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Chapter Text

That morning began like any other. The fact that it simply wasn’t didn’t become clear to her until much later. And, like most such revelations, by the time she realized that the course of her life had shifted—irrevocably and definitively; that she would be forever changed by the events about to unfold—it was much too late.

Hermione rose that day as she always did: with the dawn, her movements automatic, a quiet choreography of habit. Her body moved through the rhythm of routine while her mind raced ahead, already tangled in the busy day to come. She absently registered Crookshanks’ insistent yowls as she sipped her morning tea over the kitchen sink. The half-kneazle wove between her ankles, a ginger blur of exaggerated desperation.

“All right, all right,” she murmured, crouching to offer a comforting pet—one that was firmly rebuffed. Her familiar apparently wanted no part in her affections if they didn’t involve the immediate expediency of breakfast.

“You do realize I’ve never forgotten to feed you? Not once,” she huffed at him. Crookshanks evidently did not concur with this assessment, if his narrowed green eyed glare was anything to go by.  Her impeccable track record was clearly irrelevant to his current state of starvation.

With a sigh, she set her empty mug in the sink and stepped into the pantry, summoning Crookshanks’ dish with an efficient flick of her wand. His yowls reached a fever pitch of desperation as she filled the bowl and set it down on the tiled floor with a soft smile—only to be promptly shoved aside by a determined ball of ginger fluff.

By the time she stepped out onto the front step of her small cottage, the morning sun had just breached the horizon. Soft August light filtered through the overhanging birch trees that crowded her cozy home, casting a flickering tapestry of shadow and late summer gold across her front garden.

She crossed the ward line, feeling the familiar tug of the protective enchantments brush against her skin—reassuring and warm—before she began the quiet walk through the sleeping hamlet toward the Apparition point, nestled roughly half a mile from her front gate.

She had chosen this place for its solitude. The quiet village of Bibury, tucked far from the chaos of Wizarding London, a small parish nestled along the banks of the River Coln, it offered a peace she’d come to value more than she’d ever expected. Her work days were spent in the hustle and flow of Wizarding London, where she catalogued and decommissioned cursed and dark artifacts with ruthless efficiency and not insignificant skill. But out here—among the birch trees, with dew on her boots and birdsong in her ears—she felt most at peace.

Her friends had questioned the choice—puzzled by her preference for isolation and inconvenience over something more connected, more central. But Hermione, raised in the Muggle world, didn’t view the absence of Floo access or the need to conceal her magic from her neighbors as a burden. Quite the opposite.

She reveled in the anonymity the Muggle world afforded her.

If the price she had to pay to escape the constant scrutiny that came with navigating the Wizarding world was a half-mile walk at the start and end of each day—and a lack of nearby wizarding conveniences—then it was a bargain she’d make without hesitation.

Twice over, in fact.

Nearing the Apparition point—tucked in the alleyway behind the local chemist—Hermione felt the soft quiet of the morning begin to fall away, trailing behind her like a discarded cloak. She stepped neatly into the familiar circle of worn stones, the hush of the countryside giving way to the mental preparations she’d long since learned to make.

As always, she drew in a deep, fortifying breath of crisp air, steeling herself. She felt her internal defenses rise—calm, practiced, automatic—as she cast a quick, furtive glance around before lifting her wand.

With a sudden, breath-stealing lurch, the familiar constriction of Apparition closed in on her, pressing magic tight against her ribs and lungs. Then, with a sharp crack, she landed in the narrow alley just off Diagon Alley, the stillness of her cottage now a world away.

The sights, sounds, and smells of an early morning Diagon Alley greeted her as she took a moment to catch her breath from the Apparation.  The warm, tantalizing scent of freshly baked bread drifted through the air, drawing her gaze toward Wandwhisk and Crumb, the newly opened bakery nestled at the corner of the cobbled street.

Behind and to her left, Hermione caught the familiar, dulcet tones of Millie—the head florist at Petal and Puff—engaged in a decidedly one-sided shouting match with the morning’s Boomslang root delivery. From the rising pitch and caustic sharpness of Millie’s increasingly colorful remarks, it was clear the roots were absolutely not up to snuff, thank you very much.

"Hermione!"

She halted just shy of the morning rush, her heel hovering above the cobblestone as she glanced over her shoulder. Padma Patil emerged from the steps of Flourish and Blotts, cutting a graceful path through the crowd with two travel mugs balanced expertly in her hands. Her dark hair spilled in waves over her shoulders, catching the light as she moved with an effortless elegance Hermione could never hope to match.

Padma reached her with a warm, tight-lipped grin, white teeth flashing as she handed off a steaming mug.

"Morning, gorgeous," she said, her voice soft and lilting. She hooked her free arm through Hermione’s, guiding them both into the bustling flow of foot traffic toward Gringotts.

"Did you sleep?" Padma asked, glancing sideways at her friend with the kind of look that said she already knew the answer.

Hermione’s smile came unbidden, reluctant but real. “Barely,” she admitted, tugging Padma’s arm to steer them out of the path of a levitating delivery cart veering dangerously close—its harried handler clearly late and not paying attention.

Padma allowed herself to be redirected, her dark eyes narrowing slightly as they took in the telltale purple smudges beneath Hermione’s eyes. Hermione caught the look and raised a brow.

“I’m fine,” she murmured. “Just excited. It’s a big day.”

Padma hummed noncommittally, letting the matter drop. They passed through a slant of golden light as it crested the rooftops, the morning sun catching on the white marble columns of Gringotts ahead. The bank loomed high over Diagon Alley, its crooked lines and unsettling architecture giving the impression it might lunge off its foundation and swallow the street whole.

Though it was still early, a solitary figure stood watch at the top of the marble steps: Burzgot, the head of security. His expression remained unreadable, eyes like polished obsidian tracking the crowd without interest—until they landed on Hermione.

She faltered slightly as she locked eyes with Burzgot. The Goblin’s black eyes narrowed, his lip curling to reveal a flash of yellowed, razor-sharp teeth—something between contempt and warning written plainly across his grizzled face.

Despite the Ministry’s official pardon for the events at Gringotts during the war, the Goblins had not been as forgiving. While they tolerated Harry and Ron - barely - it rapidly became evident they despised Hermione, whom they viewed as the mastermind behind the Golden Trio’s chaotic escape from the vaults. She’d tried—repeatedly—to argue otherwise.

Honestly, the dragon had had more to do with it than her.

Regardless of the Goblins’ lingering animosity, Hermione had pursued a career in cursebreaking immediately after completing her eighth year at Hogwarts. And, as with everything else in her life, she approached it with a borderline obsessive—read: manic—level of dedication. When the Goblins refused to even read her application, it was Bill Weasley who showed up at Gringotts the next morning, demanding an audience with the Council of Elders.

He never told Hermione exactly what was said during that meeting, but she had a strong suspicion he’d threatened to tear up his contract on the spot if they didn’t give her a fair shot. Bill Weasley was something of a legend in the cursebreaking world—his reputation built on a string of high-profile successes dismantling some of the darkest, most volatile magical artifacts in the bank’s vaults. He’d even been temporarily assigned to Gringotts’ Cairo division to assist the renowned Egyptian cursebreakers in decommissioning a cluster of sarcophagi recently unearthed beneath the Pyramid of Menkaure—cursed relics with a nasty habit of devouring stray tourists.

The Council of Elders deliberated in camera for exactly six minutes following Bill’s likely ultimatum—which, coincidentally, was just enough time for him to talk Hermione down from razing the ancient wizarding institution to the ground in a fit of righteous fury.

In any case, the damage control wasn’t needed (this time). They offered her an internship on the spot.

Naturally.

And, not to be outdone, Hermione threw herself into the internship with everything she had. By the end of her first year, she’d surpassed even Bill’s high-water mark for cursed objects decommissioned in a single year. By the end of her second, she’d secured her own invitation to join the prestigious Cairo division and train under Tariq El-Baz—one of the most revered cursebreakers in the world.

Tariq had been instrumental in the discovery, excavation, and magical decommissioning of the Valley of the Golden Mummies at Bahariya Oasis. According to legend—and several very enthusiastic colleagues—the humble cursebreaker had single-handedly unraveled a thousand-year-old curse woven into the golden funerary masks of hundreds of Greco-Roman mummies. It remained one of the most significant magical findings in Egypt in living memory.

Hermione trained beneath the blistering Egyptian sun for two years, studying everything from crypt ward dismantlement to spectral displacement rituals. She returned to Wizarding London just shy of her twenty-third birthday, a glowing letter of recommendation from Tariq tucked safely into her beaded bag.

Much to the chagrin of Gringotts’ more traditionalist Goblins, her qualifications—and field record—spoke for themselves. She was offered a permanent post on the spot.

It hadn’t really been a choice.

She suspected the shit ton of gold, gemstones, and Galleons she’d funneled into their vaults during her expeditions hadn’t hurt, either.

And while Goblins were nothing if not pragmatic—perfectly capable of recognizing the value of employing a witch of Hermione’s talent and calibre—they could also hold onto a grudge like a Niffler on a knut.  And owing to the fact that Hermione Granger had once quite literally smashed her way through their hallowed halls on the back of a blind, half-mad and extremely pissed off Ukrainian Ironbelly with a score to settle, she was very much in the Not to Be Trusted camp.

Which is why, despite her title and credentials, she spent most of her days not beneath Gringotts in the ancient, rune-laced vaults, but in a secure warehouse the Goblins had quietly designated for her personal use. It was tucked a bit further down Diagon Alley, sandwiched between a Quidditch shop and a breakfast bistro that smelled permanently of fried eggs and burnt toast.

Arm in arm, the two witches passed by the marble steps of Gringotts, a slight shiver running up Hermione’s spine as she felt Burzgot’s pitch black gaze tracking her through the crowd.  They continued past the looming marble columns of Gringotts, Padma sipping her coffee and filling Hermione in on her date the evening prior with a low-level Auror with the DMLE, her dark eyes flitting between shopfronts already stirring to life. The warehouse sat in a quieter section of the Alley, its entrance nondescript save for the faint shimmer of protective wards glinting over the threshold. From the outside, it looked like any other abandoned storefront—dusty windows, a faded “To Let” sign that had never actually come down—but Hermione knew the layers of enchantment that wrapped the place like a second skin. Goblin wards, her own blood-locked curses, and a few very illegal protective spells that she would never, ever admit to casting.

As they approached, a familiar figure leaned against the doorframe, a half-smirk already in place.

“Ladies,” Cormac McLaggen drawled, straightening from his lazy sprawl with the air of someone who thought he looked devastatingly impressive while doing so. He was dressed in wizarding business casual—meaning pressed robes that screamed “expensive” and “unearned”.  The former Gryfindor had been appointed “Head of Security” for the warehouse by the Goblins for reasons that defied all sense and logic, at least in Hermione’s estimation.

Hermione didn’t slow. She raised her wand and pressed it to the seemingly solid wood door. There was a soft shimmer of gold before the wards parted with a low, satisfying click.

“Good morning, Cormac,” Padma said mildly, though her tone carried the same level of interest one might reserve for a wet sock.  

“Another big day, I hear,” he said, following them in as the door swung open. “Finally cracking open that cursed armoire, eh?”

Hermione didn’t bother responding. She had learned over her time working with Cormac to regard him as one would an unusually persistent garden gnome—mildly annoying, occasionally in the way, but ultimately harmless so long as he was left to his own devices and not encouraged with attention.

He had a knack for appearing just as something monumental was happening, offering a useless observation or a smug nod, and then vanishing back into his office with a cup of lukewarm tea and the air of a man who believed leadership was primarily about delegation and dramatic entrances.

Padma, to her credit, maintained a professional veneer around him, though Hermione had caught her more than once casting a silent Muffliato in his direction mid-ramble.

The warehouse interior smelled faintly of parchment, salt, and old dust—comforting in its own way. Rows of long worktables stretched across the main floor, each covered in half-unraveled artifacts, sketchbooks, ward-detection tools, and rune charts. The armoire in question stood at the far end, cloaked in shimmering containment wards, its ornate, serpentine carvings seeming to writhe slightly in the corner of the eye. It had been an absolute bastard of a curse to untangle—layered and knotted over generations. Lestrange work, through and through.

She turned toward Padma, who was already pulling on her dragonhide gloves.

“Today’s the day,” Hermione said, voice taut with anticipation. “I can feel it.”

Padma grinned. “I’ll get the flux dampeners. You’ve already keyed in the null-field stabilizer?”

“Last night,” Hermione said. “All we need to do now is open it.”

Behind them, Cormac ambled off toward his self-appointed “office”—a makeshift room in the back where he kept a collection of Which Broomstick magazines, a talking poster of Gwenog Jones, and an enchanted chair that massaged his back while he napped.

“Did you put the daytime wards back up?” she called out to his receding back, her query answered with a vague, backhanded wave before the absolute muppet of a wizard disappeared behind a conjured curtain.

“Oh, no please, allow me, you bellend,” she muttered under her breath, turning back towards the front of the warehouse, raising her wand to erect the day time wards.  

Hermione’s wand was halfway raised when the sharp cracks of Apparition shattered the morning stillness, reverberating through the steel rafters overhead. Magic surged—hot and sudden—before she could even process the threat. Four figures stepped out of the fading shimmer, cloaks billowing, bone-white masks gleaming like death masks in the dim light.

Her instincts kicked in a second too late.

With a sickening twist in her gut, Hermione felt her wand rip from her hand, yanked through the air by a silent Summoning Charm. It flew across the room with precise, predatory speed—straight into the grip of one of the masked intruders. Padma’s wand followed a heartbeat later, tugged from her fingers before she could react.

“Alright, ladies,” one of them drawled, his voice magically distorted, low and mocking. “We can do this the easy way… or the hard way.”

Chapter Text

To say Draco Malfoy was having a bad day would have been an understatement. His early morning meeting with Abraxas had been—predictably—both infuriating and entirely unproductive. Conversations with Greengrass were never easy; the man was about as reasonable as a disgruntled Hippogriff and twice as volatile. Every attempt Draco made to clarify the parameters of the job he and his team had been assigned was met with cold, dismissive rebuke.

Apparently, whatever lay hidden in the Lestrange armoire was locked behind layers of secrecy Draco wasn’t privileged to unravel. The mission, he was told—in a tone that brooked no arguments—was on a need-to-know basis. And he, quite clearly, did not need to know.

Never mind the fact that they knew almost nothing about the Gringotts warehouse they were expected to infiltrate. Why the Goblins were storing cursed artifacts anywhere other than the deep vaults beneath the bank defied logic. It made no sense—and Draco hated when things didn’t make sense.

Adrian had insisted his reconnaissance uncovered a vulnerability: a slim window of time between when the Gringott’s team dropped the evening wards and when the daytime protections re-engaged. But Draco remained skeptical. If there was one thing Goblins were known for—aside from their love of gold and heavy disdain for the wizarding community at large—it was their relentless, borderline-paranoid dedication to security.

Greengrass had assured them that the Gringotts cursebreakers were in the final stages of decommissioning the Lestrange armoire—and that today was likely their best shot at pulling off the job. His confidence, of course, reeked of inside knowledge, which strongly suggested the presence of an informant within the bank itself.

Draco had asked—repeatedly—who exactly was feeding Greengrass this information and, more importantly, why.

In response, he’d been instructed, with painstaking clarity and a level of anatomical specificity that was frankly impressive, to lodge his questions up his own arse.

Draco’s frustration, already at a boil after his meeting with Greengrass, only deepened when he convened with his team.

Pucey, maddeningly unbothered, seemed convinced the job would be nothing more than a routine smash-and-grab. His surveillance of the Gringotts warehouse—or “the Vault,” as the Goblins apparently insisted on calling it—had left him with the impression that the operation would be insultingly easy.

“It’s always the same setup,” Adrian had said, tossing a file onto the table with a casual flick of his wrist. “Two witches and some tosser who looks like he’d need a compass and a map to find the end of his own wand.” He shrugged, as if that settled it. “We’ll outnumber them. Outmatch them. And we’ve got the element of surprise. In and out—done before they even know what hit them.”

Zabini, ever the voice of caution, raised a brow. “And the witches?” he asked, his tone cool and measured. “Did you recognize them? Think they’ll fight?”

Adrian shrugged again and took an exaggerated bite of his apple, speaking around the mouthful like a man who’d never once been told he wasn’t charming. “Didn’t get a great look. Didn’t want to get too close—figured shadowing them too obviously would raise alarms. But they looked harmless enough.”

He turned to Draco then, flashing a lazy, confident grin. “If the four of us can’t handle two witches, we’ve got bigger problems than whatever’s in that bloody armoire.”

“What about comms between the Vault and Gringotts?” Theo asked before Draco could respond. “Last thing we need is one of them raising the alarm—whether to the bank or the bloody DMLE.”

He leaned casually against the edge of the table, the blueprints and surveillance photos spread between them, but the tightness in his voice betrayed his underlying tension.

“I just got out of Azkaban,” he added flatly. “And I’ve no intention of going back,” his eyes flickering with heavy meaning to Draco.

Draco’s jaw tightened at Theo’s words. He nodded once, sharply. The risk was exactly why they’d hesitated in the first place. The armoire’s current location—outside the deepest levels of Gringotts’ vaults—was the only reason they were even entertaining the job at all.

He trusted his crew. Zabini, Pucey, and Theo weren’t just competent—they were family, in the way only war-forged bonds could be. They had grown up in the shadow of the Dark Lord’s return, heirs to crumbling legacies, trapped under the weight of ancient names and impossible expectations. Each of them had been forced to make the same brutal choice: protect their families, or defy the poisonous ideology Voldemort had twisted into a creed.

In the end, they had all chosen the same path - to walk in their parent’s footsteps, albeit reluctantly, and with predictably similar results.  Zabini, Pucey and Draco had all been convicted for their roles in the war, sentenced to house arrest for a year, their relatively lenient sentences owing to their young age and conflicted upbringings.

Theo had not been as fortunate.

In the uneasy weeks following the Battle of Hogwarts, while they were all awaiting sentencing and the wizarding world teetered between vengeance and mercy, a confrontation had erupted between Theo and Draco’s long-time rival, Marcus Flint. No one ever learned what Flint said to provoke Theo that day—Theo never spoke of it, and Draco never pressed. In the end, it didn’t matter. There were too many witnesses to ignore. The duel had been brief, brutal, and very public. 

Theo had cast an Unforgivable and Flint had died in the street.

The Wizengamot made an example of him. Despite being just shy of seventeen, Theo was tried as an adult. The Ministry, still raw from the war and desperate to project strength, seized the opportunity to draw a hard line. An Unforgivable was an Unforgivable, they said. Never mind the circumstances. Never mind that Theo had been abused since birth by his megalomaniac father, or that Flint had a list of war crimes longer than most Death Eaters and a history of tormenting younger students that stretched back years.

Theo was sentenced to ten years in Azkaban.

He served eight.

Released early for good behavior, he walked out of that prison quieter, leaner, and sharper around the edges. The shadows in his eyes didn’t speak of regret—only survival. He rarely spoke about what happened inside, and none of them asked.

Draco had been at the gates the day Theo was released. No press, no fanfare. Just the sharp bite of sea air, the distant scream of gulls, and the hollow clink of chains as the guards cut him loose. Theo hadn’t said much. Just nodded once and Disapparated without a word.

But Draco remembered the look in his eyes—like something had been carved out of him and replaced with cold iron.  The gentle, thoughtful boy who had walked into Azkaban was gone. In his place stood someone darker, more volatile, and—ultimately—more dangerous.

But Theo was still Theo. Just harder now. Leaner. His loyalty hadn’t wavered—not to Draco, not to their crew, and not to the handful of people he still allowed close.

It was the rest of the world that could go burn.

And Draco recognized the stark sincerity in Theo’s words. He knew, with bone-deep certainty, that his friend would not—under any circumstances—return to Azkaban. Theo would simply rather die.

“We’ll need to cast an anti-Apparition ward the moment we enter,” Draco said, his voice clipped as his focus snapped back to the task at hand. “We can’t risk them Disapparating and alerting the DMLE.”

Zabini nodded, eyes fixed on the blueprints, a thoughtful frown marring his otherwise flawless features. “And we’ll need them alert and unstunned. So they can open the armoire.”

“Right,” Pucey said quickly, his gaze darting to Draco. “No way I’m touching that bloody thing. Who knows what kind of enchantments your crazy aunt and uncle put on it—no offense, mate.”

Draco waved him off. “None taken.”

“Alright. We go in fast. Zabini, you cast the anti-Apparition ward. Pucey, Theo and I will disarm the Gringotts team. If we do this right, we won’t need to fire a single offensive spell.”

His eyes flicked to Theo, who was listening in silence, arms folded, green eyes unreadable.

“Disarm only,” Draco repeated, voice firm now, directing the words solely at Theo.

Theo glanced at him, just for a beat, before looking away—like the words had barely grazed the surface.

A thread of unease twisted in Draco’s gut.

“Right?” he pressed.

Theo shrugged, a grin stretching slowly across his face, all teeth and no warmth. “’Course, mate. You know me.”

Fucked.  They were fucked.

They Apparated as one—four sharp cracks reverberating through the vast warehouse, the sound ricocheting off iron rafters overhead. Draco moved first, eyes sweeping the space with clinical precision. Two witches froze mid-step, wide-eyed and startled. Between them stretched rows of long metal tables, cluttered with dark artifacts in various stages of decommissioning. Morning light slanted through tall, grime-streaked windows facing Diagon Alley, bathing the scene in a deceptively tranquil golden glow.

He felt rather than saw Zabini cast the anti-Apparition ward—Blaise’s magic brushing across his skin like a low hum of static. At the same moment, Draco flicked his wrist, executing a wordless Summoning Charm. Two wands snapped through the air and landed neatly in his outstretched palm.

So far, so good.

“Alright, ladies,” Draco said smoothly, slipping the wands into his coat pocket. “We can do this the easy way, or the hard way.”

Which was precisely the moment Draco’s morning went from bad to irrevocably fucked.

The witch closest to them took a cautious step back, angling her body slightly—shielding the woman behind her. A protective stance. The movement pulled her directly into a shaft of sunlight filtering through the high windows, illuminating her upturned face. She lifted her chin in quiet defiance, chestnut curls catching the light in a loose tumble down her back.

Fucking Hermione Granger.

Behind him, Draco heard a sharp intake of breath. Clearly, he wasn’t the only one who’d clocked the Golden Girl.

How in Salazar’s left tit had Adrian missed this?

Sure, Pucey had graduated two years ahead of him, but still—how the fuck do you overlook Hermione bloody Granger? She’d never exactly blended into a crowd, even back when she was a bushy-haired swot with ink-stained fingers and a hand perpetually in the air.

And now?

Draco’s gaze swept over the petite witch, assessing her with practiced precision. There was a flush in her cheeks, a fiery spark behind those mahogany eyes. He hadn’t seen her in years—just the occasional Prophet clipping, usually with Potter or Weasley hovering at her side like overprotective trolls.

Gone was the bossy, bright-eyed schoolgirl he remembered from their Hogwarts days. Gone too was the gaunt, hollow-eyed war heroine he’d glimpsed after the Battle.

In her place stood something else entirely—graceful, self-possessed, and fucking breathtaking. Her blouse, predictably Gryffindor red, cinched at the waist and flared just enough to draw the eye. Dark leggings hugged long legs and hinted at strength beneath the softness.

Focus.

Fuck, he needed to focus.

Granger shifted her stance, her weight tilting forward as her eyes darted between the four of them—wary, calculating.  The witch behind her stepped quickly aside, and Draco recognized her too—one of the Patil twins, though he couldn’t have named which if his life depended on it.

He was suddenly thankful for the masks they were wearing, magically enhanced with a voice altering charm to further hide their true identities.

Draco kept his wand trained on Granger—the obvious threat—even as Patil began sidling toward a door near the back of the room. Before he could say a word, Theo stepped to his shoulder, his stance relaxed but wand raised, pointing lazily in Patil’s direction.

“Just where do you think you’re going, love?” Theo drawled, his tone light, amused, and unmistakably threatening.

Patil froze. Her eyes darted to the door, calculating.

Granger moved instinctively, shifting to plant herself directly between Theo and Patil. She didn’t say a word, but the glare she leveled at Theo was positively murderous.

Fucking Gryffindors.

“Padma,” she said, low and firm, never taking her eyes off Theo. “Don’t. He can’t help us.”

That got Draco’s attention. He felt Theo still beside him. Both their gazes snapped to Granger, identical flashes of wariness flickering behind their masks.

“You really are the brightest witch of our age, Granger,” Zabini said smoothly, stepping into Draco’s periphery on the right. His wand was trained on her too now, his voice calm, deep, and cool as a still lake.

If she was fazed by having four wands pointed directly at her heart, she didn’t show it. Not even a flicker. Her lip curled, slow and scornful, as her eyes slid to Blaise with the sharp gleam of a predator who’s just scented blood.

“So. You know me.” Her voice was soft, laced with venom. “Were you in our year?”

Fuck.

Draco moved fast, stepping forward to cut Blaise off before he could so much as twitch. They couldn’t afford to let her get a single foothold—if anyone could pick apart their identities from scraps, it was her. She’d dissect them like a dissection in Flitwick’s class, down to the bones.

“Which of you is keyed into the armoire’s wards?” he asked, voice clipped.

Silence.

Granger’s chin lifted in defiance. Beside her, Padma mimicked the expression—matching grim set to the jaw, lips pressed in unspoken resolve.

Not even a flinch.

“Shit. What do we do?” Adrian murmured somewhere behind Draco, his voice pitched low enough to stay out of the witches’ earshot.

Draco didn’t answer. He felt Theo shift beside him, tense and coiled, breaths shallow and quick. A glance confirmed it: his mate’s stance was rigid, jaw clenched, eyes tracking Granger like a threat he fully intended to neutralize.

“Mate… don’t,” Draco said under his breath, a warning in his tone. “Just take it easy, yeah?” The last thing they needed was a trigger-happy Theo making this already precarious standoff worse.

Which, Draco later reflected with grim irony, was precisely why it all went merrily to hell.

The door at the back of the room slammed open with a crash, and a stocky, broad-shouldered wizard barreled into view. Blond hair, puffed chest, an aura of unearned confidence radiating off him like steam.

Fucking McLaggen.

Brilliant. Because of course.

McLaggen barely clocked the standoff before launching a flurry of hexes, his expression twisted in some grotesque imitation of heroism.

Theo was on it in an instant, snapping up a Protego to shield both himself and Draco. Behind them, Zabini and Pucey dove for cover behind a nearby workbench. Patil hit the floor too, hands flying up to cover her head.

But Granger?

Of course not.

Without hesitation, she grabbed the nearest object—a marble bust of some ancient witch—and hurled it straight at Draco’s head with startling precision.

He got his wand up just in time. The bust exploded midair with a sharp crack, showering him and Theo in a cloud of fine marble dust.

Theo didn’t so much as blink. His entire focus zeroed in on McLaggen, wand firing hex after hex, relentless and precise. Across the room, McLaggen’s arrogant bluster began to curdle into sheer panic as he scrambled to shield himself, his spellwork unraveling fast under the onslaught.

Theo surged forward.

The hexes stopped—replaced by something far worse. He didn’t bother with finesse. With a roar, he blasted through McLaggen’s Protego with a savage Reducto, sending the stocky wizard sprawling backward into a shelving unit with a crash of shattering glass and splintered wood.

Before McLaggen could so much as breathe, Theo was on him.

Fists, not magic now. Brutal, punishing. Spell-sharpened knuckles colliding with bone. Over and over.

“No!” Draco snapped—but it was too late.

McLaggen made a gurgling sound, blood spilling from his mouth. His head lolled sideways as Theo yanked him up by the collar and slammed him into the floor with a sickening thud, the impact echoing off the warehouse walls.

Patil let out a horrified cry from her position on the ground, her eyes widening in terror. Granger didn’t speak—but the look on her face said everything. Shock. Fury. A thread of fear.

“Stand down!” Draco barked again, louder this time, already striding forward.

Theo didn’t hear him. Or didn’t care. His hand fisted in McLaggen’s robes, wand pressed to the bleeding man’s temple.

Draco was on him in two strides. With a sharp, practiced movement, he caught Theo’s wrist and yanked it back hard, dragging him bodily off McLaggen.

“Enough.” His voice was cold steel, not a request.

Theo jerked away, breathing hard, eyes wild and distant. Blood smeared his knuckles. McLaggen lay unconscious on the floor, a growing pool of red seeping into the concrete beneath his head.

For a beat, the only sound was the harsh cadence of Theo’s breathing and Patil’s soft sobs. Granger stood apart, her eyes locked on Theo. Wide, stunned, wary. 

Theo’s outburst had shattered the tone of the room; the board was overturned, the players no longer moving with any semblance of levity.

Zabini stepped into Draco’s line of sight, placing a firm hand on Theo’s shoulder. His dark eyes glittered beneath the mask, seeking direction. Theo didn’t flinch at the touch. His gaze remained locked on McLaggen’s crumpled, bloody form, his knuckles white as he gripped his wand in a clenched fist.

Draco gave the smallest nod—silent command—and Zabini shifted subtly closer, positioning himself to keep their volatile companion on a tighter leash.

Draco turned his attention back to Granger.

She hadn’t moved. Still frozen. Her eyes—golden and glassy—had shifted to McLaggen. Her expression was unreadable, but her pallor gave her away.

He moved slowly toward her, boots crunching through broken glass and scattered debris. Each step deliberate, cautious, like approaching a cornered animal.

Her gaze snapped to him as he closed the distance, and she took an involuntary step back. For the first time, he saw it—plain and sharp in her eyes.

Fear.

Not the blustered defiance of Gryffindors outmatched.

Real fear.

She was afraid of him. Of Theo. Of all of them—what they were capable of, what they had already done.

Her body trembled, fine as silk in a storm, and her eyes shone with tears she refused to shed. Still, she raised her chin, jaw set, spine straight. No retreat. No surrender.

When he stopped in front of her, he was struck by how small she was. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. She had to tilt her face up to meet his eyes, her lip trembling despite her obvious effort to steady it.

And then, like a ghost tugging his sleeve, the memory rose—unbidden, unwelcome.

A different room. A different time.

The Manor's drawing room. Bellatrix crouched above her like a vulture, cackling as she carved a slur into tender flesh with her dagger, ignoring Granger’s screams.

Draco blinked, jaw tightening. Almost without meaning to, his eyes dropped to her left forearm.

She hadn’t glamoured it.

The word was still there, raised and angry against her creamy skin.

Mudblood.

With a wrench, he tore his gaze away from her scar, forcing his eyes back up to meet Granger’s.

He hated this. Hated being the reason for her fear—again.

He’d buried so much of the war, or at least tried to. But that night… the memory of her screams, the smell of blood on marble—it still clawed at the edges of his sleep. And now, seeing the same look of terror etched across her face sent a sharp, twisting sensation burrowing deep into his chest.

Behind him, he could hear murmured voices—soft but tense. Zabini saying something low and sharp. Footsteps. The scrape of boots. Pucey moving toward the tall windows, peeking through the blinds to scan the growing bustle of the morning street.

Draco shifted his grip on his wand, lowering his mouth to Granger’s ear. She trembled beneath his shadow like a hare caught mid-bolt.

“Look, Granger,” he murmured, keeping his voice low, quiet enough that only she could hear. “The sooner you open the armoire, the sooner we’re gone.”

She paused—just long enough to be noticeable—then drew in a shaky breath. Her brows pinched together, calculating. Her eyes darted to McLaggen’s still form, then to Patil on the floor. After a beat, she gave a single, sharp nod and turned, walking toward the armoire.

Draco followed, wand still trained on her back.

It loomed at the far end of the room—massive, menacing, as though it had grown roots into the floorboards. Shadows clung to its edges. Dark magic rolled off it in waves, slick and heavy like oil on water.

Granger stopped in front of it, dwarfed by its towering bulk. Her hand dipped into her pocket, fingers fumbling, trembling slightly.

Draco moved instantly, stepping in behind her, one hand settling firmly on her shoulder. She froze beneath his touch.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice pitched soft and calm, but firm.

She licked her lips, eyes downcast as she withdrew a small, gleaming object from her pocket—a knife.

“What the fuck?” a voice snapped across the room. Theo—harsh and furious.

Draco reacted instinctively, shifting to shield her with his body. His stance was firm, deliberate. A barrier.

Granger startled, drawing in a sharp breath but holding her position, the knife held lightly in her fingers, her eyes still fixed on the armoire.

“It needs…” she began, voice a whisper. She swallowed hard, then tried again. “It needs my blood. To deactivate the final wards. We were going to do it this morning. It was the last step.”

Draco went still, her words slotting into place in his mind like tumblers in a lock. She wasn’t drawing a weapon. She was opening the door.

“It’s fine,” he called back without turning. “Just give us a second.”

His eyes stayed on her, steady and unwavering. Slowly, she raised the blade to her palm and made a small, clean cut. Blood welled up—bright and red.

She reached forward and pressed her bloodied hand flat to the armoire’s surface.

For a long breath, nothing happened.

Then—click.

A sound like a lock sliding into place echoed through the room. The air shimmered. The wards fell.

Draco exhaled slowly, relieved.

Without thinking, he reached out and took her hand, casting a soft Episkey to seal the cut. She watched him silently, confusion flickering in her eyes. Not suspicion—just quiet, startled confusion, as if she couldn’t reconcile his actions with the mask he wore.

Before either of them could speak, Pucey materialized at Draco’s shoulder, practically vibrating with anticipation.

Draco stepped forward and pulled open the armoire’s doors.

Inside, resting on a velvet-lined shelf, was a single book.

Aged. Heavy. Bound in cracked leather, darker than pitch. No title. Just presence.

Granger leaned forward slightly, curiosity flickering across her face despite everything. Pucey was already leaning in, his breath audible.

“Well?” he whispered, eyes gleaming with greed. The man had the instincts of a magpie—always drawn to glitter and secrets.

Draco reached in with slow, reverent fingers, lifting the ancient tome from its resting place.

It was cold. Heavier than it looked.

He turned it in his hands.

And he felt it—like something shifting beneath his skin.

Power.

Old. Hungry. Waiting.

Gazing down at the book, Pucey wrinkled his nose. “That’s it?” he muttered, disbelief lacing his tone. “All this—for a bleeding book?”

Draco shot him a look—flat, exasperated. Granger, standing a few feet away, wore an almost identical expression. He caught it—just a flicker—but it was enough to tug the corners of his mouth upward in the faintest suggestion of a smile.

Once a swot, always a swot.

“You’ve got it?” Zabini called over his shoulder. He and Theo already moving toward the tall front windows.

“Yes,” Draco replied, tucking the weighty tome into the inside of his robes. Pucey sighed dramatically, muttering something under his breath as he trailed after them.

Granger remained near the armoire, pale and tight-lipped, though the tear tracks on her cheeks gave her away. She’d pulled herself back together, but her eyes were jumpy again—darting between Draco and the windows, like she was counting heartbeats.

Like she was waiting.

Oh, fuck me.

He saw it. Clear as glass. The calculation. The timing.

“What did you do?” he snapped, stepping closer, forcing her gaze back to him.

She didn’t answer.  She didn’t have to.

Because at the front of the shop, Zabini inhaled sharply. All three men stilled—frozen like prey that just caught the scent of the hunter.

“Mate,” Zabini said, voice low, sharp. “We’ve got a problem.”

Draco didn’t need to ask. Granger’s hand had already dipped into her pocket. She pulled out a Galleon, her thumb brushing its gleaming edge with quiet purpose.

Their eyes met.

And she smirked.

“What do you think?” she said coolly—voice like ice over embers.

Fucking Gryffindors.

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger was nothing if not resourceful. Like many of her generation, she had spent her formative years in a simmering warzone, where safety was a myth and trust was a liability. She’d grown up with a wand in one hand and a plan in the other, drafting contingencies like her life — and the lives of her friends — depended on it.

Because more often than not, they did.

She didn’t just prepare for worst-case scenarios — she expected them. Order was her anchor. Strategy was her oxygen. She craved control not for power, but for safety. 

That mindset had kept her, Harry, and Ron alive through the madness of the war and the long, grinding years that led to it. She’d learned the value of foresight. Of always having a plan, an exit, a failsafe.

And the habits had stuck. Even now, years later, she never sat with her back to a door. She always knew where the exits were. Her wand was never more than a breath away.

So, when the four horsemen of her own personal apocalypse had Apparated straight into her warehouse, effectively lobbing the equivalent of a magical grenade into the calm, methodical structure of her workday and disarming her and Padma with a single summoning charm— Hermione Granger had not been afraid.

No.

She had been fucking livid.

Who the hell did they think they were dealing with?

They knew her. Or at the very least, they knew of her. She was certain of it. The way the one in front — clearly the Leader — had stepped forward the moment she’d asked if they went to Hogwarts… It had been a dead giveaway.

The masks they wore completely hid their features.  Their voices were magically distorted — she could hear it in the tinny, echoing buzz that clung to each word, like static dragging across bone.

So, she watched. She studied.

Every nuance.  Every subtle shift.  The tension coiled in their shoulders.  The easy violence simmering beneath their deceptively casual stance. The way they deferred, subtly but unmistakably, to the one in front — the Leader.  The way the Angry One to the Leader’s right was itching for a fight.  The way the Suave One to the Leader’s left positioned himself to watch his mate’s blindside.

Unspoken cues. Muscle memory. Silent trust.

These men had worked together for years. She could see it in how they moved — like parts of the same machine. One shifted, the others compensated. One scanned right, another swept left. No words, no signals, just instinct. They watched each other’s blind spots. Guarded each other’s flanks. Covered each other without thinking.

It was efficient. Professional. Dangerous.

It reminded her — acutely — of how she felt with Harry and Ron.

In the unshakeable conviction of their bond. That unspoken rhythm of people who had bled and survived together. She knew that kind of trust.

When the Angry One had gone after Cormac, the sheer level of violence had been shocking - raw, unrestrained, and brutal.  In an instant, she had been transported back to the war, the visceral sound of the assault - flesh on flesh, bone striking bone. The crack of impact, the wet, sickening thud of Cormac’s body hitting the floor. Visceral. Animal. Too close to the kind of violence that left scars – both physical and the ones you couldn’t see.

Then, she had felt afraid.  Truly afraid.  For Padma.  For Cormac.  For herself.

It was clear this was no simple heist.  The Angry One was clearly operating on a hairline trigger, capable of exploding into unrestrained violence at the smallest provocation. 

When the Leader approached her, his tone was measured, voice pitched low — almost reassuring. And though her panic still surged hot and fierce beneath her skin, it ebbed slightly when he placed his body between her and Cormac’s assailant. Whether deliberate or incidental, it created space. Gave her just enough room to think, to breathe.

When she reached into her pocket — slow, careful — his hand settled on her shoulder, heavy with warning. Long fingers brushed the edge of her collarbone. She could feel the pressure of them through her shirt. Felt the moment they paused, just barely.

She was sure he could feel her pulse — the skip, the race, the stutter of fear.

She was sure it would give her away.

But his hand stayed. And she didn’t flinch.

Instead, her fingers curled around the charmed Galleon she always carried with her, no matter what. 

A failsafe.

She focused, pouring intent into it with wandless, wordless magic. The message etched itself into the twin coin, the one that never left Harry’s pocket:

The Vault. A robbery. Four masked wizards. They have my wand. Come now. Please.

Now, she just had to wait.

Because she knew — with every fibre of her being — that Harry would come.

And he wouldn’t come alone. He’d bring the entire bloody DMLE down on this place like a firestorm.

So, she stalled.  Moved with careful precision, slicing open her palm, the sting of it grounding her, anchoring her to the moment. She lowered the last of the wards on the armoire, eyes flicking between the men, watching their reactions.

And then —

He healed her.  No hesitation. No flourish. Just silent, practiced efficiency.

She stared up at him, stunned.

She couldn’t reconcile it.  Couldn’t understand the contradiction in his words, his actions.  It made no sense.

She watched in tight-lipped, bemused silence as he opened the armoire — her armoire — and pulled out a single tome.

It radiated darkness. Old, heavy, laced with malevolence that rippled across the room like a noxious fog.

She felt it in her bones.

And yet, when the Leader tucked it calmly into his robes, something in her stomach twisted with want. Gods, she wanted that book. Wanted to study it, unravel it, cage whatever lived inside its pages.

The other three had begun moving — silent signals, measured steps — toward the front of the warehouse. Preparing to leave.

Then they stopped.

Still as statues.

Peering out at something on the street beyond the entrance.

Tension coiled in the air, and Hermione didn’t even try to hide the surge of fierce triumph that welled up inside her when one of them barked a sharp warning to the Leader who had remained at her side.

Her eyes locked on his.  She watched the moment he realized.  Watched his eyes widen slightly behind the mask as she pulled the Galleon from her pocket.  Couldn’t help the smallest trace of a smile from lifting the corners of her lips.

Harry had arrived.

“What did you do?” he demanded, voice sharp with accusation.

Hermione met his glare, lifting her chin. “What do you think?” she snapped, defiant. He thought she was helpless. That she hadn’t planned ahead.

He was dead wrong.

His eyes narrowed, and she saw the moment realization clicked into place—he’d underestimated her.

She fucking loved when wizards did that.

She didn’t flinch when he grabbed her arm—tight, but not bruising—and hauled her along beside him, his long strides forcing her to keep pace. She glanced back over her shoulder, locking eyes with Padma, who knelt beside Cormac’s unnaturally still form. The dark haired witch's hands fluttered uselessly without her wand, panic evident.

“Pressure,” Hermione called over her shoulder. “Sterile gauze—in my bag.” She widened her eyes slightly, injecting urgency and something else into her tone.

Padma froze for a beat, her eyes flashing with silent acknowledgement before nodding sharply and diving for the bag. The Leader slowed slightly at the exchange, frowning back at them just as Padma found the gauze and began bandaging Cormac’s head with trembling but decisive hands. He lingered for only a moment before a voice called out sharply from ahead.

“Mate… you really need to see this.”

Diverted, the Leader’s attention snapped forward, and he dragged Hermione along as he strode to the front windows, joining the three men already there. Their expressions ranged from shocked disbelief to outright rage.

“How the fuck did they know?” the Angry One spat, rounding on the Leader as he and Hermione approached. He jabbed a finger toward the street, toward the shimmer of a ward etched across the cobblestones.

An anti-Apparition barrier. Still humming. Still intact.

And beyond it…

Even Hermione blinked, momentarily stunned.

She’d expected Harry. Maybe Ron. A skeleton team of whomever they could scrounge up on short notice from the DMLE until a full Assault Team could be called in. Seamus. Dean. Colin. Maybe Cho, if they were lucky.

But what waited outside that warehouse?

It was a fucking army.

The street had already been cleared of civilians. Even as she watched, shop doors slammed shut, blinds yanked down with a snap. The neighborhood was sealing itself off. And Aurors were everywhere—clustered in tight knots of threes and fours, their navy-blue robes catching in the soft morning breeze, wands drawn but lowered.

She spotted the largest group near the center—Harry, Ron, Robards, Dean, Seamus, and Ernie Macmillan—speaking in low, tense murmurs. Their eyes kept drifting toward the warehouse. Harry stood slightly apart from the others, green gaze sweeping the building’s façade with surgical precision, as if willing a weakness to reveal itself. He raked a hand through his already untamed hair, leaving it sticking up wildly—a sure sign of rising fury.

But this wasn’t just anger.

He looked dangerous.

Lethal.

Ron was flushed, his face a deep red as he shook his head furiously at something Robards had said, gesturing animatedly toward the warehouse. She knew the spells she’d cast—Obscurio layered over a complex Notice-Me-Not charm—would make it impossible for them to see inside. A perfect front. Impenetrable from the street.

Still, when Harry’s sharp eyes passed over the place where she stood—pausing for a heartbeat in his relentless scan—something in her chest unclenched.

Her panic ebbed, just a little.

“They’ve cast their own anti-Apparation ward.  Even if we take ours down, we’re trapped here.  Seriously, how the fuck did they get here so fast? The entire bloody DMLE is out there!” the Angry One shouted, his fury crackling in the air like static. The sharp edge in his voice sent a trickle of fear down Hermione’s spine. Almost instinctively, she shifted back a step, angling her body away from him—subtly shielding herself.

Because when he realized she was the one who’d called for help, that rage might find a target.

The Leader didn’t look at him. He gazed down at her instead. For a long moment, he simply stared—assessing, calculating—before he turned away, refocusing on the growing crisis outside.

“It doesn’t matter how they found out,” he said curtly, his voice clipped and controlled. “Probably that idiot you nearly beat to death managed to send a Patronus to the Ministry before he got himself into a four-on-one duel.”

Hermione’s head snapped up, her brow furrowed. That was a lie. A lie of omission, but a lie all the same. Cormac couldn’t cast a Patronus. He never could—that level of magic was far beyond his capabilities.  And while the Leader likely didn’t know that, he did know she had been the one to get the message out. She’d seen it in his face when she flashed the Galleon at him.

So why was he covering for her?

Why not tell the others about the coin?

“He’s right,” the Suave One said, stepping closer to the filthy window, squinting out at the swelling ranks of Aurors on the street. “Doesn’t matter how they know. What matters is they do. So, what now?”  He let out a low whistle. “Salazar’s balls on toast—Potter really did bring the whole fucking Department.”

“Of course he did!” the Angry One snarled. “He’s worried about his precious Golden Girl, isn’t he?” He flung a hand toward Hermione, then rounded on the fourth man near the back wall. “And how, exactly, did we miss that little tidbit of intel, huh? Kind of seems like something we should’ve known before we signed up for this suicide circus.”

“Don’t tell me you’re scared of Potter,” the smallest of the four said dryly, disbelief curling around his words.

“Course not,” the Angry One snapped. “What I do have is a healthy respect for that man’s ability to commit serious fucking violence. Especially where she’s involved.” He jabbed a finger at Hermione again, but his glare remained fixed on the man across from him.

The Leader stepped between them, both arms outstretched, voice sharp. “Enough. We are not doing this here. There’s no time f—”

His words were cut off by a familiar pulse of magic from the back of the room. Then—pop!—the distinctive crack of a Portkey activating.

All four men whipped around toward the back.

Where Padma had been crouched over Cormac.

Had being the operative word.

The corner was empty now.

Hermione didn’t even need to look. She already knew: Padma had taken the unspoken cue. She’d found the emergency Portkey Hermione always kept tucked in her beaded bag.

The Angry One let out a roar, storming toward the back. “WHAT THE FUCK?!”

He dropped to a crouch, scanning the floor. “How the fuck did they get a Portkey?!”

The Leader hadn’t moved. His eyes were locked on Hermione, heavy with suspicion and dawning clarity.

She met his gaze evenly. Chin high. Shoulders loose.

Keep underestimating me arsehole.  See where it gets you.

“Right,” the Angry One snapped, striding back toward them, fury rolling off him like heat. Without warning, he seized Hermione by the upper arm in a bruising grip, yanking her sharply toward him and spinning her so her back slammed against his chest.

“New plan,” he growled, voice low and volatile. “We go out there—with her.” He shook her so hard her teeth clacked. “We tell them to stand the fuck down, let us past the anti-Apparition line. They won’t cast a single spell. They won’t risk her. Potter won’t let them. We cross the line—and we’re gone.”

“We’re taking hostages now?” the Suave One asked, his voice smooth but tight. His masked gaze flicked to the Leader, unreadable.

“The fuck we are,” the Leader snapped, stepping in and wrenching Hermione out of the Angry One’s grip. He shifted her behind him protectively, shielding her with his body.

“And what would you suggest?” the Angry One snarled. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re out of options. That’s the fucking Chosen One out there—plus half the Ministry. Without her, we’re already dead.”

The smallest of the group stepped forward, eyes darting between them. “He’s right. It’s the only move left.”

The Suave One tilted his head, silent as he assessed the situation. Then, without a word, he looked to the Leader. Something passed between them—an unspoken exchange. Finally, the Suave One gave a slight shrug. “I agree. No choice.”

Hermione felt the Leader draw a deep breath behind her, like a man preparing for battle.

She supposed he was.

A beat passed. Then the Leader gave a curt nod.

For a split second, she thought she saw something—reluctance, maybe—in the set of his shoulders, the tension in his fist. But then he reached for her again, pulling her flush against his chest, his arm wrapping around her abdomen. His hand splayed wide across her waist. She could feel the cold press of his wand as he angled it near her throat.

Her breath hitched. Panic surged.

“Alright,” he growled, and she felt it rumble through his chest. “Let’s get this over with. Remember your exit points. Rendezvous as planned. No deviations. No improvising. And you—” His eyes cut to the Angry One, sharp and warning. “Keep it under control. No more fuck-ups.”

To her astonishment, the Angry One just chuckled, as if this were all some cosmic joke. “You know me, mate,” he said with a crooked grin. “Steady as a Seeker.”

The Leader snorted but didn’t dignify it with a reply.

And just like that, the four of them shifted—posture, energy, focus. Gone was the bickering. Gone was the chaos. They were a unit now. Tight. Lethal.

Hermione swallowed hard, dread curdling in her gut. Her legs faltered as the Leader moved them toward the door. She stumbled, but his grip adjusted, steadying her without a word.

The others fell into formation, wands low and ready, crowding in tight around the Leader until Hermione was completely boxed in—shielded from the DMLE’s direct line of fire, but also with no room to run.

“Alright, boys,” the Leader drawled, voice light, almost lazy. “Off we fuck. Nice and slow.”

He released her just long enough to unlatch the heavy door, pushing it open with a groan of old hinges that echoed into the sudden hush blanketing Diagon Alley.

The sunlight poured in like a spotlight.

“Hey Potter,” the Leader called, his voice sharper now—razored and cold. “We’re coming out. Let’s keep things nice and calm, yeah?”

A firm nudge between her shoulder blades propelled Hermione forward. She stepped hesitantly over the threshold, blinking against the golden blaze of late summer sun. The warehouse’s shadows fell away behind her, replaced by a dizzying wash of light, heat, and the oppressive silence of a standoff in progress.

She couldn’t make out faces at first, her eyes still adjusting from the shadowy warehouse interior.  All she could see was a wall of figures in navy-blue robes lined along the far side of the ward perimeter, their wands raised and eyes hard.

Then—

“Hermione!”

“Mione!”

Harry and Ron’s voice echoed in the sudden stillness, their voices tinged with equal parts rage and relief.

“I’m fine,” she called back, surprised to hear the steadiness in her voice.

“And we’re going to keep it that way, yeah?” the Leader called out over her head, his entire focus on Harry.  “So, let’s all just stay nice and calm, and we can all be on our separate way before teatime”

“Absolutely fucking not!” Ron spit, moving to stand at Harry’s right shoulder, his blue eyes flashing with barely restrained fury.  Harry never took his eyes off the Leader, but murmured something to Ron, out of Hermione’s earshot. 

“What do you want?” Robards called, stepping forward, drawing the Leader’s attention away from Harry momentarily.

“Nothing from you, Robards.  And fuck you for asking,” the Angry One spit back from her left, his wand tracking the Lead Auror’s every move. 

The tension, already at a boiling point, raised even higher at this, the DMLE Aurors closest to Robards raising their wands to lock on to the Angry One’s position beside Hermione.  She felt a thrill of fear thread through her at the sheer number of glowing wand tips aimed in her direction.

“No!” Harry yelled, striding forward, Ron flanking him.  “Lower your wands.  Everyone calm down!”

“For once, I agree with the Chosen One.  Let’s all just calm down.”  She felt the Leader shift slightly behind her, his wand still resting against her neck.  “Alright, here’s what’s going to happen.  You’re all going to step back and let us cross that ward line.  We will Apparate out of here and leave Gryffindor’s Princess behind to fight another day.”

Ron growled, his tone venomous.  “Right.  And we’re just supposed to trust that you won’t take her with you?”

“Well, the way I see it, Weasley, you’ve got not choice but to trust me.  Any alternative would put her at risk, and we can’t have that, can we?”  At this, the Leader moved his wand tip slightly down from her neck, brushing the top of her chest suggestively.

She withdrew an indignant breath and pulled against his grip, trying and failing to stomp on his foot in her anger.  Her efforts were met with a mocking chuckle as he only pulled her closer to his chest, resting his chin on top of her curls as he grinned lazily at Harry and Ron.

Harry’s look was thunderous, although he threw out a restraining arm to stop Ron’s sudden step toward the ward line.  His wand hand trembled, just barely, but he didn’t raise it. His eyes—locked on Hermione—were wild with calculation, desperation, and barely leashed rage. A beat passed. Then another.

“Let them through,” he said, voice rough.

“What?” Robards snapped, spinning toward him. “Potter—”

“I said let them through!” Harry shouted, his voice like a whip crack across the Alley. “We don’t take the shot. Not with her in the middle of it.”

Robards hesitated. The rest of the DMLE didn’t. Wands dipped, reluctantly. Hermione felt the air shift—just slightly—as the magic of the ward line recalibrated to permit passage.

The Leader’s arm tightened around her waist. “There’s a good lad,” he murmured, amused. “Never change, Potter.”

The four masked men moved as one, fluid and precise. The Suave One and the Angry One took the flanks, eyes darting, wands sweeping for any last-minute threats. The smallest of them stayed slightly behind, his steps careful. The Leader, with Hermione still trapped against him, steered them forward through the invisible barrier.

Every footstep felt like a countdown.

They crossed the threshold.

No spells flew. No one moved. Time held its breath.

Once they were clear of the ward line, the Leader came to a halt. His grip on Hermione slackened—not entirely releasing her, but easing enough that her feet could find proper purchase.

He ducked his head, his voice dropping low at her ear. “Tell your boys I was gentle,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “But if I ever get you alone again, sweetheart—maybe I won’t be.”

Hermione stiffened in disgust, but before she could twist away or spit a curse, he released her fully and stepped back.

A single coordinated movement followed—wands raised, bodies turning—and with a crack of displaced air, the four men Disapparated into nothingness.

She stood alone, blinking in the golden light, knees buckling as the weight of it all finally hit her.

Harry was already sprinting toward her.

Chapter Text

Draco Apparated into the Malfoy Manor study—disconcerted, disoriented, and in dire need of a drink. His heart was still hammering, adrenaline running hot through his veins as his crew appeared in near-unison around him, trading the tension of Diagon Alley for the rich mahogany calm of the study.

This room—familiar, elegant, and gilded with the late morning sun streaming through diamond-paned glass—had become their habitual meeting point after missions. The wards rendered it one of the most secure locations in wizarding Britain. Impenetrable. Familiar. A safe place to regroup and debrief, far from prying eyes or accidental ears.

He lived here alone now, aside from the house-elves. His father was rotting in Azkaban, serving out a life sentence for his role in the war. And his mother…

Well. His mother was gone.

Best not to dwell.

He forced the thought away, focusing instead on the immediate—on the sudden absence of a very different witch. One who, only moments ago, had been pressed tightly against his chest. The void she left behind felt larger than it should. Disorienting. A haunting melody he couldn’t quite place.

Her scent—vanilla and lavender—still clung to his robes. Intoxicating. Anchoring.

And somehow, entirely insufficient.

He paused for a moment, drawing in a slow, steadying breath, letting the rhythm of his pulse settle as the timeless luxury of the room wrapped around him. The dark wood-panelled walls, polished by years of care, offered a quiet comfort, grounding him as they always did. His gaze wandered instinctively to the grand, arched windows, the focal point of the far wall. Through them, the serenity of his mother’s rose gardens unfolded—still faithfully tended by her house-elf, Tippy, even after all these years since her passing. To his left, the fireplace ignited with a flare of magical flames as soon as the Manor sensed its Lord’s return, the flickering glow casting shadows that danced across the room. The mantle, an imposing presence, was framed by intricate woodwork, twining daffodils and silver thistles carving their way along the edges—a subtle tribute to his parents. Loyalty for his mother, strength for his father, and protection for him—Draco—symbolized by the hellebores at the heart of the design. Their dark petals, like a quiet guardian, stood as a reminder of the protection his family had strove yet ultimately failed to provide.

Adrian collapsed into one of the high-backed leather chairs with a heavy thud, his body seeming to deflate as he expelled a weary, exhausted breath. His shoulders slumped, and the weight of the morning pressed down on them all. Blaise, ever the creature of habit, moved toward the drink cart nestled in the corner, beside the towering bookcases filled with leather-bound tomes, pouring himself a generous measure of Draco’s finest whisky with practiced ease. Theo, meanwhile, stood before the mantle, his posture rigid, eyes locked on the crackling flames.

“Well, that was an absolute shit show,” Blaise remarked as he lowered himself into the high-backed leather chair facing Adrian’s, the ice in his glass chiming softly in counterpoint to his assessment.

“Yes—what in the actual fuck, Adrian?” Theo asked, shifting closer to the fireplace. He braced one elbow on the mantle, raking a hand through his wavy chestnut hair, frustration radiating from every line of his body. “How exactly did you fail to notice Hermione fucking Granger worked at the warehouse? She’s not exactly hard to spot.”

Adrian let out an aggrieved sigh and kicked his dragon-hide boots up onto the coffee table. “I don’t know, Theo. It’s not like I see her all that often. How was I supposed to know?”

Blaise leaned forward intently, his elbows resting on his knees, his glass dangling lazily from one hand. “What do you mean, ‘you don’t see her very often?’” he rumbled, one brow arching in pointed disbelief. “She’s one-third of the Golden Trio - on the bloody front page of the Prophet at least once a month. If not more. And let’s not forget—you went to school with her for, what? Oh, right. Five fucking years.”

“She was two years behind me!” Adrian snapped, casting dark glares between them. “All I remember is a bushy-haired little know-it-all swot who trailed after Potter and Weasley like a loyal little crup.”

“Well, she’s definitely grown up,” Blaise murmured, lips twitching as he took a sip. “Who knew Granger would turn out so… fit?”

Draco scowled at his friend, a muscle feathering in his jaw, even as he silently—grudgingly—agreed. She had been fit. Distractingly so. He could still see her eyes—golden, fierce, lit with that familiar fire—even surrounded, even wandless. The kind of defiance that didn’t back down, didn’t yield. And her hair—those chestnut curls still untamed, tumbling down her back and framing the pale oval of her face like some kind of fever dream.

And Merlin, what the hell had she been wearing?

Some Muggle get-up—a crimson blouse unbuttoned at her throat, allowing a tantalizing glimpse of sun-kissed skin, freckles dusting her collarbones.  Trousers so tight they may as well have been painted on. Absolutely nothing left to the imagination. Not that he was complaining, of course. Just… observing. In a strictly professional capacity.

Wait. No.

Stop that.

With decided effort, he wrenched his thoughts away from that alarming train of thought, striding over to where Adrian reclined near the hearth, kicking his boots off the table with more force than necessary.

Adrian grunted. “Oi!”

“You should’ve noticed,” Draco said coldly. “She could’ve recognized any of us.”

“She’s clever,” Theo said, voice cutting. “Too clever. You think it’s a coincidence the DMLE showed up that fast? Or that Patil just happened to stumble across a Portkey? Granger played us. Wandless, outnumbered, and she still outmaneuvered us.”

Draco didn’t answer, refusing to meet Theo’s hard stare. He’d chosen not to tell them about the Galleon Granger had used—somehow—to summon the DMLE. By the time he realized what she’d done, it had been too late. The damage was done. And Theo had been seething after his skirmish with McLaggen, pure fury and bloodlust. Draco hadn’t wanted to pour fuel on that particular fire by handing him a better excuse to go after her.

When Patil and McLaggen had vanished into thin air, Draco had known—with a cold, sinking certainty—that Granger was behind it. She must have signaled Patil when she’d told her to dig through that ridiculous beaded bag for emergency supplies. Even then, Draco hadn’t let on what he suspected: that Granger was running strategic circles around them while they stumbled through the job like amateurs.

And damn him, but he couldn’t help admiring her for it. Reckless, yes—but fierce, intuitive. She’d adapted in seconds, turned chaos into opportunity, exploited their every misstep. Quick-witted didn’t even begin to cover it.

“She’s going to be a problem,” Theo said.

Draco’s head lifted. “What are you talking about?”

“Granger,” Theo said flatly. “She’s too fucking smart. When she asked Blaise if he knew her from Hogwarts? She was digging. You saw it. She clocked something—and if she pieces it together, one of us could burn for it.”

Draco inhaled sharply through his nose. “She didn’t. We had the masks. Voice charms. There’s no way.”

“She was studying us,” Theo said, his voice low and steady. “Like a puzzle she meant to crack. You remember her in school—when she got an idea into her head, there was no stopping her.”

Adrian leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes flicking between them. “Come on. There’s no way she knows. She hasn’t seen us in years. We could walk past her on the street, and she wouldn’t blink.”

Draco’s gaze flicked to Theo—barely—but it was enough. Enough to betray the sliver of doubt curling tight in his gut.

Theo saw it. Nodded once, slow. Certain. “I’ll handle it.”

Draco turned sharply, facing Theo head on. “What the hell does that mean?”

“I’ll approach her,” Theo said, calm as stone. “Make contact. Scare her quiet, if I have to.”

Blaise let out a sharp laugh, disbelieving. “She stared down the Dark Lord, mate. You think she’s going to flinch? She’s a fucking Gryffindor. She doesn’t scare easy.”

“Everyone’s afraid of something,” Theo said, voice going distant as he looked back into the fire. “But yeah – you’re probably right. With her? Might take more than just a threat.”

Draco stiffened. “What do you mean?”

Theo shrugged, still not looking at him. “You know what I mean.”

“You can’t mean—” Adrian started, but Theo cut him off with a look.

“I can’t mean what, Pucey?” he snapped, eyes flashing. “That I won’t do what it takes to clean up your mess? To protect this crew? Isn’t that what we all signed up for?  What we all agreed to, come hell or high water?”

“Come off it, mate,” Blaise said, tone low and coaxing. “She’s the Golden Girl. One of the most protected witches in the country. A war hero. Even if you pulled it off, it’d bring ten times the heat we’re facing now. Potter and Weasley would never let it go. We’d spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders.”

Theo didn’t blink. “And that’s different from now—how, exactly?”

He drew in a breath, slow and deliberate, like he was coming back from the edge. ““Look, I’m not saying I take her out. Not yet. I’m saying I make contact. See what she knows, what she thinks she knows. I’ll feel her out and figure out where the cracks are.”

His voice dipped, low and razor-edged.

“And if I find that she needs to keep her mouth shut, I won’t need even to touch her. Just a few whispers in the right ears. A letter to her parents. A knife on Weasley’s doorstep.  A shadow near one of Potter’s kids.”

He looked up then, directly at Draco.

“She doesn’t need to bleed to break. She just needs to believe I can make the people she loves disappear.”

The silence that followed was heavy, electric. Even the fire seemed to dim.

Draco’s jaw tensed, his voice low and controlled. “No.”

Theo’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, ‘no’? You know we don’t leave loose ends. Abraxas will—”

Draco shook his head, slow and deliberate. “You’re not going near her.”

Theo stilled, head tilting just slightly. Too calm. Too calculating. “Yeah? And why’s that, mate?”

Draco didn’t answer immediately. His hands had curled into fists at his sides, knuckles white, but his voice stayed even. Controlled. Barely.

He could feel it rising in him—a fierce, irrational protectiveness. It burned hotter than it should have. Because this wasn’t just about a target. It was Granger. And whatever the hell that meant, it made something twist in his gut.

A flash of memory hit him—pale skin, blood, his aunt’s cruel laughter echoing down these very halls. Granger screaming, writhing under Bellatrix’s wand, carved like a sacrifice.

No. Not again.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said, voice flat and final.

Blaise gave a short, disbelieving laugh. “You? You’re going to handle Granger? With your history?  Mate, out of the four of us-”

Draco cut him off, his voice sharper now.  “I said I’ll take care of it,” he repeated. “I’ll find out what she knows. What she saw. And if she’s a threat—I’ll deal with it.”

Theo leaned back, studying him, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “You sure that’s a good idea, mate? You think you can be objective where she’s concerned?”

Draco met his gaze without flinching. “When it comes to the safety of this crew, when have I ever not been objective, Theo?”   

For a moment, no one said anything. The fire cracked again, throwing long shadows across the room.

Then Theo smiled—the tension bleeding from his frame all at once as he slipped back into the carefree boy Draco remembered from their youth. He straightened and clapped Draco hard on the shoulder. “Of course, brother. Your crew, your call. I was only trying to help.”

Draco didn’t reply. He didn’t trust himself to.

Theo met his eyes—steady, unflinching—something unspoken and weighty passing between them. Then, just as quickly, the moment fractured. Theo’s gaze drifted away, and with a faint shake of his head, he rolled his shoulders and moved to the drink cart like nothing had happened.

Blaise stood, crossing to Draco’s side, his voice pitched low enough for only him to hear as Adrian called out a drink order to Theo across the room.

“You can trust him,” Blaise murmured.

Draco didn’t respond.

He stood there, eyes locked on the fire, jaw clenched, arms folded across his chest like he was holding something in—something sharp and dangerous and barely contained.

After a long moment, he said, almost too quietly, “Of course I trust him.  He’s my brother.”

A pause.

“I just don’t trust what this job is turning us into.”

Draco stepped through the Floo into the Greengrass estate’s parlour, the emerald flames sputtering behind him as he paused to brush a fine dusting of soot from his shoulders. A breath later, the fireplace flared green again, and Theo emerged with practiced ease, eyes sweeping the high-ceilinged antechamber like he expected something to lunge from the shadows.

With a sharp crack, an elderly house-elf appeared before them—his eyes cloudy, ears drooping, spine curved with age—but his bow was crisp, his voice unwavering.

“Masters Malfoy and Nott. Lord Greengrass awaits you in the sitting room.”

He didn’t wait for acknowledgment, turning and scuttling down the marble corridor, his steps brisk despite his clear antiquity.

“Oi! Bingley!” Theo called after him, exasperated. “Ease up, would you? Where’s the fire, mate?”

The elf either didn’t hear him, or chose to ignore Theo’s protest, continuing to jog down the hall towards the arched entrance to the Greengrass’ sitting room.

“Bloody elf’s a menace,” Theo muttered as he and Draco trailed behind at a more dignified pace, the portraits eyeing them with varying degrees of haughty indifference from the walls. “Should’ve been retired a century ago, honestly.”

“I heard that, Master Nott,” Bingley called back without so much as glancing over his shoulder. “Bingley would rather die.”

“Yeah, that’s my entire point, mate. You need to take it easy at your—OW! What the hell was that for?”

Draco, utterly impassive, withdrew his wand from where he’d just jabbed it into Theo’s ribs. “Don’t antagonize him.  He’s older than both of us combined and could put either of us on our arses with a snap of his tiny fingers.”

“Master Malfoy has always been the wiser of your pair,” Bingley quipped, reaching the arched entryway to the sitting room. He stepped aside with a slight bow, ushering them through—then vanished with a sharp crack before Theo could even open his mouth.

“Cheeky little bugger,” Theo muttered, falling automatically in step a half-pace behind Draco, letting him take the lead as the two wizards stepped warily into the room.

“Boys!”

Abraxas Greengrass stood near the hearth, a glass of amber liquid in one hand and an effusive grin stretched thin across his hollowed face. The firelight did little to warm his pallid skin or deep-set eyes, which glittered with something that didn’t quite match his smile. His frame, long and skeletal, was draped in a finely tailored cloak of deep navy, but nothing could hide the cadaverous sharpness of his cheekbones or the way his fingers curled like claws around the crystal tumbler.

“So good of you both to come. Were you able to retrieve the artifact?”

Draco nodded once, curtly, and reached into the inner pocket of his robes. He drew out the tome—thick, weathered, and bound in cracked leather darkened by age and worse. Its presence seemed to dim the light around it, exuding a weight beyond the physical.

Abraxas’ eyes lit with something close to reverence. Avarice flickered across his gaunt features as he extended one long, skeletal hand, fingers twitching slightly in anticipation.

“Exquisite,” he murmured, as if the word itself had dust on it. His hand brushed the cover like a lover’s cheek, tracing the ancient sigils etched into the hide. “Do you know what this is, Draco?”

Draco said nothing. He didn’t want to know.

Abraxas didn’t wait for an answer. With a flick of his wrist, a house-elf appeared, trembling, and Abraxas handed the tome over without ceremony. “Put this in my study. Ward it heavily. If it’s damaged, you’ll wish you’d never been born.”

The elf vanished with a pop.

Abraxas turned back to them, smile gone, face once more a mask of detached civility.  “I hear you ran into a bit of trouble during the retrieval?”

Draco inclined his head. Silent. Watchful.

It was Theo who answered, rolling a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Nothing we couldn’t handle.”

The temperature in the room seemed to dip, the fire hissing softly in its grate.

Abraxas chuckled, low and dry. “I see.  Care to elaborate, Master Nott?  My sources inform me the Granger girl was somehow involved?”

Three other wizards lounged in the sitting room’s dark corners, silent and still, each one a wall of muscle wrapped in understated robes. One cleaned his nails with a dagger; another nursed a drink without taking his eyes off Theo and Draco. The third didn’t move at all—just watched, expression unreadable. They didn’t need to speak. Their presence was enough. Bodyguards. Or enforcers. Hired wands, loyal only to Abraxas.

If Theo noticed—or cared—he didn’t show it. His mask of indifference remained perfectly intact.

“Your sources, as always, are impeccable,” he said easily. “So, you can imagine our surprise when Granger turned up at the Gringotts warehouse. Working, apparently, in some official capacity.”

Theo ambled to the sideboard, plucked an apple from the bowl, and took a leisurely bite, green eyes narrowing just a touch as he studied the older man.

“Odd, isn’t it?” he continued, casual but pointed. “That those same well-placed sources didn’t think to mention she’d be there?”

Abraxas’ smile didn’t falter, but something behind his eyes went still, predatory. The silence stretched, taut as piano wire.

“I’m not sure I follow, Mr. Nott,” he said at last, swirling the liquid in his glass. “Seeing as it was your crew’s job to conduct the necessary surveillance.  I’m sure you’re not implying it was somehow my responsibility to assess the parameters of the job I tasked you with?”

Theo shrugged one shoulder, the motion fluid, but Draco could see the underlying thread of tension in his friend. “Of course not.  I just can’t help but wonder if you’re being told everything you should – how certain are you of this source?”

Abraxas huffed a humorless chuckle, a hollow, echoing sound.  “Concerned about me, are you Nott?”

He took a sip, gaze never leaving Theo.

“You know, I find it fascinating how often people confuse proximity for protection. Influence for immunity.” His voice was mild—almost amused as he shifted his obsidian gaze to Draco.  “I value you and your crew, Malfoy.  I always have.  But a word of caution – from your father’s oldest friend — never let sentimentality compromise your judgment.”

Abraxas’ tone remained light, conversational even, but the air in the room thickened. Draco met his gaze evenly, but his jaw was tight, his breath measured.

“Ever since Lucius was carted off to Azkaban for the crime of defending his family, I have watched over you like the son I never had. When your darling mother left us, I took over responsibility for teaching you how to move in a world that no longer cares for names like ours—where pureblood legacy is treated like a stain to be scrubbed clean.”

Abraxas drifted toward the mantle, fingers tracing its edge with slow precision—more like a blade over flesh than a hand over dust.

“But don’t confuse my investment for affection.” His voice dropped, silken and lethal. “I will never let my feelings get in the way of my obligations to the Organization.”

He turned, gaze locking on Draco with the weight of something ancient and unyielding.

“If it’s ever a choice between you and me? It’ll be you. Every time.”

His voice was still soft, almost gentle—but coiled with quiet venom, like a knife sliding between ribs.

“As for Miss Granger…” Abraxas let the name linger, almost distastefully. “I don’t care who she is, or what you think she’s capable of. She’s a liability. And liabilities,” he said, turning toward the fire, its glow casting his hollow features into cruel relief, “get people killed.”

A beat of silence. Then, with studied calm:

“I trust you’ll take the necessary steps to tie up any… loose ends?”

Draco didn’t flinch. He held the older man’s gaze, unreadable.

“Of course,” he replied smoothly. “Have I ever given you reason to doubt me?”

Abraxas’s answering smile was the stuff of nightmares—thin, bloodless, and carved with precision. “No, my boy. You’ve always done what was required to protect the Organization. Ever your father’s son.”

That was the core of it. Always had been.

Protect the Organization.

The broken remains of a once-manic empire—Death Eaters, sympathizers, the ambitious and the damned—all loosely stitched together after Voldemort’s fall, clinging to shadow and influence like rats in the walls. Lucius had been well-positioned to take the reins, to restore order, turn chaos into legacy. But the Wizengamot had other plans - had made an example of him. Life in Azkaban. No leniency. No escape.

In the vacuum that followed, it had been Abraxas who stepped in.

Lucius’s closest friend. His mirror, his darker half.

Abraxas hadn’t resurrected the old order. He’d buried it. Then built something leaner in its place—quieter, less ideological, more pragmatic. Power stripped of pretense. Influence decoupled from dogmatic belief. Where Lucius had clung to doctrine, Abraxas traded in control. Reputation. Power. Leverage.

And Draco, caught in the wreckage, had played along.  What choice did he have?

He hadn’t believed in blood purity for years—not since the war stripped it bare and revealed it for what it was: a fairytale built on fear and vanity. Neither had Theo, nor Adrian, nor Blaise. The four of them had seen the truth too clearly, too young. They had watched ideology become ash. Watched zealots die in cages, or worse—become cautionary tales used to justify Ministry crackdowns.

They had no illusions left.

But they were still Malfoy. Nott. Pucey. Zabini.

Names that carried weight—and a target.

They’d joined Abraxas not out of loyalty, but necessity. The only other option was exile. Powerless. Unprotected. Hunted by a Ministry eager to prove it had teeth—or worse, marked as threats by Abraxas himself. Survival had meant compromise. And compromise had meant playing the part.

Draco had been nineteen. Shell-shocked. Grieving. And so very angry.

His father, broken and disgraced. His mother, undone by grief and loss, slipping quietly into death without warning. She hadn’t fought. Hadn’t stayed for him. Hadn’t seen the point.

And Abraxas had been there to catch what was left.

Not with comfort. Never that. But with precision.

Orders. Structure. A reason to get out of bed.

A crew. A ledger. A list.

“Purpose is the cure for mourning,” Abraxas had told him. “And power, the only antidote to shame.”

So Draco learned. Fast.

Not spells—leverage. How to speak in silences and threats. How to mete out Abraxas’s judgement with no mercy and no remorse.

And his friends had followed where Draco led.  Blaise and Adrian became his shadows, always watching his back, protecting his blind side.  When Theo had been released, their crew had finally felt complete.  The final piece falling into place.

Now, years later, he didn’t wear the Malfoy name like armor.

He wore it like a scalpel.

Abraxas watched it all with that same calculating calm. He never praised. Never consoled. But Draco understood. This—this—was the future Lucius had imagined. Only it was Abraxas who built it. And Draco who kept it running.

Not out of belief.

But because stepping away would mean becoming a liability.

And everyone knew what happened to those.

Chapter Text

Despite strong evidence to the contrary, Harry and Ron did not, in the end, agree with Hermione’s pronouncement that she was ‘fine.’

With an alarming, and yet annoyingly predictable lack of regard for her excellent and well-reasoned argument, she found herself all but dragged into Saint Mungo’s Emergency Department by two six-foot-tall asshats who were under the deluded and frankly idiotic assumption that they knew best.

“This is entirely unnecessary.  I’m not bleeding. I’m not unconscious. I walked here under my own power,” she snapped, trying to shrug Ron’s large hand off her elbow.

“Right,” Ron muttered, rolling his eyes. “Because you can be relied upon to provide an objective assessment of your own physical well-being.”

Hermione whirled on him, heels squeaking against polished stone. “And just what is that supposed to mean?  I am nothing if not objective!”

“Normally, I would agree with you, Mione,” Ron responded, his tone laced with the unending patience of a man being tested.  “But your track record for noticing your own limitations speaks for itself.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, a dangerous gleam igniting in the depths of her scowl. “My track record, Ronald, includes fighting Death Eaters, riding a dragon, surviving a war, and keeping both of you alive for the better part of a decade. I think that more than offsets the occasional oversight.”

Neither wizard chose to rise to the bait.  Harry surged forward, parting the crowded waiting room like the magical equivalent of Moses—startled patients and Healers alike melting out of the Chosen One’s path as if he’d cast a repelling charm.  Ron followed in his wake, gamely towing Hermione along and adjusting his pace to match her shorter stride.

In a thoroughly unsurprising turn of events, the intake Mediwitch took one look at Harry and Ron’s bleak expressions, clenched jaws, shoulders squared like they were storming a battlefield - and ushered Hermione into a private examination room, no questions asked.  A brief but heated debate then ensued as to whether Hermione should wait for the on-call Healer while resting on the room’s vacant Medibed, with Hermione solidly in the “that’s entirely unnecessary” camp, and the boys firmly in the “get in the bed or we will put you in the bed” train of thought.

It didn’t come to wands drawn, but it was a close thing.

Honestly.  Asshats.

The Healer arrived, wading into the room’s already tense atmosphere with the air of someone who knew his day had just taken a definitive turn for the worse, keeping a wary eye on the disgruntled wizards looming by the door while casting the usual barrage of diagnostics on his decidedly reluctant patient. 

At his polite suggestion, Hermione—grudgingly, and with the air of a woman deeply wronged—perched on the edge of the Medibed. She flicked her curls over her shoulder and shot a glare sharp enough to cut glass at her two friends, who wisely became very interested in the ceiling tiles.

The Healer frowned as the diagnostic charms hovered, softly glowing, over Hermione’s head. His gaze darted across the data, brow furrowing deeper.

“Were you hit with any hexes or offensive spells?” he asked, flicking his wand to record the readout in her chart at the foot of the bed.

Hermione shook her head, brow furrowing in confusion. “No. There were a few curses thrown around, but I managed to avoid them.” She didn’t have to look to feel Harry and Ron bristle at her side.

“Hmm,” the Healer muttered, still scrutinizing the glowing display. “That’s… odd.”

“What’s odd?” Hermione asked, her tone edging into irritation.

With a smooth wave of his wand, the diagnostic dissolved, the softly glowing lights fading into the sterile brightness of the examination room.

“Your magical core’s been slightly depleted,” he said. “Nothing serious—a bit of rest should do the trick—but that sort of thing usually doesn’t happen unless you’ve been hit by something offensive.”

Hermione blinked. “That doesn’t make any sense. I wasn’t hit with anything. I didn’t even have my wand—” She stumbles slightly over this admission, feeling her cheeks flush with a mix of embarrassment and fury.  “I didn’t cast any magic, other than sending a message to Harry through the Galleon.  How could my core be impacted?”

The Healer offered a casual shrug, his voice calm and reassuring. “It happens. Magical exhaustion can build over time—stress, sleep deprivation, or maybe backlash from exposure to something darker than you realized.” His eyes flicked briefly toward the two wizards still hovering like sentries near the door. “We rarely pinpoint the exact cause in these cases. Fortunately, the remedy is always the same: rest. And then a bit more rest.”

Hermione groaned theatrically, tipping her head back toward the ceiling. From the corner of her eye, she caught Harry and Ron exchanging a smug, wordless glance—the kind that made it clear she was about to become the subject of an unholy alliance hellbent on cajoling her into forced relaxation, come hell or high water.

“I’ll grab you a restorative draught and a few low-grade core boosters to take home,” the Healer continued, scribbling something illegible on her chart. “Take them for the next day or so, rest when you can, and no spellcasting heavier than a levitation charm until your core’s rebalanced.”

She opened her mouth to protest—rest was an absurd suggestion when she had Padma and Cormac to check on, and the entire Gringott’s security division to interrogate about that stolen tome—but Harry cleared his throat in warning, so she snapped it shut with a glare.

The Healer clearly sensed the impending rebellion. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he said briskly, and ducked out of the room before she could argue.

The door had barely swung shut behind him when it opened again—this time to reveal Gawain Robards.

Hermione’s spine went rigid. “Oh, come on—”

Tall, grizzled, and wearing his ever-present five o’clock shadow that somehow always appeared before noon, the Head Auror looked like a man who hadn't slept since the first war and saw no reason to start now. His sharp eyes zeroed in on Hermione with all the subtlety of a rampaging Erumpet. “Granger,” he said without preamble. “I’ll need your statement.”

Harry moved instantly, stepping between Hermione and Robards like a shield locking into place. He and the Head Auror were perpetually at odds—two magnets aligned for mutual irritation. Robards, for his part, was almost certainly threatened by Harry’s meteoric rise through the DMLE ranks. And Harry, in classic form, had little (read: no) patience for authority figures (with the notable exception of slightly eccentric and possibly sociopathic headmasters) and even less for Robards’ unwavering allegiance to bureaucracy and red tape.

“She’ll give her statement,” he said, calm and cool. “Tomorrow. At the Ministry.”

Robards looked at him like he was a particularly inconvenient broom cupboard. “With all due respect, Potter, I don’t need your permission. I’m already here, and there’s no reason -

“And she’s under medical care,” Harry interjected as though Robards hadn’t spoken, his arms crossed, mouth a firm line of dissent. “You’re not questioning her while she’s recovering.”

“I’m not concussed,” Hermione snapped, sitting up straighter.

“No, but your magical core is depleted,” Harry shot back, not even bothering to look at her.

“Barely…”

“And,” he continued over her, voice cutting clean through her protest, “you’re not giving an official statement until you’ve had food, rest, and at least one dose of restorative potion.”

Hermione let out a long-suffering sigh and rolled her eyes, deciding, for once, not to argue. She knew better than anyone how immovable Harry could be when he slipped into protective brother mode. He was like a Hippogriff with a hero complex—utterly impossible to redirect and equally immune to logic.

Robards exhaled through his nose, his frustration with Harry evident in the tense line of his mouth.  “Fine,” he snapped, his eyes darting between Harry and Ron before settling on Hermione with a decidedly unfriendly glower.  Apparently, she was to be tarred with the Chosen One’s brush. “Tomorrow morning then.  My office.  First thing.”

Hermione gave him a tight nod. “I’ll be there.”

Robards turned on his heel and stalked out, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like bloody Gryffindors.

The room was silent for a beat, then Hermione muttered, “You do realize I wanted to give my statement?”

“You do realize you faintly resemble a broken wand core right now?” Harry shot back.

Before she could reply, the door opened for the third time.

And this time… the temperature in the room dropped several degrees.

“Sweetheart.”

Fuck.

Hermione’s stomach knotted in tension as her boyfriend Roger Davies strode in like he owned the building, all sleek lines and anxious energy wrapped in an expensive three-piece Muggle suit.  His piercing blue eyes locked on Hermione, his dark hair perfectly coifed and decidedly at odds with his outward display of the harried and much-maligned boyfriend to one erstwhile and exceedingly negligent witch.  Harry and Ron both shifted their stance at his entrance, nothing overt or noticeable to the casual observer.  But to Hermione, they may as well have been spitting hexes at the former Ravenclaw’s back.

“Why didn’t you call me?” Roger demanded, voice warm but clipped. The concern might have been genuine, but the tone came with just enough reproach to curl her toes. “I had to hear from Minister Shacklebolt’s office that you were involved in a hostage situation. Do you have any idea how that made me look?”

Ron’s eyes narrowed. Harry looked at the ceiling.

Hermione closed her eyes. Counted to five.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“You’re clearly not, darling,” Roger replied, crossing the room and taking her hands like she might shatter on contact. “And what happened? How in Merlin’s name did this even occur? I thought you said the warehouse had proper security.”

“It does,” she said, faltering slightly. Her mind flashing back, unbidden, to Cormac’s blood on the concrete and Padma’s broken, keening sobs. “It—it wasn’t enough.”

Roger didn’t notice the tremor in her voice. Or if he did, he chose not to address it. Instead, he tucked a stray curl behind her ear with the practiced ease of a man who liked his control subtle but constant. “I’ve already arranged a transfer to the private recovery floor. I’ll stay with you tonight, make sure—”

“No,” Hermione cut in, her voice sharper than she'd intended.  At Roger’s startled and slightly reproachful glance, she drew a steadying breath, reminding herself for the thousandth time he was coming from a place of concern. “That’s not necessary. The Healer is fetching a few potions. I’ll be discharged in a moment. And I still need to check on Padma and Cormac.”

Roger paused. For a heartbeat, it looked like he might argue. But then his eyes slid toward Harry and Ron—Aurors, war heroes, and the two immovable bookends of her life currently glaring daggers at him—and he smiled instead. Thin. Brittle.

“Of course,” he said smoothly. “Whatever you need, darling.”

She supposed he even meant that.

They’d been dating for six months—six oddly exhausting months. And she wanted to make it work with Roger—truly, she did. He ticked all the right boxes: successful, handsome, attentive in a slightly over-curated way. He remembered anniversaries, brought her coffee just how she liked it, and never left wet towels on the floor. On parchment, he was ideal.

But still—despite herself—Hermione kept finding reasons to second-guess him. She hated that about herself, hated the quiet suspicion that crept in when he said all the right things in all the right ways. It felt unjust, even cruel. Merlin knew she wasn’t the easiest person to love. Maybe she’d just forgotten how to trust something simple.

And yet… sometimes, his kindness felt oddly transactional. As if he’d read a book on “how to date difficult women” and decided to major in it. His timing was always impeccable. His reassurances always soothing, but just slightly too smooth. She couldn’t quite articulate it, but there were moments—usually in the quiet lull between conversations—when she caught herself wondering if he liked her, or merely the role she played in his life. The prize. The Golden Girl. A fitting accessory to the sleek, upward trajectory of his career.

She told herself it was ridiculous. That she was projecting. That everyone performed a little in relationships. That Roger was trying.  And why couldn’t she?

But deep down, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he liked her best when she was quiet. Or tired. Or too overwhelmed to argue. When she was less… herself.

She cleared her throat, lifted her chin, and mustered a smile. “Thank you,” she said, hopping down from the Medibed with a grace she couldn’t quite trust. The floor dipped beneath her like a badly-anchored broomstick, and her fingers reflexively clutched Roger’s quickly outstretched hand.

He caught her, of course—steadfast, smug, and just a little too pleased with himself, like this was some kind of vindication.

He gave her a once-over, his gaze sliding down her form like a checklist, before leaning in to brush a kiss against her cheek. Gentle. Possessive. Possibly entirely for show.

She ignored Ron and Harry’s identical grimaces behind Roger’s back.

“I’m so glad you’re alright,” Roger murmured with rehearsed warmth, his smile soft and camera-ready, even though the implied warmth never quite reached his eyes.

She managed to dispatch Roger—despite his protestations—with a pointed reminder that the responsibilities of a Senior Undersecretary to the Minister weren’t going to handle themselves.

Privately, Hermione suspected they absolutely would do just that.

From what she could tell, Roger’s job with the Ministry mostly involved repeating Kingsley’s previously voiced direction through vaguely worded and exceedingly unnecessary interoffice memos, going out for long lunches, and being photographed looking important in crisply tailored suits. He was the commiserate bureaucrat: always present, always delegating, and never actually doing anything.

Still, he kissed her cheek, promised to owl her later, and swept from the room in a tailored blur of concern and cologne.

She waited until the door clicked shut behind him before sighing, scrubbing a hand over her face and turning to Ron and Harry, a single brow arched expectantly.

“Seriously, Mione,” Ron said after a beat, “what in the name of Godric and all his bloody goats do you see in that wanker?”

Hermione snorted, then winced at her own disloyalty. “Don’t start.”

“Who, me?” Ron asked, all faux innocence and raised eyebrows. “I’m just admiring your impeccable taste. Personally, I might’ve aimed for someone slightly less likely to lodge a formal complaint because your hostage crisis interrupted his quinoa bowl, but who am I to judge?”

Harry threw him a sidelong glance, his mouth twitching. “Bit rich, coming from you.”

Ron blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Harry grinned. “You can’t really question her taste in men, given you used to be one of them.”

Hermione groaned. “Brilliant. Yes, please – because that will improve this already stellar day – let’s dive right into that disaster, shall we?”

“Hey, you’re the one dating the Minister’s most photogenic lapdog,” Ron said, throwing his hands up.

“And you’re the one who once gave me a box of Chocolate Frogs for our anniversary,” she shot back.

Harry coughed into his hand, clearly losing the battle not to laugh, while Ron made an entirely unnecessary and frankly immature gesture in her general direction.

Trying to school his face into something more serious, Harry cleared his throat. “You sure you’re alright?”

She nodded. “Yes. Mostly. Enough.”

They didn’t look even remotely convinced.

Hermione gave them both a warning glare—though her heart wasn’t in it. “You need to ease up on Roger. He’s under a lot of pressure.”

Harry made a noncommittal noise that sounded suspiciously like bullshit.

Ron nodded with mock solemnity. “Totally fair. I mean, if he doesn’t show up for those photo ops with the Minister, the entire government might collapse under the weight of its own unmet expectations.”

She sighed and reached for the small bag of potions the Healer had left on the tray beside her. “Can we go now, or are you two planning to stage a full-blown intervention?”

Harry held the door open, brow raised. “Don’t tempt us.”

Chapter Text

In the end, the Healers wouldn’t let her in to see Cormac—not even after she dusted off the rarely used but historically effective “I’m the Golden Girl, give me what I want” card.

It had worked on stubborn Ministry officials, foreign diplomats, and once even on a disgruntled night security goblin patrolling the Magical History Exhibit at Cairo’s National Museum.

But it was no match for one stern-eyed Mediwitch named Eunice, who met Hermione’s most earnest, pleading look with all the warmth of a brick wall and informed her—in no uncertain terms—that attempted emotional manipulation did not, in fact, count as medical clearance.

Abandoning her attempt to breach Eunice’s clearly impenetrable domain, Hermione turned back toward the lift, muttering under her breath about the tyranny of competent women with clipboards. As she rounded the corner, she nearly collided with a startled Padma, who took one look at her—and all but launched herself into Hermione’s arms.

“Hermione!” the dark-haired witch gasped, her voice catching. “Oh gods, I’m so sorry! I didn’t want to leave you there—I swear I didn’t! But Cormac was bleeding and—”

Hermione clutched her tightly, grounding herself in Padma’s familiar scent—jasmine and orange blossom. Her voice was firm, even as she tightened her hold on the trembling witch’s shoulders in relief. “Padma. It’s alright. I’m alright. You did exactly what you were supposed to do—you got out. You got Cormac out. I wanted you to take the Portkey.”

Padma pulled back slightly, blinking hard against the sting of tears. “I know you did,” she whispered. “But it felt so wrong. Leaving you behind—like I was abandoning you. And no one’s told me anything, no one! I’ve been asking about you, and what happened, but the bloody DMLE is as tight-lipped as a Gringotts goblin during tax season—”

“Padma—” Hermione interrupted gently, squeezing her friend’s shoulder. “I’m okay. I promise. A little shaken, but nothing worse. Are you alright? And what about Cormac? Do you know anything?”

“Me? Oh, I’m fine. I’ve been poked, scanned, and dosed with enough calming draughts to sedate a small hippogriff,” Padma said dryly. “Cormac’s worse off, but they told me he’s stable. They’re keeping him under observation until the internal swelling comes down.”

Hermione nodded, jaw tight. “They won’t let me see him.”

Padma arched a brow. “Did you try the Look?”

“I did the Look. I even deployed the Tone.”

“And?”

“Eunice was unmoved.”

Padma nodded solemnly. “Eunice is a bitch,” she agreed, a wry smile tugging at her lips before her expression sobered again quickly. “Are you sure you’re alright, Hermione? What happened after I left? I can’t stop thinking about it—their voices, the masks, the blood—and what that mad one did to Cormac...” She trailed off, shivering. “It was awful. I know he’s… Cormac, but—he tried, Hermione. He really tried.”

Hermione nodded, something tightening in her chest. “He did,” she said quietly. “He didn’t have to. But he did.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the chaos and noise of the hospital muffled by the weight of their shared experience. It wasn’t just shock lingering in their bones—it was the raw understanding that they’d both seen something they would never unsee. And that Cormac, infuriating though he often was, had bled for it.

Finally, Hermione drew in a shaky breath. “Have you given a statement yet?” she asked. “DMLE? Robards?”

“Only briefly. He looked like he wanted to draft me into writing my own report right there in the exam room,” Padma replied. “Told him to sod off until I could walk straight.”

Hermione gave a small, appreciative hum. “Did he?”

“No, but the Healer threatened to transfigure his wand into a suppository, so that helped.”

The two witches linked arms companionably, making their way to a small seating area and settling onto the worn, unforgiving chairs with matching sighs. Around them, the hum of St Mungo’s continued unabated—Healers weaving between examination rooms, Mediwitches gliding past with floating potion trays, and a large Mediboard hovering over the intake desk, flickering softly as it updated diagnoses and treatment logs.

“Did Robards say anything about why the thieves were after the tome?” Hermione asked, tucking her legs beneath her and pulling her cardigan tighter.

Padma shook her head, her jaw tense. “Nothing. Not a word. I told him it was obvious they knew exactly what they were looking for.”

Hermione nodded, her brow furrowing. “This wasn’t a random smash-and-grab—it was surgical. They went straight for the armoire. No hesitation. They must have known we were close to breaking the enchantments.”

Padma’s eyes narrowed. “Someone tipped them off.”

Hermione’s mouth flattened. “Exactly.”

A beat of silence passed between them.

Padma leaned forward, voice low. “But who, Hermione? Who even knew we were working on it?”

Hermione’s gaze went distant for a moment, lips pursed as her mind cycled through the short list of possibilities. Finally, her voice returned, quiet and grim.

“That’s what I intend to find out.”

She stepped out of the confines of the Ministry lift onto the familiar DMLE office level early the following morning, her eyes flicking over the usual bank of grey cubicles clustered in the middle of the large open space. The usual din of chaos was conspicuously absent. No shouted greetings, no crackling memos zipping overhead, no enchanted quills scribbling away in a flurry of activity. Just the low hum of wards and the rhythmic tick of a wall clock.

Her eyes swept over the familiar sprawl of grey cubicles clustered in the center of the open floor. A few weary figures hunched over desks, quills scratching out last-minute reports as the night shift began to bleed into morning. Over to the left, she caught a flash of Cho Chang’s sleek black braid as it disappeared down the hallway toward the Evidence Room.

On her right, Seamus Finnigan looked up from a mess of blueprints spread across his desk. His bright blue eyes crinkled in a warm, tired smile as he gave her a lazy wave before dropping back into his calculations.

She exhaled quietly through her nose and pressed forward, weaving through the maze of paper-strewn desks and half-drunk cups of tea. Her steps slowed as she approached the far end of the floor, where the frosted-glass door to Robards’ office stood slightly ajar.

Inside, a voice—gravelly and irate—filtered through the gap.

“…we neither require nor desire the Ministry’s interference in this matter. We are already conducting our own investigation.”

Hermione froze just outside the doorway. Her fingers curled at her sides.

Burzgot.

Gringotts’ Head of Security and a persistent thorn in her side for the better part of a year, Burzgot seemed to take the natural goblin predilection for distrust and secrecy as a personal mission statement—particularly when it came to her. Most goblins were possessive of their vaults and deeply suspicious of outsiders, but Burzgot had waged a quiet, relentless campaign to make her life difficult ever since the bank’s board hired her on as a freelance cursebreaker. He had been one of the loudest voices against bringing her in, and his disapproval had never once mellowed into something as civil as tolerance.

Hermione steeled herself, knocked once, and stepped into Robards’ office.

The tension hit her like a Bludger to the chest.

Robards sat behind his desk, jaw clenched, parchment scattered around him like casualties of war. His navy robes were rumpled, and his expression even more so. Across from him, perched with military precision on a low-backed chair clearly designed for someone taller, Burzgot barely spared her a glance. His eyes—small, bright, and glinting like chips of iron ore—flicked toward her for a fraction of a second before returning to the grizzled Auror behind the desk.

“Miss Granger,” he said coolly. “I trust you are prepared to provide a full and accurate account.”

She ignored the pointed emphasis on accurate, turning to Robards instead. “Is now a good time, sir?”

“It is. Thank you for coming, Miss Granger,” Robards replied in what was clearly meant to be a polite, professional tone—though the curl of disdain on his lips as he glanced at Burzgot somewhat undermined the effect.

“I have just been informed that Gringotts insists on observing any witness statements made by their contracted employees.” His voice was dry as bone. “The DMLE welcomes the cooperation of the Gringotts Board of Governors, of course,” he added, the sarcasm in his tone so sharp it could have drawn blood. “I’m sure the request was made in the spirit of mutual collaboration and will only hasten a resolution that satisfies all parties.”

Burzgot’s nostrils flared, but he said nothing—only folded his arms across his chest with slow, deliberate menace.

Hermione crossed the room and set her satchel down beside the empty chair opposite Robards’ desk. She sat with measured poise, spine straight, chin high.

“Of course,” she said lightly, pressing her lips into a thin, diplomatic smile. “I’m grateful my employer takes such a keen interest in my well-being.”

Burzgot made a low noise—something between a grunt and a scoff. “Gringotts has a responsibility to ensure our assets are protected, Miss Granger. That includes safeguarding our internal processes from... interpretive error.”

Hermione turned slowly to look at him, her expression a careful mask of cool politeness. “Interpretive error. Of course. I’ll be sure to confine myself to factual observations and leave the interpreting to those qualified to do so.”

Robards didn’t bother hiding his smirk.

Burzgot’s lip curled slightly. “You’ll understand, then, why I must remind you that all information pertaining to vault wards, inventory movement, and proprietary enchantments remains strictly confidential, regardless of your Ministry obligations.”

Hermione’s eyes flashed. “And you’ll understand, I hope, that my colleagues and I were held at wand point by a group of violent intruders with what I can only presume to be inside knowledge regarding whatever the hell was locked away in that armoire.  So, forgive me if I feel inclined to speak freely with the people responsible for tracking down the men who attacked us.”

The goblin’s expression didn’t change, but the faintest tightening of his posture betrayed irritation. “Your contract stipulates clear boundaries around disclosure.”

“Yes,” Hermione replied coolly, “and it also includes provisions for collaborative risk assessments—which your department failed to uphold when you neglected to mention that the armoire might draw exactly the kind of attention that nearly got me killed.”

Robards cleared his throat loudly. “While I’m thoroughly enjoying what is clearly a long-standing blood feud,” he said dryly, “perhaps we can move on before someone loses a limb?”

Hermione inclined her head. “Gladly.” She reached into her satchel, withdrew a tightly rolled scroll, and placed it on the desk with careful precision. “For the record, I’ve prepared a written summary of my account. I’m happy to go through it, line by line.”

Burzgot made a faint noise of protest, leaning slightly forward in his chair, as though to snatch the scroll from the desk, but Robards raised a hand without looking at him. “Excellent. Let’s start with your arrival at the warehouse.”

And so, Hermione walked the Auror and goblin through the events of the previous morning. She attempted to keep her tone clinical and objective, recounting how she, Padma, and Cormac had entered the warehouse after she lowered the evening wards, noting the gap that followed—those few critical minutes when Cormac failed to raise the daytime protections, even after her pointed reminder. Her pulse quickened despite herself, her words starting to tumble over each other at the memory of what came next. The masked wizards. Their focused interest in the armoire. Cormac’s sudden reappearance—and the brutal, bloody duel that erupted between him and one of the intruders.

She explained how she had managed to alert Harry and the DMLE through the enchanted Galleon, then—under duress—disabled the protective enchantments on the armoire at the Leader’s command. For reasons she couldn’t quite articulate, she chose not to mention how he had healed her hand afterward. She caught the slight narrowing of Burzgot’s eyes as she skipped ahead to the next sequence of events. She described Padma and Cormac’s abrupt escape via the emergency Portkey hidden in her bag—and the surge of fury from the intruders when they realized Harry and nearly the entire DMLE had descended into the alley outside, cutting off any hope of retreat.  Again, she held back – choosing not to share how the Leader had distracted the other intruders from her likely involvement in Padma and Cormac’s sudden departure – even though he had to suspect she had played a hand in their escape.

Robards listened closely, his gaze fixed on her face, fingers tapping a steady rhythm against the worn surface of his desk.

Burzgot, by contrast, was motionless—stone-like—his only movement the faint gleam of his onyx eyes, glittering with suspicion and something colder.

“And then,” Hermione continued, voice quieter now, “they decided to use me as a hostage. Planned to negotiate with Harry and the DMLE to bypass the anti-Apparition wards.” She gave a small, weary shrug. “I suppose you know the rest.”

Robards opened his mouth to respond, but Burzgot cut in, leaning forward with the slow, deliberate intent of a predator circling wounded prey.

“And they simply let you go, Miss Granger?” he asked, his voice low and razor-edged. “They could have taken you with them. Used you as leverage. The Golden Girl”—his lips curled around the moniker with palpable disdain—“would surely command a high price.” He spread his long, taloned hands, skeletal fingers twitching in the air like they might pluck the answer from it. “And yet… they didn’t. They left you. Unharmed. Intact. Why do you suppose that is?”

Hermione blinked, her brows lifting in disbelief. “I’m sure I don’t know,” she said coolly. “You’d have to ask them.”

Burzgot gave her a long, pointed look, his lip curling with something close to disdain. “You were the one who lowered the nighttime wards on the warehouse, were you not, Miss Granger? Failed to ensure the daytime protocols were activated in time, leaving the premises—and your colleagues—vulnerable to a coordinated and violent attack. You also disabled the armoire’s protections, allowing for a valuable and irreplaceable artifact to be stolen from an otherwise impenetrable facility. And yet”—he tilted his head slightly—“you walked away without so much as a scratch. Meanwhile, the assigned security detail, Mr. McLaggen, remains unconscious after sustaining significant injuries. How, precisely, do you account for that?”

A sharp, electric fury coursed through her—white-hot and instantaneous. She sat up straighter, voice laced with ice.

“I’m so sorry, I think I just had a stroke,” she said. “Because it sounded like you were accusing me of conspiring in my own hostage situation.”

Burzgot didn’t blink. “I’m merely stating the facts, Miss Granger. And asking reasonable questions—questions any prudent investigator would pose under the circumstances. Your actions directly preceded the breach. Your decisions compromised the safety of the premises. And yet, you alone emerged physically unscathed.”

Hermione’s jaw clenched. “You’re insinuating that I what—colluded with them? That I helped orchestrate a break-in, allowed myself to be held at wandpoint, threatened, hexed, interrogated—all for what? A bit of light treason and petty theft?”

Burzgot tilted his head, lip curling. “Well. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time, would it, Miss Granger?”

She surged to her feet, hands flung upward, magic prickling across her fingertips like lightning. “Are you fucking kidding me, Burzgot? You’re honestly bringing that up—again? What is it going to take for you and the rest of that ossified board to pull your heads out of your arses and realize I did what I had to do during the war to stop Voldemort from—”

“Enough,” Robards said, voice low but iron-hard. His raised hand cut her off mid-tirade, and when he turned to Burzgot, the temperature in the room seemed to drop. “I would remind you, Miss Granger is here of her own volition. She is a victim, not a suspect. And you are here in an observer capacity, only.”

Burzgot didn’t blink. “And yet the questions remain. Whether she answers them as a Ministry witness, or as a Gringotts’ employee—she will respond.”

Hermione leaned in, voice like a blade sliding from its sheath. “Oh, I’ll respond, alright. I did everything I could to protect my colleagues. I didn’t run. I didn’t hide. And I sure as hell didn’t let them take what they wanted without resistance. I signaled the DMLE at great personal risk—after raising repeated concerns about the lack of emergency coordination between the warehouse and the bank. Concerns, I might add, that you dismissed outright, Burzgot.”

Her gaze burned. “I arranged safe passage for Padma and Cormac. I stayed behind—alone—with four armed, volatile men. If you think I should have done more while actively being restrained, threatened and ordered to comply by men whose wands never left my chest, then by all means—put that in your report. But do not, do not, mistake my survival for complicity.”

The room fell silent, tension stretching taut as wire. Even the air seemed to hum with the force of her fury.

Burzgot said nothing, his expression shifting slightly. The curl of disdain flattened. His eyes narrowed, the sharpness dulled, replaced with something colder, more calculating.

Robards leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. Then he glanced sidelong at the goblin, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Well, Burzgot,” he said smoothly. “Does that answer your questions to your satisfaction?”

There was a beat of silence. Then, finally, Burzgot inclined his head a fraction of an inch. “It answers the question of Miss Granger’s emotional investment, certainly.”

Hermione opened her mouth, but Burzgot raised one long, taloned hand.

“To be clear,” he said evenly, “my role here is not to cast accusations, but to ensure the integrity of Gringotts’ assets—and the people charged with protecting them. The Board of Governors has reviewed the events of the past twenty-four hours, and while your actions in the moment have been noted…” He sniffed disdainfully, eyes flicking to hers. “It’s clear that additional expert oversight is required before any further attempts are made to disarm the remaining artifacts in the Lestrange vault.”

Hermione’s brow creased. “Expert oversight?”

Burzgot inclined his head, the motion smooth, calculated. “Precisely. While you are undeniably among the most technically skilled Cursebreakers we’ve employed, Miss Granger, your heritage—” he paused, savoring the word, “—leaves something to be desired when it comes to decoding Pureblood enchantment logic.”

The insult landed like a blow, and he knew it.

A slow, satisfied smirk spread across his features as he continued, watching her like a predator scenting blood. “Wards born of bloodline magic tend to resist… foreign hands. It’s no discredit to your intelligence, of course,” he added with false civility. “But there are aspects of the Lestrange legacy someone like you will simply never be able to access.”

Hermione’s mouth tightened. “Because I’m Muggle-born?”

Burzgot steepled his fingers. “Because you weren’t meant to access it. The magic recognizes only its own.”

Her magic surged again—fierce, hot, indignant—rushing just beneath her skin.

Robards muttered something that sounded suspiciously like fucking goblins under his breath.

“I see,” Hermione said, tone glacial even as her pulse thundered in her ears. “And who, exactly, will be offering this expert oversight? A Lestrange heir? Did the Board manage to resurrect Bellatrix for one final mad scheme? Or have they simply located some other Pureblood psychopath with the right surname and a superiority complex?”

Burzgot’s smile deepened. “The consultant starts Monday. Their credentials are… extensive. You’ll be briefed next week.”

Hermione stared at him, heart hammering. “And if I object?”

“Then your continued access to the vault’s contents—and your employment—will be reconsidered.” He sat back in his chair, talons tapping idly against the wood. “This is not a punishment, Miss Granger. It’s a structural correction.”

Robards let out a low whistle. “That’s one hell of a euphemism.”

Hermione rose slowly, pushing her chair back with surgical precision. “Fine,” she said, voice cold and sharp. “I’ve had years of experience working with incompetent, overpaid arseholes. Comes with the job, really. Remind me, Burzgot—how long have we been colleagues again?”

Burzgot didn’t flinch. He leaned back in his chair, talons steepled, the ghost of a smirk curling at the edges of his mouth.

With effort, Hermione reined in the magic pulsing at her fingertips, shoving the fury down beneath her ribs. She turned away from him deliberately, fixing her gaze on Robards instead.

“Are we done here? Do you have everything you need?”

Robards stood, palms pressed lightly to the desk, expression unreadable. “Yes, thank you, Miss Granger. You’ve been—remarkably thorough. We’ll be in touch should we require anything further.” He hesitated. “Shall I escort you out?”

Hermione shook her head, curls swinging over one shoulder as she reached down to snatch up her satchel.

“No need, Robards,” she said crisply, already turning. “I know the way.”

She crossed the room without another word, heels striking hard against stone. At the threshold, she paused only long enough to pull the door open.

Then, with a flick of her wandless hand, it shut behind her with a firm, final click—a punctuation mark of restrained rage echoing down the corridor.

Such was her fury, she couldn’t remember leaving Robards’ office. One moment she’d closed the door behind her with a snap—the next, she was at the lifts, standing rigid and storm-charged, her pulse hammering in her ears, magic crackling along her skin like an invisible flame.

She waited, barely breathing, as the ancient brass doors took their time. Her foot tapped an impatient staccato on the marble floor, the sound echoing too loudly in the corridor. She didn’t need to look to know that familiar Aurors were giving her a wide berth—sensing, perhaps wisely, that she was one ill-timed comment away from burning this mother to the ground.

Fuck Burzgot.

Fuck Gringotts.

And fuck the bloody DMLE while she was at it.

Her nostrils flared as she let out a harsh breath through her nose, gripping the strap of her satchel so tightly her knuckles ached. When the lift finally arrived with a sluggish chime, she stepped inside with a sharp turn of her heel, not bothering to even glance at the tall wizard standing near the back.

The gates rattled shut behind her, and the lift jolted upward, groaning as it began its rapid ascent toward the Atrium. Hermione stood near the front, spine stiff, jaw clenched, the echo of Burzgot’s smirk still burning behind her eyes. Her magic was still sparking beneath her skin, hot and untamed, demanding release. She tried to inhale—count to five, then ten—but all she could taste was bile.

And then the lift jerked. Violently.

It happened too fast.

A loud clang, a sharp lurch, and suddenly the floor dropped an inch with a teeth-rattling grind before locking again midshaft. The motion threw her entirely off balance – her foot skidded backward, and she gasped as her center of gravity tilted sharply. Before she could grab for anything, she felt hands—strong, quick—grip her waist in a futile attempt to steady her.

Too late.

She crashed into a body as it twisted beneath her, strong arms wrapping protectively around her middle as he turned them mid-fall to shield her. His back slammed into the floor with a brutal thud, the breath knocked clean from both their lungs.

She landed hard, sprawled across him, her hands clutching the lapels of a dark coat, her face pressed to the line of his collar.

Chest heaving. Heart racing. Knees braced against his hips.

And then—his voice, low and strained near her ear.

“Merlin’s pants, Granger. Did you consume a block of cement for breakfast this morning?”

She froze.

Her head snapped up, curls falling in disarray.

Gray eyes stared back at her, wide and startled. A platinum fringe clung to his temple. Her brain barely processed the impact, the position, the large hand still braced at the small of her back.

Her stomach dropped.

She was lying on top of Draco fucking Malfoy.

Chapter Text

She blinked, once.

Twice.

Surely, surely, this day had not just found a way to get worse.

Draco sodding Malfoy lay beneath her, flat on his back, a faint wince curling the corner of his mouth. His arm was still wrapped around her waist, holding her securely in place.  She took him in with one wide-eyed, breathless glance. The boy she remembered from Hogwarts—the wiry frame, the sneering mouth, all sharp angles and too much ego—was gone. In his place was someone leaner, stronger, and, infuriatingly, distractingly attractive - the strong line of his jaw, the patrician nose, the cheekbones carved right off a Greek statue. Even his hair was better—shorter at the sides, the top tousled in a maddeningly effortless manner.

But it was his eyes that remained completely unchanged – the silver-grey depths looked up at her with equal parts surprise and calculation, transporting her instantly back to a thousand different memories of snarled slurs and hurled insults echoing off Hogwarts’ stone corridors.

He blinked up at her slowly, the familiar smirk spreading with lazy precision across his face. “Well,” he said, voice low and maddeningly smooth, “this is definitely the strangest foreplay I’ve experienced in a lift.”

She scrambled up in a tangled, frantic rush of limbs, planting a hand with unnecessary and arguably unwarranted force on his chest for leverage, trying – and utterly failing – to not register the solid muscle under her palm.

Because of course he was fit.  Of course he was.

She managed to get her feet underneath her again, nearly slipping again in the process before righting herself, one hand on the railing, the other pressed to her forehead.

“What are you even doing here?” she snapped, heat rising fast in her cheeks.

Malfoy remained on the floor, his eyes never leaving her face.  “Using the lift. Like a normal person. Until a banshee in a blazer fell on me from the ceiling.”

“Don’t be dramatic.  You’re fine.”

“I think my spleen disagrees.”

Before she could form a response, the lift gave another bone-jarring shudder, the faint creak of cogs and groaning magic grinding to an abrupt and very unsettling halt.

Hermione’s breath caught. She threw a quick, sharp glance at the tightly sealed doors.

“Fuck,” she muttered, voice thin.

“Agreed,” Malfoy responded, already moving, rising to his full height to tower over her with an easy grace. He brushed a palm down his coat—likely for effect more than necessity—and cast a wary eye around the cramped compartment.

“Do you think we’re stuck?” she asked, trying—and failing—to keep the edge of panic from her voice.  She hated tight spaces.

Malfoy tilted his head, considering. “Well, we’re in a lift that just groaned like it’s dying, hasn’t moved in over a minute, and is now humming with what I can only assume is residual doom.”

He turned to her, deadpan.

“So yes, Granger. I’d wager we’re spectacularly stuck.”

Apparently taking Malfoy’s statement as a personal challenge, the universe chose that exact moment to make things worse. The lights flickered once, twice—then blinked out entirely, plunging the lift into a suffocating, inky darkness.

Great.  Fucking super.

“Oh, this just keeps getting better and better,” she muttered, pulling her wand from the holster on her forearm and casting a wordless Lumos, illuminating the lift with a reassuring hazy white glow.  She tried looking anywhere but Malfoy, choosing to ignore the way the light and shadow cast his appearance into even starker contrast, amplifying his aristocratic features and giving him an almost ethereal appearance.

Wanker.

She turned quickly, facing the sealed doors and peering through the narrow gap. No sign of movement. No sliver of light. They were definitely stuck. Between floors, judging by the dead space behind the crack.

She opened her mouth to ask Malfoy what, exactly, he thought they ought to do now—when a tinny, officious voice crackled to life above their heads:

“Please do not panic.”

Hermione immediately panicked.

“This message is pre-recorded.  The Ministry’s Maintenance Department has been alerted to a malfunction on Lift B, between Levels 5 and 6.  Magical Maintenance personnel have been dispatched to resolve the matter.  Please refrain from tampering with the lift doors, casting spells at the walls, or hexing your fellow passengers. Thank you for your attention and have a wonderful day.  Good-bye.”

After a beat of silence, Malfoy muttered from somewhere behind her, “Should we be reassured or deeply concerned that this happens frequently enough for them to have pre-recorded the bloody message?”

Hermione groaned, tilting her head back in exasperation.  “This can’t be happening.”

Malfoy sank to the floor with infuriating grace, stretching out his long legs and leaning casually against the lift wall. One sardonic brow arched.  “Trust me, Granger.  I don’t want to be here any more than you do.”

Hermione shifted her weight, collapsing inelegantly and scooting back until her spine hit the opposite wall, tucking her legs beneath her and deliberately putting as much space between herself and the platinum-haired wizard as the lift allowed. With a sharp scoff and a twist of derision in her tone, she muttered, “Oh, of course. Trapped in a lift with a Mudblood. Must be your worst nightmare.” She tugged at the hem of her blazer with more force than necessary and crossed her arms, pointedly staring at the faint glow refracting from her wand tip on the ceiling above.

Malfoy’s gaze snapped to her, the lazy posture sharpening just a fraction. “Don’t,” he said, low but firm. “Don’t put that word in my mouth.”

She finally met his eye, fire kindling behind hers. “Why not? You were the one to teach me that word, Malfoy.”

His jaw flexed once, tightly. Then—quiet, steady—he replied, “I don’t believe in blood purity. I haven’t for years.  Not since the war.”

Hermione blinked, thrown off for just a second. But her tone remained cool, if a little more measured. “Oh? So you’re more of an equal opportunity arsehole at this point?”

Malfoy regarded her impassively, his expression unreadable. “Yes,” he said at last, tone flat. “I suppose that would be an accurate characterization.”

Hermione sniffed, lifting her chin and offering a delicate shrug. “Well. Good for you, Malfoy. Personal growth is important.”

Malfoy grunted in response – whether in acknowledgement or agreement, she couldn’t tell.

Silence settled between them—tense, prickling, and too heavy for the cramped space. Hermione busied herself with her beaded bag, rifling through its depths with purposeful distraction, the faint clink of vials and the rustle of parchment filling the quiet. 

She hadn’t seen Malfoy in person since the smoke had cleared at Hogwarts, in the dazed and broken days after the war. But she’d read about him—of course she had. The Prophet had tracked his every carefully calculated step: black-tie galas, charity fundraisers, Ministry events. Always impeccably dressed, always with some lithe, glittering witch draped on his arm like a trophy, their smiles brittle beneath chandeliers. He’d slipped seamlessly into the role he’d been born to play—the perfect Pureblood heir. Taking up where Lucius had left off, he’d grabbed the reins of the Malfoy legacy and steered it into an era of prosperity, polished diplomacy, and strategic repentance.

He’d mastered public atonement with precision—remorseful enough to be forgivable, distant enough to remain untouchable. The Ministry had cleared him with little more than a token punishment: one year of house arrest in the gilded cage of Malfoy Manor. And the press, ever eager for a redemption arc, had swiftly reframed him—a reluctant child soldier, a product of bloodline and circumstance, a misunderstood aristocrat trying to make amends.

And then Narcissa had died.

Hermione remembered the front page all too well – a captured moment of Narcissa Malfoy at some grand affair, caught beneath crystal chandeliers and the hollow glitter of high society. But the Malfoy matriarch’s face eclipsed the background entirely: pale, ethereal, and impossibly sad. She looked unmoored—adrift in a world that no longer made sense to her. Her expression was brittle, as if held together by habit more than strength. And her eyes—icy and distant—held a gleam that unsettled Hermione even now. Not grief. Not shock. Something quieter. More dangerous. The eyes of a woman who had seen too much and said too little.  The Late Lady Malfoy, the headline had screamed in tasteful gold script, though the article itself revealed few details about the manner of her passing. Just enough to stoke public sympathy. Just enough to keep the mystery intact.

And just like that, Malfoy had been left behind. Alone. His father rotting in Azkaban, his mother buried beneath marble and magnolia.

The last Malfoy standing.

Across from her, the Malfoy heir twirled his wand between his fingers with idle elegance, then flicked it once. A small burst of light shot upward, cracking like a distant firework before dissolving into a soft cascade of glittering sparks. Another followed. Then another—each one drifting down like snow, vanishing before they could touch the floor.

Despite herself, Hermione let her gaze follow the drifting sparks, their slow, spiraling descent oddly soothing. Her brow twitched in silent, reluctant bemusement. 

Malfoy cleared his throat, the motion casual, his voice carefully neutral. He didn’t look at her—still flicking his wand with lazy precision, still watching the sparks arc and fall in soft, shimmering trails above their heads. The tiny lights refracted in his eyes, catching on the pale silver of his irises, casting brief, golden shadows across the sharp angles of his face—

Absolutely not. Stop that. Immediately.

“So,” Malfoy said, his tone light and only mildly disparaging, “what brings you to the Ministry at this ungodly hour? Early morning tryst with the Chosen One and Weaselbee?”

Hermione dragged her attention away from the drifting lights and down to her lap, fingers curling tightly around the cord of her beaded bag.

“No,” she replied, crisp and clipped. “Harry and Ron are both married…”

“To each other?” Malfoy interrupted with a wicked grin.  “Well, good for them.  True love will out, I always say.  I shall send the happy couple a salad bowl.”

“Fuck off, Malfoy,” she remarked, her tone thoroughly unimpressed.  “Harry married Ginny, and Ron married Susan.  I know you know that – you’d have to be living under a rock to have missed the Prophet coverage.”

Malfoy gave a low, exaggerated sigh, flopping his head back against the lift wall with theatrical resignation. “Pity. I was really rooting for them. Always thought they had the chemistry.”

Hermione rolled her eyes skyward, as though praying for divine intervention—or perhaps simply for the lift to drop and put her out of her misery.

Malfoy shrugged, his eyes tracking back to her face like a magnet.  “So – you didn’t answer my question.  What are you doing at the Ministry so early?”

Hermione sighed, glancing away and tilting her head back against the lift wall.  “I came to give my statement to the DMLE. There was…” She hesitated, her tongue darting out to wet suddenly dry lips. “There was an incident yesterday. At my work.”

Draco hummed noncommittally, his eyes flicking briefly to her face before drifting back to the drifting sparks above.

“Yes. I heard about that.”

Hermione looked up, startled, her mouth parting with a question on the tip of her tongue—only to watch as Malfoy casually drew a folded copy of that morning’s Daily Prophet from the inside pocket of his robes.

The headline peeked out in bold ink: Daylight Hostage Drama in Diagon.

Beneath it, she caught the blurred image of a photograph—herself, crumpling to the cobblestones in a boneless heap as four masked figures vanished into thin air.

“Oh,” she responded in what was clearly an eloquent demonstration of what seven years of magical education could get you. She wrenched her gaze from the looping image of her own collapse, blinking rapidly. Her breath snagged in her throat—shallow, shaky. Magic prickled beneath her skin, alive and volatile, like it might rip free if she let it.

And Merlin on a Melba—

Her eyes were stinging.

Were those tears?

Was she about to fall apart in front of Draco fucking Malfoy?

Absolutely fucking not.

She ducked her head, blinked hard, tried to focus on the fine stitching of her bag’s drawstring. Anything but the images burned into the back of her mind. The screaming. The spells. Padma’s panicked hands, slick with blood, trying to hold Cormac together.

The blood…

The silence between them stretched—taut, brittle. Waiting to snap.

“Alright there, Granger?” Malfoy asked, his voice pitched low, almost gentle.

She shot to her feet, too fast, and began pacing the cramped lift like it was a cage. “What in Merlin’s name is taking them so long?” she snapped, ignoring the tremble that threaded through the words.

Malfoy watched her stormy pacing with a raised brow, equal parts incredulous and entertained. “Government-level incompetence is an art form,” he drawled, voice laced with dry amusement. “It takes time. You can’t rush it. Like a fine wine. Or a public inquiry.”

Hermione exhaled sharply, halting mid-step. She turned toward the brass panel beside the door, wand already in hand. A soft glow lit up the array of buttons, each etched with the designation of a different Ministry level. Her gaze sharpened.

“I wonder if—”

“Don’t even think about it, Granger.”

She jumped, startled by how close his voice sounded—how close he was. Malfoy stood just behind her, eyes narrowed, peering over her shoulder. She could feel the hum of tension between them, sharp and unmistakable.

“I wasn’t going to do anything,” she said, perhaps a bit too defensively given she had definitely been about to do something.

Malfoy gave a disbelieving snort.  “You were seconds away from attempting something equal parts heroic and reckless. What was the plan?  Intimidate the wiring into cooperating with sheer bravado?”

Hermione huffed and took a deliberate step to the side, reclaiming a sliver of personal space as she studied the panel lit by her wand. “Well, first of all, with caffeine and sufficient levels of pure fury, all things are possible—so jot that down.”

Malfoy made a sound halfway between a scoff and a laugh.

She ignored him, casting a diagnostic charm with a flick of her wand. Soft lines of magic crawled across the brass panel, flickering blue. Her eyes narrowed.

“And secondly,” she went on, tone clipped, “if we’re going to be trapped in here until the Ministry finishes its morning nap, I’d rather spend the time being useful than listening to you breathe smugly in my direction.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, from just behind her: “You know, Granger, most people find my breathing quite tolerable.”

Hermione didn’t turn around. “I’m not most people.”

“Truer words were never spoken,” Malfoy muttered, and she could hear the grin in his voice.

She pressed her wand more firmly to the diagnostic glyph, trying not to grind her teeth. “There’s a surge loop in the containment charm. It’s short-cycling the lift’s magical stabilizer. We’re caught in a feedback lock.”

“I understood maybe three words of that, but it sounded impressively grim,” he said. “Do go on. I’ll pretend I’m not wildly attracted to your vocabulary.”

She turned, slowly. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Of course I am,” he said smoothly. “Trapped in a box with the brightest witch of our age while she ricochets off the walls like a Niffler in knut factory? It’s the most exciting thing to happen to me all week.”

“Then your week must have been tragically uneventful.”

“It usually is,” he said, too easily. “Admittedly, the bar for chaos was set unreasonably high back in '98.”

Hermione didn’t respond. She turned back to the panel, fingers tightening around her wand, jaw clenched as the spell fizzled again—its diagnostic shimmer crackling, then winking out with a sullen pop.

But it wasn’t the failure of the spell that caught her off guard.

It was the sudden, unmistakable pull—a draw on her magic that felt far too deep, far too draining for something so basic. Her core twinged, sharp and strange, like pressure building in a sealed flask. A phantom echo of the burn she'd felt yesterday in Saint Mungo’s.

She blinked once, carefully keeping her expression neutral. Malfoy didn’t need to see it. Didn’t need to know.

Too late.

He was watching her. Not with his usual smirk or sardonic twist of amusement—but with a calculating, watchful intensity.

“You alright?” he asked again, slower this time.

Hermione straightened instinctively. “Fine.”

“That didn’t look like fine.”

“It’s nothing,” she said quickly. Too quickly.

He stepped closer, and this time she didn’t move—couldn’t, not without making it obvious. His gaze dropped to the faint shimmer still flickering across the panel, then slid to her hand, where her grip on her replacement wand had gone just a shade too tight.

She forced herself to hold steady, tilting her chin upward and meeting his eyes directly. But the air between them had shifted—closer now, heavier. She caught the faintest breath of his cologne—sandalwood and pine, crisp and warm—and felt something unspool low in her chest, unexpected and entirely unwelcome.

Her mind betrayed her, flicking back without permission to the morning before: the pressure of an arm locked around her waist, her spine against a broad chest, the soft scrape of a wand tip at her throat. Her skin prickled.

And her world pitched.

Not violently—but just enough. A tilt of the lift. A wave of wrongness. Her knees softened, vision narrowing to a blur of brass and shadow.

She swayed—

—and strong arms caught her.

Quick as instinct, Malfoy’s hand shot out, gripping her waist—steady, warm. Not a grab. Not a restraint. Just… support.

Hermione blinked, breath catching as the world righted itself around his touch. Her hands landed on his arms, more from reflex than intent, but the contact sent an unexpected jolt skittering up her spine.

Beneath her palms: heat, tension, muscle. He felt solid—real—in a way that made her head spin for an entirely different reason.

Her eyes flicked up, meeting his, and for one taut second, neither of them breathed.

Then: “You’re not fine,” he murmured.

“Perhaps not,” she conceded, her voice barely above a whisper.

Malfoy’s gaze sharpened—just slightly—but he didn’t press. Instead, with a quiet exhale, he shifted his grip, one hand still at her waist, the other brushing gently against her elbow.

“Come on,” he said, softer now. “Sit before you keel over and make this even more dramatic.”

She let him guide her, too tired to argue, too dizzy to care. With surprising care, he helped her lower to the lift floor, one hand steady at her back until she was seated. The metal floor was cold against her bare legs, but it grounded her—anchored her in the here and now. She leaned back against the wall with a quiet sigh, eyelids fluttering shut for a moment as her magic settled, slow and heavy, like silt in deep water.

Malfoy crouched beside her, one knee bent, his forearm braced lazily on it. He didn’t say anything right away. Just watched her. Closely. Carefully.

Hermione cracked one eye open. “You can stop staring now,” she said, dryly.

“I could,” he said. “But then I’d miss the rare sight of you not trying to wrestle the universe into submission by sheer force of will.”

“Don’t get used to it,” she muttered.

He huffed a quiet laugh, shifting to sit across from her again. “I won’t.”

She let her head tip back against the wall, breath easing in and out. A long beat passed in silence.  The darkness surrounded them like a comforting blanket, the play of shadows and light flickering against the walls of the lift in soothing patterns.

“Has that happened before?” he asked at last, his voice pitched low, his eyes reflecting the light from his wand tip.

Hermione didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze dropped to her lap, fingers toying with the edge of her sleeve. “No. Never.” She exhaled slowly, shaking her head. “The Healer who assessed me after yesterday’s attack said something about my magical core being destabilized, but… I hadn’t felt anything until just now.”

Malfoy’s expression sharpened. “Your core?” His brows pulled together, the crease between them deepening. She had the absurd impulse to smooth it out with her thumb.

“How was it affected?” he pressed. “You didn’t…” he paused, seeming to gather his thoughts.  “Did you cast anything during the attack? Any offensive magic? Were you hit with a stray jinx?”

Hermione shook her head. “No, I was surprisingly unharmed, all things considered.  And they disarmed Padma and I right at the start. I didn’t cast a single spell.” A pause. “Well… except for calling for help—”

Her words caught mid-sentence, eyes going wide. “Oh. Oh, bloody hell.”

With a disgruntled groan, she dragged her beaded pouch into her lap and began rummaging through it with near-frantic energy.

Malfoy arched a brow. “Have you suddenly remembered a forgotten Pepper Up potion or are you just emotionally nesting?”

Hermione ignored him. “How did I forget this?” she muttered, plunging her arm shoulder-deep. “Come on, come on…Ah ha!” she crowed triumphantly, withdrawing the charmed Galleon with a flourish. She held it aloft like it was a golden snitch, triumphant gleam in her eyes.

Malfoy squinted at it. “Granger, unless that thing’s a sentient Portkey, I’m not seeing how spare change gets us out of here.”

She was already pouring intent into it, her voice tight with focus. “Modified DA coin. It’s how I called for help during the heist. It’s keyed directly to Harry.”

Malfoy blinked. “So you’ve got a coin-based panic button for the Chosen One?  Why am I not surprised?”

Hermione didn’t look up. “He’s more reliable than most Wi-Fi.”  She ignored Malfoy’s derisive snort, already focusing on the coin clenched in her fist. Magic sparked faintly beneath her skin as she poured intent into the familiar enchantment, the message unfurling in her mind with razor precision:

 Trapped in the Ministry lift with a ferret.  Send help or explosives.  Preferably both.

With a satisfied hum, she glanced at the platinum-haired vision of grump and bespoke tailoring stretched out across from her. “There,” she said brightly, flipping the Galleon and catching it with an infuriating amount of cheer. “Won’t be long now. Harry’ll light a fire under the Maintenance Department’s collective arse and get us out before tea time.”

Malfoy groaned, tilting his head back against the lift wall in dramatic despair. “Brilliant. Stranded in a malfunctioning bureaucratic death box, awaiting rescue from the Chosen One himself. What an inspiring arc this is turning out to be.”

The Galleon in her palm pulsed faintly with magic. She glanced down as a message etched itself across the surface in familiar, looping script:

On it. Don’t hex the lift. Feel free to hex Malfoy. —H

Hermione smirked. “See? Efficient and pragmatic.”

Malfoy threw her a look of evident disbelief. “I wouldn’t associate either quality with Potter.  Did you mean ‘dramatic and constitutionally incapable of a quiet rescue’?”

Hermione rolled her eyes but didn’t bother replying. The coin pulsed faintly in her palm, and a fresh message etched itself across the surface in all-caps urgency:

TRAPPED W/ FERRET?? Don’t move. I’m on my way. —R

She snorted. “Well. Ronald has entered the chat.” 

Without missing a beat, she tapped her wand to the coin and murmured her response, lips twitching.

Don’t move? I’m trapped in a vertical coffin with Malfoy. Where, precisely, do you think I’m going to go, Ronald? Through the fucking ceiling?

Malfoy groaned again, his patrician features twisting into an expression of mild disgust.  “Fantastic.  Just what this little death trap of a morning needed.  The witless wonder twins.  Blaise and Theo are never going to let me live this one down.”

Hermione flashed a grin, her eyes gleaming with amusement and the faintest hint of malice. “Oh, come now. It’s not like it’s the first time they’ve had to rescue you, is it, Malfoy?”

He gave her a long, pained look, crossing his arms against his broad chest and frowning up at the ceiling in evident despair.  “You’re a cruel witch, Granger.”

The coin buzzed in her palm again, drawing her gaze before she could respond.

You know, for someone who’s used this coin as her personal panic button twice in two days, you’re awfully mouthy, Mione. I’ve half a mind to let you stew in there a bit longer. —R

Hermione snorted, lips twitching.  Malfoy arched a brow. “What now?”

She held up the coin with a smirk. “Ron’s threatening to leave me here. On account of my attitude.”

Malfoy looked entirely too pleased. “I like him better already.”

Hermione tossed her curls, ignoring the barb as she tapped out a response on the coin with exaggerated calm:

Ronald, if you leave me in here one second longer than necessary, I swear on Merlin’s saggy left sock I’ll tell Molly about what you and your brothers really got up to on your stag night.

Also: Malfoy says hello. I think he means it in the “wish-you-were-here-so-I-could-push-you-down-an-elevator-shaft” way.

She looked up, arching an eyebrow at Malfoy. “Should I add anything else to your fan mail?”

Malfoy groaned and scrubbed a hand down his face. “Tell him I regret everything, including my birth.”

IF HE SAYS ANYTHING ABOUT BLOODLINES OR HAIR PRODUCTS I SWEAR TO MERLIN I’M APPARATING STRAIGHT THROUGH THE WALL. —R

Hermione sighed, holding the coin up for Malfoy’s inspection.

He squinted at it, nose wrinkling. “You know, I used to think Potter was the most dramatic one in your little trio. I stand corrected.”

She grinned. “Oh, Ron’s always been a closeted thespian. You should hear his drunk rendition of Celestina Warbeck’s Cauldrons Full of Hot, Strong Love.  It’s life changing.”

Before Malfoy could retort, the lift gave a jarring lurch—a screech of protesting gears, a cough of strained magic—and then shuddered violently downward a few inches.

The abrupt motion pitched Hermione forward. Again.

Straight into Malfoy’s lap.

Again.

He caught her reflexively, one hand braced against her back, the other steadying her hip. His grip tightened just enough to keep her steady. “Careful,” he murmured, voice low near her ear. “Keep falling for me like that and people might start to talk.”

She didn’t answer. Mostly because her face was currently smashed into the lapel of his ridiculously expensive robes and he smelled like something sinful—warm spice, clean linen, and regret.

The doors groaned open, the bright lights of the Ministry Atrium flooding the confined space, pinning them in place like a spotlight.

With an audience.

“Oi!” Ron’s voice was the first to pierce the awkward tableau, laced with something halfway between outrage and disbelief. “What the actual—”

Hermione pulled back like she’d been stung, shoving herself upright and smoothing her skirt with a level of aggression entirely proportional to the circumstances.

Harry stood just behind Ron, brows raised in silent judgment, arms crossed and expression unreadable.

And at Harry’s left shoulder stood—

“Oh,” Hermione said, blinking. “Roger.”

Roger stood stiffly at Harry’s side, his jaw tight and arms folded, his expression inscrutable. His eyes flicked from Hermione to Malfoy, still lounging against the lift wall with maddening composure, then back to Hermione. Slowly.  Assessing.

“Alright there, darling?” Roger asked, his voice soft and smooth. Pleasant, almost. But the glint in his eye and the strain at his jaw told a different story. Something cold. Something waiting.

Hermione’s stomach dropped an inch. She straightened instinctively, tightening her grip on the strap of her beaded bag with unnecessary force.

Malfoy drew himself leisurely to a stand at her side, seeming to loom over her like a particularly climbable tree. “She’s fine, Davies.  What did you expect?”  His silver eyes tracked between the three wizards facing the lift, a slow, insidious smirk spreading across his features.  “Although, who’s to say what happened between your precious Golden Girl and the former Death Eater – trapped alone in the dark…”

Hermione elbowed the prat. Harder than strictly necessary.

Roger’s eyes tracked the motion, opening his mouth to respond before Harry cut him off.

“Don’t be cunty, Malfoy,” he quipped, but there was no heat in his tone.  He stepped closer to Hermione, drawing her away from Malfoy’s side with a gentle hand.  “You sure you’re alright?” he asked, his green eyes scrutinizing her face carefully.

“Well,” she offered, “aside from being trapped for an hour in a tin box with Death Eater Barbie, yes. I’m fine.”  Malfoy continued to glower at Roger, a muscle feathering in his jaw.  Ron watched the proceedings, mouth slightly agog. 

Suddenly, Hermione’s knees wobbled slightly, another wave of dizziness brushing against her like fog. She caught her breath, fast—but not fast enough.

Harry saw it, his frown deepening. 

Behind him, Roger’s eyes flicked to Malfoy again—narrowed, dark, assessing.

And for one breathless second, Malfoy looked like he might step forward. His fingers twitched at his side, subtle but unmistakable, like instinct was tugging him toward her—reflexive, unthinking. Protective.

But before he could so much as shift forward—

Roger stepped in.

With practiced ease, he slid between them, his hand closing firmly around Hermione’s elbow. The motion was smooth. Polished. But the pressure of his grip left no room for interpretation.

He didn’t look at her as he pulled her gently—deliberately—away from Harry’s side. Just kept his eyes trained on Malfoy with a calm, calculated intensity that made Hermione’s skin prickle.

“Let’s get you home,” Roger said lightly, his tone deceptively casual. “You’ve had quite the morning.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. 

Her stomach tightened instinctively, a familiar pressure coiling low in her gut. The bright lights of the Atrium suddenly felt too harsh, too close. The din of Ministry bustle dulled around the edges, like sound muffled underwater. Her breath caught.

Malfoy’s eyes tracked everything—Roger’s hand gripping her sleeve a fraction too tightly, the subtle lean of her body away from his touch, the flicker of discomfort she didn’t quite manage to hide. His jaw flexed once, the smallest tic, but his gaze stayed locked.

And suddenly—Hermione felt something inside her snap.

A rush of heat flushed her cheeks. Not embarrassment. Not fatigue.

Anger.

White-hot and electrifying, it surged through her like a current—burning away the dizziness, the doubt, the hesitation.  The events of her chaotic morning – Robards’ vacillating tone, Burzgot’s derisive threats, Malfoy’s silver eyes flashing in the dark, refracted bursts of glittering charms work reflecting in the low light… It all collided inside her in one volatile, alchemical snap.

She wrenched her arm from Roger’s grasp with more force than necessary, twisting out of his reach and turning to face him full-on. Her curls whipped around her shoulders, her chin lifted, her eyes sharp as shattered glass.

“I’m not some bloody porcelain doll, Roger,” she snapped, voice low but laced with fury. “I don’t need to be handled.”

Roger’s brows lifted, just barely. A flicker of something passed behind his eyes—surprise, irritation, something colder. “Hermione—”

“No,” she bit out, voice like drawn steel. “I’m fine. And if I wasn’t, I’d be the one to decide what happens next. Not you.”

The words hung between them—sharp, undeniable. For a beat, everything stilled.

Then—behind her, a low, unhelpfully entertained chuckle.  She didn’t need to turn. She could feel the smug satisfaction rolling off Malfoy like heat from sunbaked stone.

“Your Gryffindor’s showing her claws, Davies,” he drawled.

Roger’s jaw tightened, just barely. “This is none of your concern, Malfoy,” he said evenly, his tone clipped, eyes never leaving Hermione’s face.

But Malfoy stepped forward anyway, slow and deliberate, his silver gaze gleaming with something cool and calculating. “Are you certain?” His attention flicked to Hermione—her stiff shoulders, her flushed cheeks, the stubborn tension in her jaw—before returning to Roger. “Because I’m starting to wonder if maybe there is cause for concern.”

Roger reached out again, his hand snaking around Hermione’s elbow and pulling her forward sharply.  Harry stepped in fast, his hand raised in warning, his voice low but unmistakably firm. “Davies...”

“Let’s all take a step back,” Ron added, less calm, his eyes already narrowed on Roger like he was seconds from launching a hex on instinct alone. “And maybe loosen your grip, mate, before I do it for you.”

Roger hesitated. Just for a moment. But it was enough. Enough to make Hermione’s stomach twist.  She didn’t miss the flicker in Malfoy’s eyes. Or the way Ron’s wand hand twitched by his side. Or the very deliberate step Harry took closer to her, his green eyes flashing with a look she hadn’t seen since the war.

Roger ignored them all, his gaze fixed solely on Hermione, blue eyes burning with intensity, jaw tight.

“Roger—let me go,” she said softly, but with a calm authority that brooked no argument.

For a beat, he didn’t move. He just stared at her, eyes narrowing slightly—as if weighing something behind them, calculating. Then, like a switch flipping, his expression softened. The familiar mask slipped back into place: a slow, bashful smile curving his mouth, all practiced warmth and polished ease.

“Of course, darling,” he said smoothly. “I let my worry get the better of me. You know how I get.”

His hand lingered half a second longer than it should’ve before releasing her.

Hermione didn’t answer.  She simply stepped back. Once. Twice. Enough to reclaim her space—her breath—her goddamn autonomy.

No one moved.

Malfoy seemed to pause, watching her now not with amusement, but something quieter. Sharper. As if recalibrating.

She glanced at Harry and Ron—her boys, her constants—and gave them a small nod. A silent thank you. They didn’t need to respond. Their eyes tracked her movements, watchful and still. Acknowledgement. And an unspoken concern.

Roger stood off to the side now, jaw clenched so tightly she could hear the grind of his teeth. His mask hadn’t cracked, not entirely—but it had slipped enough to let them see what was underneath.

“Gentlemen,” she said, tone clipped and deceptively calm. “It’s been a hell of a morning. If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll head home—before another catastrophe decides to descend.”

Her gaze swept the trio of familiar faces—Harry’s concern, Ron’s contained fury, Roger’s mask of charm stretched too tight.

But it was Malfoy her eyes found last.

Still silent. Still watching. Grey eyes like smoke and stormlight, unreadable and unnervingly focused—on her.

She didn’t know what passed between them in that moment. Only that it left her breath short and her chest too tight for comfort.

With a barely perceptible inhale, she turned—decisive now, deliberate.

Her heels clicked like punctuation marks across the marble as she strode toward the Floo grates on the far side of the Atrium. One hand dipped into the powder dish with practiced ease. She flung the dust into the green flames, the glow casting eerie shadows along the tiled wall.

“Bibury,” she called out clearly.  The flames surged. She stepped in.  And just before the spin of magic pulled her under, she raised her eyes to meet the press of four gazes.

And tried her damndest to ignore the weight of one in particular that lingered longest.

Grey. Steady. Burning.

Then she was gone.

And all four men stared at the place where she’d vanished, as though some part of her had stayed behind.

Chapter Text

Draco hated former Death Eaters. 

Like…really, really hated.

There was such an air of desperation about them.  A persistent, looming cloud of darkness and delusion, laced with just a souciant of despair. 

It was a heady cocktail – if you liked your drinks served with a side of denial and undiagnosed delusion.

They were just so maddeningly convinced of their own infallibility.  Behind closed doors, they persisted in clinging to a flawed, self-serving worldview that was, frankly, absolute batshit, while presenting a palatable face for polite society. 

Two-faced didn’t begin to cover it.

But it was the complete and utter lack of even a hint of self-reflection that truly drove Draco spare.  To have fought and lost not one, but two unjustified wars in pursuit of their twisted ideology without once recognizing that perhaps, just maybe, their blind obedience to a clearly genocidal maniac of a leader, was, in Draco’s humble view, an achievement in willful ignorance so staggering it deserved its own Order of Merlin. 

Honestly, he’d met trolls with more self-awareness. At least a troll knew when to run from fire.

But no…these fossils of a failed revolution still strutted around clutching their Pureblood delusions like the world somehow owed them something.  Snapping and snarling about Mudbloods and Blood Traitors from the gilded decay of their ancestral estates, as if sipping Firewhisky beside a family crest somehow qualified as moral high ground. Raging about oppression from the comfort of drawing rooms staffed by unpaid house-elves, fuming over a society that had the audacity to progress without their permission—and worse, no longer cared what they thought.

Yeah.  It was a lot.

And yet, here he was – just like every other Friday night - ensconced in the Greengrass Manor drawing room, watching the past parade itself around in tailored robes and delusions of grandeur. The upper echelons of the Organization gathered here weekly to strategize, socialize, and quietly sharpen their knives under the guise of civility.  Draco loathed every moment of it.

Attendance, of course, was mandatory.

The room was a shrine to old Pureblood arrogance. Everything gleamed in dark wood and polished brass—dragon-handled decanters, high-backed chairs upholstered in Slytherin-green velvet, and a roaring hearth big enough to roast a hippogriff. The Greengrass family crest—silver serpents coiled around a yew wand—hung above the massive stone hearth like a brand, casting flickering shadows over the room.

Abraxas Greengrass stood near it now, deep in conversation with Antonin Dolohov, both men nursing tumblers of something amber and obscenely old. They spoke in low voices, clipped and confident, like statesmen instead of war criminals.  Dolohov had slid neatly into the role of consigliere after Abraxas had assumed leadership of the Organization after Lucius began serving his life sentence in Azkaban.  Unlike Dolohov, Abraxas still maintained a respectable public veneer, thanks to his carefully cultivated “neutrality” during the second war. Dolohov, meanwhile, operated entirely from the shadows, having narrowly escaped capture after the Battle of Hogwarts. He wore his fugitive status like a badge of honor, openly mocking the Ministry’s failure to bring him in—chuckling darkly at the thought of Potter and Robards gnashing their teeth from behind their desks.

Abraxas ruled the Organization with the elegance of a dying empire—part social club, part political machine, part slow-motion coup in cufflinks.  Draco, like Theo, Baise and Adrian, had been pulled into its orbit by bloodline alone.  Legacy seating, as Blaise liked to call it with a sneer.  None of them truly bought into the ideology, but walking away wasn’t exactly simple.  Especially when their fathers were the ones who’d secured them a seat at the fucking table.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. They were all dressed for the part—black robes, polished boots, sharp collars—and lounging like they belonged here. Blaise and Adrian were posted near the drinks cart, cigars lit, chatting amicably with Pansy Parkinson. Theo was sprawled in an armchair with Daphne Greengrass perched gracefully in his lap like a well-bred cat, her legs crossed, her smile just warm enough to suggest she knew she was being watched.

Daphne played the role well. Not quite a hardliner like her sister, but pragmatic enough to nod along when it counted. She’d stood by Theo when others hadn’t—through Azkaban and after. And Theo, for all his darkness and damage, was steadier with her at his side. Less like a powder keg. More like the boy Draco remembered from their Hogwarts days, before the war sunk its teeth into them.

Astoria on the other hand…

Daphne’s younger sister was near the fire, where the lighting was most flattering, draped along the mantle like a portrait come to life. Every flick of her perfectly styled hair, every soft laugh, every too-casual glance in his direction part of a silent, relentless campaign. Occasionally, she’d toss a half-flirty comment into the room and then pretend not to watch for his reaction.

He ignored her completely.

Once upon a time, it might have been different.

They’d dated, years ago, back when Draco still mistook beauty for worth, and polished manners for character. When he still believed that legacy meant loyalty, and a well-manicured pedigree could make someone a partner. Abraxas and Lucius had even drafted a betrothal contract, eager to fuse their houses into something stronger, more permanent. The plan had been simple: marry Draco to Astoria, merge two Pureblood legacies, and secure the Organization’s future with a Malfoy at its helm.

But it hadn’t taken long for Draco to see the same sharp edges behind Astoria’s smile that he’d seen in Abraxas. Manipulative. Calculated. Hungry. Her affections were just another tool in the arsenal, and Draco had no interest in being used – again.  So he’d walked away. From the contract. From the girl. From the future everyone else had written for him.

Astoria hadn’t.

And neither, apparently, had her father. Even now, Abraxas positioned her like a queen on a chessboard, always just within reach. Always watching. Waiting. Hoping. And Astoria—dutiful, obedient, relentless—played her part to perfection. Elegant. Inoffensive. Molded by years of breeding to be precisely the wife a man like Abraxas could control through a man like Draco.

But Draco didn’t want someone he could control.

Astoria was beautiful, of course.  But in a brittle, overly curated, opaque way – something expensive but easily forgotten. She didn’t provoke him. Didn’t push him. Didn’t see him. She nodded when she should’ve argued, smiled when she should’ve snapped, and agreed when she should’ve told him to go to hell.

It was all so unbearably safe. So painfully… predictable.

And Salazar help him, but Draco was done with predictable.

He wanted fire. Tension. Someone who saw his worst tendencies and didn’t flinch—someone who could match him blow for blow and still choose him. Someone who could temper the cold ambition without dulling the edge. Someone like—

Unbidden, his thoughts drifted back to earlier that morning, a pair of rich mahogany eyes flashing in the lift’s dim light, catching the gleam of his charmwork like sparks in smoke…

No.

Stop that. Immediately.

Granger was not for him. She was a target. Plain and simple. Someone to assess, neutralize, and dismiss.

No complications.

And yet…

He took a slow sip of Firewhisky, letting the heat cover the grin threatening to tug at his mouth. Merlin, she’d been furious—storming into the lift like a tempest in heels, crackling with tension and unbridled magic after whatever disaster her interview with Robards had been.  The memory of her in his arms—indignant, warm, cursing under her breath as they tumbled in a tangle to the floor—was seared into his mind. Sharp elbows.  Soft curves. Wild curls. A furious flush climbing her cheeks as she shoved herself upright, demanding to know what, precisely, he was doing there.  

Making contact.  That’s what he’d been doing. 

He’d enlisted Pucey, the least likely of his crew to ask questions, to tamper with the lift, making sure it malfunctioned at just the right moment, to give Draco a few uninterrupted minutes alone with the Golden Girl to assess whether she posed a threat to the Organization.  And true to form, Granger didn’t disappoint.  She never had.  Underneath the woman she had grown into – lithe, polished and undeniably attractive – she was still the same fiery, tempestuous and challenging little swot he recalled from their Hogwarts days. 

…Which, Draco reflected, made it all the more puzzling why she had chosen to shackle herself to the likes of Davies—a smug, bootlicking careerist with the spine of a flobberworm and the charisma of wet parchment.

It didn’t make sense.  Not for someone like her.

Granger was fire and bite and stubborn Gryffindor integrity, the sort of witch who didn’t suffer fools—or rule-followers—lightly. Davies, on the other hand, had built an entire career on toeing the Ministry line and parroting whatever party slogan kept him in Shaklebolt’s good graces. He was predictable. Boring. Safe.

Draco frowned into his glass, slowly swirling the amber liquid, the image of Davies still vivid in his mind—his hand clamped possessively around Granger’s arm, his mouth tight with the kind of smile that looked more like ownership than affection.  Granger pulling away, her shoulders stiff, golden eyes flashing with temper.

So. Perhaps not completely safe, then.

“You’re brooding, mate.”

Draco looked up, blinking slowly at Theo’s unabashed grin, his tousled locks falling over his forehead for a moment before being smoothed back by Daphne’s gentle touch.   

“I most certainly am not.  Malfoys don’t brood," Draco said coolly, lifting his glass and breathing in the deep, complex scent.  Theo threw back his head at Draco’s response, his familiar, boyish laugh seemingly out of place in the cavernous, cold grandeur of the Greengrass drawing room. It echoed off marble and mahogany like a spell that didn’t belong—too warm, too alive for a space built on legacy and silence.

“Oh, really?” Theo snorted, tightening his arm around Daphne as she curled more comfortably into his side. “Do I even need to remind you of sixth year? You were a walking thundercloud, mate. I don’t think you smiled once in ten months.”

“Yes, well—not all of us were blessed with your effortless charm, Nott,” Draco drawled, arching a brow. “And forgive me for not observing the social niceties while trying to orchestrate a political assassination while under duress.”

Theo rolled his eyes good naturedly, lowering his voice so as not to be overheard. “Fair, but you have to admit—your homicidal stress response was very on-brand. All dark corridors, dramatic sighs, and glaring into middle distance like a cursed Byronic hero.”

Draco shrugged, taking a slow sip from his tumbler as his gaze swept the room, catching Dolohov slipping away from Abraxas to head in his direction. “What can I say? You remember my mother. I come by my dramatic flair honestly.”

Dolohov arrived before Theo could reply, his blocky frame cutting a sharp silhouette against the firelight. The older wizard moved like a man used to being feared—unhurried, deliberate, every step heavy with intent.

“Malfoy. Nott,” Dolohov greeted, voice smooth as broken glass, entirely dismissing Daphne’s presence with a flick of his eyes. The faintest hint of a smile ghosted across his lips—just enough to be insulting.

As if on cue, Daphne rose with unbothered elegance, her every movement deliberate. She wrapped manicured fingers around the stem of her martini glass and sauntered off without a word, the click of her heels punctuating her silence like a challenge.

Theo’s gaze followed her, his expression hardening. The warmth bled from his features, replaced by something colder. Quieter. Lethal in its restraint.

Draco didn’t look at him, but he felt the shift like a sudden drop in temperature. Dolohov, unsurprisingly, seemed to relish it.

“I trust the… Mudblood problem has been dealt with?”

Theo stilled, his face going carefully blank, obviously reading the latent threat hidden under Dolohov’s casual tone.  Draco didn’t so much as blink. He took another sip of Firewhisky, letting the silence stretch just a beat too long.

“If by ‘problem,’ you mean a highly competent witch with an inconvenient intellect and an even more inconvenient moral compass,” Draco said lightly, “then no. I haven’t murdered her, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Dolohov’s brows raised with insincere incredulity.  “Really?  Not like you to pass up the opportunity. I’d have thought you’d relish the chance to take out the Golden Girl.”

Draco gave a languid shrug, settling deeper into his chair, one leg crossing over the other with practiced ease. He took a slow sip from his glass before speaking, voice cool and dry.  “I don’t have any particular beef with Granger.  But, if I recall correctly, Dolohov, aren’t you the one here with the history?  Didn’t she best you in the Department of Mysteries, back in fifth year?  Must have been galling to be outsmarted by a fifteen year old witch.”

Dolohov’s smile didn’t falter, but something flickered behind his eyes—an old flash of fury, buried deep beneath layers of polished menace.

“A temporary inconvenience,” he said silkily. “The Mudblood bitch got lucky to leave with only a scratch.  If we ever cross paths again, I assure you she won’t be walking away.”

Draco’s jaw clenched briefly, tamping down the flash of anger sparked by Dolohov’s veiled threat.  He quickly schooled his expression, then offered a faint, noncommittal hum of agreement. “Mm. Luck. Or maybe you underestimated her. Easy to do, I suppose. She doesn’t exactly look dangerous—until she opens her mouth.”

Theo let out a soft snort, whether in amusement or warning, it was hard to tell. 

Dolohov’s eyes narrowed just enough to register the shift. “Careful, Malfoy. You’re beginning to sound like you admire her.”

Draco smiled into his glass, not bothering to deny it. “I admire many things, Dolohov. Competence. Strategy. A well-executed plan.” He paused, letting the implication linger. “Such qualities are hard to come by, in my experience.”  His gaze slid deliberately up and down Dolohov’s stocky frame, the insult subtle but unmistakable.

Dolohov’s mouth curved, but it no longer resembled a smile. “I’d be careful, if I were you, Malfoy.  Abraxas’ patience only extends so far.  You’ve been tasked with handling any threat the Golden Girl poses to the Organization.  See that you take care of it.”

“Oh, I intend to,” Draco said coolly. “But not in the way you’re imagining.”

Dolohov’s sneer deepened, his eyes flashing with unspoken malice.  “And just what’s that supposed to mean?”

Draco swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching the slow spiral of it catch the light, not even deigning to look at Dolohov when he answered.

“It means I handle things my way,” he said, voice calm, almost bored. “Without unnecessary bloodshed. Without theatrics. And without your brand of blunt-force idiocy.”  Placing his glass on the table beside him, Draco stood, rising to his full height, fixing Dolohov with a withering glare.  “If Abraxas has a problem with my methods, he’s welcome to discuss them with me. Directly.”

A taut beat of silence stretched—sharp-edged and humming with restrained hostility. From the corner of his eye, Draco registered Theo rising behind him, his steady presence at Draco’s back saying more than any words could where his loyalties would lie, if it came to wands drawn.

But before Dolohov could respond, the moment fractured under the crisp, deliberate click of approaching heels.

“Draco,” came Astoria’s voice—velvet over steel, lilting and cold. She slipped between them like a blade, effortless in her grace. Emerald silk clung to her frame like ivy, her ice-pale eyes glinting with awareness as they flicked from one wizard to the other, taking in the charged atmosphere with a flicker of amusement.

“My father would like a word,” she said, each syllable precise.

Draco didn’t look at her. His gaze remained locked on Dolohov, expression unreadable, marble-smooth.  Dolohov’s brow arched, slow and mocking, his grin spreading into something wolfish. “Off you pop, Malfoy,” he murmured, voice low and needling. “Wouldn’t want to keep Daddy waiting.”

Astoria’s frowned at Dolohov’s words, her cool gaze flicking over him with faint disdain before dismissing him entirely. She stepped in smoothly, sliding her hand through Draco’s arm and giving the faintest tug, a silent prompt to move.

Draco didn’t budge.

For a moment, he stood rooted—shoulders tense, jaw set, the quiet thrum of anger still coiled beneath his skin. Then he exhaled slowly through his nose, the sound soft but deliberate, and let her lead him away.

They moved in sync across the drawing room, the soft echo of their footsteps cutting through the low murmur of conversation. Heads turned. Eyes followed. Some curious. Some admiring. More than a few, calculating or cold.  Draco ignored them.  He was used to the scrutiny.  Astoria, by contrast, all but basked in it. She moved with deliberate elegance, the emerald silk of her gown catching the light, a small, knowing smile curving her red-stained lips. She glanced up at Draco from beneath dark lashes, her voice low and lightly teasing.

“What are you doing later? Perhaps we could take a stroll through the gardens?” she asked, voice soft, expression carefully entreating.

“Not tonight, Stori.”

Her steps faltered, just for a beat. “But we haven’t spoken in so long, Draco. And I…” she trailed off, eyes searching his.

Draco’s pulled his gaze forward, his tone distant. “Another time.”

Astoria’s smile didn’t quite slip, but it strained at the edges. She recovered quickly, her grip tightening slightly on his arm as they approached the fireplace—where Abraxas waited like a shadow given form.

“Draco, my boy!” Abraxas greeted, voice warm enough to almost pass for genuine. His dark eyes swept over them with an almost proprietary gleam, lingering just a moment too long on their linked arms.

Astoria slipped her hand from Draco’s arm with a graceful bow of her head, her eyes downcast, as she turned and walked away, joining Daphne and Pansy near the drink cart. Malfoy nodded at Abraxas’ greeting, shrugging his shoulders slightly to relieve the tension he was carrying.  Abraxas watched him closely.  “You and Astoria still having trouble?” he inquired solicitously.  Draco refrained from rolling his eyes.  Barely.

“Not really,” he said smoothly. “We chose to go our separate ways, as you know.” 

Across the room, Astoria glanced over, seeming to know he was speaking of her.  Draco didn’t meet her gaze.

“It wasn’t a good fit for either of us,” he added, noncommittal. 

Abraxas’ heavy gaze missed nothing, flickering between Draco and his youngest daughter knowingly. 

“Of course, of course, my boy.  The path to true love is rarely straight,” he murmured.  “But I’m certain you will find your way in the end.  You know your duty.”

A muscle twitched in Draco’s jaw.  He pulled his eyes away from the golden-haired witch across the room, dragging his thoughts back into line. 

“Perhaps,” he murmured, careful not to take the bait.

Abraxas clapped a hand to his shoulder, the weight of it deliberate, proprietary.

“Good lad,” Abraxas said, voice low and full of meaning. “And am I correct in assuming you’re handling the Granger situation? No loose ends from the last job?”

Draco’s jaw flexed. His tone remained neutral. “Of course. I said I’d handle it—and I will.”

Abraxas gave a thin smile, his obsidian eyes sweeping the room of sycophants and relics with lazy disdain. “Of course, of course, my boy. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. You’ve always been my most efficient Capo. I’ve never doubted your methods—or your loyalties.”

His gaze slid sideways—to Astoria, laughing too brightly near the drink cart—and back to Draco with a knowing gleam.

“Which is why,” he continued, swirling his drink, “I’ll likely be requiring your services again. Soon.”

Draco schooled his features into something passably deferential, though his stomach turned. “What sort of job? You know we usually go to ground after a job this big. The DMLE’s rattled. Potter and Robards are—”

“Yes, yes.” Abraxas waved a skeletal hand, dismissive. “And we won’t be ready for this next operation just yet. I need more time with the tome your team retrieved. But, based on my readings thus far, I believe we will require a certain artifact, which is currently ensconced deep in the Rosier family’s vault in Gringotts.  An ancient music box – once belonging to Druella Rosier – your maternal grandmother, I believe?”  At Draco’s mystified nod, Abraxas continued.  “There is something I require, locked in that music box, my boy.  Something that could shift our fortunes – and put families like ours back where they belong – at the top, instead of begging for scraps from the likes of Shaklebolt’s table.”

Draco frowned, staring down at his glass as his mind whirled.  “The Rosier vault would have been locked down after the war, just like the other sympathizers of the Dark Lord.  It will be impossible to access, even for family members.”

“Which is precisely why I need you, my boy.  The Ministry has commissioned Gringotts to assess the contents of those vaults, to catalogue and dismantle any curses that may be protecting the more valuable pieces from sullied hands.” 

Abraxas sniffed disdainfully, and Draco nodded along, jaw tight. He knew all this already. The Malfoy vaults had been among the first frozen after the war. It had taken months for the Gringotts cursebreakers to comb through them. Bill Weasley—the one Greyback had mauled the night Dumbledore died—had ultimately cleared them to the DMLE’s satisfaction, confirming that all cursed or dangerous items had been accounted for.

Since then, Gringotts had been working through the vaults of other Dark families with the same meticulous process, curse by curse, artifact by artifact. It was the reason the last job had even been possible—one of Abraxas’ informants at Gringotts had passed along word that the cursebreakers had finally begun their assessment of the Lestrange vault. For some reason Draco still didn’t understand, the armoire had been removed from the high-security holdings and transferred to a warehouse in Diagon Alley.

“But if the music box is still in the Rosier family vault at Gringotts, how—?”

Abraxas raised a single finger and wagged it gently in the air, as though chiding a child. “No, no, my boy. You misunderstand. I’m not asking you to infiltrate Gringotts.” His smile twisted. “I’m not insane.”

Granger did it, you old fucknuckle, Draco thought sourly. From the back of a dragon, if I recall correctly…

“What I need,” Abraxas continued, “is for the music box to be moved. Just like the armoire. I want the cursebreakers to transfer it to the Diagon warehouse. Then, it will be just as vulnerable.”

Draco let out a low, incredulous scoff. “They’ll be on high alert after this last job. Even if they do move the music box, they’ll triple security. The wards will be impenetrable. There’s no chance—”

“Which is precisely,” Abraxas cut in smoothly, “why you’ll need to be on the inside of those wards this time.”

Draco blinked. “Inside? How do you expect me to manage that?”

Abraxas’ grin spread, slow and wolfish. “I’ve secured you a position with Gringotts.”

Draco stiffened.

“You’ll be working as a specialized consultant,” Abraxas went on, voice full of self-satisfaction. “Aiding their cursebreakers in the decommissioning of the remaining Pureblood vaults. Given your background—and your cleaned-up family record—they practically fell over themselves to get you on the payroll.”

Draco’s spine locked, instincts flaring. The implications were immediate and staggering.

“And from inside the very team tasked with tearing down the last remnants of our society,” Abraxas murmured, leaning in slightly, “you’ll be perfectly positioned to direct the next transfer. To make sure our artifact ends up somewhere accessible.”

Draco stared at him, incredulous. “You want me to work with Gringotts? With Granger? And steal something from right under both their noses?”

Abraxas gave a small, satisfied smile and drained the last of his drink.

“You start Monday.”

Fucked.  He was fucked.

Chapter Text

There were few places Hermione was more at peace than in her garden.  There was something so soothing about working with the loamy soil, using her hands and her magic alike to coax blooming, thriving life out of the plot of ground she’d earmarked for her garden as soon as she had moved into her cottage.  She took comfort in the tidy rows of Dittany, Aconite and Valerian Root she had planted near the far side of her back lawn, closest to the bubbling brook that meandered through her property in a silvery stream, under the shade of the ash and elm trees.  It was always handy to have healing and medicinal plants on hand, particularly in her line of work, where the odd stinging abrasion or slicing cut from an erstwhile curse were a common occurrence.  Similarly, she had cultivated small plots of Lovage, Feverfew and Peppermint, which she used liberally in various home-brewed remedy potions, as well as Nettle and Chamomile by the garden gate, for their calming properties.  She had even managed to procure some rare blooms from Neville – nurturing the Wiggentree bark and Moonseed vines with carefully timed watering cycles tied to the lunar calendar. 

The resident population of garden gnomes helped keep the most bothersome pests at bay, both magical and mundane, even as they waged a ceaseless, interminable war with Crookshanks, a territorial standoff that rivaled the Goblin Rebellions in both duration and sheer absurdity. 

Leaning back with a quiet groan, Hermione lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees, scanning the treeline at the edge of her property for any sign of the half-Kneazle. Crookshanks had vanished into the woods alongside Albus and James shortly after the boys had arrived with their mother that morning, swept into whatever chaotic adventure the boys had concocted.

Seeing no trace of the embattled trio, Hermione glanced over her shoulder to where Ginny was sprawled in one of the faded Adirondack chairs near the herb beds, boots kicked up on a wicker stool and a glass of iced elderflower cordial sweating in her hand.

“I can feel you judging my parenting skills from all the way over there, Granger,” Ginny called lazily, not bothering to open her eyes. The sunlight bronzed her skin, turning the fierce blaze of her hair into molten fire under the August sky.

Hermione grinned, tossing her chestnut curls back and lifting them off her neck to catch the faintest stir of breeze.

“No judgment from me,” she murmured, stretching with a quiet wince as she began gathering her gardening tools. “Though I might question the decision to let them disappear into the woods with Harry’s Invisibility Cloak. The last time that happened, they turned up three hours later riding a charmed wheelbarrow like a flying carpet and covered head to toe in doxy bites.”

Ginny cracked a wicked smile, eyes still closed. “And yet, somehow, it was still less dramatic than the time you left them alone with that sentient cauldron in your workshop.”

“That cauldron was not sentient,” Hermione said primly, dropping her trowel into its crate. “It was just… aggressive.”

“It tried to eat Albus’s shoe.”

Hermione gave a helpless shrug. “Yes, well - it was enchanted to disarm intruders. His foot was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Ginny let out a warm laugh, sitting up and nudging the wicker stool aside with her boot. “You know what I love about you? Your unwavering faith in completely unreasonable objects.”

Hermione sank into the chair beside her, brushing a bit of dirt from her frayed shorts. “Well, to be fair – it’s a bit of a necessity in my line of work.”

Ginny hummed non-committedly, her sharp blue eyes scanning Hermione’s face as she tipped her head back to catch the sun. “Speaking of your job…”

Hermione groaned softly and threw an arm over her eyes, already bracing. “Merlin’s sake, here we go. I knew it was only a matter of time.”

“I just want to make sure you’re alright after what happened last week.”

“I’m fine, Gin,” Hermione replied automatically, in a tone that indicated she clearly wasn’t.

“Of course you are,” Ginny said dryly. “You said you were fine after the Battle of Hogwarts too—while holding your own spleen in place.”

Hermione let out a sharp breath and lifted her arm to squint at her. “That’s an exaggeration.”

“Is it?” Ginny arched a brow. “Because I distinctly remember Madam Pomfrey screaming about internal bleeding while you tried to cast your own bloody diagnostic spell mid-shock.”

“I was being efficient,” Hermione said primly.

“You were being reckless,” Ginny shot back—though her voice had softened. “And you’re doing it again.”

Hermione looked away, the sudden buzz of bees near the lavender sounding far too loud in the silence that followed. Ginny’s expression gentled, her voice quieter now.

“Harry told me the Healer thinks there might be core damage?”

Hermione huffed, batting an errant curl from her face with more force than necessary. “Something like that, yes. But it’s nothing a few days of rest won’t fix.”

“And are you?” Ginny asked, tilting her head, a knowing look in her eyes. “Resting, I mean?”

Hermione gave a sweeping gesture to her sun-drenched recline. “Obviously. Reclining in the garden, sipping lavender lemonade. What more do you want from me?”

Ginny didn’t smile.

Hermione sighed. “Yes. I’m resting. And I’m feeling much better now. I haven’t had any symptoms since…”

She trailed off, her brow furrowing, her mind flickering back to the dim lighting of the Ministry lift, a pair of silver eyes glinting at her through the darkness, the sudden stutter in her magic, and one tall, infuriatingly attractive asshat with a voice like velvet and a smirk that still made her want to hex something.

Ginny was watching her too closely.

“Since when?” she asked.

Hermione cleared her throat and reached for her lemonade. “Doesn’t matter. It passed.” She took a long sip of the cool, crisp liquid, nearly groaning at the tart burst of citrus.

Before Ginny could press further, the unmistakable sound of boyish laughter rang through the trees—high, bright, and entirely too gleeful to bode well for any and all concerned.

Two small figures appeared at the edge of the property as though summoned. Ginny lifted a hand to shade her eyes, casting an assessing glance toward the approaching boys. A wry grin tugged at her lips.

James led the way, dark-haired and green-eyed like his father, his quiet composure a sharp contrast to the whirlwind trailing in his wake. He moved with a calm, steady confidence, pausing momentarily to let the younger Potter boy catch up before absently plucking twigs from his brother’s hair as he listened to him ramble. Albus—lighter in colouring with strawberry-blond hair, brilliant blue eyes, and freckles like splattered starlight—gesticulated wildly, words tumbling out of him faster than he could think. His robes were streaked with dirt, his arms scratched, and he looked (and likely smelled) utterly unrepentant.

Ginny snorted. “All hail the conquering heroes.”

“Merlin’s beard,” Hermione muttered, rising halfway from her chair with narrowed eyes. “What have they been doing? And where is Crookshanks? Don’t tell me they left him in the woods again—he’ll shred the furniture for a week.”

Ginny grinned, unbothered. “Oh, give it up, Granger. That cat’s basically their Patronus at this point. He’s worse than they are.”

As if summoned by the accusation, a low, indignant yowl echoed through the clearing. A moment later, Crookshanks tore out of the underbrush in a blur of ginger fur, looking equal parts triumphant and enraged. He bounded ahead of a tiny mob of shrieking garden gnomes, several of whom were wielding improvised weapons—a spoon, a bottlecap, what might have once been a thimble-sized flag.

James and Albus turned at the sound, eyes widening for a heartbeat at the absurd spectacle before they took off at a sprint toward Hermione and Ginny, laughter bubbling up behind them like a shaken bottle of Butterbeer.

The gnomes skidded to a halt just short of the lawn, clearly reassessing their odds. Though battle-worn and bristling with indignation, they seemed to recognize a strategic retreat when they saw one. Casting dark, pointed glares at the fleeing Potter boys—and one smug half-Kneazle trotting in their wake—they muttered a few choice and anatomically improbable oaths amongst themselves before melting back into the hedgerow.

Albus skidded to a halt in front of them, flushed and grinning, his freckles standing out like constellations across his cheeks. “Mum! Auntie Mione! You won’t believe it—we were just walking, right? Like totally normal walking—well, except I was flying Crookshanks a bit—only a little – he liked it! And then we saw this clearing near the brook and there was this weird rock with runes on it, and I think it might be cursed because James said not to touch it, so obviously I had to, and then…”

James appeared beside him, notably less winded, and pulled a leaf out of Albus’s hair. “He woke up a gnome nest. Five of them. Possibly six. I lost count after they started chucking acorns.”

Albus nodded eagerly. “One of them bit me! On the ankle! Crooks tried to chase them off but they ganged up on him, and then James said we should retreat strategically, which basically meant run—and that’s when they started throwing spoons!”

Ginny raised a single blazing brow. “Spoons?”

“Like, real spoons,” Albus insisted, lifting his foot to reveal one wedged into the cuff of his trousers. “Look!”

Hermione sighed, rubbing her temples. “You touched a rune-covered rock? After your brother specifically said not to?”

“It was humming,” Albus said defensively, eyes wide. “Humming rocks are interesting. It would’ve been criminal not to investigate.”

“Criminal,” James muttered, brushing dirt off his sleeve. “Definitely the right word.”

Crookshanks chose that moment to saunter up with an offended flick of his tail, clearly expecting applause for his part in the shared chaos. He flopped heavily at Hermione’s feet with a long-suffering grunt, ears twitching as if daring anyone to suggest he hadn’t been the true hero.

Ginny took one look at the lot of them—her sons panting and filthy, Crookshanks splayed like a war veteran, and Hermione looking one snapped nerve away from hexing the entire garden—and burst out laughing.

The boys and Ginny stayed for lunch, sprawled comfortably around the little garden table beneath the swaying shade of the ash trees. Albus and James devoured the croissant sandwiches Hermione had thrown together, their mouths full as they continued to regale the witches with tales of their “courageous”—read: entirely unhinged—adventures in the woods.

Hermione listened with indulgent amusement, occasionally raising a brow or exchanging a look with Ginny whenever a detail got too embellished. Still, her heart ached in that soft, aching way it always did when the boys were around—a pang of joy edged with guilt. She hadn’t seen them in far too long. Work had a way of swallowing her whole, one cursed object at a time.

She vowed, quietly and fiercely, to make more space for days like this. Days filled with dirt and noise and laughter. Days where she could breathe.

Ginny’s earlier concern seemed to fade, her expression softening as she moved easily around the little kitchen with Hermione, helping slice fruit and refill lemonade glasses. Her eyes twinkled now as Hermione filled her in on the events of the day prior.

“So,” Ginny said, popping a grape into her mouth as she leaned one hip against the counter, “Burzgot’s gone and assigned some Pureblood arse to assist in the cursebreaking?”

She made a valiant attempt to ignore the fact that Albus was, at that very moment, attempting to charm a cherry tomato into orbit.

Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes as she flicked her wand to redirect the offending tomato mid-flight. “Assigned is a generous word. More like foisted—in a completely unnecessary attempt to keep me under some semblance of control. Apparently, I’m lacking in certain aspects of my background to truly comprehend the intricacies of Pureblood curses.”

Ginny snorted, catching the rogue tomato with practiced ease before herding the two boys—and one disgruntled half-Kneazle—out the back door with a sharp look and a murmured “Go run off that second sandwich before you explode.”

As the door clicked shut behind them, she turned back to Hermione with a wicked grin. “Merlin’s saggy pants. Did he say that to your face?”

“Not in so many words,” Hermione said coolly, slicing into a peach with slightly more force than necessary. “But the implication was… clear.”

Ginny leaned against the counter, arms crossed, her expression sharp with that familiar, ferocious loyalty. “So who is this paragon of wizarding aristocracy? Anyone I know?”

Hermione shrugged, waving the question off, her tone breezy. “No clue, actually. And really—does it matter? I’m used to working with overpaid, under-qualified arses. I mean… he can’t be worse than McLaggen, right?”

She set the knife down with a clink and popped a slice of peach into her mouth, savoring the sun-warmed sweetness. For a moment, the flavour grounded her—ripe and golden and alive. But the taste was fleeting, quickly chased by a wave of guilt.

Her brow furrowed. “That’s not fair,” she said quietly, almost to herself. “Cormac tried to help—he really did. Padma and I… we would’ve been in much deeper trouble if he hadn’t—”

Her voice caught.

She swallowed, but it didn’t help. The memory rose, swift and visceral: Cormac on the stone floor of the warehouse, reeling beneath a barrage of wild, brutal curses. The Angry One’s wand flashing with savage intent. Blood—so much blood—pooling fast around Cormac’s crumpled body, Padma frantically wrapping a bandage around his head.

The tang of it hit her—sharp, metallic, unmistakable.

She blinked—and then gasped, sharply, as pain pricked her thumb. She looked down to see a thin line of crimson blooming across the pad of her finger, the kitchen knife in her other hand.

Ginny was beside her instantly. “Hermione—?”

“I’m fine,” Hermione said quickly, but her voice was too tight. Too fast.

Ginny took her hand anyway, gently plucking the knife away. “Yes, you’ve said that now - twice.”  With the seasoned veteran skill of a mother of boys, she raised her wand and quickly healed the small cut, casting an Evanesco to vanish the blood.  Hermione murmured a distracted thank you, keeping her eyes fixed on the far wall, jaw clenched, breath just slightly too shallow.

But Ginny doesn’t push.  And Hermione loved her all the more for it.  She could always trust her friend to know when to give her space.  She dried Hermione’s hand gently with a dish towel and sets the knife aside, her tone deceptively calm when she asked, “And what does Roger have to say about all this?”

Hermione blinked. The question landed oddly, like something she’d forgotten was supposed to matter. “Roger?” she echoed, too quickly. “He’s… fine, I suppose? He wasn’t happy about the breach, naturally. Called it a ‘predictable failure in basic operational security.’”

She rolled her eyes, tone light but eyes still glassy. “But that’s hardly new—he’s always had concerns about the risks of my job.”

Ginny watched her, expression unreadable.

Hermione went on, trying to keep it casual. “He also wasn’t thrilled about me getting stuck in a lift with Malfoy, but—well, it wasn’t exactly on my to-do list either.”

There was a short pause.

“I’m sorry—what now?” Ginny said, straightening. “Malfoy? In a lift? How does the ferret fit into all this?”

Hermione winced, already regretting the slip. “Didn’t Harry tell you? I got stuck in a lift with him—Malfoy—while I was at the Ministry to give my statement to the DMLE.”

Ginny’s brows shot up. “He most certainly did not mention that detail.”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly a highlight,” Hermione muttered, dragging a hand through her curls. “The lift jammed between floors. No emergency override. Magical maintenance apparently being a very optional concept these days. I had to message Harry and Ron to come get us out.”

Ginny blinked, eyebrows inching upward. “I see. And Roger just…”

“Happened to tag along, I guess?” Hermione winced. “He was… not exactly thrilled to find me in Malfoy’s lap.”

Ginny dropped the tea towel. Her expression was a perfect storm of horror and delight. “I’m sorry—you were in Malfoy’s lap? Doing what, exactly?”

Hermione opened her mouth—whether to explain or to deny wasn’t clear—but Ginny steamrolled over her, flapping a hand like she needed more air just to process.

“No—never mind. Doesn’t matter. What I really want to know is… did anyone get a picture of Roger’s face?”

Hermione groaned. “Ginny—”

“I mean—come on, that had to get an actual emotional reaction out of him, right?” Ginny said, eyes gleaming. “A literal bowl of tapioca has more genuine feelings than Roger on his best day. But seeing you parked in Malfoy’s lap? That had to spark at least one real, bona fide, human emotion.”

Hermione scowled. “He was upset,” she equivocated.

Ginny leaned in, smug. “Was it the kind of upset where he says he’s slightly disappointed in you while checking his watch? Or the kind where he actually reacted like a man whose girlfriend had landed herself in another man’s lap?”

“Oh, he reacted, alright,” Hermione muttered darkly, sweeping the last of the peach slices into a bowl with a little more force than necessary. “Tried to tell me it was time to go home - basically insinuated I needed to be managed.  Like I’m some sort of malfunctioning bloody clockwork doll that needs winding down when I get emotional.” 

Her wand twitched in her hand as she cast a cleansing charm across the cutting board—but her magic surged jagged and raw beneath the surface, lashing out on contact. The wooden board let out a sharp ping as the corner sizzled and blackened, smoke curling up from the edge.

Hermione cursed under her breath, brow furrowing as she surveyed the damage. “Damn it. That’s the second one this week.”

“Alright, never mind Roger, then,” Ginny said briskly, snatching the scorched cutting board and murmuring a quick Reparifarge to mend the singe. “Tell me more about Malfoy. How was the Pureblood paragon of smug self-importance in close quarters?”

Hermione sighed, but Ginny was clearly warming to her theme. 

“I mean, the occasional society page coverage paints his as the next Pureblood playboy,” she continued, leaning against the countertop with an unrepentant grin.  “Not to mention – and I say this as a happily married woman – he’s about as climbable as a fucking tree.”

Hermione choked on her lemonade. “Ginny.”

Ginny didn’t even blink. “It’s not a crime to observe the landscape, Granger. Tall, angular, occasionally brooding. That’s a whole subsection of fantasy novels. It’s practically a trope.”

Hermione sputtered. “I didn’t climb him.”

“No, but you landed on him,” Ginny said sweetly. “Gravity made a choice, and that choice was Malfoy.”

Hermione put her head in her hands. “I hate you.”

“You love me,” Ginny said, popping a peach slice into her mouth with unearned smugness. “Now tell me—was he weird about it? Or smug? Or weirdly not smug, which is its own kind of disarming?”

Hermione sighed, popping another slice into her own mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “He was… alright, I guess? We didn’t hex each other, so that’s something. And he said—well, he said he doesn’t believe in the whole Pureblood superiority rubbish. Not anymore. Not since the war.”

Ginny arched a brow. “Look at him, doing personal growth like a person.”

Hermione gave her a look, but Ginny just grinned wider.

“Well then—perfect!” she declared, smacking the countertop for emphasis. “Sounds like your next shag will be deeply therapeutic.”

Hermione spluttered. “Ginny!”

“What?” Ginny asked innocently. “You’re overworked, your boyfriend’s a human sigh, and you’ve been bleeding magic into your kitchen utensils. I’m just saying, a good roll in the cursed linens with someone tall, magically competent, and unexpectedly not evil might do wonders for your stress levels.”

Hermione looked vaguely like she wanted to sink through the floor. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Correct,” Ginny said brightly. “And also right.”

Hermione opened her mouth to object again—but stopped. Because if she was being very honest with herself, Malfoy had been disarmingly steady in that lift. Infuriating, yes. Smug, occasionally. But beneath the practiced indifference had been something surprisingly… grounded. She hadn’t realized she’d been leaning on him until long after the moment passed.

And Merlin help her, he was fit. In that polished, sharp-edged way that suggested he owned far too many waistcoats and definitely knew it.

“I’m not shagging Malfoy,” Hermione said finally, a bit too firmly.

Ginny didn’t bother hiding her smirk. “No, no. Of course not. You’re just thinking about it.”

Hermione glared. “You’re the worst.”

“I know,” Ginny said sweetly. “Now eat your peaches and admit you’d climb him if he asked nicely.”

Hermione popped another slice into her mouth and refused to dignify that with a response.

Chapter Text

Entering the warehouse from Diagon Alley that Monday morning, Hermione’s eyes swept over the familiar sprawl of long, wooden tables—each one cluttered with half-unwrapped relics, rolled scrolls, scattered quills, and faintly humming magical instruments. The morning sun slanted in through the high, paned windows behind her, painting the room in a golden-amber haze that softened the sharp edges of the destruction left behind.

Padma stepped in just behind her, the click of her boots muffled by the thick warding mats layered across the floor. Her raven-black hair was pulled into a no-nonsense knot at the base of her neck, and the sunlight struck her cheekbones, casting her cinnamon skin in a burnished glow. The warehouse smelled faintly of dust, ozone, and something older—an after scent of magic laced with hostile intent.

Both witches instinctively turned toward the rear of the room.

The place where Cormac’s blood had pooled—now cleaned, but still etched indelibly in their memories—drew their eyes. Their faces mirrored each other: tight with memory, hollowed by guilt, yet schooled into the neutral detachment of professionals. Hermione’s fingers curled slightly, almost reflexively, as if still feeling the moment her wand was ripped from her grasp when the intruders stormed in.

She had insisted she was fine. (She clearly wasn’t).

The warehouse, once her sanctuary, now felt foreign. Before the attack, it had been her domain—each artifact, scroll, and relic positioned with quiet precision by her or Padma’s hand. The high rafters, the soot-smudged windows, the bank of cupboards holding potion ingredients arranged just so—all of it had once felt like an extension of herself. Even the scent—parchment, melted wax, and the sharp tang of brass—had always wrapped around her like the embrace of an old friend.

But now…

Now she saw a different warehouse entirely. Flashes of light that moved faster than thought. The sickening crack of fist meeting bone. Padma’s soft sobs threading through the chaos like a haunting refrain. She felt again the strong arm clamped tight across her ribs, dragging her back against a chest hard as stone. The wandtip at her collarbone, tracing a path as intimate as it was menacing.

“Have you ever had a panic attack?” Padma asked softly, her gaze still locked on that scarred stretch of stone.

Hermione let out a short, humorless snort. “I’ve been having one continuously since ’98. You get used to it.”

Padma huffed something between a laugh and a sigh, lips twitching into a reluctant grin. She finally tore her eyes from the blood-stained memory and scanned the rows of tables. Her smile faded, brow knitting into what Hermione privately called Padma’s ‘fuck around and find out’ face—the one that usually preceded explosions, magical or otherwise.

Hermione followed her friend’s line of sight, understanding instantly the cause of Padma’s shift in demeanor.

Burzgot.

The goblin—bristling authority wrapped in razor-edged disapproval—emerged from the back room with a slow, deliberate gait. Two security goblins followed in his wake, their expressions near-perfect reflections of their superior’s: cold, assessing, and laced with just enough smugness to be insulting—if Hermione were feeling charitable.

She wasn’t.

“Miss Granger. Miss Patil,” Burzgot intoned, voice oily with contempt. “Welcome back to the scene of the crime.”

Oh, here we fucking go…

“Burzgot,” Hermione clipped, as Padma dipped her head in a curt nod, eyes narrowing at the unspoken accusation braided into the goblin’s tone.

“What are you doing here?” Hermione continued, voice as cool as a frost spell. “It’s unlike you to be so… hands on.”

If Burzgot caught the insult—and he’d have to be an imbecile not to—he gave no sign. He simply raised one sardonic brow and made a lazy, sweeping gesture toward the goblins flanking him.

“Forgive me, Miss Granger. Some of us have been rather busy—assessing structural damage, recalibrating warding matrices, retrieving sensitive assets before they too vanish into the wrong hands...” He trailed off delicately, a slow, menacing smirk spreading his lips like an open wound.

“Oh, so you’ve finally taken an interest in warehouse security?” Hermione said, sweet as poison. “I’ve only been warning you about the lack of fail-safes for six bleeding months, Burzgot. Lovely to see that it only took an armed intrusion and a hostage crisis to get your attention.”

“The safety and security of Gringotts’ assets are—naturally—my first and only concern, Miss Granger. You know this.”

“If that were true, Cormac wouldn’t be in St. Mungo’s, would he?” Padma shot back, her voice sharp with fury, eyes flashing like flint striking steel.

Burzgot’s obsidian gaze shifted from Hermione to Padma, slow and deliberate. There was no open threat in his expression—there never was—but Hermione still had to suppress the instinctive urge to step between them. Padma didn’t need protecting. But the look Burzgot gave her was the kind that left shadows in its wake.

“I’m told Mr. McLaggen was discharged early this morning,” Burzgot said flatly, in the same tone one might use to note a change in the weather. “He is expected to make a full recovery.”

“How comforting,” Hermione murmured. “I’m sure a broken nose, concussion, and fractured cheekbone are just a few of the many perks of being a Gringotts’ ‘asset’—right, Burzgot?”

Burzgot’s lips twitched, clearly preparing to deliver a retort.  But before he could speak, the curtain hanging in the doorframe to the back office stirred, then parted.

A tall figure stepped through with practiced ease, shoulders squared, movements fluid—measured in that deliberate, economical way that screamed old money. Or power. Or both. He was dressed in deep grey and black, all high collars and sharp lines, the fit immaculate, the boots polished to a shine. A wand holster gleamed across the broad expanse of his chest. His platinum-blond hair was swept back in a style too effortless to be accidental.

Hermione’s breath caught, a jolt of recognition slamming into her chest.

Draco Malfoy.

Because of fucking course.

Apparently the universe had it out for her.

His gaze swept the room with cool detachment, landing on her like he’d expected her to be there. Which, she realized with dawning horror, he probably had. His expression didn’t shift—no surprise, no awkward startle. Just a faint tightening at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smirk. Not quite not.

She hadn’t seen him in years.

And now—twice. In as many days.

“What,” she said slowly, voice rising an octave with each word, “in the ever loving fuck—?”

Draco’s brow lifted, the smallest tic of amusement breaking through the icy composure. “Nice to see you too, Granger.”

Burzgot, insufferably pleased, folded his hands behind his back. “I was about to inform you before you interjected with your colorful commentary, Miss Granger—your new colleague – the one I mentioned during your interview with the DMLE. Mr. Malfoy will be working alongside you on the vault reclamations.”

Padma made a strangled sound that might’ve been a laugh.

Hermione didn’t move. Her wand hand twitched.

“Is this a joke?” she asked, eyes never leaving Malfoy’s.

Burzgot tilted his head, eyes locked on her like a predator sizing up prey. “A joke, Miss Granger? I’m not sure what you mean. Mr. Malfoy has extensive experience and impeccable credentials…”

Hermione cut him off, tossing her curls with rising fury. “By credentials—you mean being the sole heir to two Pureblood legacies, right? He’s here because he happened to be born with the right family name, not because he’s earned a damned thing.”

Burzgot’s lips quirked in what might have been amusement—or contempt. “Experience isn’t inherited, Miss Granger. It’s cultivated. However, you are quite right that Mr. Malfoy’s heritage will also be a definitive benefit to this operation.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “If you were so desperate for a decorative Pureblood figurehead, why not Padma?” Hermione snapped, gesturing to her friend, who was still staring Malfoy down, clearly unimpressed. “She’s just as ‘pure’ as Malfoy.”

Burzgot inclined his head solemnly, as though the question warranted serious consideration. “Miss Patil’s heritage was considered by the Board, naturally. But in the end, it was decided that someone with lived experience—with familiarity in handling the types of dark artifacts used during and by the Dark Lord’s reign—would be more beneficial. The Patils, while an ancient Pureblood line, are unfortunately lacking in that particular arena.”

“Oh, naturally,” Hermione snarled, her voice low and shaking with fury, knuckles tightening into fists at her sides. “If the Board was interested in families with a certain… history—who better than Lucius fucking Malfoy’s son?”

That hit its mark.

Malfoy stepped forward, cutting off whatever smug retort Burzgot might have had. His movement was smooth, deliberate, predatory. His gaze locked on hers—sharp, assessing, with a warning flickering behind those cold grey eyes.

“Careful, Granger,” he said softly. “You’re treading on dangerous ground.”

Hermione didn’t flinch. “The only danger here is that Gringotts thinks nepotism qualifies as expertise.”

Burzgot cleared his throat, the sound slicing through the tension like a blade. “Enough,” he said, voice like steel wrapped in velvet. “You will work together. The decision has been made. Your opinion about the matter is as uninformed as it is irrelevant, Miss Granger.”

The words hit like a slap. A hot, electric pulse of fury surged through Hermione’s fingertips—and before she could stop it, a glass vial on the nearest table shattered with a sharp crack, shards skittering across the wood like fleeing insects.

Burzgot didn’t even flinch. He turned his back on her as if she were a malfunctioning artifact, not a person, and began murmuring instructions to the two goblins behind him.

Hermione’s hand trembled, her breath shallow. She stared at the shattered remains of the vial, chest heaving as the last of her restraint smoldered in her gut.  She couldn’t even recall the last time her magic had lashed out so unintentionally.

Padma stepped in smoothly, fingers closing around Hermione’s wrist with quiet insistence. “Hey. Hey. Breathe.”

Hermione blinked, then again, like she was surfacing. “I’m fine,” she said tightly. “I’m not— I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” Padma said, her voice low. “It’s fine.  But you can’t let him get to you like that.  It’s just Burzgot, yeah?”

Hermione huffed something that wasn’t quite a laugh.

Padma’s hand didn’t move. “Don’t quit,” she added, more serious now. “Please. If you do, I’d have to out of solidarity. And as much as I love a good dramatic exit, I’d rather not burn this place down just because Burzgot is a bigoted little arse.”

Hermione’s jaw flexed, but she didn’t pull away.

“We love this work,” Padma continued. “You love it. The puzzles, the runes, the way you light up when something clicks. Don’t let them take that from you.”

Hermione closed her eyes for half a second. Then: “You’re annoyingly good at this.”

“Obviously,” Padma said, smug and gentle in equal measure.  “I’ve had plenty of practice talking you down, Granger.”

Behind them, a voice drawled, too casual to be anything but deliberate: “Should I be touched by the solidarity, or worried I’m the reason for it?”

Hermione didn’t turn around. “Depends. Are you going to make my life hell?”

Draco’s voice was maddeningly smooth. “Not intentionally.”

Hermione sighed and finally turned to face him, arms crossed. “Well then, I promise not to intentionally hex your bollocks off. Fair?”

He arched a single brow, eyes flicking to the shards of glass still glittering across the table like tiny knives. “Right… I feel incredibly reassured.”

“You shouldn’t,” Padma said helpfully.

Draco’s gaze slid back to Hermione, expression unreadable. “Look, Granger…I’m here to help, yeah?  I am just as invested as you are in making sure the items in those vaults are decommissioned.  I know, intimately, what’s in them.”

Hermione scowled, but the sharp edge of her fury dulled—just a little—under the weight of his unexpected sincerity.

“Fine,” she muttered. “Just… stay out of my way, alright?”

Malfoy’s lips curved into the faintest smile. He tilted his head, grey eyes scanning her like she was a particularly challenging riddle.

“That might be a problem,” he said, gesturing vaguely at himself. “I’m quite large, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Hermione blinked once. Slowly.

Padma made a strangled sound behind her—half snort, half incredulous laugh.

Hermione didn’t dignify him with a reply. She turned away with a muttered, “Unbelievable,” and began gathering the shattered remains of the vial with a flick of her wand.

Malfoy, of course, couldn’t resist. “Don’t worry, Granger. Unlike others I won’t mention, I don’t shrink in the shadow of powerful women.”

Hermione glared at him as Malfoy grinned ear to ear, pushing his hands into the pockets of his tailored trousers, clearly quite pleased with himself. 

“Was that a dig at Harry and Ron?”

“Who?” Malfoy asked, his head tilting in feigned confusion.  “Never heard of them.”

The morning passed in a blur of silence and stubborn efficiency.

Hermione, Padma, and Malfoy worked in uneasy orbit—near enough to coordinate, far enough to avoid bloodshed. Most of the work revolved around cleaning up the aftermath—the scattered debris, singed documents, and the lingering magical residue that clung to the air like smoke after a fire.

Hermione kept her head down, her sleeves rolled up and her wand in near-constant motion. To her mild surprise, Malfoy worked silently alongside her. No complaints. No posturing. Just smooth, efficient spellwork—precise, practiced, and unsettlingly in sync with her own.

She absolutely did not notice the way his forearms flexed as he steadied a cracked containment rune against the table, the sleeves of his black shirt pushed up to reveal toned muscle. That would’ve required acknowledging the man as something other than a complete tosser.

Which he was.

Certainly not distracting.

At all.

She managed to corner Burzgot near the back shelves, peppering him with pointed, rapid-fire questions about emergency protocols.

“There is now a direct panic line from this warehouse to both Gringotts proper and the DMLE, yes?” she pressed, arms crossed tightly. “And not through three layers of goblin oversight. Immediate contact. Magical fail-safes. Layered redundancies. I want a button I can kick if necessary.”

Burzgot, to his credit—or possibly because he knew she wouldn’t let it go—assured her that the new system had been implemented over the weekend. She didn’t believe him until she tested it herself. Twice.

By midday, the worst of the mess was gone, the room bearing the quiet order of professionals reclaiming familiar ground. The recently uncursed armoire still sat against the far wall, dormant and watchful, and mockingly empty.  Burzgot, predictably, was tight-lipped about the tome the masked intruders had retrieved, refusing to give Padma or Hermione any details about whether Gringotts was aware of its contents, intent or purpose.

And the not knowing drove Hermione absolutely spare.

They broke for lunch just after one, the goblins Disapparating in quick succession outside the wardlines—sharp, staccato cracks marking their exit like punctuation to an exhausting morning.

Hermione felt the weight of Burzgot’s presence lift the moment he vanished. She exhaled, slower than necessary, letting herself feel the wards settle back into place—warm, steady, familiar. For the first time since the attack, the warehouse felt like hers again.

She dropped into her usual seat beside Padma, tugging a small container from her beaded bag and beginning to unwrap a cold sandwich she’d packed that morning.

The wards pulsed.

The front door creaked open.

“Don’t tell me you were seriously planning on eating that.”

Hermione blinked as Roger stepped through the doorframe, the wards sliding open to admit him as a known visitor. His robes were immaculate as always, but his dark hair was tousled just enough to suggest a breeze—or more likely, styled to look artfully windblown. He stopped just inside, surveying her with a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

He looked at the sandwich in her hand the way one might regard a flobberworm infestation.

Hermione’s jaw ticked. “Hello, Roger.”

He stepped closer, hands in his coat pockets, posture relaxed in the way only deeply confident men—or deeply oblivious ones—could manage. “You didn’t answer my owls.”

She winced guiltily, recalling the no less than three owls he had sent her over the weekend, trying to apologize for his behaviour at the Ministry after the Lift Incident. 

“I’m sorry,” she murmured softly, her eyes sliding away from Roger to catch Malfoy standing near the back shelves, his grey eyes watching Roger with almost predatory intensity. 

Roger appeared oblivious, his focus trained on her. “Yes, well. I thought we could get lunch. Walk to that little café you like. The one on the corner with the terrible seating and decent tea.”

“I brought my lunch.”

He eyed the sandwich. “Which I’m generously offering to rescue you from.”

Padma glanced between them and suddenly found an urgent need to go check on literally anything else. “I’ll be in the back,” she muttered, vanishing before either could stop her.

Roger stepped closer, his voice dropping just slightly. “I thought we should talk.”

Hermione quickly rose to a stand, not liking the feeling of him looming over her.   

Roger didn’t move.

He lingered, posture relaxed, but his eyes sharp. Still too close. Still waiting for her to see reason.

Hermione exhaled, her fingers tightening around the cuffs of her sleeves. She hated the way he was looking at her—like she was being unreasonable, like he was the one being gracious.

Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. The warehouse suddenly felt smaller. She hated that, too.

Roger took another half-step closer. “You know I worry, Hermione. That’s not a crime.”

“It’s not your job,” she murmured, barely audible.

From the other side of the room, parchment rustled—then stopped.

“Sorry,” came Malfoy’s drawl, loud enough to echo. “Are we pretending this isn’t wildly uncomfortable for everyone involved, or…?”

Roger turned, sharp and defensive. “This doesn’t concern you, Malfoy.”

“Really? Because I’m concerned,” Malfoy said, stepping away from the table and crossing the room at an unhurried, entirely deliberate pace. “She looked about five seconds from hexing you into the wall. And frankly, I’d like to keep the structural integrity of the place intact, seeing as we just spent the last three hours fixing it.”

Roger’s jaw tightened. “You think this is funny?”

“No,” Malfoy said, and the humor vanished from his tone. “I think you’re trying to control her. Again. And I think she’s being polite about it.”

Hermione winced. “Malfoy—”

Roger’s face darkened. “You don’t know anything about us.”

“I know enough,” Malfoy said evenly. “I know she doesn’t need rescuing. And she sure as hell doesn’t need managing.”

Hermione’s eyes flashed. “Enough. Both of you.”

She turned, grabbed her bag off the table, and took Roger by the arm.

“Let’s go,” she said through gritted teeth. “Now.”

Roger shot one last glare over his shoulder as she dragged him toward the door. Malfoy offered a lazy wave, smile faint and infuriating.  “See you around, Rog.”

The door closed behind them with a muted thud, and the warehouse was quiet again.

Padma poked her head out from the back, brow arched. “Is the human press release gone?”

Malfoy didn’t look up. “Escorted off the premises.”

Padma snorted, eyes flicking over him in an appraising sweep. “She could do so much better.”

Malfoy nodded absently, still scanning the parchment in front of him. “She could have anyone she wants,” he said softly. “And they still wouldn’t be good enough.”

Padma gave a quiet, knowing hum—and disappeared back into the stacks.

Chapter Text

The cursed hand mirror shimmered ominously under its stasis field, delicate silver filigree warped slightly from centuries of dark magic. It lay innocently enough on the reinforced slab—if one ignored the faint hum it emitted, like distant humming through broken glass.

Hermione stood over it, wand in hand, lips pursed in irritation. Across from her, Malfoy twirled a silver curse probe like he thought it might turn into a sword if he spun it fast enough.

“If you prod that again without isolating the Slevatski wardline,” Hermione snapped, “I swear to Merlin, I will Petrify you myself.”

Malfoy didn’t look up. “It’s a decorative filament, Granger. Harmless. Possibly decorative and idiotic, which is a nice metaphor for this entire setup.”

Hermione inhaled through her nose and resisted the urge to hex him on principle. “It’s a compression shimmer, you arrogant ferret. If you disrupt it without anchoring the tether points, the whole curse structure will collapse—and you’ll be the one getting scraped off the walls.”

“It’s only volatile if you trigger the Vincian lattice first,” Malfoy countered, adjusting the angle of his probe with infuriating confidence. “Which I wasn’t doing, because unlike some people, I don’t cast first and file the incident report later.”

“That’s rich coming from the man who tried to dispel a Helvault seal last week with brute force and a shrug.”

“I had it under control.”

“You imploded the storage cabinet and transfigured the floor into singing seaweed!”

He waved a dismissive hand. “The seaweed was a side effect.”

“It sang in Latin, Malfoy!”

They glared at each other across the table. The mirror gave a soft, melodic chime—like a lullaby played backwards. Both of them stilled.

“…That was the Fimbriated Echo Loop,” Hermione said slowly.

“I’m aware,” Malfoy muttered.

“We haven’t even touched the Vincian lattice yet. Why is it—?”

“Because,” he cut in, “you jostled the recursive spiral when you overcorrected your rune placement. Again.”

“That wasn’t a spiral. It was a binding echo nested inside a false loop.”

“No, it was clearly a misaligned sigil drift—any second-year cursebreaker would know—”

“You’re going to get yourself killed.”

He looked at her, long-suffering. “I feel like it’s happening right now.”

From the far workbench, Padma closed her notes with an audible snap and rose from her stool.

“If one of you ends up accidently shunted into another plane of existence, I’m not filling out the paperwork. I’ll just tell the goblins you eloped.”

“Well, if he’d just focus on doing his actual job instead of nearly blowing us all to smithereens…” Hermione began, before Malfoy cut her off.

“My job is to make sure you are doing your job… which you clearly aren’t, since you’ve somehow managed to misread a binding echo, ignore a reactive shimmer, and insult my intelligence in the span of five minutes.”

Hermione scoffed. “Insulting your intelligence requires the assumption that it exists.”

Padma sighed, long and suffering, and began gathering her things. “Okay. Great. This has been emotionally enriching for all of us. I’m going to go check the cursed candlesticks one last time before heading out. Let me know if either of you spontaneously combusts—I'll bring marshmallows.”

She swept out, parchment in hand, leaving Hermione and Malfoy still glowering at each other across the table like two dueling academics with access to explosive materials.  Before Hermione could continue her diatribe, the warehouse door creaked open and Roger stepped inside, brisk and polished as ever in his pressed robes, his expression one of mild concern—and immediate disapproval.

“There you are, darling,” he said, crossing the floor in purposeful strides. “You said you’d be ready twenty minutes ago.” He reached out and plucked a piece of plaster from her curls, looking at it with mild bemusement before flicking it away disdainfully.

Hermione blinked up at him. “Right. Dinner.”

Roger sighed the sigh of the long-suffering boyfriend. “Did you forget?”

“What? No! Absolutely not!” she said with perhaps a touch too much indignation, given she absolutely had.

Behind her, Malfoy gave an audible snort—not even bothering to mask his amusement.

Roger’s icy blue eyes slid to him, something dark passing across his expression before he quickly masked it.  “Ah, Malfoy.  You’re still here too, of course.”  

“I live here now,” Malfoy said flatly. “It’s part of my court-mandated punishment for hubris.”

Roger gave him a long, cold look, his eyes flicking between the tall blonde wizard and Hermione, a hint of reproach in his otherwise bland expression.  “Hermione, we have a reservation at Bellefeuille,” he remarked, his eyes fixed on Malfoy. “If we’re late, they’ll give our table to someone else.”

“Right,” she said, waving a Stasis charm on the mirror and gathering up her various materials from the workbench, cramming them haphazardly into her beaded bag.

Roger’s eyes shifted to her, narrowing slightly as he took in the state of her. “You’re covered in containment dust,” he said, voice laced with faint horror. “And your hair’s doing that—thing again.”

Malfoy snorted softly, then coughed to cover it.

Hermione did not kill either of them. But it was close.

“I’ll just grab my cloak,” she muttered, turning away before either man could say another word. Behind her, the mirror gave another faint chime, the shimmer of its curse pulsing gently—like it was waiting for round two.

“I’m just saying, darling… you need to be careful,” Roger murmured, sipping his wine and flicking his fingers to dismiss the hovering waiter like an afterthought. “He can’t be trusted.”

Hermione smiled politely at the waiter as he refilled her glass, following Roger’s subtle nod. “I’m always careful, Roger. I did survive a war, after all.”

He leaned back, studying her over the rim of his glass, candlelight catching in his carefully tousled hair and calculating blue eyes. “Precisely my point, love. You need to remember who fought on the other side of that war.”

Her grip on the stem of her glass tightened, a flicker of heat rising in her chest. “You don’t need to remind me, Roger.  I was there.  I lived it.  And Malfoy was a child—we all were. He had no choices but bad ones – and even so, at the Manor that night, he didn’t give us up. He had every reason to, and he didn’t. He bought us time.”

Roger set his glass down with a soft clink, leaning in, voice lower. Sharper. “You talk like he saved you. Like looking the other way made him some kind of hero. But did he stop her, Hermione? Did he raise his wand when his aunt carved into your skin? Or did he just stand there and do nothing—because it was easier?”

The blood drained from her face. Her fingers curled over her forearm, instinctively covering the scar beneath her sleeve.

“Nothing about that night was easy,” she said quietly. “Not for any of us. And he didn’t look the other way, Roger.  I saw him, while I was pinned down on that floor I saw him – and he looked just as scared as I was.”  She paused, drawing a careful, shaky breath.  “Malfoy testified—under Veritaserum—that he and his family were under constant threat. If he had tried to help me… if he’d so much as flinched in my direction, he and his parents would have been dead before the end of the night.”  She met his gaze, steady and cold. “Tell me, Roger—what choice would you have made at sixteen?”

Roger didn’t answer right away. His jaw flexed, a muscle twitching in his cheek as he looked away, reaching for his wineglass like it might offer a better response.

Hermione watched him, fingers loosening from around her scar. Why am I defending Malfoy? The question scraped through her mind uninvited. It wasn’t like she liked him. Merlin knew they’d been basically at each other’s throats for weeks at work. And yet…

She drew a breath, trying to clear the fog of emotion that had crept in. “It’s easy to judge people when you’ve never had to make that kind of choice,” she said, quieter now. “It’s easy to decide who should’ve been braver when you’ve never stood in their shoes.”

Roger looked up sharply. “Is that what this is? Empathy?” His voice had an edge to it now—sharp and brittle, like something cracking just beneath the surface. “You always do this—rationalize, explain, give people the benefit of the doubt until they burn you for it.”

She set her glass down, the chime of crystal against stone sharper than it needed to be. “And you always look for someone to blame. Someone to be the villain, so you can feel righteous. Even when it doesn’t fit.”

Roger exhaled sharply through his nose, then leaned in again, voice low but biting. “This isn’t just about right or wrong, Hermione. Not anymore. People are watching. I’m the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister—do you have any idea how it looks to be seen dining, working, socializing with someone who’s cozying up to Draco bloody Malfoy?”

Her head snapped toward him.

“I’m not cozying up to anyone,” she said icily. “I’m doing my job.”

“And I’m trying to protect both of us,” he snapped, all pretense of charm stripped from his tone now. “You’ve been seen with him at the Ministry, at Gringotts—people are talking. Whispers about old allegiances, about blurred lines. Merlin, Hermione, you’re too clever not to realize what this could do to me—to us—if you keep playing at sympathy with a Death Eater’s son.”

Her jaw clenched. “So that’s what this is about? Your precious career?”

Roger didn’t flinch. “It’s about perception. Which matters. You don’t just get to play the war heroine and then parade around with the likes of him and expect no consequences.”

Something inside her cracked—clean, sharp, final.

She pushed her chair back, the legs scraping loudly against the polished floor. The noise turned heads, but she didn’t care.

“Draco Malfoy is not the enemy.  Not anymore,” she said, voice low and shaking with fury. “And if your political ambitions can’t survive me treating someone with basic decency, then maybe you should reconsider which side of history you’re still fighting on.”

“Hermione…”

“No.” She grabbed her bag and stood. “You’re not worried about me, Roger. You’re worried about optics. And I’m not your liability. Not anymore.”

He rose partway, reaching for her wrist. “Don’t do this. Not here.”

She stepped back, out of reach. “It’s already done.”

Then she turned on her heel and walked out, the heat of everyone’s eyes on her back, the faint clink of wineglasses and whispered speculation chasing her into the night.

In the end, she couldn’t face the silence of her cottage.

Not after yet another scene with Roger. Not with his voice still echoing in her ears—measured, condescending, calculated. The clink of wine against crystal like punctuation to every veiled accusation.

So she didn’t go home.

Instead, she stepped through the Floo into the familiar, lived-in warmth of Grimmauld Place. The sitting room greeted her with its usual mix of mismatched charm and inherited chaos: the ancient tapestry still half-charred from some long-forgotten duel, the squashed chesterfield draped with one of Molly Weasley’s lopsided knitted blankets, and the faint scent of cinnamon and soot lingering from someone’s attempt at magical mulled mead.

Hermione stood for a long moment just inside the grate, breathing it in.

Her fingers brushed the back of the couch as if anchoring herself to something solid, something that wouldn’t demand more from her than she had left to give. The tight coil of restraint she’d kept since dessert began to unravel. Her throat burned.

Fucking Roger.

How dare he?

It wasn’t as if she’d chosen Malfoy as a partner. But she hadn’t complained (ok, maybe just a little). But she had accepted it. Adapted. Because that’s what she always did. Because she was practical. Reliable. Because being a professional meant doing the hard thing and not flinching.

And—if she was being honest, though wild Thestrals couldn’t drag the truth from her lips—Malfoy had been… brilliant.

Infuriating. Condescending. Arrogant to an operatic degree. But brilliant. Sharp, efficient, deeply knowledgeable. They’d accomplished more in three weeks than she and Padma had in three months. The cursed mirror was nearly neutralized—the final piece from the Lestrange vault. Soon, they'd move on to the last remaining Pureblood vaults left untouched since the war.

But none of that mattered to Roger. Not the work. Not the nuance. Not her judgment.

Just the optics. Just how she made him look.

The silence stretched—and with it came the familiar ache. Not just anger. Not just exhaustion.

Regret.

She hated it, but it was there, stubborn and bitter: the whisper of another relationship crumbling to dust. Another man who thought he loved her until her strength became inconvenient. Until her independence bruised his ego. Until she outgrew the shape he wanted to fit her into.

It was hard not to wonder if the problem was her.

If something about her just didn’t fit anymore. Not with Gringotts. Not with Roger. Not with any of it.

Her friends were building lives—families, chaos, love—and she was still here. Still folding herself smaller for men who would never understand her. Still walking out of restaurants alone.

Upstairs, a door slammed.

Then stomping.

Then the unmistakable sound of James yelling, “YOU SAID TWENTY MINUTES!”

Followed by Harry’s slightly more restrained, “It’s a toothbrush, not a Portkey—stop hexing your brother!”

Hermione let out a breath and let the noise pass through her like weather. Her fingers trailed along the back of the couch, grounding herself in texture and wool.

She didn’t bother to sit. Just stood there, shoes dangling from one hand, tension radiating off her in silent waves.

Behind her, the kitchen door swung open.

Ginny emerged, wand in one hand, half-eaten biscuit in the other, eyebrows already halfway to the ceiling. She took one look at the heels, the dress, the smudged eyeliner—and the expression—and didn’t even bother with pleasantries.

“Alright... what in the bleeding fuck has dear Roger done now?”

Hermione’s laugh came out brittle. “Oh, I’m done with Roger.”

Ginny nodded like she’d been waiting for it. “That’s the voice of a woman who’s either buried a body or decided to stop pretending her boyfriend isn’t an utter twat waffle.”

“He accused me of jeopardizing his political image. Because of Malfoy.” She flexed her jaw. “As if I’m a liability he has to manage.”

Ginny’s nostrils flared. “Please tell me you broke up with him in front of people.”

“Half the restaurant,” Hermione muttered. “Right before dessert.”

“Legend,” Ginny said, not missing a beat.  “I’ll get the wine.” 

Hermione collapsed onto the chesterfield with a sigh, arms folded over her midsection. “I swear to Merlin, Ginny. I keep choosing the wrong ones. Or maybe… maybe I just am the wrong one.”

Ginny stopped mid-turn, her hand tightening around the edge of the doorframe. She looked at Hermione—really looked at her—and the scowl melted into something fierce and loyal and unshakeable.

“No,” she said, voice sharp with certainty. “Absolutely fucking not.”

Hermione blinked.

“You are Hermione-fucking-Granger,” Ginny continued, storming back into the room and planting herself in front of the couch like she was about to lead a revolution. “You survived a war, rose to the top of a traditionally male-dominated industry, and you’re currently singlehandedly ridding the wizarding world of the relics of not one, but two wars while working with a reformed Death Eater and still managing to look like a goddamn renaissance portrait in heels.”

Hermione opened her mouth, but Ginny steamrolled right over her.

“If Roger Davies can’t handle that, then he can piss off back to his little press briefings and pretend he’s important.”  Ginny’s voice gentled. “You’re not the wrong one, love. He was. Now. Wine?”

Hermione nodded, the ache in her chest softening just slightly. “Gods, yes.”

“Thought so.” Ginny turned for the kitchen again, already muttering. “Red, obviously. Strong and judgmental. Like us.”

Hermione let her head fall back against the cushion and closed her eyes. Upstairs, something exploded.

“Everything’s fine!” Harry called faintly. “Nobody’s bleeding!”

Ginny didn’t even break stride. “Yet,” she muttered.

Hermione’s lips twitched. Just a little. But it was the first real smile of the night.