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London, UK | Tuesday, 28 May 2002

“Level Four, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, incorporating the…”

The cool voice of the lift announcer fades away as I walk swiftly toward my office. The floor is quiet — almost no one is in so early in the morning — and I take my time putting on a pot of coffee in the little lounge area. A slight rustling announces the magical arrival of the Daily Prophet, appearing from thin air on the low table beside the well-worn armchair. I snag it and start flipping through as the percolator finishes its business. Waving my wand around the cabinets of the kitchen-like corner, cream and sugar fill my cup halfway before I even bother to add coffee. I’m really in it for the flavour, anyway — the warmth and cosiness of a sweet cuppa so early in the morning. The caffeine does little for me.

On the front cover, Tiberius McClaggen smiles his oily smile in a loop, the magical photograph featuring him in his office. He looks very much the man of power: lord of all he surveys with his hands on the desk top and important-looking papers strewn artfully about. The headline reads MCCLAGGEN MAKES MOVES FOR MAGICAL MIGHT. I nearly gag as I sip my coffee and start flipping through the rest of the paper.

The Holyhead Harpies are having a stellar season. Astoria Greengrass announces her engagement to Prentice Shaftsbury, a wealthy pureblood from Essex. France is set to host the next Quidditch World Cup. Goblins in Germany are advocating for suffrage. A bombing at a MACUSA office in Atlanta, Georgia has been tied to an American terrorist organisation called PAX—  

“Good morning, Miss Granger.”

I jolt at the deep voice behind me and a bit of coffee sloshes out over my fingers. Looking up, I see Kingsley Shaklebolt smiling down at me and place a hand over my pounding heart. 

“Merlin, Minister,” I breathe, shaking out the paper from where I had crushed it against my chest. “How do you move so quietly?” He offers me a deep chuckle, but there is none of the usual warmth in his eyes.

“Years of practice,” he says. Tilting his head toward my office door, he continues, “Can we…?”

“Oh! Of course.” I glance around the office and see people are starting to gather, hovering around co-workers’ desks and common areas to engage in morning chit-chat. Kingsley obviously has something to discuss that he would rather keep quiet. I lead the way into my office, setting down my cup and the Prophet before taking up my chair as Kingsley takes the guest seat. At the minister’s solemn expression, I ask, “What is it?” He shifts in his chair.

“I’ve just received word that Lucius Malfoy,” the name sends an unbidden shiver through me, “has died.”

Oh.

“Died?” I repeat and immediately feel stupid. I knew he had been ill — his health had been in decline ever since he went to Azkaban — but hadn’t known it was that serious. “When? There’s nothing in the paper.” I flip the Prophet over to scan it again.

“No, I’m sure there isn’t. Narcissa wants to keep it quiet, but that won’t last long. It was early this morning, around three-AM. I was just informed.” Kingsley folds his hands in his lap and stares down at his thumbs, his lips pursed in deep thought. “It will be in the evening edition, though.”

“Oh.” My brow furrows as I stare down at the blotter on my desk, absolutely covered with papers, files, and envelopes. This is interesting news, but I’m not exactly sure what to do with it.

“Of course,” Kingsley starts, his voice low and slow as always, “this affects the election next month.” Oh, bugger. My shoulders fall in exhausted frustration. “All current members of the Wizengamot must be present before a general election can take place. If the Malfoy seat isn’t filled, the election cannot take place and Tiberius McClaggen will almost certainly win his re-election to Chief Warlock in the autumn.”

“That would be a disaster.” At the moment, the Wizengamot is occupied by representatives from twenty-one of the remaining Sacred Twenty-Eight families. Those seats have been passed down through primogeniture for centuries, but the remaining twenty-nine seats are for duly elected representatives. “We need to fill the four seats up for election with reformists. If they’re empty in the fall, the traditionalists will maintain their majority.” I gesture to the newspaper on my desk. “Blood supremacy is gaining more and more traction these days. This American group, Purebloods Against eXtinction…” I let out a disgusted scoff. PAX. Latin for peace. “It’ll only get worse.”

Kingsley nods sagely; of course, he knows all of this already.  “As Minister for Magic, I’m not really supposed to endorse any candidate for any office.” A slow, secret smile creeps onto Kinglsey’s face. “That being said, you have my full support.” I feel my cheeks warm.

“Thank you, Kingsley. That means a lot.” I’ve had a fairly successful campaign for one of those four representative seats over the past six months. Frankly, being a war heroine does sometimes have its advantages. But even though my election to office is starting to feel imminent, the current members of the Wizengamot must all be present for the swearing-in to take place. Hence, the hold up on the election itself. 

“Brightest Witch of her Age, Order of Merlin: First Class,” Kingsley recites, finishing with a hopeful, “Youngest Chief Warlock in the history of the Wizengamot.” My neck flushes, and I glance down again, deflecting his esteem. My father had always had the same way of casually praising me. It made me feel confident and capable, coming from such a successful man as Dr. Granger. The same is true of Kingsley and his matter-of-fact way of holding me up. 

It does sometimes add an unintended level of pressure.

“Maybe one day, Kingsley,” I say. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“A fine step on your path to becoming Minister.” The smile he gives me is full of pride and surety and it makes me miss my father very much. 

“Who takes over the Malfoy seat now?” I ask, hoping to move away from this surprisingly-emotional conversational turn. “Surely not Narcissa?”

“No, she’s a Malfoy by marriage. She can’t inherit,” Kingsley answers. There is a long, heavy pause. “It’s Draco.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “But he’s missing. I had started to assume that he had died.”

“According to Gringotts, young Mister Malfoy is still alive.” Well, that is surprising. No one has heard from Draco Malfoy since he left the UK almost three years ago. “He stands to inherit his father’s title, the Malfoy financial holdings, as well as a seat in the Wizengamot chamber.”

“Well… has anyone tried to find him?”

“Many, in fact, but their searches turned up fruitless.” Kingsley uncrosses his legs and places his large hands on his knees. “The last Ministry attempt to find him was more than a year ago. Wherever Mister Malfoy is, he clearly does not want to be found.” The Minister stands and brushes off his robes, easily reclaiming his regal air. “I’m not sure what the solution to your problem is, Miss Granger. But I am confident that if anyone can find one, it is you.” With that, he leaves my office and closes the door behind him.

This is an interesting development. With Lucius in Azkaban, he would have sent a proxy to represent him in the Wizengamot, along with Avery and Burke. But now that he’s dead, and Draco has not yet claimed his seat — which he will have to do in person — the election will be postponed.

For the past two years, I have been burning the candle at both ends to build a bridge between the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures and the International Confederation of Wizards. So many advances have been made since the Second Wizarding War; laws and amendments passed to give rights to non-human Magical Beings, and Britain is paving the way in many respects. France isn’t far behind, but the rest of the world is slow to welcome Goblins and House Elves into the voting populace.

Tiberius McClaggen and his ilk are campaigning hard against it. A far-right group here in the UK called the Third Order is even going so far as to make a distinction between non-human Magical Beings, Humans with Magic, and Wizards. It is nothing more than a disgusting return to blood supremacy. The whole thing makes my blood boil.

I have the votes. The Wizengamot stands poised to flip from traditionalist control to reformist. And I’ll be damned if I let Draco Malfoy be the one thing standing between me and making the necessary change in the Wizarding World.

I try to work for a while — I have so much to do — but I can’t focus. So after an hour or so, I get up and head back toward the lifts, not thinking much about my destination. Out of habit, I select the button for level two, but when the overhead voice rings out that I’ve reached the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, I hesitate. I don’t need to talk to Harry. He’ll only get defensive about Malfoy and he’ll start in on why the whole system is rigged and I should be put into office straight away…

His enthusiasm is much appreciated, but not what I need right now. I need to clear my head. I need advice.

I want my dad.

I can’t have him, so I head for the next best thing.

“Arthur?” I knock softly on the door of Mr. Weasley’s tiny office. He looks up immediately and the look of concentration on his face fades into a gentle smile when he sees me.

“Hermione! To what do I owe the pleasure?” He comes around his desk and grabs an armful of files and miscellany from the guest chair, depositing the mess onto his already hazardous desk. “I actually had a question for you about the proper use of a… a thimble, I believe it’s called?” He digs around in the pocket of his cardigan and produces a small silver thimble, holding it in his hand like some sort of precious object.

I swallow a giggle. “They’re for covering your fingertips while you’re sewing,” I say, reaching to take the thing from his palm. I slip it over the tip of my pointer finger and mime stitching something together. “They protect your finger from the end of the needle, especially if you need to push it a bit to get through the fabric.” I hand it back and Arthur places the thimble over his own finger with an expression of awe.

“I see! And do Muggles wear one of these on each finger, to protect them, as you say?”

“No, usually just the one.”

“How fascinating.” Arthur twirls the thimble on his fingertip for a moment before tucking it back into his pocket. “Well, that’s very helpful, thank you. I shall be sure to note in my report that they are not, in fact, to be used as violent projectiles.”

“I should say not.”

“So,” he claps his hands together and leans against the edge of his desk, “tell me: what brings you down to my neck of the woods?”

I shift awkwardly in my seat. “Well, I have a bit of a conundrum and I’m not sure how to proceed.”

“Do tell.”

I give him all the details Kinglsey gave me. “The problem is,” I finish, “that I don’t know how to find Malfoy any better than anyone else does. If aurors and Ministry officials haven’t been able to find him, how am I supposed to?”

Arthur merely smiles. “That Kingsley, he’s a clever man.” At my questioning look, he goes on: “He already told you how to find him.”

“He did?”

Arthur nods. “Gringotts. The Goblins located him straight away.”

My brow furrows at this. “You mean, they can find anybody, even if they don’t have an address?”

“They can. They’re magic is more… intuitive than ours,” he explains. “Like House Elves. A House Elf wouldn’t need to know your address or even your name to find you — they’re bound by blood magic and familial loyalties. Goblins can’t find anybody at any time, but they can find someone when they need them for bank business.”

“Like to execute a will?”

“Exactly.” Arthur nods sagely. “If Gringotts has official business with Draco Malfoy, they can locate him in order to conduct that business — have him sign papers or acknowledge his inheritance or something of that sort. Afterwards, when Draco has moved on with his life and possibly changed locations, they wouldn’t have any way to track him.”

I mull this over. “But they keep records, surely.”

“Oh, they keep records alright,” Arthur says. “Better than anyone else.”

“But they won’t just hand it over.”

“Probably not.”

I chew on my lip. “How can I find out which Goblin handled Malfoy’s case?”

A slow, proud grin takes over Arthur’s face. “Bill would know.”

“Oh, of course!” I say, realisation dawning. “Do you suppose…?”

“I’ll owl him right now.”

***

The first time I ever entered the lobby at Gringotts, my parents and I were all nearly vibrating with excitement and curiosity. Now, I feel a different type of apprehension altogether. After the Dragon Incident, I had thought that I would surely be banned from the bank. However, Bill Weasley had advocated for Harry, Ron, and me on the grounds that, even though Goblins generally minded their own business and did not engage in wizard affairs, the defeat of Lord Voldemort benefited us all, regardless of race.

Marching confidently across the parquet floor, I approach a teller who greets me with a silent nod. “Hello,” I say brightly. “I would like to speak to Farnok, please.”

“For what reason, Miss Granger?” comes the Goblin’s oily reply. His beetle-black eyes sparkle as they appraise me. 

“Official Ministry business, I’m afraid,” I answer cordially, indicating the insignia on my robes. “It will only take a few minutes, I assure you.” The Goblin narrows his eyes and curls his lip, clearly not enjoying my overly-pleasant attitude. All the same, he steps slowly down from his pedestal and gestures for me to follow him through the lobby and into a smaller (though no less imposing) corridor lined with dark mahogany doors with no handles. I count thirteen doors before he stops and holds up a regal hand.

“Wait here,” he instructs, and then he leaves, headed toward the far end of the hallway. 

I wait. After fifteen minutes, I start to lose my patience. But I am nothing if not determined and I will do whatever it takes to win this election. Well, as long as it’s legal.

Or mostly legal, I mentally amend. Some rules are too stringent, even for me.

My musings on the necessity of certain illegalities are interrupted by the sharp clearing of a throat at around the height of my waist. “Miss Granger,” says this new Goblin, his voice less menacing and more bored than the one before.

“Farnok, I presume?” Farnok gives one curt nod before reaching out his long fingers to the solid wood of the door, where a shining brass doorknob fizzles into existence just as his hand wraps around it. Farnok steps into his office and I follow. 

“What is the purpose of your visit to Gringotts, Miss Granger?” Not What can I do for you or How can I help you? No matter.

“I need to speak to you about a missing wizard,” I say. “I understand that you have personally seen him very recently.”

Farnok’s voice practically crawls, he speaks so slowly. “Who might that be?”

“Draco Malfoy,” I say, keeping my own tone light. Farnok contemplates me for a moment before snapping his long fingers. A tan folder materialises in the palm of his waiting hand and I can see Malfoy, Draco L. written across the small white label on the front.

“And what is it you wish to know about Lord Malfoy?”

It takes everything in me not to scoff. Lord Malfoy, indeed. 

“His whereabouts.”

Farnok stares at me for a long moment, as if contemplating his reply. “I’m afraid that is out of the question.”

Fuck.

“It is actually rather pressing that I find him,” I insist. “You see, the Ministry—”

“What concerns the Ministry is of no concern to Gringotts,” Farnok says, blinking as slowly as he speaks.

“Mister Farnok,” I press on, “it really is of the utmost importance that I find Mist— Lord Malfoy.” I close my eyes to keep from rolling them. “The Wizenagmot is about to meet for an election and if the Malfoy seat is not filled, the election will be postponed. I am trying to—”

“I am aware of your campaign, Miss Granger.”

That surprises me, but I plow on. “Then you are also aware of my efforts to give suffrage and other civil liberties to Magical Beings such as yourself.”

“I am, yes.” Nothing more. A long pause stretches between us.

“And… you’re not interested in helping me bring Lord Malfoy back to the UK?” I ask, dancing around the real issue: You’re not interested in helping me give civil rights to Goblins?

“The political machinations of Wizard-kind are of no consequence to me, Miss Granger. I think you will find that most Goblins are of this opinion.”

“How can—” I stop myself before I can get indignant. Squeezing my hands into fists and counting to three, I bring my temper back under control. “Farnok,” I start again, “if it matters to even one Goblin, House Elf, or other intelligent being, I am determined to arm them with the rights and freedoms afforded to the rest of us.”

Farnok purses his lips and twines his fingers together, bracing his elbows on his desk and offering me an expression of almost malicious disinterest. “Regardless of your political aspirations, Miss Granger, it is against the bank’s policy to release private information except to authorised persons. Unless you find yourself married to Lord Malfoy or his widowed mother in the coming days, you will not have access to such information.”

He stands slowly from his chair, clearly about to dismiss me. “If I could just—”

“I’m afraid not, Miss Granger.” Farnok makes his way to the door of his office and I panic just as he reaches out to the knob.

“Stupefy!” The goblin freezes with his arm extended and I stand frozen with my wand in my hand. I hadn’t even meant to grab it. “Shit,” I hiss. “Shit, shit, shitshitshit…”

Oh, this is not good. I’ve just attacked a bank employee. Surely security will be on the way in no time…

Alright, don’t spiral. You’re in this situation now, what are you going to do about it?

I’ve already crossed the Rubicon, there’s no turning back, no simple Sorry for stunning you, I promise I wasn’t trying to rob your bank. Again.

I speed over to the desk and flip open Malfoy’s file. His permanent address is listed as Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire, UK, which is not helpful at all. Beneath that, however, is listed last known residence and an address on Wilshire — no T — Boulevard in Los Angeles, California.

“Los Angeles?” I hear myself say out loud. Then I quickly glance back at Farnok, who is still standing frozen by the door, but will soon be mobile again once the spell wears off. I point my wand at Malfoy’s file and say quietly, “Gemino.” An exact copy appears on the desktop next to the original and I grab it up, quickly checking that the papers inside have also been copied. I stuff the folder into my beaded bag — the undetectable extension charm still in place after all these years — and turn back to Farnok.

With an apologetic wince he cannot appreciate, I levitate him back over to his desk to stand beside his chair as if he has just stood up. His black eyes are narrowed viciously at me. “I’m sorry,” I hiss. “I panicked. It’s no excuse, I know, I just—” I stop myself again. Stop rambling, Granger. My hand shakes and I have to take three deep, calming breaths. I hate memory charms — it’s such a violation. But what other choice do I have?

I let out a steadying breath before pointing my wand at Farnok once more and mutter, “Obliviate.” The anger leaves his eyes like a dissipating fog and I sit back down in the guest chair as the stunner finally wears off and Farnok regains movement. 

Blinking at me as if waking from a sleep, he tilts his head in question, and furrows his brow as he notices his outstretched hand.

“I understand, Farnok,” I say as if we have been talking all the while. “I appreciate your time, but I’ll simply have to find some other way to locate Mister Malfoy.” I stand and take Farnok’s hand in an awkward shake before stepping back toward the door.

“Yes,” he says slowly. “Yes, Miss Granger, you will.”

“Have a good day, Farnok,” I call, slipping through the door as quickly as possible. It clicks shut behind me and I struggle to keep from running as I exit the bank.

***

“You did what?” Harry’s voice is shockingly high as he stares at me, wide-eyed, across the booth in The Gilded Griffon.

“Sshh!” I hiss. “Keep it down, will you?” I reach into my bag and extract Malfoy’s file, placing it on the table between us. “I had to, Harry, it’s the only way I could think to find him.”

Harry groans and places his head in his hands, glasses sliding up into his perpetually-messy hair. “Hermione, I thought we were done robbing banks and, you know, generally breaking laws.”

“Generally speaking, we are,” I agree. Then I raise my shoulders and say with an innocent expression, “But sometimes, laws really do get in the way—”

“Oh my god, Hermione!” Harry chides and I shush him again. “You’re a lawyer now. I’m an auror — you can’t tell me things like this!”

“Aren’t you curious where he’s gone?”

“Where who’s gone?” We both glance up as Ron reaches the table. He slides into the booth beside me and doles out two of the three pints in his hands. Taking a generous sip from his own, Ron asks, “What’re we talking about?”

“Draco Malfoy,” I say and roll my eyes when Ron gags.

“Ugh, no. We’re not curious where he’s gone.”

“Well…” Harry starts.

“You are?” Ron is aghast.

“I mean,” Harry casts about for something to say, “he was a good auror.” Ron gives a pfft and waves his hand dismissively. “He was! And then he just… disappeared. It’s weird.”

“Good auror or not,” Ron says, “he was still a total dick.”

“That is true,” Harry acquiesces. 

“Good auror, total dick, it doesn’t matter,” I say. “I need him to be present for the election in July.”

“There’s no way around it?” Harry asks. I shake my head.

“The Wizengamot can’t swear in new members without a full chamber, so the popular vote would be for nothing,” I say. “If the election is invalidated, the traditionalists will maintain the majority and Tiberius McClaggen will win Chief Warlock. Again.”

“And then the shit would really hit the fan,” Ron mutters, taking another sip of his drink. Harry and I turn our surprised gazes on him at his turn of phrase. “What?”

“The shit would hit the fan?” Harry repeats, a laugh on his voice. “Where did you hear that?”

“Susan,” Ron says. “Well — her mum. She says it all the time.” At our continued confusion, he goes on, “She’s a Muggle. But she’s American so she keeps saying No-Maj and it just sounds wrong.”

“Malfoy’s in America,” I say. “In Los Angeles.”

“He is?” Harry’s curiosity gets the better of him and he pulls the file toward him, flipping it open to scan the details.

“What’s that?” Ron jerks his chin to indicate the file.

“Malfoy’s records from Gringotts,” I answer.

“Where’d you get that?”

“Gringotts, obviously.”

“No, I mean,” Ron makes an annoyed sound, “I mean how did you get that?”

“She stole it,” Harry interjects, eyes never leaving the page in front of him.

“Brilliant!” Ron is grinning like a madman. 

“Ronald…” I shake my head and hide my smile. “I don’t know if it’s technically stealing. It’s a copy—”

“Bloody hell,” Harry suddenly exclaims. “Is that what Malfoy’s worth?” He flips the folder around and Ron and I lean over to see the line Harry is indicating with his finger. It reads Total Value of Estate Holdings and then a truly ungodly number. 

“Good Lord…” I mutter.

“Crikey,” Ron says, his voice low and awed. He looks up at Harry. “That’s more than you, mate.”

“I know,” Harry agrees with equal amazement. Harry is very open and generous with his money, donating at every available turn and sponsoring friends’ business endeavours. It never seems to bother him to talk about money because he wasn’t raised to be shy about it. I, on the other hand, was brought up decidedly middle-class and it always makes me squirmy when someone pays my way. Even Harry.

Ron is much better off than he had been growing up, what with the success of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. But the Malfoys, while obviously wealthy, never make enough of a show for anyone to hazard a guess at their worth. Harry is new money — always letting people know how much he has. The Malfoy family is old money — to them, it is like it doesn’t even exist. 

“He could do a lot for your campaign,” Ron is saying, nodding at the paper before us. “Buy advertising. Or votes.”

“I would never!” I respond, almost offended. How can he think I would ever want someone to buy my way into office?

“I know you wouldn’t,” Ron goes on, a placating expression on his face. “But he could. It’d be a good way for him to show he’s abandoned his Death Eater values.”

“He’s done plenty of that,” Harry interjects. “He bought that new wing at St. Mungo’s—”

“His mother did that,” says Ron. 

“And he sponsors the Remembrance Ball every year.”

“Again, Narcissa.”

“It’s all the same money, Ron.”

“Yeah, but it’s different,” Ron insists. “Narcissa makes efforts all the time to show she’s sorry, but never a word from Lucius. And Malfoy’s been missing for three years. You can’t say he’s done much to show his penance if he isn’t even in the country. Hell, I thought he might’ve died.”

“He became an auror to bring an end to the Death Eaters,” Harry goes on. “Malfoy brought Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange into custody and single-handedly organised the taskforce to stop Greyback’s werewolf army.”

“How did we get to you defending Malfoy?” Ron interrupts, shaking his hands as if to physically clear the air.

“How did we get to arguing about Malfoy at all?” I ask and they both look at me as if just remembering that I am here. “We all spoke at his trial. He did good work as an auror, there’s no denying it. How he spends his money is his business, but it’s discussions like this one that made him leave England in the first place.” The papers never left Malfoy alone. They were always writing about what he wasn’t doing, rather than what he was. Painting him as some sort of dark horse in contrast to his mother’s good deeds sold a lot of papers. “How long is he supposed to beg for forgiveness?”

“He could try once,” Ron mutters. I strike his shoulder with the back of my hand and Harry gives him a chastising look. “Fine. You’re right. Actions speak louder than words and all that.” We all take a drink, silently agreeing to end the argument.

“So,” Harry finally breaks the quiet, “what’re you going to do? Now that you know where he is.”

“Write to him, I suppose,” I say softly. 

“Fuck that,” Ron says abruptly. “Go get him.”

I choke on my drink. “What?”

“Yeah, it could take ages for him to reply in writing,” Harry agrees. “And what if he says ‘no’ and you run out of time?”

“I can’t just… go to Los Angeles,” I insist. “Just show up at his door and say, ‘Hello, Malfoy. Long time, no see. Fancy coming back to the country you left and the people who hate you to help me, a girl you’ve despised for ten years, win an election?’”

“Hermione.” Ron’s tone is firm. Serious. “You’ve got to win. You can’t let McClaggen take office. He’s no better than a Death Eater.”

“But—”

“Hermione.” Now it’s Harry’s turn. “You just robbed a bank to find out where he is. You’re not going to go take Malfoy by the ear and drag him back here?”

My gaze flicks between them both. “Can you two come with me?” Their faces fall.

“I can’t,” Ron says. “George is home with Angelina and the baby for another month so I’m running the shop by myself.”

“Harry?” I look at him imploringly.

“I can’t either, Hermione,” he says apologetically. “I’ve got another week in my training course for wandless combat magic. If I miss a single day, I’ll have to start all over next year.” My heart falls. Harry, Ron, and I have always gone on our adventures together. But they’re growing up — they have their responsibilities and relationships and I… I have my job. “But,” Harry perks up, “I can put you in touch with the head of the CIA’s Magical Investigation Department. Make it an official mission.”

“Ooh,” Ron exclaims. “Agent Granger!”

“I don’t know…”

“Oh, go on, ‘Mione,” he goes on. “You can do it. Hell, we’d be dead without you.” Harry nods enthusiastically. “You can do anything.” I smile as Ron wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me against his side in a warm, encouraging hug.

“Alright,” I say, cheeks warm from their affection. “I’ll let Kingsley know and I’ll go Monday morning.”

They let out loud cheers of excitement and we bring our drinks together in a toast.

***

Harry’s contact with the CIA is called Augustus Andrews. Apparently, they met last year during a conference with the International Confederation of Wizards. “He’s a good bloke, I reckon,” Harry says. “Bit full of himself. But he gets the job done. His people respect him, which is the most you can hope for in any job, really.” He dials the phone in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, double-checking the number on a slip of paper.

“What time is it there?” Ron asks, leaning against the island.

I check my watch. “Should be about four-PM.”

A loud whoosh announces Ginny’s return through the Floo in the parlour and she comes through a moment later with a cheerful, “Hiya.” She leans over and gives Harry a kiss while he waits with the phone held to his ear. “Who’re we calling?” she asks in a whisper as she removes her Harpies cloak.

“An American spy,” Ron says.

“Ooh,” Ginny replies with an eager grin. She goes to the sink to fill a glass of water. “Intrigue.”

Harry puts up a hand to silence us all. “Agent Andrews?” We all fall silent. “Yes, hi, it’s — it’s Harry Potter. We met at — yeah, that’s right.” He gives an awkward chuckle, like he always does when people recognise him. “Oh, she’s fine, thanks for asking.” Harry glances at Ginny, who smiles and leans her forearms on the island next to Ron and me. “Actually, I called because I have a bit of a favour to ask…”

“So, why are we phoning an American spy?” Ginny asks. I quickly fill her in on the situation, with Ron helpfully colouring the tale with details about my bank robbery and Malfoy’s worth, and she listens with rapt attention. “So what are you going to do?” she asks.

“She’s gonna go get him, is what,” Ron says firmly. “I’ll be damned if the Ferret is the only reason Hermione can’t take office.”

“Good,” Ginny says with a nod. “Don’t let that slimy git ruin anything else.”

I don’t reply. Bashing Malfoy like this makes me uncomfortable, what with him not even here to defend himself. And for all anyone knows, he could be a completely different person.

“You have?” Harry’s surprised tone cuts through the conversation and we turn our attention back to his phone call. He glances over to me and says, “He knows who Malfoy is.” My ears perk up. Into the phone, he says, “What’d he — oh. Really?” To me: “He was working with the American Auror division.” To Andrews: “A friend of mine — Hermione Granger. That’s actually why I called. She needs to find Malfoy. For, erm, some Ministry business,” Harry skirts. Then, with a chuckle that covers his lie, he says, “To be honest, I’m not entirely sure I understand it. Something to do with the Winzengamot. It’s like your Congress.” He pauses while Andrews talks, nodding all the while. “Oh, sure, hold on.” He looks up at me and says in a low tone, “He wants to talk to you.”

“Oh, alright,” I say, reaching for the phone. But Harry doesn’t hand over the receiver straight away.

“Espionage 101,” he says in a whisper, “it’s always best to play your cards close to the vest. Don’t tell anyone anything they don’t absolutely need to know.”

“I thought you trusted this guy?” Ron hisses, concerned. 

“I do,” Harry answers, but his expression remains serious. “To a certain extent. This is undercover work. Secrets are power.” He nods to me, looking for confirmation, and I nod back before taking the phone and putting it to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Miss Granger?” a deep voice asks.

“Yes,” I say, keeping my voice level. “Agent Andrews, is it?”

“It is.” He sounds relatively chipper — self-assured, like Harry said. “Potter says you’re in need of a favour.”

“Yes,” I reply. “I need to come to America to see if I can find Draco Malfoy.”

“For what purpose? If you don’t mind my asking,” he says quickly.

“Like Harry said, it’s for official Ministry business.” I take a deep breath and stay firm. “I’m afraid I can’t say much more.”

“Well, what exactly is it you need from me?”

“Entry papers, I suppose,” I say. “I have a passport and I’m a government employee. I don’t know if that’s something you can—”

“Oh, sure I can.” I adjust my assessment from self-assured to arrogant. “Just send over a copy of your passport and I’ll take care of it.”

“Oh.” I’m surprised — that was easy. Too easy? “Th-thank you, that’s wonderful.”

“When are you planning to come over?”

“Monday, if possible.”

“Not a problem. Potter can send your information through the ICW’s communications boards.”

“I’ll have him do that first thing in the morning. Thank you again, Agent Andrews.”

“You’re very welcome, Miss Granger.” With that, we end the call and I hang up the receiver.

“Well?” Ginny asks, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“I’m going to America,” I say with a nervous grin. “In four days.”

***

“Welcome to Dulles International Airport. If Washington, DC is your final destination, welcome home. If you are making a connection by Portkey, please continue on to Concourse A.”

The little landing room at the Washington airport swirls in my vision. My stomach turns over and I barely stop myself from getting sick. Ugh. I still have another Portkey — astoundingly another 2,600 miles across one country.

A woman in a blue polyester uniform smiles blandly at me and says, “Welcome to DC. Name?”

“Hermione Granger,” I say thickly. She looks down at a clipboard in her hands and starts scanning until she finds my name.

“Coming from?”

“London. Heathrow.”

“And your pur— oh.” Her eyebrows go up and she looks back up at me. “It says here that you’ve been flagged for questioning.” She tilts her clipboard slightly and I can see a red border surrounding my name, flashing ominously up at me. In the margin, a little text bubble has appeared that says C&I: Hold for questioning.

“What?” I blink at her. I’ve never even been to America before and already they think I’m some sort of terrorist? How paranoid are these people?

“Yeah, says here that you’re being pulled by Customs and Immigration.” The woman looks me over with unmasked curiosity. “An agent will be here shortly.”

“But, I haven’t done anything,” I say nervously. I clutch my beaded bag closer to me on instinct. Not suspicious at all.

The woman merely shrugs and there is a curt knock at the door. It opens and a man in a black suit enters. “Hermione Granger?” he asks.

“Y-yes.”

“Come with me.”

“What is this about?” I ask,

“Just come with me now, sweetheart,” he replies, reaching out a hand to indicate that I should walk through the door ahead of him. I do not.

Sweetheart?

“I absolutely will not.” I find my voice and it is pissed. Off. “Not until you tell me what this is regarding.” The man looks completely put-upon.

“Miss.” Better. “I’m with the CIA. Agent Andrews sent me to meet you here and bring you to his office to liaise with him there.”

“Will it take long? I have another Portkey in a couple of hours.”

“I can’t say.” He lifts his eyebrows and jerks his arm as if to say Well? Are you coming?

“Fine,” I huff. Adjusting my jacket, I put my chin up and assume my most annoyed countenance. The man follows me out of the room and into the bustling magical travel concourse of Dulles International Airport. Wizards and witches jostle about the space, bags floating behind them and struggling not to get separated from their owners. Two large suitcases collide and the man and woman who are responsible for them start a heated argument about who was at fault and proper traffic patterns. We meander past restaurants and shops, shouldering our way through a large group of tourists with I BELIEVE IN MAGIC T-shirts and matching Mickey Mouse ears gathered in front of a gate for Orlando, Florida.

The agent leads the way to an unassuming door that I might have missed if he had not pointed it out. It’s tucked between a currency exchange window and a shop selling over-priced headphones, replete with noise-cancelling long-lasting battery charms. Concealment magic washes over me, making my skin tingle as we pass through. 

Beyond is a drab government office, the sort you see in Muggle films that are just a sea of tan cubicles and plain white walls. At least the Ministry offices have some sort of aesthetic. This place is like walking straight into a manilla folder.

“Where are we?” I ask, following the man down a quiet corridor.

“Langley,” he says over his shoulder. “CIA headquarters.”

“CIA headquarters is inside an airport?” I ask drily. Through the cubicles we go, through another door and then another.

“Of course not,” he scoffs. “We’re in the George Bush Center for Intelligence. We’ve just passed through a portal to Langley, Virginia.”

“How—” Before I can ask more questions, the agent stops in front of a nondescript office door and gestures for me to enter.

A man with reddish-blonde hair sits behind the desk, but he stands when we come in. As he comes around the desk, I can’t help but widen my eyes at the look of him. He is tall. And broad. The freckled hand he reaches out with dwarfs my own when I shake it. He offers me a rather charming smile, perfect white teeth making themselves known beneath a pleasant crinkle of his blue eyes. He reminds me quite a bit of Ron, but there is something missing.

“Miss Granger,” he says. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Agent Andrews, I presume?” 

“The one and only. Thank you, Travis,” he says, nodding toward the man who brought me in. Travis nods in reply and leaves, closing the door behind him, which I don’t necessarily care for. “Please.” Agent Andrews waves at the seat across from his desk, but I remain standing, even as he plops back down into his own chair. His eyes rove over me, narrowing slightly, but he keeps smiling. “It’s nice to put a face to the voice on the other end of the phone.”

“Yes,” I agree. “Thank you for expediting my entry paperwork.”

“Not at all. We’ve been trying to locate Draco Malfoy for almost a year now.”

“You have?” I finally sit, surprised and confused. 

“Absolutely.” Agent Andrews plants his feet and starts swaying gently left and right in his chair, elbows placed casually on the armrests. “When he left the UK, he came to work for us — black ops, top secret stuff.” He waggles his eyebrows as if this information is entertaining. “But he went AWOL last September. Just… disappeared.” He waves his hands in the air with a poof gesture. 

“I had no idea he was working with the American auror division.”

“Oh yeah, and very good, too. Shame we lost him.”

“Well, Agent Andrews—”

“Gus.” He grins and I swallow my retort. Authenticity. That’s what he’s missing. Ron is a very genuine, guileless person and Agent Andrews is… not.

“Well, Gus, again, I appreciate your help getting here so quickly. But I’m on a bit of a tight schedule, so if I’m going to find Malfoy, I’d better—”

“Where are you looking for him?” he interrupts. Again. But he also stops swaying in his chair and he sits forward to place his elbows on the desktop. He is still smiling, but his eyes are cold. I realise I’m being interrogated. There’s a little tickle somewhere in the vicinity of my temporal lobe and I flinch, trying to shake off the feeling. Agent Andrews does not react except to tilt his head in an attempt to maintain eye-contact. He’s a Legilimens, I realise, though he’s not a very good one. Focusing my thoughts on the here and now, I put up a bit of a mental block. I’m no expert in Occlumency, but I know enough to keep my thoughts private. Besides — the use of Legilimency might be legal in the course of an official interrogation, but I am hardly under arrest. 

“I’m not sure,” I lie. “There are a few places he might be, but no one he knew at home seems to be able to pinpoint him.”

“How are you planning to pinpoint him?” Andrews is staring intently at me now, still trying to break through my mental wards. I shrug nonchalantly.

“Basic tracking spells, I suppose. I’ve never hunted anyone down before.” I give a lighthearted chuckle. Bbut, of course, this is also a lie. “Any advice?” I despise playing dumb, but it works. Men like Andrews are rather predictable.

With a little hmm, Andrews purses his lips and sits back in his chair again. “People try to go where you’d least expect them,” he says. “But they usually fail. People are sentimental. They make mistakes and they end up leaving clues.”

I nod as if this is all deeply interesting. But I had learned all this hunting horcruxes, too. Voldemort was surprisingly sentimental, creating patterns all over the place. The CIA doesn’t know as much about Draco Malfoy as I do, which puts me at a huge advantage.

“That’s interesting. Thank you.”

“We’re a little jumpy about unchecked foreign nationals in America at the moment,” Andrews says with a pithy chuckle.

“I can understand why,” I say. “I just read about an incident in Georgia. Terrible.”

“That made British news?” I nod. “I’ll tell you what, Hermione — this PAX organisation is nothing to be fucked with.”

His sudden intensity takes me aback, but I try to remain casual as I carry on. “Well, hopefully I’ll only be a few days before I return to the UK, Malfoy in tow. Two less foreign nationals to worry about.”

“Be sure to let me know if you find him.” Andrews clicks his fingers and a business card appears between them. His easy smile is back in place, less snake-like than the one he had just put on me, but I still don’t trust him. Whatever the reason he wants to find Malfoy, I am determined to find him first. And while I have no reason to suspect that Malfoy will be arrested, he is still a British citizen, and deserves the protection of his native government.

“I’ll do that.” I reach forward and take the card. Perhaps I will keep him somewhat apprised of my progress, but I can still keep my own counsel. It might be helpful to have an ally at the CIA. I stand and Andrews follows suit. “I’ll just be on my way, then. My next Portkey is in an hour or so and I’d like to have some time to relax before I go spinning through space again.”

Agent Andrews gives me a sympathetic little nod, scrunching his face up to say Oh, understood. He holds out his hand and I shake it again, feeling very much like I am still being assessed. “I’ll escort you out,” he says, gesturing for me to exit the office. We wind through the cubicle corridor again and back to the spot where I cam in. A line of doors is situated along one wall, each one labelled with a place name — Pentagon, White House, Capitol. Three are just letters: IAD, BWI, and DCA. Andrews leads me through the IAD door and back out to the busy airport terminal. Agent Andrews turns and smiles down at me, almost as if we are at the end of a date. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Hermione.”

“You, too.” I wrap my hands around the strap of my beaded bag and take a step backward. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Looking forward to it.” Agent Andrews gives me a little salute and slips his hands into his trouser pockets. I glance behind be to avoid bumping into a small child with a ladybug-print suitcase and when I look back up, he’s gone.

Good.

I should have brought a suitcase; it would be less suspicious. But I hadn’t anticipated being under suspicion, so the thought had never occurred to me until now. In one of the too-expensive airport shops, I peruse the selection of luggage and bags. The shop attendant tries his hardest to upsell and expensive rolling suitcase, but I settle on a simple, pink weekend bag. It takes me longer to sort out the American Muggle cash than I care to admit. All the bills are the same size and colour. How is anyone meant to sort through them in a hurry?

My new purchase in hand, I dart into the nearest bathroom and lock myself in the largest stall. Digging through my beaded bag, I take out some things to make myself look more like a traveller — my two emergency changes of clothes, a few books and case files I’m working on, a toiletry bag I keep on hand. Good thing I don’t have to buy all of these things — I mean, why have a nearly never-ending purse if you’re not going to use it, right? Packing the weekend bag makes me look like a regular person; someone who is on a trip rather than a mission.

I spend the two hours until my next Portkey drinking coffee in a Starbucks near the gate and reading through an old book about magical creature law. Most of the laws pertaining to creatures and beings are incredibly outdated and use a lot of language that is considered derogatory by today’s standards. Every twenty minutes or so, the hair on the back of my neck stands up and I look around, certain I’m going to see Agent Andrews or some other bland-suited worker watching me. But there are none.

Back in another tiny Portkey room, a different, but equally un-enthused airport worker greets me and asks for my name.

“Hermione Granger.”

“Going to?”

“Los Angeles.” She hands me a small white disk with the Southwest Airlines logo stamped on it.

“Your Portkey will depart in ten seconds.”

“Thank you,” I say. “And sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“Obliviate.” Twice in a week, I’ve Obliviated an innocent person and it makes my stomach roll worse than any Portkey. When this whole thing is over, I’m done with memory charms. But if I were Agent Andrews, the first thing I would do is ask this woman where I had gone. She shakes her head as the charm hits her and blinks owlishly at me for a moment.

“Name?”

I feel the pull behind my navel and disappear. After a long minute, bouncing around in the strange liminal space between DC and LA, I finally feel my feet touch back down to the ground.

“Welcome to LAX…”

Chapter Text

Los Angeles, CA | Tuesday, 4 June 2002

The address in Malfoy’s file belongs to a tall, tan, concrete building with a pharmacy and convenience store on the ground floor and, I assume, dozens of apartments above. It is such an unassuming structure, not flashy or posh or magical in any way that I can tell. This is a decidedly Muggle part of town, the Magical district being miles away in some place called Santa Monica.

I take a seat in the patio of a little cafe across the street and commence to waiting.

People come and go all morning. Mostly people in suits on their way to work, but as the morning goes on, the street becomes busier and far more casual. There are people in all manner of dress on the sidewalks: tiny denim cutoffs, breezy sundresses, hooded sweatshirts, matching tracksuits, baggy jeans, and so much spandex parades down the street. It is past eleven before something familiar catches my eye.

It is definitely Malfoy — the white-blonde hair is hard to miss. He is taller than I remember, but just as fit as he had been when he was working as an auror. Malfoy is walking — well, sauntering is a better word for it — sauntering down the street at a relaxed pace, smoking a cigarette and casually glancing at shop windows as he passes. As he raises his hand to take his cigarette from his lips, I can see the barest hint of the Dark Mark on his forearm.

Definitely Malfoy.

His blonde hair is no longer slicked back, but rather flops down casually over his forehead, cropped shorter in the back. He’s wearing jeans that hug his hips and legs all the way down to his black boots. A green flannel shirt is slung casually around his waist beneath a white T-shirt with the Queen logo across the chest. He looks so… ordinary.

He looks good.

Ugh! I immediately chastise myself. This is Malfoy.

Dropping some money on the cafe table for my tea and croissant, I cross the street and begin to follow him at a distance, dodging in between the people on the packed footpath. A leggy ginger woman passes Malfoy, walking in the opposite direction, and he says something to her that makes her smile. Malfoy turns to walk backward so he can continue talking to her, and I turn my back in a panic. I pause to look as nonchalantly as possible at a flyer advertising an upcoming yard sale for ten long seconds before I glance back in Malfoy’s direction, hoping desperately that he hasn’t seen me.

He’s gone. Vanished. My chest begins to pound with anxiety. Have I lost him already? He wasn’t moving that fast. I pick up my pace and start back down the crowded pavement, scanning the entire area for a flash of Malfoy’s unmistakable hair.

Nothing. Fuck—

A hand darts out to pull me into an alley and my wand is at my assailant's throat before I can even think to worry about any nearby Muggles. With a brief flash of terror, I feel a wand tipping my own chin up, bringing me face-to-face with Draco Malfoy.

“Jesus Christ, Malfoy!” I swear.

“Hermione Granger,” he drawls, annoyingly casual given the situation. “I thought that was you. Then I thought I must have finally gone mad because what in the hell would Golden Girl Hermione Granger be doing in Los Angeles?” His voice rolls over me in a deep rumble, just as confident as when we were in school, but with none of the snottiness.

“Looking for you,” I breathe, my heart rate slowing a bit, though neither of us lowers our wands.

“Yes — that much is obvious.” His grey eyes narrow shrewdly as he stares down at me. “Why?” His body looming over mine, so close I can feel his chest rising and falling with his accelerated breathing.

“Well, I was… in the area and I’d heard you were living nearby so when I saw you—”

He cuts me off, his tone almost lazy. “You’re a terrible liar, Granger. Did you know that?”

With a sigh, I say, “Yes, actually, I did.”

“Then tell me the truth. Why are you looking for me?”

I shift awkwardly on my feet — why didn’t I come up with a story? What did I think would happen when I found him? That he’d just shake my hand and come straight back to the UK with a grin on his face?

“It’s… complicated,” is where I finally land after casting about for a moment. To his credit, Malfoy doesn’t roll his eyes, though he does lift an impatient eyebrow. “Can we go somewhere to talk? A coffee shop or something?”

“No.”

“Come on, Malfoy,” I wheedle, sounding frightfully like school-age Hermione. “There’s a lot going on, just… lower your wand and let me buy you a cup of coffee.” He continues to stare suspiciously down at me.

“Are you here to arrest me?”

“I wasn’t aware you’d committed a crime.”

“I haven’t.”

“Then why would I arrest you?”

He lifts one shoulder in an insolent sort of shrug. “Spite?”

I scoff and roll my eyes. “I’m not even authorised to arrest you, Malfoy. I’m a lawyer, not an auror.”

Malfoy’s eyes drag over me from head to toe in a way that makes me slightly warm. “No,” he finally drawls. “I don’t think you are.” At last, he lowers his wand, but does not back away. “Probably for the best.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” My tone is annoyingly swotty, but I can’t help it. It’s Malfoy. He makes a derisive little sound, sort of like a chuckle, and tilts his head to look at me like a cat.

“I clocked you the moment I stepped out of my house,” he says, tilting his chin toward my un-missable mass of brown curls. “Never occurred to you to disguise yourself?”

“I’m not the one who’s supposed to be in hiding, Baby Spice,” I snap back, reaching up to indicate the man’s white-blonde locks. He pulls back so quickly that it startles me, putting an accusatory finger in the air between our faces.

“How dare you?” Malfoy growls. “I am obviously Posh.”

I am so taken aback by this that I am actually rendered speechless.

“Look, I’ve got better things to do than be insulted in an alley by an old schoolmate,” Malfoy continues. He finally takes a step back and gives me that up-and-down look again before flipping his wand and slipping it into his back pocket. With a sniff, he finally nods back toward the crowded sidewalk and says, “C’mon. I’ll buy you a coffee.”

“N-no,” I correct as Malfoy turns and starts to walk away. “I said I’d buy you—”

“Get over yourself, Granger,” he says over his shoulder. “We both know I’m unfairly rich.”

Well… that is true. I hate the idea of owing Malfoy so much as a single haypenny, but he’s agreed to hear me out, so I follow him down the street and into a Starbucks on the corner.

The whole thing is utterly bizarre. Draco Malfoy is standing here, in a Muggle coffee shop, waiting patiently in line as if he isn’t the last living male in two of the Sacred Twenty-Eight families. And he knows who the Spice Girls are?

As we approach the counter, Malfoy cuts eyes at me before untying the plaid shirt from around his waist and shrugging his arms into the sleeves. He orders a double espresso for himself and then gestures for me to step forward.

“Um… grande caramel Frappuccino, please,” I say, strangely nervous. But at the sound of Malfoy’s slightly-disgusted scoff, my anxiety turns to annoyance. “What?” I glare up at him.

“You would.” He shakes his head as if disappointed and pays for our coffees. With Muggle money. With American Muggle money.

We wait in awkward silence for our drinks, then make our way to a little table in the corner. Malfoy lounges back in his seat and stirs in two sugars before taking a long sip despite the steam rising from his cup. I pull the straw from my cup and use it as a spoon for the whipped cream on the top of my drink. He watches me with such intensity that it makes my cheeks flush.

“So…” I start awkwardly, “how long have you lived in Los Angeles?”

“Out with it, Granger,” he replies, firm but not cruel. “What do you want?” I take a deep breath.

“I want you to come back to the UK,” I say, not making eye contact.

He doesn’t even hesitate. “No.”

“Why not?” God, why do I sound so whingey?

“Why would I? I’m just a Death Eater over there — a villain.” He traces the rim of his cup with his fingertips. “I left for a reason and I have no intention of ever going back.”

“Not even for a week? A day?”

He eyes me suspiciously. “What do you need me for?”

“Who says I need you?”

“Why else would you be so desperate to get me back?” Malfoy leans forward and a sly grin takes over his face. “Miss me, Granger?” Then he winks at me.

I make an embarrassing sound that was supposed to be a scoff, but comes out as more of a choked laugh. “Absolutely not!” His grin splits into a surprisingly charming smile; his canines are a little too long, giving the whole expression a wolfish sort of quality. He sits back in his chair again.

“Then there must be something you need from me.” Malfoy rolls the cuffs of his sleeves, but doesn’t push them above his elbows — just gets them out of the way as he drinks his coffee.

I toy with my straw for a few seconds, unsure of how much to share. Malfoy is a mystery and he has always been an awful shite. But during the war, he’d done what he could, hadn’t killed anyone, hadn’t wanted me to die that day in his drawing room.

“I’m running for a seat in the Wizengamot,” I say, meeting his gaze. His eyes widen before he chuckles and shakes his head a bit.

“Of course you are.” He takes another drink of his coffee. “Congratulations. I’m sure you’re a shoo-in. Running on a reform platform, are you?”

“Yes,” I say. “Largely civil rights for magical beings and educational services.” He nods, lips pursed as if this information is no surprise.

“So what do you need me for?” he asks. “Surely you can’t want a Death Eater to prop you up as a candidate?”

I glance down at his plaid-covered forearm.

“No, that’s not it. I need your vote.”

He rolls his tongue over his lower lip and nods down at the table. “You don’t have enough without me?”

“Only barely,” I reply, taking a sheaf of parchment from my bag. It has been folded and unfolded, crumpled and flattened, and marked all over in the past few months. But it is one of the most important pieces of paper in my career thus far. I smooth it out on the table and turn it toward Malfoy. He leans forward to read it as I go on. “But if the chamber isn’t full, the general election will be postponed for a year and Tiberius McClaggen will win the Chief Warlock position for a second term.” He looks up at this, his brows furrowed and a frown taking over his mouth. “And if you still won’t come back then, it will just keep being postponed until you die and the Malfoy seat is passed to some obscure relative no one knows about.”

“Alsephina,” he says.

“Gesundheit,” I deadpan.

“Alsephina Selwyn,” he clarifies. “A third cousin twice-removed or something.” Malfoy waves his hand in the air as if to bat the thought away. “These names with the tick marks next to them are sure things?”

“Yes, they are allied with reform causes.”

“You can tick Nott and Parkinson, then.”

“Really?” My surprise is obvious and Malfoy glances up at me with a serious expression.

“Theo and Pansy are not their fathers.”

“That’s good to know.” I dig out a Biro and make the appropriate marks; two more in my favour.

“Not Slughorn, though?” he asks, still examining the paper with utmost sincerity.

“Horace cannot be relied upon to make a difficult choice,” I say with a heavy sigh. “He prefers to abstain from voting of all kinds in order to remain neutral.”

Malfoy’s face falls. “How disappointing.”

“Quite.”

“Who has the Black seat? Andromeda?”

“Yes. She’s the oldest of her sisters so it went back to her after Sirius died.” Malfoy nods, taking everything in. “But she’s actually spearheading a campaign to change the procedural law so that generational seats can only be passed forward to a direct relative, rather than searching through family trees to find who has the most Black blood, or whichever house it may be.”

“About time. Let these noble and most ancient houses finally die out and make room for a truly representative government.” I am gobsmacked.

“Yes,” I say slowly, trying to keep my mouth from hanging open, “that’s her thought exactly.”

“I’m sure that’s going over swimmingly.” Malfoy flicks a sardonic eyebrow and sips at his coffee as he goes down the list one more time.

“She’s agreed to put it on the back burner until after the general election.”

“And Prewett?” he asks, pointing down at the name. “You’ve circled it and crossed it out and underlined it.” I heave a sigh.

“I had wondered — I asked Kingsley if Molly should have the seat.” He gives me a confused look. “Molly Weasley. She was a Prewett, the last of them, actually.” He nods as if remembering something long forgotten. “Her brothers were killed by…” I trail off awkwardly, not sure when exactly is the best time to broach a subject such as Death Eaters and their many murderous exploits. “Anyway, Kingsley said the laws prevent her from having the seat on two counts: first, the Weasleys also have a seat and it would be considered a conflict for spouses to occupy two positions in the Wizengamot; second, it’s already been given away. Thirty years ago after the Prewett brothers died, it was converted into a public office and a representative was elected.”

Malfoy sits back in his seat and rubs at his temples. “I know so much more about this than I ever wanted to.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “What were you planning to do for the rest of your life? Surely you had to know that this would eventually be your responsibility.”

“Well, I had hoped that my father might live a little longer and I could continue to ignore this problem until I’d at least turned 30.” A flush runs up my neck and I glance down at the table, thoroughly chagrined. “Aside from that, there was always the possibility that I might eventually procreate, and then I’d only have to deal with the Wizengamot until the sprog came of age. How grand if my father’s life and my hypothetical child’s majority had overlapped. I’d never have to step foot in that chamber again.”

“But… you’re not exactly on your way down the aisle?”

“No. Despite her best efforts, my mother will not become a grandmother any time soon.”

“How disappointing for her,” I deadpan.

“You have no idea.” Malfoy widens his eyes as if in terror before having another drink. “Is there no one else who could take the seat?”

I think for a moment. “Perhaps Teddy Lupin?”

Malfoy purses his lips again and looks up, eyes darting back and forth as if visualising his family tree. “Huh,” he finally says. “Maybe he could. Give it to him, then, he can have my seat. Go as my proxy.”

“He’s four.”

“Andromeda, then.”

“She already has the Black seat,” I say, getting frustrated. “Besides, she’s not a Malfoy.”

“Neither is Teddy, actually,” he replies contemplatively. “So we’re back to Alsephina—”

“I swear to God!” I slam my hands on the table and Malfoy leans back in his chair, irritatingly calm in the face of my fury. Taking a deep, calming breath, I close my eyes and try to maintain my cool. “I don’t need you to move back, I don’t need you to give up your life here, I don’t even need you to be happy about it. I just need you to do me this one favour so I can try to keep Wizarding Britain moving forward, not backward. It’s only a matter of time before an organisation like the Third Order infiltrates the Ministry — if they haven’t already — and our entire world slips back into the grip of racism and systemic oppression.”

Malfoy is quiet for a long moment, staring unblinkingly at me until I finally get uncomfortable. I remove my hands from the table and wrap them around my condensation-covered plastic cup.

“I have given all of that up,” he finally says quietly. “I barely use magic these days.” At my raised eyebrows he goes on, “Just small stuff. Nothing big. No Apparating. No transfiguration bigger than a cup. No protective wards.” He chews his bottom lip and his right leg begins to bounce anxiously. “I don’t want to be found, Granger.”

“I understand,” I say. “And I’m not asking for a return to your old life. I’m asking you to do something really useful. Something important. For the greater good.”

He gives a humourless laugh. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”

“This is nothing like that and you know it,” I insist, keeping my voice calm. “But it will be if McClaggen keeps his office.” Malfoy looks away, at anywhere but me, and chews on his thumbnail. He rubs at his lip. He closes his eyes. He shakes his head. He truly is at war with himself.

“Fuck,” he finally gasps out. “Fine.” I perk up and he puts a stern hand out between us. “But, we are doing this my way.”

“Okay,” I agree immediately. As long as he is coming back — as long as I have his vote — I don’t care. Well… I care a little. “What’s your way?”

“We’re driving.” A confused beat passes between us.

“We can’t drive to London, Malfoy. There’s a bit of water in between.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m bringing my car or there’s no deal.”

Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. Boys. “Why can’t we Portkey?”

“Because I’ll have to give my real name and register with my wand and passport and I don’t want the CIA to find me,” he says. “I went AWOL, remember?”

“Why did you go AWOL?” I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me.

“It’s not important.”

“I bet it is.”

“Okay, it’s not important to this conversation,” he clarifies. Malfoy’s eyebrows go up in an expression that clearly reads Quit asking questions, or I’m out. I put up my hands in apology. “I don’t want the CIA to find me and they will if I take a portkey. We’ll have to layover on the east coast and they’ll intercept me before we land.”

“That’s why you’re not using magic,” I realise. “So they can’t track you.” He touches his nose — spot on. “Apparently they’ve been looking for you. You’re doing a good job staying hidden.”

“Yeah, on that note,” he says straightening up and glaring at me, “how did you find me?”

I give a sheepish grin and pull up my beaded bag, setting it on the table. I reach in, dig around for a moment, and finally grasp the stiff paper of the file folder, placing it on the table between us. He stares at it for a moment before comprehension blooms on his face.

“Gringotts?” At my nod, he rolls his eyes and his head falls back on his shoulders in exasperation. “Christ, is nothing a secret to the Ministry?”

“Actually,” I say slowly, “they didn’t want to give me this. I had to… get creative.” His gaze makes me fidgety.

“You stole it?” He seems both awed and offended.

“Technically, no,” I say. “This is a copy.”

“An illegal copy.”

“That’s true, yes.”

“Granger, even my own mother doesn’t know my address.”

“You’re secret’s safe with me,” I say, then think for a moment. “Well…”

“Oh don’t tell me,” he replies. “Potter and Weasley?”

“They’ve seen it, but I doubt they remember it.”

“Potter and the Weasel have seen my account holdings?”

I give a sheepish nod. “If it’s any consolation, they were very impressed.”

“Yes, I’m very pleased to have out-sized Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum,” he deadpans. “Next time, I’ll just get a measuring tape, shall I?” I roll my eyes, but I feel my cheeks flush at the innuendo. I take a sip of my Frappuccino before moving on.

“So, if you’re living undercover, or whatever,” I start, “how do people know you?”

“What do you mean? They see me, they’re charmed, they trip over their feet to introduce themselves,” he says with a playfully-arrogant tone.

“Oh please.” It’s a struggle to hide my grin. He is charming. When did he get so charming? “You must go by a different name.”

“Must I?” he replies coyly.

“Draco Malfoy tends to stand out.”

“You flatter me, Granger.”

I roll my eyes. Again. “You know what I mean. It’s not the sort of name Muggles give their children.”

“You’re one to talk, Hermione.” He says my name like it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard, but his own father’s name was Lucius, so he can get stuffed. “Parents big on Greek mythology, were they?”

“Shakespeare, actually,” I reply primly. “It’s from—”

“A Winter’s Tale,” Malfoy cuts me off. “I know.”

“How did you—”

“I read.” That’s no more surprising than the Alice in Wonderland reference, I suppose.

“Well? What do people call you here?”

“Gorgeous, Sexy, OhGodYes—”

“Malfoy!”

“Alright, alright.” He chuckles and takes a long drink of his espresso. “Dylan,” he finally says. “Dylan Mallory.”

“Dylan?” I blurt incredulously.

“See, I knew I’d regret telling you.”

“It’s just so… Muggle.”

“That is the idea, Granger.”

“I can’t picture you as a Dylan. You’re Draco. Malfoy. You’re Draco Malfoy.” He raises his hands in a quieting gesture and glances around the cafe.

“Keep it down, will you? Aren’t you familiar with the concept of an alias?”

“Sorry,” I hiss, looking over my shoulder. No one seems to be paying attention to our conversation. “So you’re just… living as a Muggle? A regular person?”

“For the most part.”

“Do you have a job?”

He makes a pfft sound. “God no.”

“So what do you do all day?” I can’t even imagine not having a job. I’d be so bored.

“I do all sorts of things.” He shrugs. “I read a lot, obviously. I take classes at the community college — I’ve almost finished a degree in literature, you know.” He looks very proud at this. “I go to the theatre and the cinema and the beach—”

“I can’t picture you at the beach,” I say, shaking my head in amusement.

“You do a lot of picturing me, Granger?”

“God, you’re so arrogant.”

“Maybe I’ll just stay here, then. Keep going to the beach and never set foot on British soil ag—”

“No! No, I’m sorry.” He gives me a smug grin and I glare at him with no real vitriol. “So, you said we’d drive across the country?” Malfoy nods. “You drive?”

“All the time,” he confirmed.

“I can’t—” I stop myself from saying picture you again. “That’s surprising.”

“Don’t you?”

“No, I’ve lived in London all my life,” I reply.

“I’ll teach you then.”

“You will?” I ask, my incredulity only growing.

“Sure, if you want to.” He shrugs and finishes his coffee. “We’ll be on the road for at least a week. It’d be nice to have someone else to take the wheel now and then.”

“A week? How big is this country.” He only laughs.

***

“A week?” Harry’s voice is just as disbelieving as mine had been. “You’re going to be in the car with Draco Malfoy for a week?”

“That’s the plan,” I say, casting a drying charm over my freshly-showered hair. The hotel bed is blessedly plush and I plop down onto the duvet, holding the phone to my ear. Harry had installed a few phones at Grimmauld Place after he and Ginny moved in, much to Arthur’s fascination and excitement. I have one in my flat, too, but Ron refuses to get one. Says if we needed to reach him, we can Floo or fuck off. “Actually, he promised that he would be taking his time, so it could be quite a bit longer.”

“And he drives?”

“That’s what he says.”

“He really didn’t want to be found, did he?”

“No, he did not.”

“How did he react when he saw you?”

“He pinned me against a wall with his wand in his hand.”

“Hermione!”

I laugh. “Nothing like that. He thought I was there to arrest him, but I told him about the whole situation and he agreed to come back. Just for a couple of days.”

“But he’ll blow his cover, won’t he?” Harry asks. “It won’t be hard for the CIA to find him once he takes his seat in the Wizengamot.”

“Maybe I can advocate to clear his name,” I suggest. “As long as he hasn’t committed a terrible crime, he can’t be extradited back to the US. I don’t know why he went AWOL, but he’s not all bad. He’s… different.” There is a bit of a pause.

“Different how?” Harry’s tone is rudely suspicious.

“Just… different, I don’t know,” I sputter. “He’s still Malfoy, but he’s just not so antagonistic, I guess. He’s funny.”

“Funny?”

“Will you stop repeating everything I say?”

“I’m sorry, I’m just… surprised, is all. To hear you talk about Malfoy like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like you think he’s cute,” comes Ginny’s voice.

“Ginny!” Harry and I chide in unison.

“Ginny, put down the phone,” Harry demands.

“I will not,” Ginny insists.

“Hermione and I are talking—”

“You can’t keep secrets from me, Potter,” she accuses. “We’re married, you legally have to tell me everything.”

“That is very much not true,” I insert.

“Well, it should be.” I can hear Ginny’s fierce expression. “Go on, Hermione — is Malfoy still fit?”

It’s Harry’s turn to be indignant. “’Still’?”

“I’m not answering that,” I say.

“That’s a ‘yes’,” say both the Potters.

“I thought he was a ‘slimy git’, Ginny?” I remind her.

“He is,” she says, “but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t look good.”

“How long have you been thinking about how fit Malfoy’s gotten?” Harry demands.

Ginny ignores him. “But seriously, Hermione, do you think he’s, like, a good person?”

I pause. “Too soon to say,” I answer.

“But not too soon to say that he’s so good-looking?” Harry insists, obviously wounded at the very idea.

“We can admit a person is hot without agreeing with their decisions,” Ginny says sagely.

“Will the both of you just get off it?”

“Ten galleons says Malfoy gets you off by the end of the week.”

“Ginny!”

“I’ll take that bet.”

“Harry!”

“What? I think you can hold out, Hermione. You’ve got standards,” he says.

“No too high, mind,” Ginny says slyly. “She dated my brother.”

“That’s true.”

“I’m still here,” I interrupt.

“Alright, alright,” Harry says and I can visualise his mediatory face. “What’s the plan, Hermione? How are you getting back, if Malfoy refuses to Portkey or Apparate?” I take a calming breath, glad for the change of topic.

“He’s going to pick me up Friday morning.”

“Ooh-oo,” Ginny sing-songs. I ignore her.

“We’re going to drive to Washington and when we get there, then we’ll take a trans-Atlantic portkey to Heathrow. It’ll tip off the CIA, but they won’t have time to intercept him before we leave and then he’ll be back on British soil. They won’t have any jurisdiction.”

“You sound like a proper secret agent, Hermione,” Ginny says, impressed. “Have you been lurking in corners and taking covert photos?”

“No, Malfoy spotted me straight away.” They both laugh. “Shut up, you two.”

“Your strengths lie elsewhere,” Harry placates. “The planning, the plotting, the complicated magic.”

“Hey, I’ve engaged in my fair share of subterfuge, thank you very much,” I reply.

“Remember when you were pretending to be Bellatrix?” Harry asks with a laugh. “You were so nervous, I thought Travers was going to figure you out at every turn.”

“Remember when I trapped Rita Skeeter in a jar for a week?” I say threateningly.

“Ooh, yeah, that was a good one,” Ginny says.

“Alright, apologies,” Harry replies.

“I still can’t figure out why Malfoy would willingly come back after all this time,” Ginny muses.

“Well, I did beg a bit,” I admit.

“Ah! Did you get on your knees?” Ginny teases.

“I swear, you are a menace.” I put a hand to my head.

“Don’t mind her,” Harry says, probably waving his hand dismissively. “But she does have a point — it’s a pretty big favour for someone he never much liked.”

“Yeah, it is,” I agree quietly. “But his motivation doesn’t matter — he’s agreed and literal beggars cannot be choosers.”

“Wait—” Harry says, confused, “did you say you aren’t leaving until Friday?”

I sigh, annoyed. “Yes. Malfoy says he needs a couple of days to ‘get his affairs in order’,” I say, doing my best impression of his posh accent. Everything Malfoy does irks me.

“Well, that’s fair, I guess,” he replies slowly.

“But he only has to come back for a week or two,” Ginny says. “He’s talking like he’s dying or something.”

“You know how Malfoy is,” I reply, rolling my eyes for no one’s benefit but my own. “Everything has to be his way. On his time. He’s such a control-freak.”

Silence.

“What?”

Ginny speaks up first. “Sorry — I’ve just never actually heard a pot call a kettle black before.”

I am aghast. “Excuse me?”

She laughs. “Oh, come on, Hermione. You are one of the most controlling people I know.”

“’One of’?” Harry scoffs.

“I think my mum takes the cauldron cake on that one,” Ginny answers. Harry hmms in agreement.

I can think of nothing to say to this completely unfair assertion. So I remain silent. The Potters are unperturbed.

“You’d better check on him tomorrow, Hermione,” Harry says. “Chances are slim, but not nil, that he might just bolt.”

“Oh, shit.” That had not occurred to me. “Do you think I should… stake him out or something?”

I can practically hear Harry stifling a laugh. “Take it easy double-oh-seven. Just… pop by in the morning and keep an eye on him. Be sure he doesn’t already have one foot out the door.”

***

The following morning, I do just that. At nine AM, I subtly cast Alohamora on the front door of Malfoy’s building and let myself in, taking the lift up to his apartment. I knock twice and step back to wait.

He does, in fact, have one foot out the door.

“Granger?” he blurts. “How did you get in here?”

“Witch,” I remind him peevishly. He’s standing in the barely-open door, fully dressed but for one shoe, as he was clearly just getting ready to leave. “Going somewhere?”

He glowers at me before reaching back into his flat and grabbing his remaining boot. Then, almost as an afterthought, he takes the same flannel shirt from yesterday off a hook behind the door and drapes it over his left arm. Firmly shutting the door, Malfoy leans against it as he does up his laces. He’s wearing another painfully Muggle outfit: acid-wash jeans and a well-worn Aerosmith t-shirt. Now, he adds the flannel over-shirt, despite the pleasantly warm weather. Straightening up, he shakes his blond fringe from his eyes and narrows them at me. “I wasn’t aware that I was on house arrest.”

“You’re not,” I say casually. “But you were rather difficult to get a hold of.”

“You found me quicker than two government entities, Granger.”

I ignore him. “So I’d rather not lose you again.”

Malfoy’s expression turns slightly predatory, his vulpine grin causing my pulse to quicken in warning. He takes a slow step toward me, invading my personal space until there’s barely a breath between us. His eyes glitter roguishly at my obvious discomfort. “Careful,” he murmurs, voice low enough to make my stomach drop. “Keep saying things like that I might get the wrong idea.”

The words hang between us for a moment before Malfoy brushes past me and toward the lift, leaving my skin prickling where he’s barely touched my arm. He’s smirking again and I want very much to stomp my foot in frustration, but I know he’ll only have something annoyingly glib to say.

So I silently turn and join him in the elevator, changing the subject entirely. “Where are we off to today, Malfoy?”

“I am off to run some errands in the magical district,” he says pointedly. “What are your plans, Granger?”

“Ooh, that sounds like fun,” I say, falsely sweet. “I’ll tag along.”

“That’s really not necessary.”

“It’s perfect — you can show me around and conduct whatever business it is you need to get done.” I toss him an overly-pleasant smile. “A grand time will be had by all.”

He rolls his eyes and mutters darkly, “Define ‘all’.”

“Oh, come on, Malfoy,” I turn my face up to him and try to act coy, wrapping my hands around his bicep. It’s… not small. “Show me the sights. I’m new in town.”

Malfoy looks down to where I’m holding his arm and narrows his eyes. He flicks his glance up to mine, tilts his head, and rolls his tongue over his bottom lip.

“That’s how you want to play it, Granger?” His voice is low, almost dangerous.

I swallow thickly and keep smiling. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Malfoy nods slowly and purses his lips in thought. “Fine,” he says. “Let’s play.”

I may have gotten in over my head.

The lift finally comes to a stop and Malfoy pulls away from my grasp, stepping in front of me to hold the door open. He’s blocking my path, looming over me with just enough room for me to squeeze past him, and smirks down at me. His expression reads: Your move.

I refuse to fold, certainly not so early in the proceedings. I just have to keep Malfoy on his toes and maybe he’ll let something slip. What, I don’t know, but any information is good.

With this in mind, I hold his gaze as I slide past him, letting my side brush against his, and I catch a whiff of something delicious. Like Earl Grey tea, but a little musky. I close my eyes and hmm as the smell washes over me.

“What’s that?” Malfoy’s voice pulls me back as he steps out of the lift and the doors slide closed with a quiet shoop.

“Nothing,” I say, regaining my composure. Sort of.

Malfoy flicks an eyebrow and gestures toward the front door of his building. “After you.”

He’s like this for the entirety of our journey. He stands too close at the bus stop, insists on holding my hand to help me onto the bus, and presses his thigh against mine from the seat next to me. It’s unnerving, to say the least. But he’s also really good at it. Smooth. Charming, even.

We’ve been on the bus for about thirty minutes when we go over a large bump and I’m nearly thrown into Malfoy’s side. My hand flies out to steady myself and lands dangerously high on his denim-clad thigh.

“Granger,” he purrs, slipping an arm over the back of my seat. “We’re in public.”

“Oh, shut up, Malfoy.” I jerk my hand back and shove him hard in the ribs. He barely moves. “How much longer are we going to be on this bloody bus?”

“Another half-hour or so,” he says casually. Then he dips his head closer to mine and says, “Why? Is there something more interesting you’d like to do?”

“Okay,” I say with an air of finality. “I get it, Malfoy. You’re a much better flirt than I am. You win this particular game of emotional-manipulation chicken.” With a huff, I cross my arms and lean away from him in my seat.

He lets out a low chuckle, but finally removes his arm from the back of my seat. His smell is still all around me and it is very distracting, thank you very much. “It is too easy to get you all riled up.”

“Yeah, well, I haven’t spent the last three years professionally lying to people,” I retort. “Forgive me if I’m a little out of practice.”

“I thought you said you were a lawyer,” Malfoy quips. He’s occupying his own seat now, his thigh no longer pressed against mine, and I feel strangely isolated. “Sounds to me like you should be a much better liar.”

“I’m usually representing the Ministry in cases against the abuse of magical creatures,” I explain. “There’s no one to lie for. House Elves aren’t exactly keen on being trafficked into other countries to continue being used as slave labour. And even if my job did call for lying, I wouldn’t do it.”

Malfoy hmphs. “How noble of you.”

“Just…” I flounder for a retort. “Just sit quietly and enjoy the ride, Malfoy.”

“If I had a knut for every time a witch said that to me…”

“Ew.”

The next thirty minutes passes in relatively harmless silence. I watch the busy city streets pass by and Malfoy watches me. His eyes on me are like a physical thing, observing my every reaction, but I refuse to look over at him. I feel like I should be watching him, too, trying to glean any new information from his behaviour, but I don’t want to end up in a staring contest, so I continue looking out the window.

Santa Monica pier comes into view, the ocean and the Ferris wheel in the distance, and I can’t help but feel a zing of excitement. I’ve never been so far away from home before, and everything around me is so quintessentially American — Californian — it looks like a film.

“Is that a roller coaster?” I ask as we step down from the bus. A large blue archway proclaims that we have arrived at Santa Monica — Yacht Harbor — Sport Fishing, Boating, Cafes.

A low chuckle slips out of Malfoy before he can help it, apparently. “Yes, Granger. It’s a roller coaster.” We walk down the bright, sunny avenue toward the boardwalk and Malfoy continues, “Do you want a ride?”

I give him a cutting look.

His laugh is bright and loud and it takes me aback. “I mean: do you want to ride the roller coaster.”

I try very hard not to grin at the smile on his face. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen Malfoy laugh like that. “Absolutely not,” I say firmly. “It looks like a death trap.”

“You talk like you aren’t a witch.”

“I feel like levitating a runaway roller coaster car over the Pacific Ocean might give me away to all the Muggles present.”

“Fair enough,” he says. Then, more quietly, “If you’re too chicken.”

I glower at him. “You can’t bait me, Malfoy.”

“I think I can.”

“Not over this.” We walk past a few cafes and souvenir shops, tourists and locals all mingled together. A man wearing what appears to be a suit made of tiny silver bells is jangling down the boardwalk, soliciting money for his dancing skills while a small woman in a flowing white dress offers cheaply-made hats to all the passers-by. “I don’t really care for heights.”

“So you don’t fly, then?” Malfoy asks, gesturing for me to follow as he bears left toward the row of old shops and stands.

“No, I do not,” I say matter-of-factly. “I’ve only every been on a broom out of absolute necessity and there is nothing I can say to recommend the sensation.”

Malfoy’s eyebrows flick up in surprise. “I disagree,” he says. “Flying is the best feeling in the world. Like being completely free.”

“Harry says the same thing.”

“Loathe though I am to agree with Potter on anything, he’s right about that.” Malfoy steps around a small gathering of women in matching cowboy hats who are all posing for a photo. “I envy him a bit, actually.”

“Why’s that?”

“I haven’t flown in years.” His voice sounds far-away and almost wistful, but I don’t ask him to elaborate. Malfoy slows to a stop beneath an awning for an arcade that looks as if it has seen better days. In front of the open garage-style doors is a Zoltar machine that appears to have been in place since the pier was built.

Malfoy steps up to the machine and inserts a quarter. Zoltar jolts to life, his mechanical arms moving slowly over the plastic crystal ball before him. His eyes flash with red light and his puppet-like mouth falls open to say, “Not all doors are locked; not all locks are seen. Step forward, and be known,” in a terrible approximation of a Persian accent.

The machine slides gently to the right and a low entryway is revealed. No one around us seems to have noticed this bizarre activity, so I follow Malfoy into a tunnel that is short in both height and length. It only takes about three steps before we are able to stand to our full heights and the Zoltar machine has slid back into place behind us.

“And here I thought we were going to play a few games at the arcade,” I say blandly, looking around at the wizarding district before me. It is a relatively small space, all things considered, but my understanding is that American witches and wizards are more closely-integrated into Muggle society than in the UK. No one lives here — there are only shops and restaurants and more street vendors selling memorabilia of questionable provenance.

“I’ll trounce you in skee-ball later,” Malfoy promises over his shoulder as we walk on. The wooden boardwalk floor continues through the space, though there is a magical ceiling and walls which reflect the view of the ocean and sky from outside the arcade.

“Where are we off to, now?” I ask, pausing to look at a stack of travel guides at the front of a small used bookshop. A newspaper stand beside the shop door shows a looping photograph of a chaotic street, smoke billowing around panicked faces. The headline reads: PAX? WILL PORTLAND KNOW PEACE AGAIN? The sight is so familiar — bringing to mind nearly identical pages in the Daily Prophet from five years ago — that it sends a cold shiver down my spine. Malfoy spots the paper, too, and reads for a moment before he grasps my elbow and drags me along behind him.

“There’s a potions shop just down here,” he says. “If I’m going to be in the car with you for two weeks, I’m going to need some headache remedies.”

“Two weeks?” I ask sharply. “You said one.”

He only shrugs. “Maybe ten days? I told you I would be taking my time.”

“Malfoy, I cannot be gone for the indefinite future,” I say. “I have a job, unlike someone I know.”

“I’ll get you back in time,” he says, waving a hand at my very valid concern. “But there’s a lot of country I haven’t seen yet. I’d like to check some things off my list.”

I scoff and roll my eyes. “You can see them when you come back,” I remind him. “I don’t want to be traipsing all over America because you haven’t visited all the national parks, or whatever.”

“More like ‘eaten every type of fried food available’,” he corrects, leading the way to a bright green shop with a sign that simply reads POTIONS hanging crookedly out front. “You coming in?”

I sigh. “I suppose.”

The interior is rather like a Tesco Express, all bright, florescent lights and tightly-packed aisles. Malfoy grabs a small basket from a stack near the door and starts wandering through the grocery-like space with no apparent sense of purpose. He picks up bottles of varying sizes and colours along the way, reading their ingredients and replacing some he deems unworthy.

When the basket is half-full, I ask, “What are you getting anyway?”

“Headache remedy,” he repeats absently, scanning a shelf with a look of concentration.

“You’ve got more than just headache remedy in there,” I say, pointing at the basket. “Is that bruise balm? What could you possibly need that for?”

“In case you strike me in anger,” he says casually. “I know how violent you get when you’re frustrated — I’ve seen you with Potty and Weakness.”

I roll my eyes and take a bottle from the basket. “Pepper-up?”

“For long drives.”

“Beazors?”

“For all that fried food — it could be anything, really.”

“Essence of Dittany?”

“Always good to be prepared.”

“Calming draught?”

“For when I’m being interrogated by swotty lawyers.” He snatches the bottle from my hand and replaces it in his basket, turning toward the till. “Honestly, Granger, why so suspicious? What have I done to earn this level of scrutiny from you?”

I narrow my eyes at his back as he stands in the short checkout queue. “Well, you are a spy—”

“Was a spy.”

“And you did go missing for more than a year.”

“How does that affect you?”

“It doesn’t,” I say defensively. “But it does leave one wondering…”

“Do me a favour,” Malfoy says, setting his basket on the counter and letting the girl on the register scan each one. “If you’re going to be expending all this mental energy thinking about me and what I’m doing and why, at least picture me naked while you do so.”

I jolt away from him at this notion. “What?”

“It’s a good look for me,” he says, leaning forward and scrunching his face teasingly. “And I like to be at my best when someone is obsessing over me.”

The girl on the till lets out a breathy chuckle and I glance over to see her looking Malfoy up and down like a slab of meat in the shop window. “I’ll bet,” she mutters and my mouth falls open. Malfoy doesn’t even react.

“I’m not…” I sputter, “I’m not obsessing over you.”

Malfoy tilts his head and takes his shopping bag from the counter without looking away. “Sure, Granger,” he condescends. “And I’m a Hufflepuff.”

I scoff, my disdain written all over my face. “You are so full of yourself.”

“Looks like he outghta be,” the checkout girl says. This time, Malfoy does turn to look at her, casting her a wink and a little click of his tongue. She twiddles her fingers in a coy little wave and says, “Come back soon.”

Malfoy smiles at her and it morphs into a full-on smirk as he leads the way back out of the shop. “Don’t be so uptight, Granger,” he says. “If we’re going to be travelling together, you’re going to have to get used to women hitting on me.”

“I’m sure I’ll survive,” I deadpan. We make our way back down the magical boardwalk and I stare enviously at the bookshop again. “Where to next?”

Malfoy hesitates, adjusting his grip on the paper shopping bag in his hand as he looks up and down the avenue. “Tell you what, Granger — why don’t you go back to the bookshop and I’ll take care of the last bit of business.”

He’s being very shifty. This is it: some sort of dead-drop or exchange or… something criminal, I don’t know what. Were the potions some sort of tip-off? A distraction?

“Sure,” I say slowly. “I’d like that.”

“I figured.” Malfoy is craning his neck as he looks around — for what, I can’t tell. Then his eyes light on something and recognition flashes across his face. “I’ll be right back. Don’t get lost or anything.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Malfoy takes off, weaving his way through the crowd as I back slowly toward the racks of books outside the shop. I keep an eye on him, leaning left and right as he moves smoothly across the lane and toward an alleyway.

Like hell am I staying out of the way for this.

Sidling along the shop fronts, I stare down the alley where Malfoy’s blond hair makes him a beacon in any crowd. I must look like a crazy person, stepping sidelong and standing on tiptoe to watch a man across the street, but I don’t care. I’m unbearably curious about Malfoy’s behaviour.

A wizard in an actual trench-coat approaches Malfoy and they greet each other with a casual handshake, sliding palms and snapping their fingers. They both glance over their shoulders before Malfoy withdraws a small satchel from his front pocket. He hands it over and the wizard tucks it away before reaching into the inner breast pocket of his trench-coat. The man passes Malfoy a plain envelope. Malfoy stuffs the envelope into his back pocket and says something I can’t hear. The two men exchange a friendly nod, then bump their fists together before stepping away in opposite directions.

I panic. Malfoy is coming straight toward me. I whip around to try and find a reason to be where I am, but I’ve positioned myself in front of an athletic shop with sleek broomsticks and Quodpot equipment in the window.

Shit.

“Taking up a new hobby?” Malfoy’s voice in my ear makes me jump. He’s staring blandly down at me as if waiting to see what sort of lie I’ll come up with.

I decide to abandon all pretence. “Who was that?”

“Who was who?” Malfoy asks, his voice dripping with false-innocence.

I scoff and roll my eyes. “Come on, Malfoy. Who was that wizard you were talking with?”

An annoyed expression crosses his face. “It’s nothing, Granger. Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s not nothing,” I say. “It’s suspicious.”

“I thought you weren’t an Auror.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why are you trying to entrap me?” He flicks an eyebrow up. “I can’t see how it’s your business.”

“Maybe I should bring it up to the DMLE,” I say with a warning tone. “I can call Harry right now.”

We’re in a stand-off now, both of us with our hands on our hips, leaning too close to each other, refusing to back down. Finally, Malfoy snorts a frustrated breath through his nose and reaches into his back pocket. He thrusts the envelope into my hand and I open it, honestly surprised that he capitulated so easily.

It’s full of cash. American money in a variety of denominations. It must be at least five thousand dollars.

“What on Earth?” I ask. “What did you give him?”

“Galleons,” Malfoy says. “Marcus works in banking, and he’s able to exchange money for me. Since Dylan Mallory doesn’t really exist, I can’t exactly have a bank account. And since Draco Malfoy is persona non grata, I can’t access the family vault.” He extends his hand, patient but pointed. “I give Marcus the coins, he swaps it for cash from his own accounts, and we both go about our days.”

“So…” I hedge, feeling a bit embarrassed, “why the cloak-and-dagger routine?”

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “It’s not exactly legal. Marcus could lose his job. But he’s a good bloke, doing me a favour, so we keep it quiet for everybody’s sake.” I give the envelope back and Malfoy replaces it in his jeans pocket. “Satisfied?”

Heat crawls up my neck. I hand the envelope back, feeling like an idiot. “You could have just said so.”

“Mm.” He tucks the envelope away, lips curving. “But then I wouldn’t get to watch you go full barrister on me in public.” His eyes rake over my face, slow enough that I feel it everywhere. “Merlin, Granger. You’re so eager for me to be up to something nefarious.” A beat, then softer, slyer: “You like a bad boy, don’t you?”

My pulse stutters. I narrow my eyes. “You wish, Malfoy.”

“Do I ever.”

Before I can recover, he claps his hands together and strides off, forcing me to hurry after him.

“Where are we going now?” I ask, taking a few running steps to catch up to his longer strides.

“I told you,” he throws over his shoulder, smirk curling, “I’m going to trounce you in skee-ball.”

We wind our way back through the magical crowd and into the Muggle arcade. It smells of stale popcorn and something sweet, and the low hum of electricity carries beneath the raucous voices echoing around the space. Bells and lights clamour for attention from all manner of games and machines, but Malfoy zeroes in on a row of skee-ball lanes like a shark scenting blood.

“Prepare to lose, Granger.”

I scoff. “I’ve played before.”

“Not against me, you haven’t.” He drops a coin into a machine, gestures for me to step up, and pays into the machine beside mine. The lights sputter on and a line of hard, plastic balls clatters into place. “Ready?” He arches an eyebrow at me.

I put on my game face. “You’re on, Malfoy.” He smirks.

“Ooh,” he purrs. “I like this side of you, Granger.”

Ignoring the little flutter that dashes through me, I grab a ball and toss it up the lane. It rolls smoothly upward, bounces off the forty-point ring and lands within the twenty.

“Damn.”

Malfoy rolls his bottom lip, clearly hiding a grin, and throws. Fifty points. He throws me a wink and I can feel my face heating. Wiping the smug expression off of his face is my new life’s mission.

My turn. I aim, release — too much spin. The ball ricochets into the ten-point gutter and I groan out loud.

Malfoy chuckles low in his throat. “Tragic.”

“Shut up,” I hiss, grabbing another ball. This one scores, but barely get another twenty points. We start playing faster, not waiting for the other to finish before taking the next turn. I manage to get a few forty-point scores, but Malfoy ends up beating me by more than one hundred.

“God dammit.” I actually stomp my foot and Malfoy laughs, loud and long. Putting my hand out, I flap my fingers and say, “Give me another quarter. We’re going again.”

He’s grinning like the Cheshire Cat and my pulse races at the sight. He is so annoying and attractive — annoyingly-attractive, in fact.

I tap my foot as Malfoy slides another quarter into my machine and steps back. I’m practically bouncing on the balls of my feet as the machine whirrs back to life. The first ball flies wild and I only manage ten points.

“You’re too keyed up,” Malfoy says on a laugh. “Calm down.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Here.” Suddenly, he’s too close, a wall of warmth at my back. He hands me the next ball, but places his warm palm over my knuckles. “You’re releasing too early,” he murmurs, voice tickling my ear. I can smell his cologne — that vaguely Earl Grey smell — and feel goosebumps erupt across my skin. “Wait just a bit longer. Like this.”

He nudges my arm forward and the ball rolls clean into the 40-point ring.

“See?” His jaw moves against my hair. “You just needed me.”

My face is on fire. “I did not need—”

He steps back, smirking as if he’s won already. I try again without his “help,” and the ball careens wildly into the lowest ring. His laugh is delighted and utterly enraging.

Dropping another quarter into his own machine, Malfoy begins another game just as I’m finishing mine. My score is slightly better than last time, but Malfoy is already racking up points, even scoring two one-hundreds in a row.

Then I catch it: the tiniest flick of his wand hand in his pocket as he lets the ball go. It sails in a perfect arc and earns him fifty points.

“Malfoy!” I gasp and shove him hard in the shoulder. “You cheat!”

He laughs again, elated by my outrage. Again, he magically guides the ball into a high score and I leap forward, grabbing him about the wrist, forcing him to stop the little flicks of his wand. He freezes, staring down at where my hands wrap around his left forearm. Right over the Dark Mark. I flinch and Malfoy twists his arm away, withdrawing his hand from his pocket. Clearing his throat, Malfoy tosses the ball between his hands and looks away.

“Alright,” he says softly. “I’ll play clean.” He offers me a small smile and the tension that had settled over us dissolves.

Even without the use of his wand, Malfoy is an excellent player. The last three balls land in the fifty, forty, and fifty again. He looks down at me with a proud expression and I’m suddenly struck by just how much he’s changed.

Gone is the pointy, snide face of the boy from Hogwarts. Instead, Malfoy’s features have softened slightly; his chin is the tiniest bit rounder and when he smiles, distinct apples appear at the tops of his cheeks. The slope of his nose and the line of his jaw are still sharp, but his face is perfectly framed by his white-blond hair flopping casually across his face.

I realise I’ve gone from simply looking at him to staring at him. And he’s staring right back, cool as ever, while the space between us feels like a dare. The fingers of his right hand flex, the tendons in his forearm rolling beneath pale skin, and my breath catches in my throat.

Malfoy breaks the tension by bending down to rip a long line of tickets from his skee-ball machine. The haul from my machine is much smaller.

“I can’t believe you would cheat at a simple arcade game,” I say.

“A man does what he must,” he answers, voice low. The mischief creeps back into his eyes and he asks, “How are you at darts?”

“Better than you.”

I am not better than him.

Five minutes later, my darts have all stuck into the cork-board holding up an array of multicoloured balloons. Malfoy’s, on the other hand, have all squarely punctured a balloon and he’s been handed another long string of tickets.

“You cheated again.”

“I did not.”

“Prove it.”

“You can’t prove a negative, Granger.”

“I hate you.”

Malfoy smiles. “Take it out on me at the ring toss.”

At the square booth, I line up my throw, determined to win at something for once. With my tongue between my teeth, I let out a long, slow breath and try to settle my nerves. The ring skitters off of one peg, but manages to land on another one. I leap into the air and squeal with excitement. The next one misses and Malfoy leans close enough for his breath to stir the curls at my temple. “You’ve got to flick, not lob.”

“Stop distracting me,” I growl.

His grin is absolutely wicked. “Would you like me to hold your hand again?”

“I’d like you to trip over your own arrogance, Malfoy.”

“Ooh,” he hisses. “You’re a little mean, Granger, you know that?”

I silently square up my next shot and flick it across the array of wooden pegs. I hate that he was right — flicking is definitely a better method — but I manage a total of four out of five shots and step back with a smug expression on my face.

“You’re welcome,” he says cooly, stepping up for his own turn. I swallow my retort and watch. He only scores three. I reach across the counter and the attendant hands over a string of tickets.

As I turn away, I’m sure to let the little bits of paper smack Malfoy across his perfect cheek.

We cross to a water-gun race and settle onto the little stools. Malfoy is practically doubled-over, given his height, but he props his elbows onto the counter with his usual confidence. I grip the handle, ready to prove myself a real contender, and the bell rings to start the race.

I take the lead, but after only a moment’s elation, Malfoy’s elbow nudges mine, deliberately jostling me.

“Cheater!” I yell, spraying the clown’s mouth wildly off-centre. He wins by half a second, and the smug tilt of his head makes me want to hex him right there on the pier.

He accepts the paper tickets like they’re laurel wreaths, then ruffles them beneath my chin. “Careful, Granger. Keep grinning like that and people might think you’re enjoying yourself.”

“I’m not—” I start stubbornly, but the words catch. My cheeks ache, and it hits me that I am, in fact, grinning. Not fuming. Not even pretending to be cross. Just—grinning.

Malfoy’s smirk widens, all quiet triumph. “Thought so.”

I scowl, mostly for show, and snatch the tickets from his hand. “You’re insufferable.”

“You know what?” he asks as if he already knows the answer. “I think you like it.”

I flush hot all over. “I do not.”

He smiles that self-confident smile again. “Sure.”

Malfoy gathers all of the tickets and strolls over to the prize counter. He’s got enough to buy a decent prize, but since I’ve lost most of the games rather spectacularly, he can’t afford any of the larger stuffed animals or garish neon signs. Scanning the selection, he trades his tickets for a few pieces of bubble gum and a tacky silver ring with a dark gem in the centre.

He grabs my right hand and slides the ring onto my fourth finger. It’s a mood ring. While my heart tries to restart itself, Malfoy passes a little card with different colours and their supposed meanings into my palm.

“There,” he says, giving my fingers a squeeze. “Now I’ll always know when you’re lying about how much fun you’re having.”

Pulling my hand away, I say, “There’s no science behind it.”

“Alright then.” He snatched my hand back and holds tight when I try to withdraw again. Dragging me to the corner of the room, out of sight of most of the Muggles, he withdraws his wand and twists his lips in thought. “Hmm… Oh, I know.” With a small, barely-perceptible twirl of his wand, he taps it to the rings and mutters, “Coloratum affectus.” The ring flashes and Malfoy offers me a puffed-up grin. “Now there’s magic behind it.”

“What did you do?” I stare down at the ring as Malfoy pockets his wand again. Did he just casually invent a charm?

“I made it real.” He glances at the stone, then at the paper in my hand with the colour descriptions. “Uh oh, Granger,” he says, tutting softly. “You’ve been exposed.” Without another word, he turns and walks away.

The stone is solid, vivid pink. I glance at the card and my jaw drops.

Pink = Happy

There’s no colour to indicate mortification, so the stone continues to humiliate me with its lies as I spin around to try and locate Malfoy.

He’s back at the prize counter, handing his remaining tickets down to a little boy who has obviously come up short. The boy takes the tickets, staring up at Malfoy like he’s Superman. Malfoy offers the boy’s mum a soft little smile and turns away.

I refuse to look down at the ring.

Back out on the boardwalk, a lunch crowd has accumulated and there are far more people bustling about. We buy sandwiches and Cokes in glass bottles from a little stall before Malfoy leads the way toward a wide set of steps that lead straight down to the sandy beach below.

We sit on a bench and enjoy our lunch in silence, staring out at the Pacific. The ocean is shining in the bright California sun like it’s showing off, twinkling with thousands of bright spots that look like fairy lights. Families and couples are all moving about the beach, playing, swimming, lounging in the sun. It’s loud and crowded, but somehow, it feels like we’re all alone; everyone is so wrapped up in their own beautiful day.

My turkey club sandwich is huge, overflowing with lettuce and tomato and far too much mayo. A streak of it smudges the corner of my mouth, and I swipe it away with my thumb before licking it clean. When I glance up, Malfoy’s watching me.

He’s not eating — he’s just staring.

“What?” I ask, swallowing a too-big mouthful. “Never seen a person eat before?”

He blinks, caught out, and his gaze flicks back to my mouth like it’s magnetic. Immediately, he clears his throat and looks away. “I just… never would have suspected you were a mayo person.”

I turn away from him, just a bit, on the pretence of watching a very fat dog as it walks by with its owner, finishing my sandwich rather faster than I’d like.

“Anything else you’d like to do?” Malfoy asks, putting his hand out for my empty wrapper. I pass it over and he stands to throw it in a nearby bin. I think for a moment.

“Actually,” I say, suddenly sheepish. “I’d like to just… dip my toes into the ocean.”

He turns to me with a curious little grin. “That’s it?”

“Well,” I say, “this is the farthest I’ve ever been from home. I don’t know when I’ll get another chance to touch the Pacific.”

Malfoy’s expression softens a bit. “Yeah,” he says. “Of course we can.” He sits back down and unlaces his own shoes.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Coming with you,” he says simply.

“You don’t have to,” I say, toeing off my flats. Malfoy pulls his boots from his feet and slides his socks off next. It’s strangely intimate, staring at this new frontier of bared skin as he rolls the cuffs of his jeans up to his knees.

Malfoy makes a noncommittal sound. “Eh. Who knows when I’ll get to do this again?”

My brows furrow. He’s so… maudlin. Like going on this week-long (or longer) drive and a simple visit to the UK is the beginning of the end. What a drama queen.

I stand, grabbing up my shoes as we make our way to the shoreline. I had dithered a bit this morning over what to wear — since I’m not at work, and I’m not a spy, but I am trying to be sort of professional, I didn’t want to go with anything too casual. My In-Case-of-Emergency wardrobe is far more functional than fashionable. So now, I’m sitting on a sunny California beach in a pair of jeans and a simple white button-down, preparing to march across the beach with my jeans rolled up like I’m going wading in the local fishing hole.

Malfoy is in the same boat.

But he seems completely unbothered, following me along to where the gently rolling surf meets the sand. I stand with my feet together and watch as the water laps gently over my toes, pleasantly warm. After a minute or so, my feet have almost been entirely enveloped by velvety sand, brought there by the caress of the waves.

I glance sidelong at Malfoy, who is standing beside me in exactly the same posture. Except he’s not watching his feet; he’s watching me.

“Well,” he starts, “how does it feel?”

I take a deep breath. “Significant,” I say at last. Malfoy makes a hmm sort of face, his eyebrows twitching up and his lips pouting out, and he turns back to the view of the ocean.

“I’ve always liked it here,” he says. “It’s easy to disappear with all the people around.”

This is what I meant when I told Harry that Malfoy is different. I’ve never heard him speak so gently before. Even after school and the war were over, when he was no longer a prisoner and he was working as an auror, he was always so stoic. Like he was still wearing some sort of mask without a single chip in it.

Now, the whole facade is gone.

“Can we walk a bit?” I ask tentatively. Malfoy seems to pull himself out of a deep thought and he looks at me slowly.

“Sure.” He nods his head and we start off down the beach, our feet splashing through the surf as we walk away from the boardwalk.

“What are you doing for the rest of the afternoon?” I ask, casual as can be.

Malfoy tilts his head back and forth and says, “Nothing much. I’ll spend some time packing up, I suppose.” Something in his tone is evasive, but I can’t quite put my finger on how.

“Have you got a lot to pack?”

“More that I’ll probably put in storage,” he answers. “I have a lot of books.”

I huff as if to say Sure you do. He glances over at me with an almost sly look on his face.

“You don’t believe me?”

“Most people’s definition of ‘a lot of books’ is vastly different from mine,” I say.

“I’m sure it is,” he says. “But I say again: I have a lot of books.”

“Well, let me know if you need any help.” I pause to pick up a bit of purple sea glass from the sand in front of me. “I’m a dab hand at extension charms, you know?”

“I might take you up on that,” Malfoy says, pausing as I turn toward the surf, still bent at the waist. Another bit of sea glass has caught my eye, but it is jumping away from me as a wave rapidly recedes. I step forward and close my hand over it just as a new wave crashes down mere feet from me. I feel the spray on my face and the pull of one wave rolling under another threatens to drag me to the ground by the ankles. But a warm, solid arm wraps around my waist and hauls me upright.

“Steady on, Granger,” Malfoy’s mouth is nearly pressed to my ear as he sets me on my feet. His arm pulls me flush against him, steadying me as another swell pushes and pulls us in a gentle back-and-forth.

We stare at each other for a long moment before I finally get my wits about me again.

Taking a step back, I clear my throat and say, “Thank you.”

“Anytime.” Malfoy puts a bit more space between us, then gestures for me to carry on walking. After a long, silent beat, he asks, “What are your plans for the evening?”

“Oh,” I say vaguely, “I’ll probably work in the hotel. I have a difficult case on at the moment so I have a lot of research I need to do about property law as it pertains to ownership over magical creatures.”

“Sounds riveting,” he says blandly. “Nothing you’d rather do?”

“Nope,” I say. “You know how I like research.”

A huff of air that might be a chuckle escapes his nose. “That I do.” He stares down at the sand as we continue walking and I feel strangely compelled to… make it up to him? Was he asking me to do something this evening?

“I can come by tomorrow morning to help you finish packing,” I offer. “I’m sure I’ll have plenty of time in the coming days to read in the car.”

He perks up a bit at that. “Sure, Granger,” he says. “That’d be nice.”

“It’s a date,” I say flippantly, then instantly regret it. Rather than spend another second on the subject, I spin on my heel and say, “Shall we head back?”

Thankfully, Malfoy does not speak on my faux-pas. He simply follows me back to the boardwalk where we sit while we each fix our trouser legs and Malfoy re-dons his boots. We chat amiably on the way back to the bus stop, and sit in relatively comfortable silence all the way back to his apartment building.

“So I’ll… see you tomorrow, then,” I say, preparing to leave him on the sidewalk.

“I promise not to flee the state before noon,” he says smartly.

My mouth falls open. “That’s not… That’s not what I—”

“Calm down, Granger, don’t have a niffler.” Malfoy rolls his eyes and smiles gently. “I’m teasing you.”

I huff, annoyed at how easily he riles me up. “Be sure you don’t,” I say with false authority. “I’d hate to have to hunt you down again.”

“I might like it if you did.” With that, Malfoy clicks his tongue and offers me a little salute in goodbye before slipping into his building and disappearing from view.

Some not-insignificant part of me regrets Disapparating back to my hotel room to work.

***

Rapping my knuckles against the door to Malfoy’s flat, I listen carefully for any sign of life within.

Nothing.

It’s not that early — nearly 9:30. Surely, he’s awake by now?

I knock again, a little louder this time, and a series of arrhythmic thuds answers back. The door jerks open and a very dishevelled Malfoy glares at me through one squinted eye.

“Granger?” he growls, voice rough with sleep. He’s shirtless, wearing only a pair of low-slung grey joggers, and his hair is sticking up in a perfect blond impression of Harry’s. “What’re you doing here?” Despite his efforts to keep them open, his eyes are squeezing shut against the not-that-bright light of the corridor.

“We’re meant to pack up your things today, Malfoy,” I say slowly. “Remember?”

“Eugh…” Malfoy drags a hand down his face, scrubbing almost violently at the blond stubble on his sharp jaw. “Yeah. Yeah, I remember.”

Is he alright?

“Can I… come in?” I venture. From within the flat, there’s another thud, like a door closing. Then I hear water running, as from a sink. Malfoy is staring at me, unblinking, as if willing the sound to simply erase itself from existence. “Malfoy, is… is someone else here?”

Malfoy lets out a bone-deep groan and steps aside, pulling the door open and allowing me entry to the flat. The sound of a coffee pot gurgling to life hits my ears as I step inside. The space is not at all what I pictured.

You do a lot of picturing me, Granger?

Physically shaking off the memory of his low voice, I gape openly at Malfoy’s home like it’s an animal habitat at the zoo. The living area is open to the kitchen, separated by a breakfast bar that lets the copious natural light float all the way in from the picture windows. The far wall is exposed red brick, covered with paintings in mismatched frames. Several plants — some magical, some mundane — hang in macrame holders in the corner between the windows, allowing light to pass over them at all times. There’s a low, brown leather sofa and two coordinating, but not matching, open-frame armchairs that surround a coffee table. The furniture is situated toward a television in the corner, but the room is practically covered with books and magazines.

How utterly… normal.

“See anything you like?”

Malfoy’s voice draws my attention back to him and my eyes immediately betray me by dropping down to the outline of his… self in his grey joggers. My cheeks flush and he smirks. Dick.

No — not like that.

“I-it’s nice,” I stammer, stepping further inside to set my bag on the small table near the door. “I—”

“Dylan?” a man’s voice calls from the kitchen. “Where’s the butter?”

“Middle shelf, right-hand side,” Malfoy replies, not breaking eye contact with me.

“Thanks, doll.”

Excuse me?

Malfoy scratches lazily at his chest and gestures for me to follow him toward the kitchen. He nods in the direction of the breakfast bar and I take a seat on one of the stools, knowing my mouth is hanging open, but unable to do anything about it.

“Ethan, this is Hermione Granger,” Malfoy says as he opens the cabinet above the coffee pot. “Old school mate. Granger — Ethan.”

Ethan is taller than me, but shorter than Malfoy, with wavy brown hair and a wide smile that dimples his cheeks. He is also shirtless, wearing only a pair of cotton shorts which end far-too-above the knee. And he is also a man.

He puts out his right hand, a tub of butter in the left. “Nice to meet you,” he says in a clear, bright voice. So bright, apparently, that it makes Malfoy flinch. I shake his hand and look between them, but Malfoy is steadfastly ignoring the situation as he pours out three cups of coffee.

“Likewise,” I say lamely. “Erm… how do you know…” I almost say Malfoy, “Dylan?”

“Oh, we met at a nightclub about a year ago,” Ethan says, popping open cabinets until he finds a loaf of Wonderbread. He grins at me over his shoulder. “Dylan is quite the dancer, you know.”

“I had no idea,” I say. Malfoy hands over a cup of coffee, full to the brim, and I grimace. “Do you have sugar?”

“Of course.” He turns to retrieve a covered dish from the vicinity of the coffee pot.

“And cream?” I venture. Malfoy turns to look at me, slowly, as if he is unsure of what I just said.

“I have milk,” he says in a flat tone. Then he is still.

“Can I have some?” I ask slowly. Malfoy rolls his eyes, then squints as if this action has caused him pain. Ethan dances around the kitchen faster than Malfoy can turn his head, flinging open the refrigerator and setting the carton of milk before me on the breakfast bar.

“Here you go, beautiful.” Ethan throws me a wink and a little shimmy of his shoulders before returning to the ever-growing plate of toast he’s making.

“Thank you.”

Ethan smiles again and takes a huge bite of toast slathered in butter and cinnamon sugar. “I’ll be right back,” he announces, bouncing out of the kitchen and toward what I assume is a bedroom. “Gotta take my vitamins if I’m gonna stay this young and beautiful forever.” He bumps his hip against Malfoy’s who groans and waves Ethan away like the man is an annoyingly persistent gnat.

When he’s gone, I turn to Malfoy and hiss, “Why didn’t you tell me you had someone over here?”

Malfoy glares at me. “By what means? Telepathy?” He pushes away from the counter and tops up his coffee, which is already half-empty. “Besides, it’s hardly your business who is in my home.”

I glance down at my own cup, wishing there was room for even a drop of milk. In an attempt to make some room, I take a sip of black coffee. It tastes like tar. Fighting a grimace, I put the cup back on the counter. “It’s my business when you let me intrude on your… morning after.”

Malfoy freezes. Then he turns slowly to me, running his tongue over his teeth and staring at me with narrowed eyes. “Morning after what, Granger?”

I gulp nervously. “You know.”

Something like mischief enters Malfoy’s silvery eyes. “I don’t think I do.” Malfoy watches me with the keen, smug expression of a cat toying with a cornered mouse.

With an exasperated sigh, I toss my hands up. “Well, you tell me, Malfoy: what did you get up to last night?”

He shrugs. “Honestly, I don’t remember much.”

“Yeah, Dylan had four shots of tequila before the Long Island ice teas came out, so I’m not sure he’s going to much for storytelling this morning.” Ethan comes back into the kitchen, throwing back a vitamin the size of a bumblebee and poking Malfoy in the ribs. Malfoy flinches and sends a withering glare at his… companion.

“Do you mind?” he drawls.

“Ooh, touched a nerve, did I?” Ethan only grins and grabs another slice of toast. “Hermione, I’m sorry this one’s such a dick when he’s hungover.”

Malfoy leans back against the counter and says blithely, “To be fair, I’m usually a bit of a dick.”

“Pretty nice dick, though.” Ethan sends a salacious wink Malfoy’s way before finally fixing his own cup of coffee.

My hand flies to my mouth and I can feel my cheeks flame in utter mortification. Ethan walks back out of the kitchen and I round on Malfoy again. “I would like very much to no longer be a part of this conversation.”

Malfoy tilts his head and a tiny little smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Uncomfortable, Granger? I wouldn’t have thought you to be such a prude.”

“I’m not a prude, I’m just… surprised. Caught off guard.”

“Disappointed?”

“No! I just… I didn’t know you were gay.”

“I’m not.”

I’m gobsmacked. “What?”

Malfoy finally lets his grin loose and says, “Ethan’s a friend of mine. He’s taking over my lease while I’m gone on your campaign trail.”

I blink stupidly at this new information. “What?”

“Keep up, Granger, I thought you were meant to be smart.”

I reach across the counter to smack Malfoy across his naked bicep. “You… you let me think—”

He laughs and pulls away from me as if I could actually hurt him. “Yeah, I did.”

“Why?”

Another shrug. “It was funny.” He glances down at where I swatted his arm and his entire demeanour shifts. His jaw clicks shut and his eyes widen in discomfort and I follow his gaze down to where the Dark Mark is plainly visible on his naked arm.

“Oh, fuck,” he mutters, spinning around as he searches for something, presumably a shirt. “I’ll just — I’ll be right back—”

“Malfoy,” I interrupt. My hand twitches in his direction, but I can’t bring myself to actually touch the cursed tattoo on purpose. What I do manage is to say stiffly, “It’s fine. You don’t have to… to keep covering it up. I know it’s there.”

Malfoy looks supremely uncomfortable. “I don’t want you to—”

“It’s fine,” I repeat. “I promise.”

Malfoy swallows thickly and nods, finally catching sight of my still-full cup. Clearing his throat, he asks, “Change your mind?”

I wrap both hands around the mug, grateful for the change of topic. “There’s no room for cream or sugar,” I pout.

Malfoy looks at me derisively. “How much room do you need?”

“About half.”

“Ugh.” He scoffs. “How disappointing.” There’s no venom in it — none of the vitriol that would have been when we were children. The sentiment takes me aback, but I’m more surprised by Malfoy lifting my cup to his lips and taking a long gulp. His mercurial eyes are locked on mine and I can feel my neck heat. Again.

Why does he fluster me so much?

Malfoy puts the mug back down on the breakfast bar and licks his lips, that slightly-smug expression on his face again. “There,” he says, not looking down. “Better?”

I don’t look down either. I can’t, actually. “Fine.”

“Good.”

“Alright you two!” Ethan comes striding back down the hallway and into the entryway, now fully-dressed. I forgot he was here. I jump to add milk and sugar to my cup just for something to do. “It’s off to work I go.” He slides his feet into a pair of Keds and bends down to adjust the heels. “Dylan, I’ll be back around seven.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Malfoy says blandly.

Ethan grins at us. “I was going to say the same thing to you.” He grabs a set of keys from a bowl near the door and waves over his shoulder before calling out as he goes, “Do everything I would do!”

Malfoy shakes his head in affectionate exasperation and moves toward a cupboard in the corner. “Jesus, I thought he’d never leave.” He reaches into the back of the cabinet and withdraws a small potions vial, most likely a hangover remedy. The combination of Muggle swears and magical medicine is disorienting, especially coming from Malfoy.

“He’s an… interesting person,” I say, finally taking a sip of my coffee. The coffee Malfoy already drank from.

“I think I accidentally found an American Theo,” he explains before downing the potion all in one. Malfoy gasps and pulls a face like he’s just taken a shot of liquor. “Seems I am drawn to a certain personality type when it comes to friends.” He shakes his head as if clearing away a fog.

“Were you celebrating anything in particular or do you routinely get completely pissed on a Wednesday night?”

Malfoy’s posture straightens infinitesimally and a muscle in his jaw twitches. He takes a slow sip of his coffee, obviously stalling. I mirror him, staring innocently back as I wait. Finally, he takes a deep breath and says, “Yesterday was my birthday.”

My face falls in shock and embarrassment. “Oh… I had no idea.” He doesn’t look too keen on the idea of even having a birthday, let alone celebrating it.

“Yeah, well…” he says, turning to place his now-empty mug in the sink. A cloud seems to have settled over him. “What better reason to get blackout drunk?” He’s not meeting my eye anymore, and he runs his hand anxiously over the back of his neck. “Not usually a day I care to remember.”

Nothing you’d rather do?

Had he been asking me to come out with him to celebrate his birthday? To meet his friends or… just be with him?

I have no idea what to say to this. While I don’t always love being at the centre of attention, birthdays have always been a reason to celebrate for me. Even now that my parents are no longer… my parents, my found family makes birthdays special. Especially Molly. There’s something cathartic for her, I think, to celebrate another year that her children are alive. It’s therapeutic for all of us, really. But that doesn’t appear to be the case for Malfoy.

“I’ll take that, if you’re done,” Malfoy’s low voice says, drawing me from my musings. He nods down at my cup. There’s only one sip left and I finish it before handing the cup over. Malfoy places it in the sink and turns on the tap, immediately washing the small pile of dishes by hand. “We should get started,” he says over the sound of the running water. Malfoy finally casts a tight-lipped smile in my direction and I try to let go of the tension that’s settled over the small kitchen. “What do you make of my book collection?”

“It’s not bad.” Hopping down from my barstool, I take a closer look around the living area, meandering slowly about the room. “You might even give me a run for my money.”

He scoffs and turns the water off, setting the last plate in the drying rack. “Don’t lie, Granger,” he says. “You’re bad at it, remember?”

A tiny smile creeps across my face, completely unbidden, and I turn away to hide it from him.

***

At nine the next morning, I am dressed and ready in the lobby of the hotel. After packing Malfoy’s things away the day before, I managed to find my way to a shopping mall and topped up my wardrobe — some more T-shirts and slacks, a pair of comfy leggings, and some more knickers. I lug my now-full weekend bag downstairs and after checking out, I buy a croissant at the little cafe and a sugary coffee just to annoy Malfoy. I step out onto the sidewalk and my jaw drops, a crumb of flaky pastry falling from my lips.

Malfoy is leaning against the passenger door of a deep green convertible. The cream-coloured top is folded down to reveal matching seats and the sun refracts brightly off of the shining chrome trim. Almost more impressive than the car itself is the man turning to greet me. Malfoy is wearing another pair of slim-fit jeans — darker this time — and a black-on-black t-shirt and button-down combo. He tilts his chin at me in greeting and I see myself reflected in his mirrored aviator sunglasses.

“Morning, Granger,” he says, grinning with his sharp teeth as he looks down at me.

“What,” I ask, “is that?”

“It’s my car.”

“This is your car?”

“Gorgeous isn’t she?”

My voice keeps getting higher and higher. “’She’?”

“Obviously,” he shrugs. “What did you expect?”

“Some… sleek, modern… expensive thing,” I sputter, staring at the car. “Not a… a…”

“This,” Malfoy places a loving hand on the boot and says emphatically, “is a 1967 Mustang 289.”

I blink at him. “Is that supposed to mean something?” Malfoy steps into me and I have to tilt my head to look him in the eye as he pushes his Ray-Bans up into his hair.

“It’s supposed to turn you on, Granger,” he says in a low tone. “Most girls swoon when I tell them that.” My neck burns and I swear, my heart stops.

“I guess I’m not most girls,” I manage, though my voice definitely cracks.

“No,” he says, eyeing me up and down. “That’s very true.”

My face is on fire and my mouth is unbearably dry. I don’t know what else to do, so I push Malfoy away from me with my croissant hand.

“Shove off, Malfoy,” I say, but there was no fire in it. He steps back and grins at me like the Cheshire Cat. Oh, I think. Of course — he’s teasing me.

Some things never change.

“Finish that and we’ll get going,” he says, nodding toward my coffee and croissant. He opens the passenger door and turns to wait for me.

“I’ll just finish it on the way,” I say, approaching the car.

“Whoa, whoa!” Malfoy’s hands fly out to block me from getting in. “Like hell you will.”

“Malfoy—”

“No food in the car. And definitely no cream and sugar with some coffee dropped in.”

“Oh, come off it. We’re going to go a week without eating or drinking in this car?”

“Clear liquids only,” he says firmly.

So I plop back against the side of the car and stare at him as I chew my pastry at an agonisingly-slow pace. I carefully pick each crumb off of my shirt before sipping at my coffee. Tiny, itty-bitty sips.

Malfoy merely smirks. “Take your time, Granger. I’m not the one in a hurry.” I narrow my eyes, but of course he’s right. I down a few more gulps of my drink before tossing it into a bin. Opening my arms to say There. Happy? I step around Malfoy and slip into the passenger seat. He pushes the door closed and I get another nosefull of his cologne.

It is an actual struggle not to moan.

Malfoy shuts the driver door with a thunk and I sink down into my seat. He puts the key in the ignition and the engine roars to life. A pleasant hum takes over the vehicle as he pulls away from the curb and I watch as Los Angeles starts rolling past.

“How long have you lived here?” I ask over the breeze created by the movement of the car.

“About six months,” he answers. “Moved out here from Chicago. Before that was New York.” When he left the CIA.

“Two moves in a year?” I ask. “That’s a lot.”

“Yeah, well,” he dodges, “gotta keep ‘em on their toes.” He manoeuvres expertly in and out of the morning traffic and I watch the sunlight dance over his jaw and neck.

“And do you… have a lot of friends?” God, I am bad at banal conversation.

“Enough,” he answers, giving me nothing.

“Girlfriends?”

“Why? You interested?” He waggles his eyebrows at me and I throw my hands up in exasperation.

“That’s it. I’m not talking to you again until Washington.”

“I highly doubt that.”

I sit forward and turn the power knob for the radio. A loud rock and roll song comes on and I scrunch my face up in distaste, turning the tuner until I hear Can’t Fight the Moonlight. Satisfied, I sit back and start bobbing my head along with the music.

“Ugh,” Malfoy exclaims. “No.” He presses the first button on the radio and the loud rock song comes on again. I spin the tuner back to LeAnn Rimes. He pushes the button again. “Listen,” he declares, “driver picks the music.”

“Then teach me to drive.”

“I thought you weren’t talking to me?” he teases.

“I wouldn’t if I could help it.”

“Where do you keep all that anger and frustration, Granger? Is it in your hair?” He reaches out a finger and flicks a curl from my shoulder. I swat his hand away and he just. Keeps. Grinning.

It is only then that I notice that my hair is not blowing wildly around my face, despite the top being open and the car picking up speed as we merge onto a busy highway.

“Do you have a shield charm on this thing?” I ask, looking over and around myself as if I might see it.

“She has a couple of magical augmentations and upgrades, as a matter of fact.” Malfoy speaks about his car like a proud papa. “Impervius for wind and rain; cushioning charm to avoid bumps and bruises; expansion in the boot; never-ending refilling charm so I don’t have to keep stopping for petrol—”

“I thought you were avoiding big magic?”

“She was like this when I bought her,” he says. “The wizard I bought her from couldn’t drive anymore. He was moving in with his daughter and decided to sell. I grossly overpaid — I felt bad for him, but I loved this car. And she liked me.”

“Oh, she did, did she?” I reply sarcastically.

The windscreen wipers flap left and right. I jolt and Malfoy laughs.

“You did that,” I accuse.

“I did not! It was her!”

“I don’t believe you.”

Malfoy takes both hands off the wheel and holds them at shoulder-height. The wipers move again, left-right-left-right, then stop. Grinning, he puts his hands back on the wheel and says to the dashboard, “Good girl.”

I gape at him. “The car can… think?”

“Well…” He makes a sort of motion with his hand. “I mean, she’s a car. But she’s got personality, that’s for sure.”

“What else can she do?”

The tuner knob on the radio suddenly jolts to life, spinning left and right through static and broken songs until finally settling on a channel. Phil Collins’s voice comes through the speakers singing, “Take a look at me now…”

I can feel my jaw hanging wide open, but I can’t even begin to care. Malfoy is laughing so raucously I think he is surely about to wreck the car. I’ve never seen him so… happy.

“The Weasleys had a car like this,” I say after his mirth dies down. “A Ford Anglia.”

“Eh.” He pulls a face, like this is not great, but it isn’t awful either. “I’ve seen it. I’m not impressed.”

“It kicked Harry and Ron out after they drove it to school in second year. Booted them right out onto the grass.”

“I like it more.” A small smile creeps unbidden across my face.

“It’s in the Forbidden Forrest now. It’s gone a bit wild.”

“Could it really fly?”

“And turn invisible.”

“Arthur Weasley never grew up, did he?”

I smile earnestly at this. “Not where it counts.”

We drive on in surprisingly-companionable silence for a long time. I pull a couple of books out of my bag and flip leisurely through them while Malfoy mutters along to whatever song is on the radio. It’s altogether rather pleasant, with an unobjectionable breeze blowing over our heads and the music fading into the background as I read.

“You hungry?”

I drag my eyes and mind away from the books in my lap and say eloquently, “Huh?” A smirk is Malfoy’s first reply.

“Are you hungry, Granger?”

All at once, I realise that I am. And I also really need the loo. “Yes. How long have we been driving?”

“About four hours.”

“Four hours?” Malfoy chuckles and points ahead out ahead of us. I look up to see a diamond-shaped sign that reads: Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada.

Chapter Text

Hogwarts | Monday, 15 January 1996

A soft click drew my attention and I glanced up from the books spread out on the table in front of me. The library was dark, with only my lantern and soft, white moonlight to illuminate the crowded shelves. Standing, I went to the balcony and looked down into the main circulation space.

Empty.

I cast a quick Tempus and gasped — 11:35. “Dammit,” I muttered, grabbing the books and shoving sheets of notes-covered parchment between their pages. The sound I’d heard must have been Madam Pince closing up for the night. It was well past curfew and even though prefects technically had the privilege to be out and about later than other students, I absolutely did not want to be caught by Umbridge or one of her lackeys on the first day of term.

Cramming some of the books in my school bag — I need an extension charm on this thing — and hefting a couple more into my arms, I started down the narrow spiral stairs and ran straight into something solid.

“Fuck!” I breathed out, surprised to find that the something solid was a person.

“Language, Granger.” Draco fucking Malfoy. Perfect. “I should take ten points from Gryffindor for that mouth of yours.” He leaned over me in that casually arrogant manner of his, his eyes dropping down to my lips in a barely-there flicker. Then his smirk slid back into place and my blood began to boil.

“I’ve heard worse from you, Malfoy,” I spat. “At least I don’t go around hurling slurs at people in the corridors.”

“People… inferiors…” Malfoy canted his head back and forth as if considering these two items. “Semantics, really.”

“God, you are such an arsehole.” I tried to push past him, but Malfoy blocked my path, crowding me back toward the stairs.

“Let’s make it twenty, shall we?”

“Get out of my way, Malfoy.”

“It could be another ten,” he drawled, sliding his hands casually into his pockets as he stared down at me. I stared at his chest, refusing to meet his grey gaze. “For being out so late.”

I puffed out a humourless laugh. “You’re one to talk, sneaking into the library at all hours of the night. Nothing better to do?”

“I’m on my rounds,” he replied casually. “Keeping an eye out for… seditious activity.”

That caused my chin to lift, my eyes to find his, my mouth to fall open. I was flabbergasted. “Really? ‘Seditious activity’?” How dare he? His own father was a Death Eater. Malfoy was well on his way to becoming one himself in a few years, no doubt.

Part of me was always a little sad for him, really.

Most of me thought he was an absolute dick.

“What are you studying so diligently, anyway?” Malfoy asked, nodding down at the books in my arms. “It’s only the first day back. Did you honestly request this much extra work?” He rolled his eyes and sneered. “Know-it-all little swot.”

“It’s my own business, Malfoy,” I replied. “Not yours. And you have no right to—”

Quick as a snake, he snatched the top book from the pile in my arms, disrupting the balance and nearly causing me to drop the others. Of course, he made no move to help me maintain my armload, merely staring regally down at the book in his hand. “Magick of the Mynd?” Malfoy turned the book over in his hand and furrowed his brow. He looked truly intrigued. “This is from the Restricted Section.”

“I have permission from Madam Pince to go in there,” I said defensively. The last thing I wanted was for Malfoy to know what I was reading up on. Snape had just told Harry he’d be teaching him Occlumency twice a week and Harry was going to need all the help he could get. Maybe if I could help him understand the theory—

“What’s this for?” Malfoy was more serious than before, the slick, petulant meanness gone from his tone. “We haven’t got any assignments on mental magic.”

“Maybe you haven’t—”

“Neither have you.”

“You don’t know—”

“You’re a terrible liar, Granger.” Malfoy narrowed his eyes at me. “This is for Potter, isn’t it? One of his little hero projects?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Potter’s trying to learn Occlumency, isn’t he?” I took a sharp breath and Malfoy tilted his head to the side, a sly grin sneaking across his sharp mouth. “Oh, that’s rich. Pathetic, really. He’s nowhere near clever enough.”

I could feel my cheeks flush, but I refused to back down. “I’m allowed to read what I like, Malfoy. If I want to study up on mental magic for my own edification, I will. Now give. It. Back.” I held out my hand and Malfoy and I stared each other down. For a long moment, neither of us so much as blinked. Then, shockingly, he dropped the book back into my hand and took a step backward. I tucked it back against my chest and shifted the heavy stack in my arms.

“Suit yourself, Granger,” he said. I took a step to the side and made to leave, but Malfoy’s hand suddenly shot out and grabbed my elbow. I looked down at his fingers wrapped around my arm and gaped. I couldn’t think of a single other time when Malfoy had willingly touched me. “But you’re wasting your time. The Dark Lord could take over Potter’s mind from miles away. That idiot doesn’t stand a chance, all cosied up in his bed.” Malfoy’s eyes raked over me, but there was something hereto unseen in his gaze. Something serious. His jaw was tight as he looked me dead in the eye and said tersely, “Be careful.”

Then he released my arm with a little push, dismissing me like an annoying first-year, and the Ferret was back.

“Get back to your tower, Granger,” he spat. “Before I take what few points Gryffindor still has.”

I wanted so badly to argue with him, almost for the sake of it. But I knew it would be useless. And the strange shift in his tone had taken any possible joy out of getting the last word. With one last glance at him, I turned and marched from the library.

His warning had almost felt real.

Chapter Text

Friday, 7 June 2002 | Las Vegas, NV

“Malfoy,” I whinge, eyes closed and head falling back, “what are we doing in Las Vegas?”

His grin is borderline maniacal. “Passing through, Granger. Nothing more.”

“Malfoy,” I warn.

“Eating lunch,” he continues. “Maybe taking in a show — Vegas is known for the shows.”

“Malfoy.”

“Have you heard of Siegfried and Roy?”

“Malfoy!”

He finally stops rambling and shoots me a covert look. Pulling the car over to the side of the street, he sighs and drops his shoulders. “Alright,” he says, voice defeated, “I have a confession to make.”

I wait, one eyebrow raised impatiently.

“This is the real reason we’re here.” Malfoy points over my shoulder and I turn.

Little Church of the West Wedding Chapel.

My jaw drops.

“Granger,” Malfoy says, voice low, “will you—”

“Shut up,” I spit out. Closing my eyes tight, I take three deep breaths and try to push my ire down. Why am I being tested this way?

He’s laughing now — chortling, really. “Your face!” Malfoy tosses his head back and says, “Salazar, you are just too easy.”

Without waiting for a reply, he pulls the car back onto the busy street. I cross my arms over my chest and glare out over the patches of desert that slowly transform into a city. Without intention, I start turning in my seat to watch some of the more interesting hotels go by. A miniature of the New York City skyline, a black pyramid with a massive sphinx out front, a colourful castle that looks like the centrepiece of a King Arthur play set, and a replica of the Eiffel Tower. It’s all so… strange.

“I’ve never seen such a mismatched place,” I mutter, as we pass by what appears to be a play-sized version of Venice. “It’s a bit… overwhelming.”

“I’ve heard it’s really something at night,” Malfoy replies. Traffic thickens as we move down Las Vegas Boulevard and we’re forced to slow down quite a bit. “All the neon lit up like the middle of the day.”

“You’ve never been here before?” I ponder.

Malfoy shakes his head. “Nope. Thought I’d pass through on our way by.”

I hear the thick layer of wistfulness he’s laying on. “Malfoy, this is a pit stop — not a holiday,” I insist. “We are here for lunch and nothing more.”

“Are you allergic to fun or something?” Malfoy asks, slowing to a veritable crawl as more cars and people pour into the street. “What’s wrong with spending a little time—”

“Malfoy, I have a job, you know? And an important election coming up, in case you’d for—”

“Oh, my god, Granger — look!”

“Don’t interrupt me!”

“’In case I’d forgotten’,” he finishes for me, flapping an impatient hand in the air between us. “I get it. Look!” With an emphatic finger, Malfoy points to a banner that’s stretched out between two light poles.

Las Vegas Vintage Car Show.

Suddenly, I can see it: a wall of shining chrome and brightly-coloured curves, surrounding us on all sides. I was so distracted by the buildings, I hadn’t even noticed the cars gathering around us.

“Granger!” Malfoy grabs my upper arm and shakes me; he sounds about as excited as a kid on Christmas morning. “Look — a fifty-seven Corvette. And a sixty-four — no, a sixty-three Shelby Cobra! That blue one, there!”

I drop my face to my hands. “Oh, good Godric,” I mutter. “We’ll never get out of here.”

“We’re staying!” Turning the wheel sharply to the right, Malfoy veers down a side street and manages to find an empty parking space between two hotels. “Oh, this is perfect,” he says, turning off the car and putting up the top. He looks ready to vibrate out of his seat. “I’ll bet some of the older hotels still take cash. You pick — The Cromwell, or the Flamingo.” Malfoy gestures to the buildings on either side of us as we exit the car.

The Cromwell looks rather bland compared to the flashing pink lights of the Flamingo. He catches me staring up at the magenta and gold neon and his grin gets impossibly wider.

“The Flamingo it is, then.” He pops open the boot and hauls both of our bags over his shoulder.

“No, Malfoy, really, we cannot be wasting time like this.” He reaches down and grabs my hand and I immediately shut up. I stare down at his long fingers wrapped around mine as he pulls me toward the hotel entrance.

Malfoy turns and stands rather close to me, still holding my hand. “Come on, Granger,” he wheedles. “I’ll buy you whatever you want to eat — lunch and dinner. And we’ll go to a show or something, or maybe just go to the casino and throw away money on a game of poker. But when are we going to get this chance again?” Malfoy’s grey eyes are wide and genuine and imploring and I’d be lying if I said the sound of his slight desperation did nothing to me.

After a long, silent moment, I let out a big puff of a breath and say, “Fine.”

“Yes!” Malfoy pumps his fist, eyes squeezed shut, grinning like victory itself had punched through him. It’s adorable. I try to hide my grin, but I just can’t. Draco Malfoy — adorable. Who would have thought?

The lobby of the Flamingo is a blur of pink — pink carpets, pink lighting, pink banners — all blended up with the scent of cash and various colognes. Malfoy slides through the crowd like he owns the place, still tugging me along by the hand.

“Honestly, this is so ridiculous,” I hiss, trying to free myself as we dodge a group of sunburned tourists in sequined shirts.

“Relax,” he says over his shoulder. “It’s Vegas. It’s supposed to be ridiculous.”

At the reception desk, a harried clerk with a high ponytail and a clipboard looks us up and down. “Checking in?”

“Yes,” Malfoy says smoothly. “Anything’s fine, but I wouldn’t mind a view of the pool.”

The clerk offers a sceptical little huff as if to say in your dreams, but obligingly taps away at the computer in front of her. “Uhh… you’re in luck — we’re pretty booked up with the car show, but we’ve had a few cancellations. Let me see…” She squints down at the screen, clicking through a list. “Hmm. We’ve got a standard double that was just taken. Two twins that’s gone… and—ah, one king suite. Last one left.”

My stomach plummets. “One—”

“We’ll take it,” Malfoy interrupts before I can protest. I stare at him.

The clerk hands over her pink clipboard and says, “Great. Do you have a credit card for incidentals?”

Malfoy smiles that infuriating, polished smile. “Cash only, I’m afraid. I’m a bit old fashioned that way.” He slides a few crisp bills across the counter. She doesn’t even hesitate.

“Right, then,” she says brightly, producing a single pink keycard. “Elevators are to your right. Enjoy your stay at the Flamingo.” She immediately turns to another guest and we are effectively dismissed.

I stare incredulously up at Malfoy as we walk away. “One bed?”

He pockets the card with infuriating calm. “It was that or sleep in the car, and you’d sooner Avada me. Consider it self-preservation.”

“You could have asked me.”

“I knew what you would say.”

Balling my hands into fists, I let out a little growl of frustration and follow Malfoy over to the bank of lifts to the side of the lobby. We travel up to the tenth floor and Malfoy slides the keycard through the reader. He drops our bags on the pink upholstered bench beside the door and I catch a glimpse of the single bed and one small armchair positioned in front of the window. Malfoy ushers me back out of the room and claps his hands together with excited determination.

“Let’s go, Granger.”

The Strip is nearly gridlocked, glittering metal stretching as far as I can see. Every hotel car park is lined with polished chrome and candy-coloured paint jobs gleaming beneath the desert sun. Malfoy wraps a hand around my arm again and pulls me in the direction of a cream-coloured car with a red stripe down the centre.

“Oof,” Malfoy makes an obscene groan and I steadfastly ignore the shiver it sends down my spine. The car is making a low purring sound as it gently rumbles in its parking spot. “Listen to that idle.” He starts up a conversation with the gentleman standing near the front of the car — clearly the owner — and they talk for far too long about engines and matching numbers. Malfoy looks like a kid in a candy store.

“Malfoy,” I say, tapping him on the shoulder. “I thought we were going to eat some lunch.”

“We will, Granger, just a minute,” he says in a rush. He finishes his conversation, but is quickly distracted by a row of Mustangs in various colours. According to Malfoy, each one is “a work of art” and he takes his time drinking them all in.

I mention lunch again. He doesn’t hear me. Or at least, he pretends not to.

We inch past rows of vintage cars — Bel Airs, Mustangs, Thunderbirds — every one catching his eye. He finally pulls into a side lot where a handful of collectors are showing off their engines, the air thick with petrol and pride. He lingers, rhapsodising about something mechanical while I wilt in the sun against the hood of a pink Cadillac.

By the time I catch up, he’s crouched beside a cherry-red convertible, arguing with an elderly man about carburettors like they’re discussing world domination. His eyes are bright, hands animated, laugh unguarded. It’s unfair, really, that he looks so alive when I’m melting into my shoes.

When he finally notices me, his grin falters. “You look murderous.”

“I’m hungry,” I say through clenched teeth.

He blinks, then glances at his watch. “Ah.” A pause, then sheepishly: “You might have mentioned it sooner.”

“I did. Twice.”

He looks down, scratching the back of his neck. “Right. Lunch. I can fix that.” He herds me toward a nearby café tucked inside one of the hotel lobbies — chrome stools, checkered floor, red vinyl booths, the works. The air-conditioning feels divine.

When the waiter comes by, Malfoy points to the menu and says, “Two of whatever’s fastest.”

“Uh-uh,” I cut across him. “How dare you?”

“What?” he asks impatiently.

“I will order for myself, thank you.” I look back at the waiter and say, “I’ll need a minute.”

Malfoy groans and flops backward in his seat. The waiter gives him a sympathetic look, but goes away. I take my time perusing the menu.

“Granger,” Malfoy whinges. “Why?”

I refuse to look up. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He leans forward with his hands clasped on the table, eyes wide and imploring. “I’m sorry about taking so long, okay? But this is… I really enjoy…” he bites off his sentence and looks around like he’s hoping the end of his sentence will be floating in the air around him.

I take pity on him. “This is kind of important to you, isn’t it?”

He sighs and slumps his shoulders, relieved not to have had to say it. “Yes. Yes it is.”

“Why?” I ask, brows furrowed.

Malfoy bounces his leg and stares at his thumbs for a minute. “I used to be this way about brooms, you know? And flying and Quidditch. But I can’t…” He trails off, biting his lip.

Oh.

My heart aches for him for a second. “I know,” I say softly. He’d told me just two days ago how much he misses flying. It must be truly difficult, to have given up not only the conveniences of magical life, but the things he enjoyed. “I’m sorry. I won’t take up all your time.” The waiter returns and we both order chicken wraps — something quick and easy. “But I’m getting fries,” I insist. Malfoy holds his hands up as if in surrender.

When the food arrives, I immediately start in on my fries. Closing my eyes with a groan, I sink back into my seat and savour them like they’re my last meal. Hot, crispy, salty — all that is good in the world.

Or, possibly, I’m just very hungry.

I let out another little umf sound and hear Malfoy mutter, “Merlin.”

My eyes snap open. He’s frozen across the table, cheeks pink, holding his wrap an inch from his mouth.

“What?” I demand.

“Nothing.” He shakes his head and takes a too-big bite of his wrap.

I narrow my eyes. “What?”

Malfoy swallows, takes a long drink of water, and sets the glass down with exaggerated care. When he finally looks up at me, his voice is lower. “Is that what you sound like?”

I blink. “What I—?”

He leans in slightly, eyes darting around as if the fries might overhear him. “When you… you know.” A subtle eyebrow flick. If not for the pink creeping up his throat, I might actually think he was confident about it.

The fry slips from my fingers. “Oh my God.”

“Sorry—” He laughs under his breath and sits back, palms raised in mock surrender. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“You did so,” I shoot back.

He has the decency to look chagrined, though his grin ruins the effect. “Maybe a little.” I stare down at my plate, torn between outrage and the urge to laugh, until his voice slides across the table again — softer this time. “It’s nice.”

My head jerks up.

“What is?”

His gaze meets mine, steady now, teasing but undeniably sincere. “The sound.” A rush of heat floods my cheeks. The silence between us stretches, taut and unbearable. “Though I’d imagine there’s quite a bit more talking,” he continues, finally taking a bite of his food. “You rarely stop.”

My mouth flaps open and closed a time or two before I finally manage to say, “Well, you seem to have rendered me speechless.”

He puts a hand to his chest with mock gravity. “An accomplishment and an honour. I look forward to doing it again one day.”

I cannot believe the conversation we’re having right now. “Well, what about you?” I righteously demand. “I can’t imagine you ever shut up, even when you’re…” I wave my hand about in a you know gesture.

A wicked gleam comes into Malfoy’s eyes. “You’ve imagined me…?” he repeats the gesture and waggles his eyebrows.

I do my best to glare. “Absolutely not.”

He pouts in exaggerated offence. “You wound me, Granger.”

“You know what — just go back to your stupid cars.” I wave vaguely in the direction of the door and turn back to my food. Malfoy, of course, does not move.

“You’re a little mean when you’re hungry,” he says contemplatively. “Duly noted.”

I scoff. “You’re taking notes on me now?”

“Only the interesting bits.”

I roll my eyes and look down, but it’s useless — his words hang there between us, humming like live current. And I know, without even glancing up, that he’s still watching me.

Outside, the car show still thrums, the low growl of engines rolling through the air like distant thunder. Sunlight glints off chrome and glass; the whole street seems to shimmer. People are milling about, talking and pointing and clearly enjoying themselves. The air between us hums with a low vibration I can’t quite name. It feels heavier now. Sweeter. I can’t decide if I like it.

Finally fed, Malfoy drops far too much cash on the table and we leave before the waiter even brings us the bill. His fingers catch my wrist, light but firm, nearly a handhold. I tell myself it’s nothing, that he’s just impatient, but his touch lingers a beat too long before he lets go.

He’s smiling as we step back into the glare, his eyes reflecting the neon and the desert sky. For a moment, I forget the heat, the noise, the plan.

For a moment, I just watch him.

Malfoy walks beside me, sleeves pushed up, sunglasses down, the heat bringing a flush to his usually pale skin. He looks almost human like this—too alive, too at ease. This is a version of Malfoy I’ve never dreamed of seeing. I’m not sure I believed it existed.

When dusk falls, the Strip comes alive. Neon flickers from every corner, washing people in pinks and golds and blues and greens until it feels like walking through a kaleidoscope. The heat dissipates and all that’s left is the pleasant, pulsing warmth of a bustling crowd.

By now, we’ve wandered to the far end of the street looking at cars. Owners and collectors are packing up and Malfoy watches sadly as they move their vehicles to garages or closed lots.

“It’s a shame I couldn’t really show off my car,” he laments. “She’s such a beauty.”

I click my teeth. “I swear, you talk about that car like it’s your girlfriend.”

“She,” Malfoy corrects. “And she’s been with me for quite some time, now. Longer than any relationship I’ve ever had, actually.”

“Even Pansy?” I ask as we start walking again.

“Even Pansy,” he says simply. “We didn’t actually date for very long. More like… met each other’s needs.”

“Ew.”

“Oh, and you and Weasel never—”

“Not at school!” I say, aghast.

Malfoy stops walking and turns to stare down at me, disbelieving. “And Krum?”

I flush from my forehead to my neck. “Well… Viktor and I were… not really dating either.”

“Oh, ho.” Malfoy nods knowingly. “Sure. You were just… meeting each other’s needs?”

My face is so hot, I swear I’m going to combust. “A little, I suppose. I was only fifteen. We didn’t do much more than kiss.”

“’Much more’,” Malfoy repeats as if he’s caught me out. “Not ‘no more’.”

“Well, I’m not a nun, Malfoy,” I spit.

He furrows his brows. “What’s a nun?”

I sigh, frustrated. “A nun is a woman who has committed her life to her religion.”

“And what’s that got to do with it?”

“They take vows of celibacy.”

His brows fly up nearly to his hairline. “Why would someone do that?” Malfoy looks affronted at the very idea.

“To remove earthly temptations, or something,” I answer vaguely. “Honestly, it’s not something that has ever occurred to me.”

Malfoy smirks and puts an arm around my shoulders. “I knew you had it in you, Granger.” I tense up at his touch, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He pulls us to a halt in front of a tall tower, surrounded by water and several little bridges. “What on earth?” he muses, pulling me toward an ornate fountain. With an excited little gasp, he says, “The Venetian? I love Venice!”

I laugh. “It’s hardly Venice, Malfoy. It’s a cheap imitation.”

“Doesn’t look cheap to me,” he says, finally dropping his arm from my shoulders and leading the way under the central bridge and into a grand lobby.

Actually, grand and lobby both fail to adequately describe the space. The room is huge, as big as the Ministry Atrium, and cast all in white marble and gold filigree. The domed ceiling is painted like the great cathedrals of Italy, covered with images of cherubs and pastoral scenes.

“Okay,” Malfoy says, mouth agape. “I changed my mind. I want to stay here.”

Slowly turning to take in the room, I say, “This doesn’t look like the sort of establishment that takes cash.”

“Fuck,” Malfoy groans. “You’re right.” With a shoulder-heaving sigh, he continues, “Well, let’s have some fun while we’re here anyway.”

“What did you have in mind?” I ask, knowing what a loaded question it is.

He turns his feline grin on me again. “If you thought the arcade was fun—”

“I did not.”

“Tell it to the mood ring,” he sing-songs before heading in the direction of the casino. I glance down at the ring, still on my finger for the last three days. It is a traitorous shade of pink.

“I am not having fun,” I hiss at the jewellery. It remains unchanged. “Oh, fuck off.” I stomp off after Malfoy.

He’s standing in front of a slot machine, drowned in the bright yellow glow and obnoxious sound effects. Pulling the lever, he turns to look at me as I sidle up next to him.

“Grab a machine, Granger,” he says. “See if you can’t make some money.”

“Games of chance are completely ridiculous,” I chastise. “There’s no skill involved here.”

“Yeah, but it’s fun to do this.” He yanks down on the lever again and the wheels go spinning. It settles on a row of fruit and a few pennies come spitting out of the mouth below. “See?”

“This is absurd,” I say. “You’re a wizard, for Christ’s sake.”

Malfoy turns on me, mouth agape in faux-offence. “How dare you? I would never cheat.”

“You cheated at the arcade!” I nearly shout.

He grins again. “Yeah, I did.” A nudge of his elbow tickles my ribs. “But I won’t this time.” He holds up three fingers in a mock salute. “Scout’s honour.”

I offer him my most sceptical expression.

“Tell you what,” he says, leaning forward conspiratorially, “let’s make it a competition.”

I narrow my eyes. “Explain.”

Malfoy reaches into his pocket and withdraws his wallet before leading the way to a large counter where people are exchanging money for chips. He hands over a wad of bills and the man behind the till slides over a stack of discs with The Venetian’s logo printed on them. Splitting the stack in half, he passes some to me and says, “Biggest stack by midnight wins.”

Eyeing my little pile of chips, I suck my teeth and consider this proposition. We each have five-hundred dollars’ worth of chips. I’m intrigued.

“What does the winner get?”

Malfoy grins like he already knows I’ve given in. I haven’t yet. Not technically.

He thinks on this for a moment before snapping his fingers and saying, “Winner gets the bed.”

I perk up immediately. “Ooh. I like the sound of that.”

“Great,” Malfoy chirps, “then we have a wager.” He holds out his hand, but I don’t take it yet.

“No magic,” I say forcefully.

Malfoy gives me a conciliatory nod. “Deal. No magic.”

“Fine.” I take his hand and give a firm shake.

He doesn’t let go right away; instead, he pulls me just a little bit closer and says in a low, mysterious tone, “You’re on, Granger.”

I shake my hand free and settle onto the stool at the machine next to Malfoy. He plops down in his own seat and turns his gimlet eye on me. The wheel spins as I pull the lever and the lights flash promisingly.

Nothing.

“Pathetic,” Malfoy drawls.

“Statistically normal,” I retort. “You’re the anomaly.”

“I’ve been called worse.” He pulls at his own machine and hits a small win. “Try smiling at it.”

“Try shutting up, Malfoy.”

He chuckles. “Ooh — that’s better. Talk mean to it, Granger. Really degrade it. Maybe that’s what the machine is into.”

An unattractive snort blows through my nose and I’m suddenly grinning. “You’re ridiculous,” I say through a laugh.

“You like it.”

I say nothing.

A waitress in a fitted black dress floats over from nowhere with a tray balanced in her hand. She places a cocktail napkin on top of each of our machines and asks, “What’re you having, you two?” She props the tray against her hip and smiles placidly down at us.

Automatically, I open my mouth to refuse, but Malfoy smoothly interrupts. “Something bubbly.”

“Champagne?” asks the waitress.

“Perfect.” He flashes her that perfectly imperfect smile and I swear the lights on his machine flash brighter.

I lean around the tray to gripe at Malfoy. “We’re not wasting money on overpriced drinks.”

The waitress leans in conspiratorially. “They’re complimentary, sweetheart. As long as you’re playing.”

I blink. “Free?”

Malfoy’s smirk blooms slow and triumphant. “I knew I was going to like this place.”

I shake my head and the waitress smiles coyly as she drifts away to retrieve our drinks. By the time she returns, I’ve lost another three dollars on the machines and I gratefully accept a glass of champagne from the waitress.

“I’m Sarah,” she says as she hands over Malfoy’s glass. “Shout if you need me.” And then she’s off and Malfoy and I are grinning across matching champagne classes.

Malfoy tips his glass in my direction and sighs with an air of false sophistication. “To chance,” he declares in his poshest accent.

I clink mine against his. “To idiocy.”

“Synonyms.”

The first glass goes down too easily. It’s crisp and fizzy and just sweet enough to make me smack my lips in pleasure.

We play and I lose spectacularly. He wins, but only modestly. The second round of drinks appears like magic, and this time I don’t object. Noises and colours start to shimmer together as I start to feel light-headed — maybe from the champagne, maybe from the lights, maybe from him.

By the third, I’m laughing too hard at his commentary on “slot machine ergonomics” — something about how they’re designed to dull the mind and seduce the senses — to care about the scoreboard. He gestures with his empty glass as he talks, animated and charming in a way that feels unfair.

The hours blur into lights and laughter. Coins clatter, people cheer, and somehow we’re both caught up in it, feeding chips back into the machines just to see what will happen.

At one point, I hit a small jackpot — a measly twenty dollars, but the noise it makes is glorious.

I throw my hands up, triumphant. “Ha! I’m catching up!”

Malfoy claps mockingly, leaning back in his chair. “Only four hundred and eighty dollars to go.”

I shove his shoulder. He catches my hand, just briefly, and then lets go before I can decide whether to pull away. The action still causes my chest to beat out of rhythm.

Somewhere between laughter and the next pull of the lever, I realise I’ve lost track of the time. The casino hums around us, neon pulsing like a heartbeat, and Draco Malfoy looks entirely at home here. He’s light-eyed and laughing, sleeves rolled, utterly unguarded.

And I’m smiling, too.

With Malfoy.

Alarmed by this realisation, I jolt to my feet. The machine swims before me as the alcohol rushes to my head.

“Granger?” Malfoy laughs. “Are you alright?”

“I…” I struggle for a moment to come up with a reason for my sudden movement. “I need the loo.”

Another laugh. “Of course you do.” He gets to his feet, not swaying at all, and gestures over my shoulder. “Go ahead then. When you’re done, we’ll walk down the Strip a bit and see what other wonders await us.”

I scuttle off to the bathrooms — I actually do need to pee — and take my time washing my hands and splashing some water on my face.

Get yourself together, Granger.

Malfoy is a target. He’s a former Death Eater and person of interest to the CIA. He is a means to an end. He is not a friend.

With this new mantra solidified in my mind, I square my shoulders and go back out to the casino floor. Malfoy is waiting on the wall beside the bathrooms, leaning back with one foot propped behind him. He looks effortlessly cool and my stomach does another little swoop at the sight of him. I’ve had too much to drink.

I’d like another.

“Ready?” he asks placidly. I nod and he leads the way.

Back on the street, the night air is considerably cooler than this afternoon and I welcome the rush of brisk air into my lungs. We walk for a block or two, chatting about nothing of significance and laughing at the tacky street performers. One man is strutting up and down the boulevard in nothing but a cowboy hat, boots, and a white Speedo. He’s carrying a guitar, but he isn’t really playing. Instead, he’s posing for pictures and occasionally grinding against people who stand still long enough.

Entertaining though he is, I quickly move away from the naked cowboy. If I know Malfoy at all — and I think I’m starting to — he will quickly involve me in this man’s performance just for the sake of embarrassing me. Again.

At Caesar’s Palace, Malfoy declares that he wants to see how the emperors really lived, to which I roll my eyes spectacularly. But I follow him in all the same.

“What’s your balance?” he asks, pulling his chips from his pocket.

I count mine up and grimace. “Three-hundred and five.”

“Oof,” Malfoy grunts in sympathy.

“And you?”

He bites back a smile. “Six-twenty.”

I groan and roll my head back on my shoulders. “Merlin — I hate you.”

“Come on, Granger,” he cajoles. “Don’t be a sore loser.”

“I haven’t lost yet,” I insist, a finger in his face. Malfoy grasps the digit in his fist and lowers my hand.

“You could call it quits now,” he says, almost sweetly. But I can see the snakelike expression hiding behind his smile. “Just surrender — make it easier on yourself.”

I lean forward and narrow my eyes. “Never.”

His mouth twitches. “You really want to drag it out? Take your time?” With a tilt of his head, Malfoy lowers his voice and says, “I’ve got all night, Granger.”

I gulp, but don’t back down. “You’re going down, Malfoy.”

“Only if you’re lucky.” His eyebrow flicks up and I can’t help the flush his words send up my neck. Finally, he drops my hand and nods back toward the casino floor. “Let’s go see what trouble we can get in.”

It’s much the same as the space at the Venetian — slot machines, poker tables, roulette wheels. But off to the right, a group of people gathered around an oblong table burst into cheers and shouts. They’re jumping up and down and waving their arms about like they’ve just won the lottery. Maybe they have.

“What is that?” I muse.

Malfoy shrugs. “Let’s find out.”

As we approach, two men in matching Viva Las Vegas T-shirts walk away from the group and we take their places.

The dealer — an elderly woman in a Caesar’s Palace uniform — gestures to us with a little cane and says, “You two in?”

“Sure,” Malfoy says brightly. “What’re we in?”

The woman to my left laughs. “We’re playing craps, honey.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

Another chuckle. “Craps. Not a great name, but it is a great game.” She points to a white-outlined square on the green felt table. “Put your chips here for your buy-in and then pick a number.” We each set down a small pile of chips and the woman grins widely, her red lipstick bleeding at the edges with how much she’s smiled this evening. “Alright, sweeties,” she says in a voice like a kindergarten teacher, “see the layout here?” She gestures over the table, which is printed with a grid of squares and numbers that looks surprisingly similar to my old arithmancy textbook. “You’re betting on what number the dice’ll roll. On your first roll — the come out — if you land on seven or eleven, you win. Two, three, or twelve and you crap out.”

“I don’t like the vocabulary of this game,” I hiss to Malfoy. He waves me off and turns back to the woman, rapt with attention.

“Anything else — four, five, six, eight, nine, or ten — becomes your point and you just keep rolling til you hit that number again.”

“Or seven,” another player adds helpfully. “And then it’s over.”

“You crap out,” Malfoy says, suddenly an expert.

“Exactly,” the red-lipped lady says. At my obvious state of confusion, she pats me on the shoulder and says, “You’ll get the hang of it.” Then, to Malfoy she asks, “Wanna roll first?”

Malfoy claps his hands together. “Oh, absolutely, I do.” The dealer pushes a pair of dice across the table with her little cane and Malfoy scoops them up. “What now?”

“Throw them,” I say drily.

“Anywhere?”

“Not at people,” the dealer warns, one pencil-thin eyebrow lifting.

Malfoy smirks and raises the dice in his open palm until they’re just in front of my face. “Kiss for luck?”

“Not on your life, Malfoy.”

He rolls his tongue across his teeth, eyeing me saucily before he kisses the dice himself and lets them fly. They bounce off the far edge of the table and tumble to a stop on a seven.

The table erupts in cheers.

“Winner,” the dealer deapans, pushing a small handful of chips toward Malfoy.

“Way to go, kid,” a portly man to Malfoy’s right says, elbowing him in the arm with his drink-free hand.

Malfoy grins before shrugging down at me. “Beginner’s luck.”

“Again!” the man says, clapping Malfoy on the back. “Shooter’s hot!”

“Shooter?” I ask the red-lipped woman.

“The person rolling,” she says, pointing to Malfoy. “And when he wins, we all win.”

By the third roll, I’m cheering, too, swept up in the noise and the rush of these strangers’ shared excitement. Malfoy laughs — a real, boyish laugh I’ve never heard from him before — and throws again. Another win. The crowd roars louder.

Eventually, Malfoy “seven’s out”, as someone calls it, and the dice pass to me. By now, I’m on my second table-side drink — why not? — and I’m completely wrapped up in the fervour of the game. I feel nearly high with it.

I toss the dice and they skid, bounce, and land on ten. This is, apparently, another good thing because the table goes wild again. I can’t stop grinning. It’s chaos and colour and heat, and for the first time all day, we’re on the same side.

It’s pretty nice, actually.

As I’m about to roll again, someone bumps into me from behind, jostling me into Malfoy’s side. He wraps his arm around my waist, the movement automatic, and pulls me tight against him to steady me. He did the same thing at the beach that day and I feel just as off-centre now as I did then.

I nearly drop the dice and they land on seven. The play moves to the woman on my left and the game keeps going. As if Malfoy’s arm isn’t still around my waist. Just settled there like he does it all the time.

I shift on my feet and he seems to take the hint, dropping his arm with an unbothered sip of his drink. The high planes of his cheeks are starting to pinken with excitement and alcohol and he doesn’t look at me as the game rolls onward. I do my best to move on and drag my focus to the loud ginger man across the table who is arguing with his wife about the size of his bet.

The table is on fire. Dice fly, chips clatter, and everyone around the table cheers loud enough to draw an audience. Every roll feels like the crest of a wave and Malfoy and I are riding high.

His smile is nice. I like that his teeth aren’t perfect. The rest of him is too perfect.

“What’s that?”

“Hmm?” I blink. Malfoy is leaning close like I’ve said something he didn’t quite hear.

“You said something about my teeth?”

Another blink. “No I didn’t,” I say, very convincingly.

He eyes me suspiciously. How dare he? Finally, Malfoy shakes his head and turns back to the game.

Crisis averted.

He throws again and lands on eight. The dealer calls it and the table erupts again. Malfoy grabs my hand and lifts our joined fists in the air like we’ve just won the Quidditch House Cup.

“Ha!” he cries. “I’m a natural!”

“You’re a statistical anomaly,” I shout back, but it hardly sounds like an indictment. I’m smiling too much. He’s still holding my hand when he rolls again. There’s another glass of champagne in my hand. Who put that there? I put a finger on the tip of my nose; I can still feel it. Sort of. This should probably be my last drink. I hope no more appear in my hand.

When it’s my turn to roll, I grip the dice and whisper, “Alright, you two. Don’t humiliate me.”

Malfoy leans close, voice a low hum against my ear. “They wouldn’t dare.”

I throw. The dice hit the felt, bounce once, twice, before they land on eleven. The roar is instant. Malfoy whoops and scoops me up by the waist, spinning me before I can protest. My laugh bursts out of me, startled and delighted.

“Put me down!”

“Not until you admit you’re enjoying yourself!”

“Fine! I’m—” I choke on another laugh as he sets me back down, our faces much too close, both of us flushed and breathless.

For a heartbeat, the noise falls away. It’s just the heat of his hand at my back, his grin fading into something softer, hungrier. My head is swimming and I tell myself it’s from the alcohol.

“Careful, Granger,” he murmurs. “People might thing you’re starting to like me.”

I swallow and gulp down a deep breath. “I would never.” I’m very authoritative. Not breathy at all.

He tilts his head, eyes glinting. “Sure.”

A cheer rises again as someone else throws the dice, and the moment breaks. But the air between us stays charged, humming like the neon outside.

“I, uh…” I mutter, pushing away from Malfoy’s grasp. “I’m starting to get tired.”

His eyes flicker over my face, searching for something but coming up short. Finally, his expression evens out, back to his usual smug self. “It’s not even eleven.”

“We’ve been up since Los Angeles,” I protest.

“That was only this morning.”

“The jet lag is hitting me.”

Malfoy looks unconvinced, the corner of his mouth twitching. But he doesn’t push. He simply says, “Alright, Granger. Let’s go.”

I take the lead, weaving my way through the casino floor and back out onto the street. We leave Caesar’s Palace in the dust as I make my way quickly through the never-ending crowd on the Strip. Trusting that Malfoy is behind me, I cross the street and head straight into the lobby of the Flamingo.

“Granger — slow down.” His warm hand wraps around my elbow and pulls me to a stop. “What’s wrong with you?” The expression he offers me is genuinely concerned and it does something to me that I really don’t like.

“I told you,” I hedge, wrapping my arms around my torso, “I’m tired. It’s been a long day.”

He furrows his brow and purses his lips in thought before finally shifting his expression like a cat who is about to pounce. “So you’re forfeiting the bet?”

That rankles me. “No,” I say firmly.

Malfoy shrugs nonchalantly and says airily, “That’s what it sounds like to me, Granger. It’s not even midnight yet and you’re pulling out.” He gives an exaggerated sniff in the vicinity of my hair. “Smells like surrender.”

The low timbre of his voice sends a shiver down my spine, but I resist. Glaring up at Malfoy, I drop my arms and say, “I don’t quit.”

“That’s more like it,” he purrs. He’s very close — when did he get so close? I realise we’re nearly nose-to-nose in the bright pink hotel lobby. “You know how to play poker?”

“A little,” I say, standing my ground. I refuse to be the one to back away this time.

“Really?” I’ve caught him off-guard.

“My dad taught me,” I tell him. “The summer before fifth year. It’s not just chance. There’s logic. Probability and psychology.” I tilt my head dangerously. “My sort of game.”

“Let’s go, then.”

We settle in at the nearest table and Malfoy buys us both in with his usual cocktail of arrogance and confidence. The dealer slides the cards across the felt and their gold-foiled edges glitter under the dim lights. The vast room around us shows no sign of slowing down, but the din fades to a low hum as I focus on the game. I take three deep breaths and force my mind to clear using what weak Occlumency skills I possess. It doesn’t do much, but at least I’ll stop blurting out inappropriate thoughts about Malfoy’s smile.

Probably.

The first few hands go by easily. Malfoy starts off smug, throwing around chips like he’s putting on a show. He wins the first hand, but his smile slips when I take the second. The other players eye us silently, trying to determine if we’ve brought beginner’s luck or real skill to the table.

Malfoy raises and I call his bluff. I’m right and the second time I correctly call him out, his expression shifts into one of intense focus.

“Interesting,” he murmurs, studying me with shrewd eyes. “You’re actually good at this.”

“I’m actually good at most things,” I reply, stacking my chips neatly on the lip of the table.

“Cocky.”

“Confident.”

He laughs under his breath and the dealer starts another hand. The cards skate across the table and I take a peek at my hand. Good. Not great, but good.

Two other players immediately fold, leaving Malfoy, a stranger, and myself.

Malfoy flicks his eyes from his hand to my face and asks, “Feeling lucky, Granger?”

“Luckier than you,” I say smoothly.

We raise, and raise again. He’s smirking now, but his fingers twitch against his cards, jaw set in concentration.

The tension builds with every card turned. I watch his tells — the tiny exhale when he gets a face card, the twitch of his lip when he bluffs. I can see it all.

“You’re staring,” he says.

“Trying to read you.”

“You’ll never manage it.”

“Already have.”

He arches a brow. “Not sure how I feel about that.” The third player folds and it’s just Malfoy and me. He glances at the watch on his right wrist and says, “There’s midnight.” Then he looks at me questioningly, nodding toward the cards on the table. “All or nothing?”

“I’m in if you are.”

“Oh, I am all in, Granger.” He tosses a wink my way and shoves his chips into the centre of the table. I slide my neat stack forward and take a deep breath. Malfoy has more than I do, but I nearly caught up to him at the craps table. This is my last chance to win the bet.

The dealer turns his final card and looks expectantly between the two of us.

Malfoy’s hand is good; I can tell by the way his cheek twitches minutely and he parts his lips in a tiny exhale. I glance at my own cards, pulse quickening. I only need one card higher to beat him.

Improbable, but not impossible.

Malfoy studies his cards for a long moment. Something flickers across his face — a twitch of thought or hesitation. It could be a trick of the chandelier, or maybe the champagne, but I swear I see the faintest shimmer ripple across the gold foil of the card’s edge. His thumb slides over the top card, slow and deliberate.

Then he exhales through his nose and sets them down.

We flip our cards.

The dealer calls it: “Straight flush. Lady wins.”

A grin breaks over my face and I lean forward with a victorious “Ha!” But Malfoy doesn’t move. He only looks at me, and the smile that forms is small, almost rueful.

“Well,” he says softly, “seems I’ve been outplayed.”

I wiggle triumphantly in my seat. “Guess so.”

He tips his head, a shadow of amusement in his eyes. “Guess so.” Malfoy leans back, slow and dangerous, arms crossed over his chest. The smirk is back, but dimmer now — something like respect beneath the bite. “But I don’t mind losing to a woman who plays like that.”

I swallow and take a deep breath. “Smartly?”

“Mercilessly.” His gaze lingers a fraction too long. “You really are full of surprises, Granger.”

The dealer exchanges my stack of chips for larger denominations so I can carry it all in one hand and I stand from the table, still high on my win. “You have no idea, Malfoy.”

Malfoy is a surprisingly gracious loser, following me to the cash exchange window and refusing to accept half of the winnings, no matter how much I insist. “You won, fair and square, Granger. I’m a man of my word.”

It almost makes me not want to gloat.

Almost.

“Well, Malfoy,” I say magnanimously, “you had a good run. Cheating at the arcade, a spot of luck at the slot machines and the craps table.” We step into the lift and he presses the button for the tenth floor. “But it had to catch up to you eventually. Pure chance is no match for logic and skill.”

“No,” he says, not looking at me, “it isn’t.” I catch his reflection in the mirrored wall of the lift and he’s pulling his cheeks in, obviously fighting not to smile. Smarmy bastard. What has he got to feel smarmy about?

The lift pings and the doors slide open. As we make our way down the corridor, our shoulders bump a time or two. At first, I think he must have done it, but he looks down at me in genuine confusion. It must the be the champagne. I’m not really pissed, but there’s no other reason to be walking so close to Malfoy.

He slides the key card through the lock and holds the door open for me to enter first. I’m suddenly exhausted and I make a beeline for my bag. Withdrawing my pyjamas, I say over my shoulder, “I’m just going to change. I’ll be right back.” I start toward the bathroom.

“Take your time.” Malfoy kicks his shoes off near the door and makes for his own bag.

I do take my time, luxuriating in my bedtime routine a bit. It’s a relaxing cycle — braid hair, wash face, floss and brush teeth — that I’ve kept since I was fourteen. Once in my pyjamas, I realise that I did not pack appropriate sleepwear for a roommate. A male roommate.

A Malfoy roommate.

They are both too much and too little: a loose-fitting matching set of shorts and a button-up in a deep navy blue. Except the soft cotton hangs rather nicely off of my curves and the elastic in the waistband always rolls up to my waist, leaving a bit of cheek exposed beneath the hem of the shorts. Fine for lounging about my house, but they suddenly seem… flirty.

I could transfigure them, I suppose. But why shouldn’t I be allowed to wear my own pyjamas just because Malfoy is in the room? He doesn’t get to determine my level of comfort, I tell myself. Just go out there and go to bed, Granger. He’s just a man.

Throwing the door open with a little more force than necessary, I stride out into the bedroom and come to an abrupt halt.

Malfoy is laying on the bed, wearing that damned pair of grey joggers and naked from the waist up. One arm is bent behind his head, putting his chest and bicep on display. It’s unfair, really. Why does he look so good?

“What,” I say slowly, “are you doing?”

He lazily opens one eye, tilting his head slightly to look at me. With a sigh, he says, “Just getting a few minutes in before I’m relegated to the armchair.” Malfoy lifts both arms and stretches them above his head, arching up from the mattress as he rolls his shoulders. “Not easy for a man of my height to sleep in a chair, you know. Thought I’d stretch properly first.”

“Just transfigure it,” I say, waving my hands in a shoo-ing motion. He obligingly stands up and grabs one of the pillows from the bed.

“Can’t,” he laments. “It’s too big. I’m off the grid, remember?”

“I could…” I gesture toward the chair, but he waves me off.

“Don’t worry about it, Granger,” he says. “Besides, where would it go? There’s hardly room for a second bed.” With a shrug, he drops into the chair and props the pillow behind his head. “Get the light, will you?”

I step around the bed, putting it between Malfoy and me, and pull the curtains closed. Flipping the switch beside the bed, I douse the lights and crawl into bed.

Oh, it’s so soft. It’s been a long day.

“’Night, Granger,” Malfoy’s voice rumbles in the dark.

“Good night, Malfoy.” We fall into silence.

I stare at the ceiling.

The air is full of wakeful energy; I can tell he’s not asleep, either. He’s too still. And his breathing is too quiet, like he’s trying not to disturb me.

I let out an audible sigh, heavy with resignation.

“Get in the bed, Malfoy.”

There’s a beat of silence. “Not the smoothest way I’ve ever been propositioned, Granger, but—”

“Must you always have some smart-arsed remark? Just… don’t sleep in the chair. It’s ridiculous.”

“But you won the bet.”

“I know,” I bite out. “And I reserve the right to be bitter about it. But you’re going to be driving all day tomorrow — you need your rest. So just…” I shake my head, not believing the words that are about to come out of my mouth, “just share the bed with me, Malfoy.”

I can almost hear his expression: a mixture of gloating and surprise. But there’s a soft susurration as Malfoy stands from the chair and brings his pillow back over to the bed. He pulls back the duvet and the mattress dips as he sits down on the edge.

“And don’t get any ideas, alright?” I say, turning onto my side to face the window.

Malfoy lets out a low chuckle as he makes himself comfortable. “Not to worry, Granger. I’m too tired to make a move.”

“Thank Heaven for small mercies.” I squeeze my eyes shut and burrow into my pillow. There’s a beat of silence.

“Good night, Granger,” Malfoy says again, this time with a little song on his voice.

“Shut up, Malfoy.”

He huffs out another laugh and we settle into sleep.

***

It’s pleasantly warm when I wake up.

I keep my eyes closed, just for a few minutes, breathing in the quiet. The pillows are soft, the duvet heavier than I remember, and sunlight tickles the side of my face. I turn over and throw a leg across the warm body beside me, willing myself to stay in that blissful in-between state. Maybe if I don’t open my eyes, morning won’t actually come.

There’s a shift on the mattress and a hand lands on my leg, high up on my thigh where my leg is draped over his. I snuggle deeper into my pillow and let out a deep, relaxed sigh. I haven’t slept this well in ages.

I shift again, getting more comfortable, and can feel myself drifting back toward sleep. A low sound rumbles out of his chest and something twitches against my knee.

With a jolt, I’m wide awake. My eyes fly open and I see Malfoy staring back at me, mere inches from my face.

His hand is on my thigh.

My leg is wrapped around his.

His erection flexes against my knee again.

“Oh my God!” I shout, flailing about under the covers as Malfoy yells, “Sweet Salazar!”

I’m on my feet in an instant, untangling myself from the flat sheet.

“What are you doing?” I demand. Malfoy stands on the other side of the bed, hands raised as if to show that he is unarmed.

“Me?” he shoots back, eyes wide. “What are you doing? You’re the one who wrapped your leg around me like—like you’re mounting a broom!”

“Your hand was on my arse!”

“Well you put it right there! What was I supposed to do?”

“Not grope me before coffee!”

“Oh, would you rather I buy you breakfast first?” he snips sarcastically. Shifting on his feet, Malfoy tugs at the waistband of his joggers and my eyes flit down to the significant bulge between his thighs.

With a squeak, I grab a pillow and throw it at him. “Put that thing away, Malfoy!”

“Oh please.” He snatches the pillow and holds it loosely over his groin. “Not to brag, but it’s not like it fits in my pocket.”

“Ugh. You are an absolute pest.”

“Just… shut up, alright?” he says, his chest and neck flushed red. “I’m going to take a shower.”

I stare at him for another moment before I realise what he means — what he’s going to do in the shower. I spin around wildly, desperate for anything to do with my hands, as Malfoy rushes off to the bathroom and slams the door behind him.

“I’m going to… I’m going to get dressed,” I call out. “I’ll meet you in the lobby. Take your time.” With a broken sound, my hands fly to my face and I nearly double over in embarrassment. “I mean — not like that! I didn’t mean—”

“Granger!” Malfoy’s muffled voice interrupts from behind the bathroom door. “Stop. Talking.”

“Sorry!” I choke out, grateful to hear the shower rumble to life. The spray of the water against the tile sufficiently cuts off any possibility of further conversation and I rush to gather my things. I change into jeans and the first t-shirt I find before shoving my pyjamas back into my bag and barrelling out the door.

I touched Malfoy’s cock, my brain whines.

I rush toward the lift and press the ground-floor button rapid-fire. “Oh, Merlin help me, I touched Malfoy’s cock.”

You didn’t hate it, either.

“No — I did, I did hate it.”

It wasn’t small.

I run my hands through my hair and blindly take a seat on a pink bench near the check-in desk.

By the time Malfoy joins me in the lobby, I’ve successfully calmed down. Standing from my seat, I pick up my bag and watch as Malfoy approaches. He stalks smoothly across the marbled floor, his own bag over his shoulder, not making eye contact.

“Ready to go?” he asks, gaze anywhere but on me.

“Malfoy—”

“It’s fine, Granger.” He starts toward the main doors and I hurry to catch up to his much longer strides.

“I just—”

“We don’t need to talk about it.”

“But I—”

“Look: it’s not a big deal, alright?” Rounding on me, Malfoy’s voice is low but firm, leaving little room for discussion. “It’s a natural, involuntary response. It had nothing to do with you. So just let it go.” He blinks and finally glances at my face. “I’m sorry.”

I’m silent and still, not sure what to say. I wrap my arms around my middle and stare at the floor. Drawing my bottom lip between my teeth, I take a steadying breath; I had intended to apologise to him, not the other way around.

His sharp voice takes me by surprise. “Oh, you’re disappointed now?”

I gape up at him. “I’m not disappointed.”

“You are.” Malfoy gestures vaguely at my face. “You’re pouting now because I said it wasn’t anything to do with you.”

I fight the urge to stomp my foot. “I am not pouting.”

“Oh, this is rich.” Dropping his bag to the floor, Malfoy raises his arms in exasperation. “There’s no winning with you — first I’m a pest because of something that is completely out of my control, and now I’m a dick because I said it wasn’t on account of you.”

My hands find their way to my hips. “That is not what’s happening, Malfoy.”

“I apologise, Granger,” he says sarcastically. “Our tenuous friendship aside, you have a very nice arse.”

“Excuse me?” I scoff.

“Your little sleep shorts did their job,” he continues, twiddling his fingers in the direction of my hips. “I was very taken by the sight of your backside and I simply could not help myself.”

I glare. “Stuff it, Malfoy.”

The slightest of grins crosses his face and he places a hand on his chest like a two-bit Shakespearean actor. “I am but a man. A mere mortal. What am I when faced with the overwhelming power of your rear end?”

“You know what?” I adjust my grip on my bag and stomp around him, heading toward the door. “Never mind. I was trying to apologise for over-reacting, but you are a first-class troll.”

“Oh! Granger! Stop!” he exclaims dramatically. “I can’t handle it!”

I peek suspiciously over my shoulder. “Handle what?”

Malfoy’s hand is over his eyes and he’s flailing about as if blinded. “The sight of your arse walking away.”

My shoulders sag with the weight of my annoyance. “For fuck’s sake, Malfoy…” I start back toward the door.

“And in jeans, no less!”

Despite myself, I can feel my cheeks starting to lift. “You’re still a troll.”

He follows me out onto the street, easily catching up to my irritated stride. As we cross, he spins deftly and walks backward for a moment, grinning widely at me. “What can I say, Granger? I’m cursed with an honest spirit.”

“And I am cursed with my unfortunate need for you,” I deadpan, gesturing toward the Mustang, parked right where we left it yesterday.

He pops open the boot and tosses his bag in. Reaching for mine, he says, “Careful, Granger. You’ll give me a big head.”

“Already did,” I remark snidely, dropping my bag into his waiting hand.

Malfoy’s eyes grow unbelievably wide. “Oh, my giddy aunt. Did you just make a joke?”

I say nothing as I walk around the side of the car and wait with my nose in the air for Malfoy to open my door.

“A dick joke?”

Still silent, I drop into the passenger seat and cross my arms primly. Malfoy rounds the front of the car and I can feel his gaze on me the whole time. He slides into the driver’s seat and turns the key in the ignition.

“A joke about my dick?”

“Well it’s the only one in the vicinity,” I finally say. “My options are limited.”

I’m met with a laughing sort of scoff. “I didn’t think you had it in you, Granger.”

“What can I say, Malfoy?” I echo his earlier sentiment. “I’m full of surprises.”

“I’ll say.”

Doing up my safety belt, a glint of red catches my eye. The mood ring has shifted to a bright crimson. As Malfoy pulls the car away from the curb, I open my beaded bag and take a peek at the little colour-code card.

Red = passionate, angry, aroused.

I shove the card back into my bag.

Angry. Definitely angry.