight. “They’re raiding it tonight. I’m leading the operation. We leave in ten minutes.”

Shacklebolt gave a single nod and turned to go—but Draco stepped forward, stopping him.

“You should have breached the wards the night of the resurrection,” he snapped. “I gave you everything—every weak point, every blind spot. And instead, you sent four of the softest members of your so-called resistance.”

His voice rose, biting.

“Did you think I was bluffing? Potter tried to Stupefy me. Stupefy me. What the fuck was that?”

He took a step closer.

“And you sent her with them?” His eyes burned. “Do you have any idea what my men are capable of?”

Shacklebolt didn’t answer. He only nodded again—slowly, heavily.

For the first time in weeks, Draco truly looked at him. The man seemed smaller somehow. Emaciated. Hollowed out by stress and exhaustion.

“You’re losing, Shacklebolt,” Draco said quietly. “They’re getting stronger. Every day. I think… we made a mistake.”

He hesitated. Then:

“Let me come back. Let me train them. I can build you an army.”

“No,” Shacklebolt said, calm but firm. “You need to stay where you are. You’re doing more from the inside than you ever could out here. Things will turn around. Don’t lose faith.”

And just like that, he Apparated away. Draco remained in the clearing, jaw clenched, breath shallow. The night pressed in around him, heavy and silent. Then, without a sound, he vanished—swallowed by a curl of black smoke.

***

It was dark. Dartmoor was a small Muggle town, and in winter, it was difficult to access. The night was cold, and wind gusts had battered the area for the last ten minutes.
The compound was supposed to be nearby—likely protected by wards. Draco wasn’t convinced they’d had enough time to evacuate. Ten minutes wasn’t much. But maybe they’d managed to put up some sort of defense. Maybe.

He had sent his best Resistance-hunting unit. They found the place within minutes.
And they entered.

Draco was prepared for anything.
With a single movement of his hand, he gave the signal. One of the wizards stepped forward, and with a flick of his wand, blasted the door open.
The attack began.

They had chosen to defend the compound—evacuation clearly hadn’t been an option. The battle was quick. There were many of them, and spells were flying in every direction. For a moment, Draco frowned. None of the spells were curses.
They were trying to disarm, to stun.
Too easy. His men cut through them like smoke.

He saw two of his men casting a Putrifac Curse. The scream that followed from the other side of the wall made something in him snap.
“Enough. They’re already neutralized,” he said sharply to his team.

Then he raised his voice, clear and commanding.
“Surrender now, and we’ll show mercy. No killing.”

But the Resistance didn’t listen. They kept firing spells blindly through the dark. Draco couldn’t see faces, but he hoped the four idiots were not here tonight.

Within minutes, it was over. All of them had been subdued. Bound together in the center of the compound, one by one, they were forced to drink the Aetherlock Draught.
Draco heard them screaming. For a moment, he wished Daphnée were here—to cast a Silencing Charm on the lot of them.

The compound was small. Medical, mostly.
They captured ten wizards in total—not yet identified. Blood status unknown. They’d be sent to prison and interrogated properly.

Draco was turning to leave, letting his team finish up, when something stopped him.
A child. No older than nine. Clinging to a corpse.

His father, probably struck in the chest by that damned Putrifac Curse.
Dead.

Draco felt nothing.
But somewhere, buried deep, he knew this was wrong.

It could’ve been avoided—if Shacklebolt had known how to win a war.

The child was pried from the corpse and forced to drink the Aetherlock Draught.

Draco left, disgusted.

***

That night, Draco was walking through the dark alley behind Malfoy Manor, dressed in his combat gear, a bottle of Firewhiskey dangling loosely from his hand. He’d gone to the stables first—where the Thestral were kept—and then wandered toward the labyrinth.
He was completely drunk. Outside in winter, coatless.
Mad. And incapable of understanding what he was feeling.

His head was empty. His heart, numb.
Eventually, he made his way back to the manor and slipped inside. His parents were asleep.
He was alone in the corridor, walking past portraits of Malfoys through the ages—faces carved in pride, legacy, and coldness.
He reached the green salon and sank into a chair near the fireplace.

The bottle’s amber liquid caught the light, flickering against the green walls. His gaze dropped to his signet ring—the prestigious Malfoy seal that had opened so many doors within the Ministry, the political world, and the Pact of Thorns.

He didn’t hear the door of the room open, but he felt the presence of someone. He looked up. It was Astoria—stunning, as usual. Perfect. She was wearing a green silk nightdress that fit her perfectly. She was still wearing makeup, and her hair was slick and long behind her.

She walked toward him and took the bottle out of his hand, then took a sip of it.

“What’s going on, Malfoy? It doesn’t sound like you to drink yourself to sleep every night—but you’ve been doing this for the last four months.”

He didn’t answer and just looked at her. He was mad at her as well. He didn’t want to marry her, and he wasn’t able to remember a time when he had ever felt anything for her.

“You need to come back and regain power over your life. Something happened—I know it. And you need to suck it up. You are hurting yourself.”

He looked at her. Her red lips. And for the first time in months, he felt something different than madness or anger. He felt lust. He wanted her. Now.

He stood up and took her by the back of the neck to kiss her—violently.
He had never been passionate with her. She had never brought into him any kind of passion. But tonight was different.

She seemed surprised and was about to push him away, but the look he gave her made her resign herself, and she kissed him back.

Like usual, it was perfect. Like she was playing a role.

He Apparated them into his room. On the bed, he was on top of her.
Within a second, he ripped apart her nightdress. She let out a small scream.

“Slower, Draco. Slower—you’re going too fast.”

He didn’t listen. His mind was confused. Empty.
The only thing that counted was that—for the first time in months—he was feeling something other than anger.

He opened his trousers and, without hesitation, entered her.

Memories came in fragments: long legs draped in black tights, messy hair, the natural scent of soap, laughter on a rooftop in Montreal, and wide eyes looking up at him over breakfast—followed by a sudden, visceral urge to bite the back of a neck.

He moved away from Astoria and turned her on her belly, pushing up her hips before entering her again—his teeth sinking into her neck, her collarbone, her shoulder.

He moved his hand to her belly, then between her legs, finding the place that brought her pleasure and circling it slowly with his thumb.
A memory flashed—bitten lips, the surgical touch of fingers tending to his wounds.

He heard her moan, and he went faster, gripping her hip with one hand, her lower back with the other.

Her body, warm against his, whispering that she loved him too…

He came with a groan, whispering a name into the darkness before collapsing to the side, pulling her into his arms, and falling asleep.

***

Astoria stayed awake in Draco’s arms for a long time, still hearing the name of another woman echoing in her ears.

***

The next morning, Draco woke up to find the bed empty. For a moment, he thought he’d dreamed the night. He felt strangely clear-headed for someone who had drunk himself nearly to death.
After a long shower, he went downstairs for breakfast.

Astoria was already there, seated in the spot where his mother usually sat.
He didn’t say a word, but he felt it immediately—something was off.

He took an egg, poured himself a black tea, and sat across from her.

“Good morning, Draco.”
“Good morning,” he answered.

He took a sip of his tea, and that’s when she decided to talk.
“Do you remember last night?”

He nodded while swallowing his mouthful of tea.
“Yes, I do. Why? Did I hurt you?”

“Yes, you did—but not physically,” she quickly added.

“Enlighten me then?” he said, feeling angry once more.

“You called me a different name. In the dark. Last night.”

Draco froze… looking at her. He remembered now.
The fragments of memories—the kiss, the soap odor, the neck, the otter, the night at the Old Bell Tavern, the kiss on the rooftop of Montreal…

“Don’t ever touch me again.”

And with that, she stood up and left the room.

Draco stayed still for a minute, thinking. He didn’t care how she felt, or about the fact that they would never touch each other again. But he decided that alcohol was over—for now.

He had almost blown his cover.

Imagine if he had said something to one of his men. Or to Nott. Zabini. Or worse—Greengrass.
He needed to be sharper. He couldn’t let his opinions take over. Not again.

Chapter Text

April 20th, 2007

On this early hour of Friday, Hermione was in Dartmoor to assess the situation. They had a small stock of medical supplies there, and they would need to recover whatever could be saved. They had waited a long time before returning, unsure if the Pact was still watching the area—but Shacklebolt had confirmed they were long gone now.

A new law had passed that morning—anyone not officially registered was now considered a criminal, and anyone hiding them was equally guilty.

She had stopped showing up at the hospital, taking an extended leave of absence. The decision had left her deeply saddened. She had also ceased volunteering at St. Mungo’s, now that the hospital was fully under Ministry control.

She was helping the Resistance as much as she could.

On the side, she was training. A lot.
With the dagger Malfoy had once given her, and with other witches and wizards.

She was learning curses. Spells. Inventing new hexes the Resistance could use—because stunning spells and disarming charms weren’t winning them battles anymore.

It had taken a long fight with Harry, but he had finally accepted that, at some point, they might have to defend themselves with more than gentle magic.

Her task was to develop spells that weren’t Unforgivable, but still effective. Spells that could be reversed. And while working on those, she was also making sure remedies existed—or creating them herself.

They had been involved with this version of the Resistance since January.

Ron, Ginny, and Harry had gone underground after the Malfoy Ball. Now that they knew Draco had betrayed them, that the Ball had been orchestrated to secure his place within the Pact of Thorns, everything had changed.

Even now, Hermione felt something was still off. But with time, she had to admit—maybe Draco really had betrayed them.

He was the one who had led the raid on the Dartmoor compound. He had captured children. He had brought them to prison.

She was already exhausted. Her hair was tied up, her jeans worn, and she was wearing her combat boots. She hadn’t been back to her flat since January.
She was hiding—at the Burrow, at L’Atelier Lapierre Poli, and at various compounds—helping with research, training, and healing the injured.

Battles were becoming more frequent, as the Pact of Thorns knew they had momentum and were trying to exterminate the Resistance as quickly as possible.

From what they’d heard, Voldemort was still weak, and the Pact was desperately searching for a way to stabilize him. They had extremely skilled wizards working on it, but even then, it seemed to be taking time.

They had set up a facility in the heart of London—used for experiments and for developing more efficient methods of extracting magic from Muggle-borns.
Since January, countless Muggle-borns had been captured. Some were never heard from again.
Families were losing hope. And with every passing day, it became harder to understand what was truly happening on the other side.

Everything had escalated so quickly. Hermione often felt as though they were always two steps behind. This war wasn’t like the last—not the one they had fought in their youth. As Malfoy had said once, almost absently, this time was different.

It was more dangerous. More lethal. More violently ideological.

Back then, Voldemort had wanted Harry. This time, the Pact of Thorns wanted everyone who wasn’t pureblood. Every Muggle-born, every creature, every magical being that didn’t fit their vision. It was horrifying. Unthinkable.

And impossible to reason with.

They all hoped for a resolution—something fast, something that would turn the tide. But that was naïve. As long as the Pact remained committed to their twisted goal—erasing anything that wasn’t pure—the war wouldn’t end.

Understanding their motives was nearly impossible. It wasn’t a strategy. It was an ideology. A sickness. One that made no sense.

She sat for a moment on a rock near the cliff’s edge, overlooking the ocean. The sun was about to goes up and the wind bit at her skin, but she barely felt it. Everything still hurt—Malfoy’s betrayal, the weight of everything she had lost. Her life, her purpose, the people she once fought beside.

Like everyone else who had chosen the other side, she had paid the price.

At the beginning of the war, Shacklebolt had established safe havens for Muggle-borns—some in Australia, others in New Zealand. Small, remote islands, easier to protect with enchantments.

Hermione had cast dozens upon dozens of wards around her parents’ home, cloaking it from magical detection. But still… she worried.

They weren’t targeting Muggles yet. Not directly.

But they were hunting Muggle-born witches and wizards—those who had gone into hiding among the Muggle population. Hermione was on that list, just like Harry and Ron. Old vengeance. Voldemort wanted them dead or alive—at this point, he didn’t care which.
Shacklebolt believed it was because Voldemort wasn’t strong enough. That was the real reason behind his indifference. He had been brought back as a symbol, a figurehead to rally the Death Eaters and the Pact of Thorns. Nothing more than an idol for them to worship and unify behind. It was sure for anyone where they were going with all this, what were they looking for, what was the intend behind it? It was still to be determined, but for sure they were resisting, they were fighting.

She stood up and walk to the compound which was mostly empty. They had taken everything they could—not because they needed it, but to make sure the others had nothing. To keep them weak. Hermione gathered what was left: a few bandages, a small vial of Essence of Liliath, and not much else. She took the sheets too—they might need them later. Luna came by, she was dirty, like her, been helping the resistance since day one.

“We should go, Hermione. I know Shacklebolt said the compound was empty and not under surveillance, but I don’t know where he got that information—and I don’t like it.”
“I understand, Luna. Let’s go.”

They apparated to the nearest Muggle village, landing beside a small decoration shop. The front yard was cluttered with quirky ornaments—porcelain gnomes, an old bicycle with a flowerpot in its basket, a tiny pond with a watering can used as a fountain.
But it was the small porcelain frog can next to it that mattered—it was a Portkey to the safe house.

The village was quiet, deserted at this hour. The sun had only just risen, and no one seemed to be awake yet. They looked around cautiously, scanning for signs of movement.
Then, without a word, they both reached out and touched the watering can—vanishing in an instant.

They reached the safe house in the Edale Valley—a stone cottage built into the hillside, weather-worn and nearly invisible at first glance. It was enchanted to blend perfectly with the landscape, protected by layers of magic bound to the land itself. You had to know it was there to even see it—a powerful ward they had developed after the last attack on the Dartmoor base.

But the safe house was more than just a cottage. It was vast beneath the surface, with entire sections carved into the hill. There was a fully equipped potion laboratory, and a research wing where they worked on curse development—some for healing, others far more dangerous.

Hermione spent most of her time there with Angelina, Padma, and Parvati. Lavender Brown was with them too—now half-wizard, half-werewolf after surviving Greyback’s attack. She was different. Changed. But still standing. They all were.

They worked every day to grow the Resistance—to recruit more witches and wizards, to organize, to survive. Luna helped too, drifting in and out with strange ideas that often turned out to be brilliant. The Weasleys had all joined the fight.
After the attack on the compound, the truth became clear: the Resistance had a mole. They didn’t know who it was, but it was the only explanation for how the Pact had found the Dartmoor hideout. The place had been secure, undetectable by magic, and newly established—very few wizards even knew it existed. And yet, the attackers knew exactly when to strike, which spells to use, and precisely where to breach.
For a moment, they’d considered that Malfoy’s elite training might have explained it—but no. There was too much precision, too much insider knowledge. There had to be a traitor.
Since then, Shacklebolt had started holding meetings only with those he trusted most. Some operations were now carried out by smaller, compartmentalized teams.
Hermione had seen people she hadn’t crossed paths with since Hogwarts—Dean, Seamus, even Professor McGonagall.She was struck by how sharp and commanding McGonagall still was—how much strength she carried in her frame, how her presence still commanded silence.
Age hadn’t softened her. She was still a powerful witch. Still fighting.

Hermione had to admit—Shacklebolt was more organized than she’d ever seen him. Just a few months ago, he had seemed fragile, on edge, worn thin by the weight of it all. But now, with the Resistance growing, structured, gaining support from other countries, he carried himself with increasing confidence.

For a moment, she wondered if he truly knew the game he was playing. If the certainty was real. But she had to admit it—she had misjudged him.

Still, she knew the betrayal had shaken him. Malfoy had been Shacklebolt’s most trusted asset, and Hermione had seen it firsthand—the way they worked together, the rare glances of respect. There had been moments when it almost seemed like Malfoy looked up to him.

Even now, she couldn’t quite understand what had made him turn. The shift had been too sudden. Too calculated. But then she reminded herself—he was a manipulator. A liar. He had played hot and cold with her, toyed with her trust to get what he needed.

He had fooled them all.

"Hermione?"

Luna’s voice pulled her out of her thoughts. She blinked and turned.

"I’m sorry, what did you say?"

"The sheet," Luna repeated softly. "Do you want to keep it here or send it to the medical compound in London?"

"Yes—right. London. Let’s send it there. They’ll need it more if things go wrong."

She walked to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water, letting the coolness settle her. Her hands were still faintly trembling—from the training, from the anxiety, from the memories that didn’t rest even when she closed her eyes.

She made her way to the salon, knowing they had a strategy meeting scheduled for 9 a.m. She was right on time.

Pushing open the door, she found them all already gathered—Ron, Harry, Ginny, George, Neville, Shacklebolt, and Professor McGonagall. The air was thick with tension. No one spoke. Faces were drawn, eyes sharp, waiting.

She slipped into the seat next to Ron. Without a word, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, rubbing her upper arm gently to warm her. She leaned into him, grateful for the small, steady comfort. The silence stretched—tight, bracing.

Finally, Shacklebolt cleared his throat.

"It’s confirmed," he said. "We attack in two days. Our goal is to liberate our people from the prison near Wiltshire. It’s not far from the Malfoy estate. This is sensitive—only the people in this room are to know."

Ron stood abruptly. "That’s mad. We’re what, eight? We can’t take a full prison with eight people."

"We’ll be fine," Shacklebolt replied evenly. "We have a plan. We have someone on the inside."

"Who?" Harry asked sharply.

Shacklebolt’s jaw tightened. "That, I won’t reveal. You’ll need to trust me."

Harry hesitated, then gave a slow nod.

Shacklebolt moved to the head of the room, his voice low and firm.
"I want everyone prepared. Learn every new curse you can. Sleep well for the next two nights. Be ready for anything. Even with inside help, this mission is dangerous. We can’t afford mistakes."

The rest of the meeting was spent deep in strategy. Step by step. Entry points. Timing. Roles. Who would go where. When they would strike. It was tight. Risky. But it was all they had.

Hermione listened intently, taking notes in the margins of her mind—but her thoughts drifted, again and again, to the man whose estate they would soon be invading.

By late afternoon, Hermione needed to breathe. The walls of the cottage felt too close, the tension clinging to her like smoke. She slipped outside and wandered into the small forest nearby. The air was cooler under the trees, the light filtered, golden. It was quiet. Almost peaceful.

Footsteps approached behind her, crunching softly over leaves.
"Hey," came Ron’s voice. "What’s up?"

She gave a small smile but didn’t answer right away. She tilted her head back, looking at the sky through the swaying branches.
"I’m fine... I guess," she murmured. "This isn’t how I thought I’d be spending my year, you know?"

"I know," he said quietly. "Me neither. I’m sorry you got pulled into this again. I know you wanted to stay as far from it as possible. Did you ever think of hiding? Just going away?"

"Maybe," she whispered. "But not really. I think... I always knew I’d come back if it ever came to this. I always knew."
She paused, her throat tightening.
"I was just too sad to stay. I miss my family so much. I miss my life so much..."
The words fell apart as the tears came, sudden and soft.

Ron didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her. She let herself lean into him, burying her face in his chest, letting the grief move through her.

"We’re here, Hermione," he said gently. "I’ll always be your family. You know that, right?"

She nodded against his chest. The warmth of him steadied her, reminded her she wasn’t alone.

After a while, he pulled her back, looking at her while she was wiping her eyes.
"We need to train," he said, voice steadier now. "We need to be sharp. I don’t want anything to happen to you."

She moves back and she raised her wand, pointing it at him with a determined glint in her eye.
"Let’s do this," she said.

***

April 23^rd, 2007

The night was warm, though Hermione wore only black pants and a long-sleeved black shirt. Strangely, for an April evening, the air was stifling—thick with humidity—and a thunderstorm was rolling in. Lightning split the sky in jagged flashes, illuminating the clouds with flickers of firelight.

They welcomed the rain. It would give them an extra layer of protection—less visibility, more cover.

They’d recently received equipment and protective gear from Ukraine. Shacklebolt had signed a treaty with their magical government: supplies in exchange for protection. Ukraine stood with the Resistance now. If the Pact of Thorns extended their reach east, the Resistance would answer.

They were flying silently—brooms cutting through the storm-dark sky without a sound. It was the only viable way to approach Wiltshire. The Malfoy Estate was surrounded by layers of wards: no Apparition in or out unless explicitly authorized. Brooms were slower, riskier—but necessary.

Harry, Ginny, and George flew ahead of them. The fastest. Their task was to scout the perimeter, ensure they weren’t being followed, and clear the path for the second wave.

Hermione followed just behind Shacklebolt, Professor McGonagall, and Neville. The wind tugged at her clothes, and rain had started to bead along her collarbones, soaking through the fabric of her sleeves. Her wand was strapped tightly to her forearm, ready. Her mind was sharp—sharper than it had been in weeks.

They were close now. Through the flashes of lightning, she could make out the silhouette of the Malfoy Estate in the distance—cold, massive, imposing.

They landed without a sound, joining the others already on the ground. One by one, they shrunk their brooms and stowed them inside George’s enchanted backpack. Then they moved—slowly, cautiously—wands in hand, every step deliberate. Calm.

The intel was clear: one of the outer guards would leave his post for exactly ten minutes. That was their window. Ten minutes to enter, locate the hostages, and get out.

Professor McGonagall would stay outside, providing surveillance and magical guidance to the team from afar.

At exactly 1:15 a.m., the guard abandoned his position, just as promised. No alarms. No movement. They slipped through the breach in the fence and into the facility.

Inside, the corridors were dim and silent. The control room, just ahead, housed six guards monitoring security cameras and overseeing the cells.

Someone had to take that room.

It was Neville.

Hermione trailed close behind him, wand ready. She watched as he pushed the door open and stepped inside, calm as ever.

"Evening," he said casually.

The guards barely had time to look up.

Six rapid-fire Stupefy spells lit the room—and just like that, they were down.

Neville motioned for Hermione to move past, and she did, slipping quietly into the corridor beyond as he secured the control room behind them.

Now it was Harry and Ron’s turn. They moved swiftly toward the cell block, where two guards stood watch. Their mission was critical: retrieve the enchanted keys that controlled every lock in the underground prison.

Hermione’s heart pounded, but her grip on her wand stayed firm. She watched as Harry and Ron turned the corner, stunned the guards cleanly, and caught the keys midair as they fell.

Without missing a beat, Ron tossed them toward Ginny, who caught them in a practiced motion. She whispered a Founding Charm, and one of the keys glowed faint gold.

A lock clicked open.

They were inside now.

There was no turning back.

Hermione stepped into the cell block behind them, her role clear. She moved quickly from cell to cell, casting diagnostic spells to assess each prisoner. Eight in total. She didn’t recognize them, but she could tell from the others’ reactions—Harry, Ron, Ginny, and Shacklebolt clearly knew who they were. Probably Ministry allies. Resistance members. People they thought were lost.

Injuries were minor—bruises, weakness, dehydration. No one in immediate danger.

Hermione called them out, one by one, directing them toward the others. As she assessed, the rest of the team worked fast to support and steady each prisoner, preparing them for extraction.

Minutes passed. Every second felt like it lasted an hour.

But then… they were done.

And unbelievably, there had been no alarms.

They retraced their path through the corridor. No guards. No resistance.

Outside the fence, McGonagall was waiting. Silent. Watchful. The rain had slowed to a drizzle now, and the lightning had faded, but the air was still heavy with tension.

They shrunk the brooms once more, helped the weakened hostages mount them, and rose into the night sky, one by one, disappearing into the clouds.

But the silence lingered.

Ron leaned in close as they flew, voice low but sharp as he spoke to Ginny, Harry, and Hermione.
"That was too easy. It doesn’t make any sense. This feels like a trap."

Hermione didn’t answer immediately. The thought had already been gnawing at her.

"I agree," she said quietly. "But we’re out. We’re safe—for now."

And still, as they flew through the sky, soaked and silent, she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone had let them go.

On purpose…

Chapter Text

Quantock Hills, Somerset, Greengrass’s Manor, April 23 rd , 2007  

"Who was in charge of the prison that night?" 

Draco hesitated—just a second too long. Greengrass felt it. His voice snapped again, sharper this time. 

"Who was in charge? And for fuck’s sake, you know I hate repeating myself." 

Still, Draco remained silent. It was Nott who cut in. 

"Goyle, Chancellor," he said quickly, throwing Draco an annoyed sideways glance. 

Draco exhaled through his nose and finally spoke. 

"Goyle, Chancellor. It was his shift. They breached during the changeover. Normally, both rotations overlap—my guards never leave their posts. But for some reason, that night, Goyle’s men cleared out before the replacements arrived." 

Greengrass’s expression darkened. "Where is Goyle now?" 

"He was subjected to the Cruciatus Curse this morning. He’s in bad shape." 

"And why didn’t his guards follow protocol, High Reeve?" 

Draco’s jaw clenched. "The guard responsible is dead. I cast Avada Kedavra the moment I found out what happened." 

Greengrass raised a brow, voice cool and cutting. "Your temper has worsened with time. You used to ask more questions first, Son." 

Draco didn’t blink. "I’ve lost patience with incompetence, Chancellor." 

A thin, cold smile curled at the corners of Greengrass’s mouth. He gave a single nod. 

"Anything else to report? How many did we lose?" 

"Eight prisoners. All Muggle-born. They were scheduled for the next extraction ritual. It will have to be delayed." 

"Don’t we have others?" 

"Yes. In the southern camp. Would you like me to retrieve them?" 

"Yes, of course. There’s no reason to delay the extraction. If they survive, they can still be useful afterward." 

"Understood, Chancellor. I’ll see to it." 

Draco turned to leave. 

"Wait..." 

He froze. Then slowly turned back. 

He had felt it too—the interrogation had gone too smoothly. Greengrass was never this composed when someone failed. He usually made Draco pay for every mistake, every deviation. 

The silence stretched like wire. 

"Do we know who participated in the raid, High Reeve?" 

Draco’s jaw clenched. "The control room guard caught a glimpse of Neville Longbottom. The security feed confirmed it—Shacklebolt, Potter, the two Weasleys… and the Mudblood." 

A twitch flickered beneath Greengrass’s left eye—barely perceptible, but it betrayed the fury simmering beneath his calm. 

"You realize, my son, that I could take this information directly to the Dark Lord. He would not be pleased." 

"I know, Chancellor," Draco answered, his voice low. 

"Then why," Greengrass continued softly, dangerously, "did you make me repeat myself? Why did Nott have to overstep you?" 

And then it hit. 

The pain tore through him, sharp and immediate. Black magic surged through his veins like acid, boiling beneath his skin. His body convulsed, heat flaring across every nerve as if he were being flayed from the inside out. He collapsed to one knee, clutching his skull. The scream was there—but it couldn’t escape. 

It lasted less than a minute. Long enough to strip away his strength, leave him shaking as he slowly rose. His breath came in ragged pulls. His face had gone pale. 

Greengrass hadn’t moved. He didn’t need to. 

His voice was calm, measured. 

"I want the Mudblood captured. Do you understand? Do you realize how ridiculous we look—being hunted on our own soil by a fake witch hiding within our territory?" 

He paused. His eyes gleamed with cold amusement. 

"There are whispers that she’s the most gifted witch of her generation. That ends now. Find her. Bring her to me. We’ll make an example of her. We’ll extract every ounce of magic she has stolen." 

"Yes, Chancellor," Draco said quietly. 

He turned to leave. 

"One last thing, my son." 

Draco didn’t move, but he tilted his head slightly in acknowledgment. 

"Next time, I’ll make sure Nott is punished too. That was the last time he’ll overstep you." 

His hand twitched at his side—almost curling into a fist—but he stopped himself. The tension coiled in his veins, the madness rising just beneath the surface. But he held it down. 

He knew. One flicker of defiance, one misstep, and he’d be back on the floor, burning from within. 

He gave a restrained nod. 

"Yes, Chancellor." 

Then he left the room. 

*** 

Hermione was terrified—but also, somehow, amused. She couldn’t believe it. 

She stood staring at the image on the television, her own face across it. They’d chosen a nice picture, of all things—one taken at Malfoy Manor, during the engagement party... or what they had called the New Year’s Eve celebration. Whatever it was, the memory still stung. She remembered the dress. The smile. The illusion. 

She was surprised they hadn’t chosen something darker. More haunting. Something that matched the criminal they claimed she was. 

She was on national Muggle television now. 

The Pact must have realized how easily she could vanish into the Muggle world—so they were plastering her image everywhere. Her name. Her face. The charges: fraud, identity theft. None of it made sense—but it didn’t have to. 

She watched the television in silence, her emotions tangled and shifting. Hurt. Disbelief. A strange, hollow amusement. Worry, too. It all swirled together until she couldn’t tell where one feeling ended and the next began. 

Everything she had built—her work, her medical foundation, her quiet, ordinary life—was gone. Erased in an instant. Her name would linger forever now, etched in police records, whispered in backrooms. 

Even as part of her found the absurdity almost laughable, another part of her was devastated. 

She crossed the room and poured herself another glass of wine. 

Morosal was watching her. She caught the look in his eyes—sadness. Not pity. Something deeper. He was Mrs. Lapierre’s husband. Tall, massive—there had been a moment when Hermione had wondered if he was a giant. But no. Just a Muggle. A brilliant, quiet one. Gentle. Possibly the most intelligent man she had ever met. He was on the sectional sofa, laying down, with a glass of wine and with Achille on him, sleeping. Both giant, both extremely gentle. She noticed the way he worried for her—the way he was always making sure she had everything she needed. It wasn’t romantic; it was paternal, protective. He just wanted her to be okay. 

Morosal was deeply in love with Mrs. Lapierre. It showed in everything he did. He was always looking out for her, always asking her to sit, to rest, to take care of herself—even though she was a powerful witch. And yet, he treated her like she was the most delicate butterfly in the world. 

Hermione took a sip of wine, her eyes drifting toward him. 

“I don’t believe it,” she murmured. “What are they thinking? What do they want?” 

“You were on a raid mission,” Morosal said calmly. 

She looked at him sharply. 

“Okay—like Harry and Ron?” she asked. 

“You’re a Muggle-born witch,” he replied, “outwitting them.” 

Her lips parted in protest—but she stopped. 

“Yes. I am.” 

“A powerful witch,” Morosal continued, “Muggle-born, with a full eight years of without magical training under your belt. And what did you do after the war? You chose the Muggle world. You turned your back on theirs. And now you're surprised they're furious that you walked into one of their highest-security prisons, freed eight prisoners, and vanished without a scratch?” 

He met her eyes.
“You terrorized them, Hermione.” 

She stopped pacing. Slowly, her gaze rose to meet Morosal’s.
He was petting Achille’s head, his voice calm and steady—like he was discussing something as dull and detached as the Treaty of Versailles. 

“I told you why I married him,” came Amandine’s voice as she entered the room, a charcuterie board balanced in her hands. “Everything is always so simple with him. All the time. He’s too smart.” 

Mrs. Lapierre placed the board gently in front of Morosal. Achille’s tail began thumping the floor, suddenly alert and excited by the smell of food. 

But Amandine gave him a single, warning look. 

Achille groaned dramatically and padded over to his bed in the corner of the room, flopping down with a sulk beside his untouched bone. Not nearly as happy now. 

“We had some help. I’m sure of it,” Hermione said suddenly. “Someone on the inside helped us that night. They knew we were coming…”

Mrs. Lapierre looked at her, eyes wide.

“There are rumors of a mole within the Pact of Thorns. I’ve heard whispers… but we have to be careful. There are also rumors of a mole within the Resistance.”

“I know,” Hermione said quietly. “Shacklebolt told me. That’s why I’ve been on the run these past few months. It’s been hard, to be honest. I’m exhausted. And Crookshanks too.”

“I know, ma très chère. I know… But you’re safe now, and that’s what matters.”

“I feel terrible putting everyone in danger—everyone I stay with. You, the Weasleys…”

Mrs. Lapierre raised her hand sharply, stopping her mid-sentence. Hermione’s mouth stayed slightly open.

“Please don’t,” she said firmly. “This is normal. This is the right thing to do. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let them catch you—those idiotic pureblood supremacists.”

Hermione took a piece of cheese and bread from the wooden board and sat down in the armchair next to Morosal.

“I’m grateful. Really. Thank you—for everything.”

Mrs. Lapierre waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “Let’s eat and drink tonight. We leave for Scotland tomorrow morning. Canada is no longer safe for you—not with this new development.”

She nodded toward the television, where Hermione’s face was still plastered across the Muggle news.

***

April 24th, Scotland

Hermione had arrived early that morning. They hadn’t used a Portkey or the Floo Network—everything was being monitored now, even air travel. Mrs. Lapierre had something far older: a Mirror Portal . It functioned similarly to a Portkey but was rooted in much older, more unstable magic. Travel through it was far less safe—splinching was common for anyone without proper training. But it was also nearly untraceable.

The portals were disguised as mirror doors, like those glass mazes in carnival funhouses. Once inside, everything looked identical—reflections layered upon reflections, stretching endlessly in every direction. To an interceptor, the mirrored pathway would show dozens of images of the same person entering through dozens of doors, making it nearly impossible to tell which version was real and which were just illusions. The magic was disorienting by design. Getting caught using it was almost impossible and it was so ancient, that for the  moment, it was still safe to use. No surveillance was made from the Pact of Thorns. 

Before Hermione left, Mrs. Lapierre pressed a small pendant into her hand—an antique silver charm with a tiny mirror set into it.

"If ever you’re cornered," she said quietly, "shrink yourself and cast Speculomotus . It’ll take you straight into the mirror network. You’ll be safe—at least for a while."

Hermione was alone this time, tucked away in a small cottage hidden deep in the countryside. She had an appointment with Harry the next morning, but for now, it was just her. The cottage was a safe house—its location so secret that not even Mrs. Lapierre knew where it was. Only Shacklebolt had that information.

Whispers of a mole within the Resistance were growing louder. Their medical outpost in London had been attacked. So had the safe house in Paris. The Pact of Thorns seemed to have endless resources, and rumors were spreading that they had begun infiltrating major organizations, even international ones.

Hermione sat on the porch, a glass of water in hand, staring out over the rolling green fields that stretched beyond the cliff’s edge. The cottage, tucked away somewhere in the Scottish Highlands, looked deceptively serene with its white stone walls and red-tiled roof—like something out of a forgotten time. But she knew better. Peace was a lie, a temporary illusion. The war was closing in.

Like in 1692, the witch hunt had begun again. She was a fugitive—just as she had been at seventeen, always running, always hiding. Her gaze dropped to the faint scar on her left forearm. She brushed her thumb across it, tracing its faded outline. A reminder. No matter how far she strayed from the magical world, no matter how deeply she tried to bury herself in the quiet, it never truly left her. That part of her—scarred, hunted, defiant—was always there.

Being alone, even if just for today, felt like a gift. A dangerous one. She was afraid, a little, but she pushed the fear to the back of her mind. And she wasn’t truly alone. Crookshanks prowled lazily through the tall grass in front of the porch, his tail flicking as he chased invisible threats. She watched him with a soft smile, grateful—for him, for the temporary safety, for the knowledge that, at least for now, her friends were safe too.

But the news was grim. They had begun arresting pure-bloods who helped Muggle-borns. She had heard whispers—Cassian Mulgrave, Seraphina Burke, Ernie Macmillan. All arrested. And no one knew where they had been taken. Their crime: offering shelter, passage, or silence.

It wasn’t just happening in Britain. The same stories echoed from Canada, the United States, France—even Poland. The net was tightening across the world. And Hermione knew—it was only a matter of time.

She tried to remember when exactly she’d gone on the run. May? April? She wasn’t even sure anymore. Her past life felt distant, like a story she’d once read and forgotten.

Her past life.

She paused, the thought tightening in her chest. Betty. Jonathan. Healer Stroud. Her rare visits to her parents in Australia. Her foundation, nearly complete.

Malfoy.

He had been in her head since last September. They had worked together more often. They had kissed. Laughed. Shared ideas. Shared secrets. It had all felt so real—which only made the betrayal cut deeper.

She had always known, somewhere deep down, that he would never love her. But he had played the part so perfectly. Used her just enough. Said just enough. And she’d fallen for it. She was furious with herself.

Her gut had warned her. It always had. Something had been off, and yet… she let herself believe. That he’d changed. That he was trying. That he had taken the redemption path.

But Malfoy had killed Muggle-born witches and wizards since the fall of the Ministry—since the Pact of Thorns had risen. He had hunted her. Hunted people they had once worked beside. He was a monster now.

And still… something didn’t add up.

She dragged a hand through her hair, then over her face, pressing her fingers hard into her eyes. She had to stop.

What horrified her most wasn’t just what he’d done—but that she still caught herself missing him. His touch. His kiss. His warmth. That feeling of safety she’d once believed was real.

She’d been certain no one could hurt her when he was near.

And yet he had.

He had hurt her. And so many others.

Hermione shook her head, trying to wipe the memory of his face from her mind. She called softly for Crookshanks, and he came trotting back, brushing against her legs. She stepped inside the cottage, closing the door behind them.

She needed sleep.

She needed to forget the life she used to have but that was difficult…

Chapter Text

Harry arrived at the cottage around 8 a.m., using the hidden Portkey embedded in the living room floorboards.

Upstairs, Hermione heard the sudden whoosh of displaced air—the sound of magic—and her heart jumped. She didn’t hesitate. Wand already in hand, she rushed to the stairs, Crookshanks darting ahead of her, fur bristling, his body tense with the instinct to protect.

She reached the landing and spotted him.

Harry stood in the middle of the room, adjusting his glasses with both hands, his eyes wide with surprise.

“Hermione—it’s me,” he said quickly, hands up. “I couldn’t announce myself. I was honestly scared you’d stun me on arrival.”

She let out a breath, lowering her wand, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “You’re lucky I was upstairs.”

“Do you have coffee?” he asked, a bit sheepish.

“Yes. Let’s talk over a cup.” She turned toward the kitchen.

As they moved through the small space, Harry glanced around. “This place is nice—cozy.”

Hermione nodded. “It is. For the first time in… I don’t even know how long I felt safe last night. Just for a moment.”

“I know,” he said gently, sitting at the small kitchen table. “It wasn’t ideal, pulling you out of Montreal like that. But after they plastered your face across Muggle news feeds…”

She winced.

“…we had no choice,” he finished. “It’s not just the magical world anymore. They’re reaching into everything.”

She didn’t reply right away. Instead, she poured the coffee, hands steady, movements practiced. But inside, she was unraveling—slowly, quietly. 

Harry broke the silence, reaching for a biscuit from the tray she had set between them.

“Did you like Mrs. Lapierre’s Mirror Portal?” he asked casually.

Hermione sat across from him, wrapping her fingers around the warm mug. “It’s… interesting. I don’t remember studying anything like it at school.”

He nodded. “Yeah, she told me it’s mostly used in Canada. It kind of fell out of use once Portkeys and the Floo Network became more reliable, but it still works. It’s slower and a bit riskier, but it’s untraceable. For now. It’s just a matter of time before they crack it and flood the network.”

She took a small sip, then asked, “How is everyone?”

“We’re holding on,” Harry said, already reaching for another biscuit. “Ginny misses you. She thinks everything happening to you is just… unfair. Ron—well, Ron still thinks you should be with him. Protected by him.”

Hermione let out a quiet breath and shrugged, staring into her cup. Being with Ron would have felt like slipping into the past—something familiar, something safe. But it wasn’t love. It never had been.

“I told him he was making up fantasies in his head,” Harry added.

She gave him a tired smile. “It’s strange, isn’t it? That we even think about things like that during a war.”

“I know,” he said softly.

He shifted in his seat, the weight of something heavier settling between them. “I spoke to Shacklebolt. We need you for another mission.”

She looked up sharply. “What is it?”

“Children. They've been moved—again—from one estate to another. We believe they’re being prepared for another extraction ritual.”

Hermione felt a chill crawl up her arms. She stood to grab the blanket draped over the kitchen chair and wrapped it tightly around her shoulders.

“That’s horrible,” she said, voice low. “Of course I’ll help. What’s the plan?”

“It’s tonight.”

“Tonight?” Her brow furrowed. “That’s so soon. What happened?”

“We only got the tip this morning. If we wait, they might disappear—or worse.”

Hermione didn’t respond right away. She just nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Harry began outlining the mission—locations, timing, what little intel they had. She listened carefully, nodding here and there, though her mind was restless.

Something felt wrong. Rushed. The lack of preparation, the vagueness of the plan… it all sat uneasily in her chest. And the fact that they hadn’t even trained together beforehand—it felt reckless. Like walking straight into a trap.

“We’ll meet here tonight at midnight,” Harry said as he stood. “We leave from here.”

“Who else is part of the mission?” Hermione asked, her tone calm but serious.

“Even I don’t know,” Harry admitted. “Shacklebolt’s being extremely careful. There’s a mole in the Resistance. He’s trying to isolate them, so only he knows the full roster.”

She nodded slowly and rose from her chair, tightening the blanket around her shoulders. “And after the mission? Do I stay here?”

“For now, we think that’s the safest,” Harry said. “We’ll send someone to stay with you—maybe Ron, if you’re comfortable with that.”

Hermione hesitated, then gave a quiet nod. “Yes… that’s a good idea.”

She didn’t want to be alone. Not anymore. The silence, the isolation—it was starting to get to her. Everything about this war gave her chills.

“What’s next?” she asked softly.

Harry looked at her, puzzled. “What do you mean?” he asked, removing his glasses to wipe away an imaginary smudge.

“Our next move,” she clarified, turning to face him. “They’re so much bigger than us now. They were elected. They’ve taken over entire institutions—organizations, parliaments. They’re passing laws, commanding armies. They’ve even begun infiltrating the Muggle world. They’re violent, Harry. They’re separating families. Killing children. Hunting people like me…”

Harry looked down for a second, then met her eyes. “Shacklebolt has a plan. He’s building something. We just have to trust him.”

Hermione nodded silently, though the words didn’t ease the weight in her chest. She carried her empty mug to the sink, rinsing it slowly, the water running as she stared out the window.

She hoped Harry was right. She really did.

But hope feels like a fragile thing these days.

***

At exactly midnight, Ginny was the first to arrive. She stepped into the living room, dressed in a sleek black tactical outfit and carrying a second set, folded neatly in her arms.
Hermione was already waiting, her wand raised and pointed cautiously at the floor where the arrival zone had been marked.
“Who was your first kiss at Hogwarts?” she asked suddenly, the question slipping out without warning.
Ginny grinned as she straightened up. “Dean Thomas.”
Hermione tilted her head, serious.
“I was too young when I dated Michael Corner to kiss him on the mouth, you know that…” Ginny added with a laugh as she stepped forward. Hermione wrapped her in a tight hug.
“We don’t have much time,” Ginny said, pulling away and handing her the bundle. “But here’s your suit.”
Hermione took the clothes, feeling their unexpected weight. “What is it?”
“They’ve got shield charms embedded in the fabric,” Ginny explained.
At first glance, it was just a black long-sleeved shirt and a pair of cargo pants but it was heavier than it looked. She could feel the dense magic woven into every seam.
“What’s it made of?” Hermione asked.
“Kevlar,” Ginny replied. “We’ve enchanted it to be thinner and more flexible.”
Hermione frowned. “Kevlar? Muggle police use that for bulletproof vests.”
“Exactly,” Ginny said, her voice grim. “They’re using guns now, Hermione. Real ones. With cursed bullets. They’ve combined dark magic and Muggle tech. This war is spiraling into something else entirely.”
Hermione nodded and slipped away to the bathroom to change. The clothes were snug but comfortable, the fabric firm and unfamiliar against her skin.

As she changed, she could hear voices gathering in the living room. Ginny laughed. Harry’s voice is low and steady. The sound of a kiss, Ginny and Harry, reconnecting as if they hadn’t seen each other in months. Then another familiar voice, Ron.
The cottage was growing louder, fuller. Hermione could feel the tension creeping in, a current under her skin. She tied her hair back tightly, shoved her old clothes aside, and opened the door. She was ready. And impatient now to see who else had joined the mission.

When she arrived in the living room, beside Ginny, Ron and Harry, she saw Percy, Charlie, Arthur, Neville, Luna and Dean. 

They were all wearing the same type of uniform now—dark, fitted, reinforced for battle. It struck her then: this wasn’t just a mission. It was combat. Her skin prickled with unease.

She greeted everyone briefly, tension tightening in her chest, and then they launched into a final run-through of the plan.

They were striking in the south, in Branleigh Hollow, a quiet valley not far from Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire. The children were being held in a fortified estate hidden just outside the village.

They would use the Mirror Portal to reach the staging point—an abandoned shed not far from the prison perimeter. A mirror had been discreetly installed there weeks ago, waiting for the right moment.

But the risk was clear: if they were spotted using it, the enemy would discover the portal system—and the Resistance would lose one of its only untraceable means of travel.

One by one, the team stepped into the mirror, vanishing into the shimmer of reflected light.

When Hermione’s turn came, she hesitated only for a breath before stepping through.

On the other side, the world was cloaked in black. No moon. No stars. Just the damp, suffocating dark of Branleigh Hollow, where even the silence felt dangerous.
No one spoke. Harry took the lead, crouched low, moving silently through the high grass. The rest of the team followed, scattered in a tight formation, staying low to avoid being seen. The absence of moonlight made it easier to move, but Hermione’s nerves were fraying.
She gripped her wand tightly, her palm slick with sweat. She wanted to wipe it on her trousers but didn’t dare—every movement had to count. Her heart pounded against her ribs. Something felt off. Wrong. She couldn’t pinpoint what it was, but the feeling clung to her like fog.
They breached the outer wards of the prison with surprising ease. Harry and Ginny worked quietly, disabling the protective enchantments while the rest of the team crept toward the compound.
According to their intel, the children were being kept in the basement. Once inside, Ron and Neville split off toward the security room, just like last time. It went smoothly. Too smoothly. Hermione caught a glimpse through the open door—two guards down, unconscious.
One of them had a Muggle gun.
But they’d reached for their wands first. Ron and Neville had disarmed and stunned them in seconds.

Hermione continued downward with Percy and Charlie. Percy cracked the lock on the basement door, and she and Charlie pushed inside.
A dozen children sat huddled in the dark. No restraints, no guards—just silence and wide, terrified eyes.
Hermione moved among them, kneeling down. “We’re here to help,” she whispered. “We’re taking you back to your parents.”
The children didn’t speak, but hope flickered in their faces. She gently took one boy by the arm, guiding him to his feet. Slowly, the others stood as well, following her. They responded more to Charlie and Percy’s presence than to her own, but they listened.
They moved quietly, step by step, back up the stairs. Hermione kept her wand raised, every sense alert. The feeling hadn’t left her—it was too easy. Someone was helping them. Or setting them up.
They reached the ground floor again, where Harry and Ginny still held the wards steady.
Because the children couldn’t use the Mirror Portal, and there were too many of them to fly out, they had no choice—they used the emergency Portkey. Risky, but it was the only option.
Hermione and Ginny guided the children to the tall grass, where the Portkey waited. One by one, they placed their hands on it.
Charlie and Ginny went with them, vanishing in a burst of light. They would meet McGonagall at Hogwarts and escort the children to safehouses until they could be reunited with their families.

Silence fell again. Hermione glanced up—and noticed that the moon had risen.
Too late.
The stillness wasn’t right. Her breath caught. They were surrounded.

Figures emerged from the shadows—cloaked, masked. Wands raised. Guns, too. They had Ron and Neville. Wands at their throats.
Hermione raised her wand instinctively.
No way out. But no way forward either.

She didn’t hesitate. With a sharp flick, she blasted the Portkey into a thousand sparkling shards. Useless now—neither side could use it.
But the children were safe.

Harry moved in beside her, wand steady. Charlie stood at her back. Luna and Dean flanked them, all braced.
They were outnumbered. Trapped.

Then she heard the voice.

It slithered through the darkness like poisoned smoke, soaked in cruelty and dark magic. Cold. Inhuman.
“Give us the Mudblood,” the voice said, “and we’ll let the rest of you walk away. We’ll make an exception… normally we kill Mudblood sympathizers.”

Hermione’s stomach twisted. She turned just in time to see Ron and Neville, held at wandpoint. They were both hit with hexes to the gut, sharp, burning spells that made them scream.

Hermione took a step forward, ready to surrender. But Harry’s arm shot out, pulling her back.

She stumbled slightly and that was when she saw him.

He was taller than she remembered, bulked in black tactical gear, a Death Eater mask hiding most of his face, except he wasn’t wearing the hood. His pale blond hair glinted in the moonlight. His gloved hand went to the strap across his chest, letting the cloak fall.
She felt his eyes before she saw them, steel-grey and locked on hers as he took one step forward, and then froze.

The last time she saw him, he hadn’t even acknowledged her. But now?
Now, his gaze burned with rage.

Hermione instinctively stepped back, forcing herself to hold her ground even as her entire body screamed to run.
Harry’s hand tightened on her arm.

“We will not give her up,” he said, voice like iron.
“Is that your final word, Potter?”
“It is, Malfoy.”

Everything erupted.

Spells burst through the air. Curses, hexes, shield charms. Hermione reacted instantly, casting a protective barrier over the others, shielding Dean, Luna, Charlie. For a moment, the defensive line held, and they even stunned several enemies.

But Draco laughed, cold and manic.
“They’re stunning us?” he barked, mockery in every word. “They’re stunning us?”

He shouted to his men, and the shift was immediate. The Death Eaters stopped holding back. Their curses grew vicious, explosive. No more hesitation.

Draco still hadn’t cast a single spell, but he moved through the chaos like smoke, dodging everything with unnerving ease. His eyes never left Hermione.

They were retreating toward the shed. The Mirror Portal was their only way out now, even if it meant giving up one of their last secrets.

Neville and Ron managed to break free, Ron bleeding badly. Percy was nowhere to be seen. Charlie was staggering, blood running down his face.

Hermione held the shield, covering as many of them as she could. But then Draco raised his wand.

With a single flick, her shield cracked, then exploded into shards of light.

Curses flew. The group was forced to scatter. Hermione was separated, running for the tree line, hoping to regroup.

Then she heard the sound. Apparition.

He appeared in front of her.

Draco.

She gasped, stumbling to a halt, wand raised. He was only a few feet away.

She opened her mouth to speak, to hex, to scream.

A burning pain exploded in her back.

White-hot. Blinding.

Her lungs seized, and she collapsed forward, straight into Draco’s arms.

She screamed, trying to twist away, but he held her. Not close, not tenderly. Just firmly, like a soldier catching a falling prisoner. She had been shot. A bullet. Muggle weapon.

She felt his chest against her cheek as she fought to stay conscious. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Then she heard it. His voice, furious.
“Fucking idiot. We need her alive.”

A flash of green light. A thud. A body hit the ground. He had just killed his own man.

Her blurred gaze met his. His eyes. There was no warmth. No softness. No longing. No regret. Just emptiness.

She tried to push him away, hands weak against his chest, but he held her like steel.

A spell flashed by her ear. Stupefy. Harry’s voice.

Draco deflected it, but he had to shift. At that moment, he let her go.

It was all she needed.

With the last of her magic, she gritted her teeth, focused hard, and Apparated.

She landed beside Harry.

He caught her, just barely. His foot touched the ground and, with a practiced flick, his wand transformed into a broom. He mounted it with her, kicking off the earth.

Hermione clutched him, her wand still pointed at Draco even as they lifted into the air.

Draco didn’t raise his wand again. He just watched her.

Until she was gone.