NEW: Harry FanDraco Malfoy and the Mortifying Ordeal of Being in Love – Chapter 13-23

Back at the hotel, Granger observed Draco as he attempted to Transfigure his bed into something sturdier than the present offering. Transfiguration became exponentially more difficult at scale, however, and all he managed to do was make it squattish and off-kilter.

“A very fair attempt,” said Granger, patting him on the head. (He was too surprised to be indignant.)

“I’m waiting for you to take pity on me,” panted Draco.

Granger nodded with a kind of exaggerated benevolence. She spent ten minutes wrangling the collapsing frame into a comfortable bed, explaining what she was doing as she went, and what Principles and Laws Draco hadn’t quite been applying correctly, for a Transfiguration this large.

“Why didn’t you stay in Transfiguration?” asked Draco to interrupt the lecture. “Why Healing?”

Granger looked up from where she was transforming the worn coverlet into a plush blanket. “Transfiguration’s practical applications peak at the Mastery level – Doctoral studies veer into the abstruse and theoretical. Healing was a branch of magic that offered more scope to help people in the real world. And Healing harmonised more readily with my studies in Muggle medicine, of course.”

The sad-sack, greying pillows were transformed into puffy white ones. Granger gave Draco a quick glance. “Did you complete further studies, after Hogwarts?”

The question was posed with a self-conscious kind of curiosity. Draco thought that this might’ve been the first time that she had asked him something personal.

“A Bachelor’s in Alchemy and a Mastery in Duelling,” answered Draco.

“Oh! Well done. I always told Harry and Ron that they ought to consider something like Duelling. But, well–” Here, in the face of Draco’s cynically raised brow, Granger finished, weakly, “–They never loved academia.”

“Those two knobheads don’t even have their NEWTs. They wouldn’t have survived a day,” said Draco, vexed that she dared consider them of his calibre.

“They aren’t knobheads,” said Granger, a fist on a hip.

“The entirety of the programme’s foundational year was theory and philosophy of martial magicks. When’s the last time Pot and Wheeze even read a book?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?” asked Granger.

“No. Answer me.”

“Damn it.” Granger lapsed into silence as she thought, a finger on her lip. At length, having recollected no recent memory, she said, “Just because they haven’t mentioned reading a book to me, doesn’t mean they haven’t read one.”

Draco dismissed this with a scoff.

“Do Quidditch magazines count?” asked Granger in subdued desperation.

“No.”

“Years,” conceded Granger with an unwilling sigh.

“You would’ve done better than that pair of plonkers,” said Draco. “Except for the practicals. Too much shrieking, insufficient cursing. Maître Toussaint would’ve eaten you alive.”

“You did it in France?”

“Université de Paris.”

“Mm. Mind you, my French masters almost ate me alive. Their paedagogical methods consisted principally of browbeating. I did a concentration at the Sorbonne. I cried every day.”

“Better than bleeding every day,” said Draco, with a heroic kind of nonchalance. (It was, in his defence, barely an exaggeration.)

Granger bit her lip. “I’ll stop whinging then, shall I?”

Draco almost offered to show her his more dashing scars, but recalled, just in time, that Granger had her own, and that it wouldn’t do to embark on a competition on that front.

Now it was time to get ready for bed. An awkwardness made the room feel close and warm. Both of them carried on as though they didn’t feel it.

Granger changed into her sleeping things in the bathroom. She had apparently selected the most horridly modest cotton pyjamas in her wardrobe for this weekend escapade.

“What?” she asked, in the face of Draco’s once-over.

“Those put me in mind of McGonagall,” said Draco. “Are you going to pinch my ear and call me naughty?”

“You find Muggle shorts indecent, remember?” said Granger. “My other option was a negligée, which would most certainly have offended your sensibilities.”

Draco thought he’d rather have liked to see this negligée. Out loud he said, “More than this picnic rug you’re sporting? Impossible.”

“O, yes.” Granger climbed into her bed. Draco noticed that she had appropriated his tome on wards. She waved a hand at him. “Well, go on then – go change, and let’s have a look at your haute couture jimjams.”

Draco brushed his teeth and changed into his usual black silk pyjamas. It was a queer feeling, to await the judgement of Granger on his choice sleeping attire. Not that he gave a damn what she thought, or anything.

He sauntered back out of the bathroom. “Careful, Granger: I’m wildly attractive in black.”

Granger observed him over the book.

“Irresistible,” she said drily. “I am undone.”

The sarcasm was blistering.

Draco flicked non-existent dust from his shoulder. “It is, at the very least, not a seat cover from the Hogwarts Express.”

“Mm, rather lugubrious, though.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Funereal, really,” sniffed Granger. “Who died?”

“Your wit, about a minute ago.”

“I was witty before?”

“To a limited degree.”

A smile was pulling at the edges of Granger’s mouth. She held the book up to hide it. “More than I can say about you.”

“Watch your cheek, or I shall revoke your reading privileges.”

Granger held up her hands. “Pax. Cease-fire?”

“I accede.”

~

Draco had nursed a suspicion that Granger was one of those hateful morning people. She proved it as soon as she could the next day, by launching herself out of bed at the unholy hour of half five.

The sun rose with her on this Solstice morning and seemed equally fixated on denying Draco his preferred nice, healthy lie-in till 11 a.m.

To further compound his irritation, Draco woke up hard. He remained unmoving, face down on the bed, as Granger faffed about with her suitcase, complained about getting naff all sleep, and finally got into the shower.

He waved away his indecency with his wand, trying to recollect when he had last woken up with such a rager. Bloody hell, he needed a shag.

Granger was quick in the shower. Then, smelling of soap and warm skin, she stood next to Draco’s bed and cleared her throat.

“What,” said Draco irascibly into the pillow.

“Are you up?”

Draco thought he ought to nominate himself for sainthood, in view of the jokes that he did not make.

“Go away,” said Draco.

“We should leave soon,” said Granger.

“You said eight,” said Draco.

“It’s almost eight,” said Granger.

Draco cracked open an eye to observe the clock beside the bed. “Load of tosh. It’s six. Kindly fuck off.”

Granger, clearly full of anxious energies, hissed out a sigh. “All right. Fine. I’ll go find us some breakfast.”

“Don’t come back till eight,” growled Draco in warning.

The threat got Granger’s back up. “Or what?”

“I shall bite off your head.”

“Are you a werewolf?” asked Granger.

“I might become one, for the purpose,” said Draco.

“Fine. What d’you want?”

“For you to go away. Evidently.”

“To eat, I mean.”

“Don’t care. Let me sleep.”

“Fine.”

Granger left in a bit of a huff.

Draco attempted to carry on sleeping. Instead, he was visited by a second erection, which he irritatedly took care of in the minuscule shower. It was unsatisfying and he cracked his elbow against the wall doing it, but it was a release.

Granger returned at eight on the dot – bless her for occasionally following instructions – bearing breakfast. This consisted of butter, jam, and a baguette, and for drink, two coffees.

“They’re both for you,” said Granger, pressing both cups into Draco’s hands. “Hopefully you’ll be less arsey for the remainder of the morning.”

Draco, still tetchy, took the offerings wordlessly, and popped off to the tiny balcony to enjoy them in peace.

When he returned to the room (feeling substantially less inclined to tear off Granger’s head), Granger had donned her walking kit. “Shall we get our disguises on?”

“Let’s,” said Draco.

Granger turned the other way while Draco pulled on his bumbling newlywed Muggle hiker attire. He glamoured his hair to look less Malfoyish. Granger did the same, to look less Grangery.

“Ready?” asked Granger.

“Ready,” said Draco.

They turned around and looked at each other.

“Funny,” said Granger.

“Hilarious,” said Draco.

Granger had elected to make her hair white-blond and straight, and change her eyes to a cold grey. Draco had chosen a mop of dark curls and brown eyes.

“You look terrifying,” said Draco.

“You look ridiculous,” said Granger.

“You look like the cadaver of a Veela.”

“Your hair looks like a merkin.”

This exchange of pleasantries completed, Granger asked, “Shall we crack on?”

Draco nodded and slipped on the sunglasses that he had purchased for the occasion. They were heart-shaped and pink and wonderfully kitschy. Granger stared at them for a long moment, then declared that she wanted some too, and conjured a matching pair.

Thus equipped, they began the hike up towards the monastery; a nice, sweaty preamble to a sacrilegious violation of a priceless relic.

The way up was, as promised by Granger, a bit of a slog. It was early enough that the heat of the day didn’t utterly flatten them. As they progressed upwards, they were protected from the worst of the sun by a cathedral of trees that filtered the light into cool greens. White hyacinths dotted the undergrowth. It smelled of earth and mushrooms.

Between gasps for breath, Granger provided Draco with histories of the various pilgrims who had walked this path, and the alleged Miracles that had followed.

Draco said that, as riveting as these histories were, he would advise her to save her breath for the climb and concentrate. She did not heed his advice. About halfway up a steep ascent, her lecture distracted her too much and she tripped off the path and into a ditch full of brambles and mud. Her wand, which she’d been using to sear away thorny overgrowth, remained on the path with Draco.

Draco, seeing that Granger was unhurt at the bottom of the ditch, took up a contemplative position, leaning his shoulder against a tree. “What you’ve done there, Granger, is gone arse over tit.”

“Thank you for that instructive remark.” Granger was peevish, for some reason.

Draco then generously explained to her what Principles and Laws of physics she hadn’t quite been applying correctly.

Granger attempted a clamber out, which only sank her further in brambles.

Draco observed with great interest. “Blondes really do have more fun.”

Granger gave up on the climb, having been distracted by the torn-up state of her clothing, courtesy of the brambles. “Ugh. These were new.”

“You look like you’ve lost a square go with a Jack Russell,” said Draco.

Granger looked waspish. “Are you going to help me up?”

“You’ve a broom,” said Draco.

“No,” said Granger. “Pass me my wand.”

“But the broom is right there. With you. In your pocket.”

“No. Are you mad? It’s your fastest broom. I’ll give myself a traumatic brain injury.”

Draco scoffed. “You aren’t that terrible at flying. Are you?”

Granger glowered at him, both hands on her hips. Then she changed tack. “How’s your leg?”

“…Fine.”

“Liar. You’ve been favouring it the past quarter hour.”

Which was true, but Draco had hoped she hadn’t noticed.

“Do you want me to have a look?” asked Granger.

“No,” said Draco.

“Manticore bites are nasty,” said Granger. “Have you been keeping up with the exercises Parnell gave you?”

“None of your business,” said Draco, because the answer was no, because he was a procrastinator, and then he forgot.

“It’s your PCL, isn’t it? I can tell by your gait.”

“You’re angling to bribe me with a Healing to avoid using the broom, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Is it working?”

Draco considered the muddy witch at the bottom of the pit. Then he considered the hilarity of watching Granger attempt to ride his broom. Then he considered the pain in his knee.

The pain won out. He needed to be agile, for whatever the monastery was going to throw at them. Unfortunate.

Draco tossed Granger’s wand down to her.

She made quick work of her escape, thereafter. The earth before her split into a platform, which, propelled by thick roots, carried her back to the path.

Granger with her wand back in her hand looked rather more dangerous than the wandless one in the ditch. She was eyeing Draco with something less than kindness for his giggle at her expense. The heat of it rather promised Revenge.

However, a deal was a deal (bless her, you could always count on her for that) and Granger’s wand was soon pointed at Draco’s knee, and the relief of Healing spread across it.

“You need to do the exercises,” said Granger, dusting herself off. “Healing can only do so much. Don’t be lazy. You’ve only got two knees.”

“Yes yes, you’re right, of course. Let’s get on. We’ve wasted enough time with your dilly-dallying in ditches.”

Now sound of body, Draco strode up the path, with Granger scurrying behind him to keep up, muttering rude things at his back.

Finally, they came to the monastery. Granger had explained that it had been built at the entrance of the grotto where the Magdalene had first taken refuge, which now served as a chapel.

Draco and Granger took a moment to camouflage their wands upon their persons and rearrange their mutually hostile body language into that of Bumbling Muggle Newlyweds. They walked next to each other, Granger’s arm hooked through Draco’s.

Their first obstacle was the Sister at the monastery door–an older woman, observing their approach with a dour expression.

“Ah non non non. Aucune visite aujourd’hui; le monastère est fermé,” said the Sister.

Granger, wiping sweat from her brow, feigned shock, and asked why it was closed?

The Sister explained that it was Midsummer; everyone was at the Basilica below. They were welcome to join in the celebrations there. There would be no services in the monastery chapel today.

Granger made a fair approximation of distress. Draco jumped in with an explanation to the nun that the pilgrimage to the monastery was of Spiritual Significance to both of them, and that they had honeymooned here especially to visit. Wouldn’t she consider making an exception?

Granger sniffed that all she wanted to do was light a candle and make a prayer to the Magdalene, because she was a Repentant Sinner, and needed Her sacred blessing.

Draco made a great show of comforting his sobbing wife. (It felt interesting to cradle Granger and feel her breath on his chest through his shirt. It felt surprisingly… nice. He would go with nice.)

He patted her bum theatrically; she stiffened and her grip on his arm grew pinchy.

The nun pursed her lips as she observed the spectacle.

Draco brushed the forefront of the nun’s mind with a light touch of Legilimency to determine whether he needed to start Stunning. He discovered that the sunglasses perched on their heads were the deciding factor: the nun concluded that they were gormless idiots, and that a brief visit would do no harm, despite the Prioress’ instructions.

The nun led them through the small monastery and into the Magdalene’s grotto. “Quinze minutes,” she said with a severe finger wag.

Fifteen minutes was most certainly not enough for their nefarious plans, but Draco and Granger burbled out some gratitude.

“Doddery old piss bag,” said Draco as the nun left.

“Shh,” said Granger. “She’ll chuck us out.”

“Nunchuck us, you might say.”

Granger made a wry face. “I might not.”

Draco concluded that he was wasted on her.

“You did a fair job at lying, at least,” said Draco.

“I can lie,” said Granger. “I once bluffed my way past Gringotts goblins, you know. I do all right when I’m not being transfixed by those – those lances you call eyes.”

“Transfixed, you say.”

“Pierced. Impaled, even. Look away before you cut me to pieces.”

Draco looked away, amused. He did not tell her that her eyes had a contrary effect – of drawing one in, of pulling towards. Sometimes, if he wasn’t guarded, locking eyes with her felt like falling, like plummeting head-first.

But enough nonsense about eyes.

They took stock of the grotto. It was far bigger than Draco had imagined – rather more of a cave – containing an entire chapel. The walls were dotted with votive candles. Fissures in the cave had been blocked up by stained glass, which bathed the place in deep reds and blues.

There was no one about. In a dark corner of the cave, Granger Transfigured two statues into kneeling replicas of herself and Draco, and put a cluster of candles in front of them. Should the guard nun check in on them, their silhouettes would be hunched in quiet contemplation at the far end of the grotto.

Granger also placed the first of her incendiary runes at the base of the Magdalene’s statue. “But not too close,” she whispered as she flicked the symbol into life. “I don’t want to actually damage it…”

Meanwhile, Draco was casting his detection spells, which told him there were about five nuns on the premises. “There might be more. This rock makes it hard to say. So that’s five witches and untold amounts of wards.”

“Much better than the usual fifty witches, anyroad,” said Granger.

Satisfied with the arrangement of their stone Doppelgangers, Granger crept round the edge of the grotto and poked her head into the passage that led from the grotto to the crypt.

Footsteps resonated from that very direction a moment afterwards. A younger nun appeared and asked, in surprise and annoyance, what Granger thought she was doing?

Granger said, “Pardon, je cherche les toilettes.”

The nun raised a finger to point to the excruciatingly clear sign above the door that said, ACCÈS INTERDIT, and asked if Granger could see through those silly glasses? Then she asked why they were even here, and who had let them in; the monastery was closed? And (suddenly noticing the stone Doppelgangers), what was that?

The nun was getting too worked up to play Bumbling with. Draco cut her fact-finding mission short, Stunning her without fanfare.

“Shit,” said Granger. “But, unfortunately, necessary.”

Granger had insisted that she be in charge of any Obliviations. She removed the past five minutes from the nun’s mind with, admittedly, far more care than Draco would’ve.

“Your Stun will hold for at least another twenty minutes?” asked Granger.

“Half an hour, unless she’s got Troll blood.”

“Good.” Granger Transfigured the nun into a pew and floated her against the wall. “Let’s get on.”

Granger cast a Silencing spell around the two of them as Draco Disillusioned them, followed by Notice-Me-Not charms for good measure. They carried on, into the passage that led from the grotto to the crypt.

As planned, Draco took the lead, doing a little recce around every corner before he let Granger follow. She dropped two more runes as they went.

They met the first alarm wards at the downwards stairway into the crypt. Draco dismissed these without issue, but proceeded more slowly thereafter – now they were getting closer to where things might become interesting.

They encountered two illusory staircases that led to oubliettes. Draco disarmed some nasty pressure-triggered traps (an Orb of Pestilence and a Rot Rune). Granger took care of a Searing Sacrilege aimed at their hearts.

“The Sisters aren’t very nice,” she said. Draco could hear the frown in her voice.

At the bottom of the stone stairway, the air grew stale and musty. They came upon the gate of the crypt, and with it, their first real challenge: a Blood Lock.

“That’s Dark,” said Draco. “These nuns aren’t bollocksing about.”

“We need that Stunned nun,” said Granger. “We should go back up–”

“We don’t have time. Accio,” said Draco, waving his wand towards the Transfigured nun, who lay, pewishly, somewhere above them.

“But that’s far too heavy for a Summoning…?”

Granger clearly had no idea of Draco’s capabilities. He did not respond, focusing his will on the flight of the bulky pew, currently whizzing through the passage above them. Should any nun be unfortunate enough to be in its way, she would be summarily pulverised.

There was some thumping as the pew descended the stairway towards them.

“Wow,” said Granger at the sight of this absurd, yet impressive, display.

“You just had to Transfigure her into the bloody weight of an actual pew,” panted Draco as the pew tottered into view.

Granger undid the Transfiguration on the Stunned nun with mutterings about the importance of accuracy. Then Draco watched Granger’s Disillusioned shape hover indecisively over the limp body.

Draco, seeing that Granger hadn’t the bottle to do the dirty part, pulled out his knife.

“A light cut,” said Granger. There was apprehension in her voice. Bodily harm to others had been a distant, worst-case Plan F.

Draco snatched up the nun’s hand and sliced open her palm. He pressed it on the Blood Lock’s smooth obsidian surface. “Better hope she’s got permission to open this, or we’re going hunting for the Prioress.”

“I bloody well hope not – she’s probably back down in the village.”

For a long moment, nothing happened.

Then the Blood Lock glowed golden and popped open.

Granger sighed out in relief. As Draco checked for further wards beyond the gate, she healed the Stunned nun’s hand, then Transfigured her again – this time, into a torch sconce to match the others along the wall.

“Couldn’t’ve done that in the first place?” asked Draco.

“There weren’t torches upstairs!” snarled Granger. “She needed to be camouflaged!”

They moved into the crypt – wet-walled, mouldy, and stinking of centuries of death. Granger, tucked behind Draco, muttered directions to him as they went. She had committed the entirety of the labyrinthine area to memory, based on whatever ancient texts she had got her hands on. If their progress down one passageway was blocked, she would have three alternatives at the ready.

Draco disarmed a series of increasingly malicious wards – wards that hardly merited the name, really; these were curses. He slowed them down to a crawl.

“Fucking hell, a Gutting Glyph?” he muttered as he caught the next ward. “These nuns are murderous.”

He felt Granger peek around his shoulder and watch his translucent wand disarm the thing.

“These are rather Darker than I anticipated,” said Granger.

“How are we doing for time?”

“Five minutes till the bonne sœur at the entrance comes to badger us. Maybe ten if she backs off at the sight of our pious heads.”

“This is going far slower than I would’ve liked,” said Draco, picking up his pace, his wand held high to detect further threats.

“I know,” said Granger, worry tightening her voice.

They continued into progressively narrower passageways, past several centuries of stacked bones and bodies mummified by the passage of time. Draco’s wand being otherwise engaged, Granger conjured a circle of blue flames around them to light the way, along with her Lumos.

For a suspiciously long time, there were no other interruptions.

Then they came to a grinning goat’s skull, floating in the middle of the passage. It looked inoffensive and inert, simply suspended in place. Carved into the dusty floor below it was a pentagram.

Draco grit his teeth: this one, he’d read about in the text about the Dominican monks.

“What is it?” asked Granger to Draco’s back.

“Beelzebub’s Barrier,” said Draco. “I had rather hoped we wouldn’t encounter it.”

“Why? What happens if we trigger it?”

“A rather serious case of demonic possession. That neither of us is devout enough to deal with, by the by,” said Draco.

“Ugh. How do we disarm it?” asked Granger.

“Human sacrifice.”

“What?”

“Shall I summon the nun?”

“No. We’ll find another way round. Hang on. Let me think of a detour. This was the most direct route, of course…”

After a few moments of thinking – during which Granger drew out her mental maps on Draco’s back and gave him a shiver – she guided them down another passageway. They were both aware of the time ticking by.

Granger spelled out another of her incendiary runes, then said, “We’re past the fifteen minute mark.”

“We can expect hostility on the way back,” said Draco. “Hopefully only the four nuns.”

“The runes should provide a distraction,” said Granger, but there was anxious irritation lacing her voice: this wasn’t going according to plan.

The new path led to a Cloud of Contagion and a Carcerem sine fine ward, both disarmed by Draco.

As he worked, Granger, fretting about the time, took a step ahead of him to peer around the corner.

In Granger’s defence, Draco also wouldn’t have expected another ward so soon after these two – but there it was. Granger tripped it, and a flurry of Arcanist’s Arrows flew at them from all directions.

Only Draco’s reflexes saved them from death by impalement; as the fiery arrows whizzed, he pushed Granger into the wall and cast Obice circum. The arrows embedded themselves into the glow of his shield instead.

“You idiot!” said Draco, his face in Granger’s invisible hair. “You properly dropped a bollock on that one. You were to stay behind me at all times!”

“They put three wards within two square metres?” gasped Granger from somewhere in his chest.

“Evidently. And now we’re in a nice pickle,” said Draco as the arrows exploded against the shield.

“A pickle?! That’s what you’re calling this hellscape?”

“Do something about the bloody fire before it takes down my shield!”

Granger, spurred into action, slid her wand under Draco’s arm and waved out a complex command in runic.

The fiery arrows fizzled out.

“You’ll have to teach me that one,” said Draco, pushing away from her.

“Another time,” said Granger. There was a shakiness in her voice, though whether it was nerves or fatigue, Draco wasn’t certain. Every incendiary rune and spell she used she was placing was a drain on her magic, just as every curse he was breaking was a drain on his. Neither of them had expected to be this strained. At Draco’s count, they had broken over twenty curses in the span of a quarter hour.

“We’re getting close – this is the last corridor,” said Granger as they approached.

The ceiling lowered the further they progressed.

“Are you sure we aren’t going into a bloody burial chamber?” muttered Draco as he half-crouched to keep advancing.

“Yes. This is the right way. I’m sure they tightened it up on purpose–”

Draco stopped abruptly. Granger walked into his arse, swore, then removed their Disillusionments so that they could see each other.

Draco shifted so that Granger could observe the almost invisible reddish glimmer across the stone floor, under the glow of his wand.

“These fucking nuns,” said Draco.

“What is it?”

“One of the Torments invented by the Carthusians. They called it Spiritual Sanctification. Satirical buggers.”

“What’s it do?”

“An area-of-effect Crucio. Easier than continually casting it. Great for dungeon floors.”

“A Crucio carpet?”

“Essentially.”

“Horrid,” shuddered Granger.

“Any alternate routes?”

“The Beezlebub blocked off the main artery. We need to face it, or cross this–”

As she spoke, a spark of purple shimmered in Draco’s peripheral vision. He tackled Granger out of the way just as the spark burst into a whip-lash of vicious violet light. The curse hissed against the wall where Granger’s head had been.

“What was that?” Granger’s mouth was open as she watched the corrosive purple ooze gnaw into the stone wall.

“Mind Flayer,” said Draco, regaining his feet. “Delayed onset. Nasty.”

“Mind Flayer?” repeated Granger, clambering to her feet as well. “These bloody nuns…”

“Broom,” said Draco, his attention back on the Torment. “We mustn’t touch the floor. And don’t suggest Wingardium Leviosa instead.”

“I wasn’t going to,” snapped Granger, pulling the broom out of her Extended pocket. “I wouldn’t trust myself in these close quarters, not with a great bloody body like yours to heft about…”

They mounted the broom, both keeping their legs unusually tightly wound. The ceiling was so low here that even at that, with their heads brushing the stone above, Draco’s knees were inches from the Torment.

“These fucking nuns,” he muttered as he steered them with utmost delicacy over the five metre long patch of suffering.

Granger was focused on strangling the broom with her hands and her legs.

They passed the ruddy patch. Draco lowered them to dismount. Something gold was glittering at the end of the passage: it looked like the reliquary that Granger had described to him. Fucking finally.

“Wait!” hissed Granger. “Look!”

Above them, and visible only thanks to Granger’s circle of blue flame, a rune was carved into the ceiling.

Draco pulled the broom back up into a hover. “What is it?”

“Ethos?” said Granger, tilting her head and talking to herself. “Raidhu? But why is it…? Oh! But I didn’t know you could do that? What?! This usage isn’t in any of the syllabaries… ”

“What the bloody hell is it?” repeated Draco.

“I think – based on an extremely preliminary analysis – it’s – I suppose you could call it a Rune of Inverted Ethics?”

“Inverted… Ethics?” repeated Draco. He had expected something rather more lethal. Inverted Entrails, perhaps.

“It would reverse whatever your normal moral standpoint would be,” continued Granger. “I think. It would flip your intentions.”

“So you’d come off the Torture Carpet hating the nuns, and wanting to kill them all and destroy the whole place, and then you’d be hit by that and…”

“Love them, want to help them, and not do the naughty things you had set out to do, yes,” said Granger. “Brilliant idea, to put it last. Let me take care of this one. Can you fly us up closer?”

Draco moved the broom up and held it as steadily as possible as Granger drew out the counter runes. This exercise took what felt like an eternity. Draco kept casting detection spells behind them, aware, now, that there would almost certainly be a search on for the Bumbling Muggles.

He fancied that he heard voices.

The ceiling crackled and the rune disintegrated into dust.

“Sorted,” said Granger.

“Finally.”

They dismounted from the broom. Draco took point again, so aggravated at the delays that he’d half a mind to reactivate all the wards and drag the nuns through the bloody labyrinth, to get a taste of their own medicine.

At last, they came upon the Magdalene’s reliquary.

The entire thing looked to be made of pure gold. It shimmered in the darkness, save for the Magdalene’s skull, which jutted out blackly. Heaped on either side was more gold – crucifixes, goblets, statuettes, and coffers overflowing with coin.

Draco detected no further malicious spells, so they approached.

An inscription glittered below the reliquary.

“Noli me tangere,” read Draco. “Touch me not. Well, that’s excellent.”

“We are only going to tangere her a little bit,” said Granger, biting her lip.

“What’s that flask beside her?”

“The Sainte Ampoule. Alleged to contain earth, soaked in Christ’s blood, collected by the Magdalene from under the cross.”

Draco let out a whistle as they approached the reliquary. “This lot’s got to be worth a few Knuts.”

A hoarse voice spoke in French. “A few? Cheeky little bugger.”

Draco and Granger both jumped out of their skin. Hominem Revelios ricocheted against the walls as they cast them, to absolutely no avail. Draco flung a Protego around Granger.

The voice spoke again: “My only visitors in centuries, so, of course, they are irredeemably stupid.”

“Oh my god,” gasped Granger, “It’s the skull.”

Draco stared at it.

“Hello,” ground out the skull to Draco. “You’re pretty.”

“Merlin’s tits,” said Draco.

“I like you.” The skull grinned in his direction. “Give us a kiss.”

Draco had experienced a great many strange and wonderful things in his life, but being chatted up by the skull of a long-dead saint certainly ranked amongst the most bizarre.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shriek to the good Sisters about intruders,” said the skull.

“I shall blast you into bits if you try,” said Draco.

“Promises, promises,” said the skull.

“Please – are you the Magdalene?” asked Granger, her shock now making way for wide-eyed curiosity.

“An echo of she who was once known by that name,” said the skull.

“A ghost? Spirit?”

“There are many States of Being.”

Draco elbowed Granger. “Not the time.”

“Right, let’s rather discuss what a pretty lad like you is doing in a place like this.”

“I’m up to no good,” said Draco. “Obviously.”

“Ooo la la, a bad boy,” said the skull.

Granger was fixed in a state of utter entrancement at the skull. Draco elbowed her again. “Do what you came here to do. We need to leave.”

Granger seemed to come to. “Right – I have to – but–”

There were voices coming down the passageway. “We’ve got company,” cut in Draco. “Set off your charges.”

Granger raised her wand and muttered harsh words of ancient runic. Draco felt gooseflesh rise on his arms as her magic washed out of her. Five brilliant sparks burst out of her wand and whizzed down the passage to detonate their counterparts.

There was a moment of pure, perfect silence.

Then the crypt, the passageways, and the grotto, were rocked by explosions. Screams echoed distantly. A fine dusting of stone coated Draco, Granger, and the Magdalene’s reliquary.

From the passageway, there came no further sounds.

Granger had her hands on her knees, breathless from the magical exertion.

“What have you done?” asked the skull.

“Bought time,” said Granger.

“Do the thing,” said Draco, standing guard at the passage. “Quickly!”

Granger was agitated. “But it’s sentient! It wasn’t meant to be sentient!”

“Sentient is a rather optimistic term,” said the skull.

“But you can perceive!” said Granger. “I can’t just – just–”

“Just what, precisely?”

“I need a little piece of you,” said Granger.

“Tch. You and the rest of the world. Bits of me have been stolen over centuries and centuries, you know.”

“Get a bloody move on!” said Draco.

Granger slipped a rather wicked looking osteotome out of her pocket.

“Yes. My jaw lived in Rome for 700 years; we have only just been reunited.”

“H-have you?”

“In 1295. Thanks to Pope Boniface the Eighth, bless his pointy head.”

Granger was now edging towards the skull. “I er – I see that your occipital bone is cracked. D’you mind if I tidy it up a bit?”

Draco rolled his eyes heavenward. Granger was trying to get consent from the bloody skull.

“Noli me tangere,” said the skull.

Granger, the osteotome in one hand and her wand in the other, said, “I’m sorry about this.” She Vanished the reliquary’s glass away. “So sorry – but it’s for a good cause, I promise…”

“Noli me tangere,” repeated the skull as Granger’s hand approached. “You will regret it.”

Something in the skull’s tone made Draco turn.

He reached out and grabbed Granger’s arm, just in time to join her as the skull – a bloody fucking Portkey – transported them out.

~

They materialised in a dungeon, ten metres above the floor, and began to plummet downwards. As though in slow motion, both of them swiveled to see a ruddy shimmer across the stone floor below: Spiritual Sanctification.

Their saving grace, as they fell, was that they both had their wands out. Granger flung a Wingardium Leviosa at Draco just as he cast the same at her, and then they hovered, utterly at the mercy of the other’s willpower, inches over the Torment.

Granger was doing a decent job at holding his ‘great bloody body’ aloft, but there was something febrile in her magic; she wouldn’t be able to hold him for long. Draco himself was beginning to feel lightheaded: the day’s magical output was catching up to him, and even keeping Granger’s lithe figure afloat was taxing.

“Broom!” gasped Draco.

Granger tossed the skull to Draco, who caught it like a bony kind of Quaffle. She pulled out the broom. In a feat of awkward, floaty acrobatics, she got a leg over it. Then, under her unpractised hands, it moved towards Draco in whippy, uncertain jerks. When Granger got close enough, he pulled the tail-end to him, and collapsed onto it behind her.

“Fuck!” puffed Granger, utterly winded.

Draco was fuming. “These bloody, gods-damned nuns!”

“Oh my,” said the skull as he passed it back to Granger. “This hasn’t happened since the Dark Ages. What a thrill!”

Draco floated the broom up and down the narrow dungeon, his wand aloft, looking for a way out.

“This stone must be metres and metres thick,” said Granger, casting bursts of Transfiguration spells at the wall as Draco glided them past. “I can’t do a thing past the inside layer.”

“We could try to brute force a few Bombardas,” said Draco. “But that would drain us both – and who knows what’s on the other side.”

“Oh, about fifty enraged Sisters,” replied the skull. “They’ll have sounded the alarm by now and all flown back up from the Solstice do. Oooh, I hope you don’t meet the Prioress, my dear, she would leave your pretty face quite unrecognisable.”

“There’s got to be an entrance – how else do they fetch the prisoners?” Draco redoubled his searching. “We need to find it – that’ll be the weak spot.”

“I wager there isn’t one. They probably lift the Anti-Apparition Ward and pop in to pick the tortured corpses off the Crucio Carpet,” mulled Granger darkly.

“Clever thing,” said the skull.

“Quiet, you – it’s your fault we’re here.”

“I tried to warn you,” said the skull. “Don’t you speak Latin?”

Granger was now grasping at her person. “I have a million things in my pockets – but what do I do with them? Do we lay traps? Do we make explosives? They could let us rot in here for years before they come and fetch us. I have enough food for – er – months, maybe? How will we sleep over the Torment? I could make us hammocks?”

In the course of her hand-wavy blathering, Granger inadvertently presented A Solution. Draco seized her by the wrist. In their shared wand-light, her ring glimmered.

Granger followed his line of sight. “But – you said you didn’t finish the Portkey.”

“I didn’t.”

“So – so what are you thinking?”

Draco rapped his fingers against Granger’s wrist. “I don’t know. A possibility. I couldn’t fix the final destination to a desired location. The Arithmancy is all correct, there’s just a stupid hiccough in the tail end I haven’t worked out.”

Granger was now getting excited. She twisted towards him on the broom. “So you’re saying it works, but we haven’t any idea where we’ll end up?”

“Yes.”

Granger held out her hand to him. “Activate it.”

“You don’t understand. I have no bloody clue where we’ll end up,” repeated Draco. “It might be the bowels of the earth. It might be the inside of a volcano, or the depths of Atlantis. We could die the moment we arrive – crushed, or burned, or asphyxiated.”

Granger searched his eyes, looking as flummoxed as he felt. “Fifty angry nuns descending upon us in holy wrath, or asphyxiation?”

Draco ran a hand down his face. “Fuck me. How the fuck did we get here?”

“Ooh, do the Portkey, do the Portkey!” said the skull. “I want to see the world!”

“You choose,” said Draco to Granger, ignoring the skull.

Granger turned away from him on the broom and thought.

“You’re doing a SWOT analysis,” said Draco, watching the twitch of her fingers.

“Shh.”

“What’s a swot analysis?” asked the skull.

“What she does best,” said Draco. (It was a good thing that Granger wasn’t listening; unasked-for fondness had slipped into the statement. Eurgh.)

Granger came out of her process looking determined. She twisted back towards Draco on the broom. “Portkey. Wands out, ready to Disapparate the moment we materialise in the Other Place. Even in the most hostile environment, whatever damage we sustain in that split second should be Healable.”

“Even lava? We’re taking a big bloody risk.”

“We have the skull. And I have lives to change for the better. Let’s check the stupid thing for tracking spells; we don’t need the Sisterhood following us to wherever we end up.”

The skull was subjected to diagnostic spells from both Granger and Draco. Neither of them was gentle about it, but the skull seemed to have little feeling.

“That tickles,” said the skull as it was suspended between the two of them and sprayed with spells.

“It’s clean,” said Draco at length. “Only echoes of the Portus.”

“Which was a brilliant idea. A single non-malicious spell at the very end. Right into a dungeon. Bloody nuns.”

“All right,” said Draco. “Let’s go. But first, I want to leave a few thank-yous for the Benedictine Sisters of the Sacred Bollocks.”

“Ooh, naughty,” said the skull as Draco tucked a few maledictions, curses and other devilry into the stonework.

Sod his fatigue. He needed vengeance.

“Ready?” asked Draco, his wand-tip at Granger’s ring, prepared to activate the Portkey.

Granger met his eyes and nodded. She was on edge, but she wasn’t afraid.

Brave fucking witch.

“Portus,” said Draco.

~

The Portkey sucked them through the Anti-Apparition Ward in a prolonged, sickening drag. Draco wasn’t sure what he was gripping harder: his wand, Granger’s waist, or the broom between his legs.

They materialised about sixty metres above the ground – thank the gods for the broom – above a strange, surreal scene. They were flying above a cluster of boats, grouped about as though moored at a marina – but there was no water. As far as Draco’s eye could see, dunes undulated, on and on into the horizon.

Granger’s head swivelled about too, observing the place, her curiosity overrunning her fear of flight. A wisp of smoke emanated from her ring – the last of the imperfect Portus fizzling out of existence.

Hot wind blew grit into their eyes and chapped their lips.

“Of course we wouldn’t end up in, say, Kent,” said Draco.

“That would’ve been rather too convenient,” said Granger. “But I’ll take this over the centre of a volcano – and we didn’t get Splinched by poorly executed Arithmancy. Well done.”

Draco flew lower, casting detection spells towards the graveyard of ships. There was no living thing within.

“I’m going to take us down. We need to rest – we’re both bollocksed.”

“Agreed.”

They landed amongst the rusting hulls and found a spot in the shade of a smaller ship.

Granger tumbled off the broom in that ungainly way of hers, stayed on all fours on the ground for a long moment, and then regained her feet.

She groped about her pocket until she found her Muggle device, which she pulled out in triumph. However, the triumph was short-lived. Granger paced, held the mobile up high, held it low, pressed a few buttons – but whatever it was meant to do, it wasn’t doing.

“No service,” sighed Granger. “We’re out of range of Muggle telecommunications. I’d have liked to know where we are.”

“A great bloody desert like this? Somewhere in Africa would be my guess.”

“That was mine, too,” said Granger. “There’s a place called the Skeleton Coast in Namibia, famous for shipwrecks amongst the dunes. But that theory is buggered by the rather conspicuous absence of the sea. Perhaps the boats will give us a clue.”

She walked, speculative, towards the prow of the ship that they were sheltering under. Faded characters were scattered about that would’ve once spelled the vessel’s name.

Granger’s hands found her hips. “Cyrillic?”

“…Are you suggesting we’re in Russia?”

“I’ve no idea,” said Granger, sounding, for once in her life, utterly bewildered.

They set aside the mysteries of their present circumstances to replenish their strength. Draco was keen on a rest – he had a nagging worry that the nuns would somehow find them, and he was presently too magically fatigued to take on fifty of them in a firefight.

“Where’s the skull?” he asked, all of a sudden, as the last ten minutes had been free of its croaky remarks.

“In my pocket,” said Granger. “With a Muffliato around her temporal bones. I’m tired of her running commentary.”

“Good shout. D’you have anything to eat in that pocket?”

“Obviously.”

Bits of rusted-out boat were minimally Transfigured into a makeshift low table and stools. Draco noted that none of Granger’s usual flourishes – or concern for accuracy – were on display. The stools peeled old marine paint upon their bottoms; the table threatened a side of tetanus with their dinner. Granger was tired.

And yet, she still managed to surprise him. Fishing things out of her Extended pocket, she placed the makings of a real meal upon the table. A baguette, pâté, and various cheeses were laid out. Then came an assortment of charcuterie, some cornichons, and olives. A container of spiced aubergine salad followed.

She surveyed the table. “What am I missing? Oh! The drinks.”

Bottled water (“Grossly overpriced”) and a bottle of white wine (“No idea if it’s good; the bottle was pretty”) followed.

Granger passed Draco the wine. “Would you chill this? We might as well do the thing properly.”

Draco passed several cooling charms over the bottle. “Right. I can at least feel as though I’ve contributed something to this repast.”

It was nothing but a throwaway remark, but Granger took it seriously. She frowned at him. “Contributed something? Malfoy, today would’ve been impossible without you. I would’ve taken a wrong turn at the first hallucinatory staircase and ended up in an oubliette forever. And if I hadn’t, I’d be demonically possessed – or very dead. You knew the counter-spell to every sodding thing we encountered. You curse-broke your way through a labyrinth that hasn’t been penetrated since the Dark Ages. You half-arsed a Portus on this ring, and it bloody worked, and we’re here, and alive, because of you. You were–”

Here she paused, and searched for words, and seemed to grow self-conscious. “You were extraordinary,” she finished, quietly. She cleared her throat, avoided his eye, and busied herself with her wand. “I’ll conjure some glasses, shall I?”

As for Draco, he said nothing, because he was wrestling with a swell of pleasure at this slew of compliments, and amusement at Granger’s discomfiture, and what felt like the warmth of a blush at his cheeks, only he didn’t blush, because he was Draco Fucking Malfoy, so it was probably sunburn from this damned desert.

“One last thing before we eat, if you don’t mind,” said Draco, opting to violently change the subject.

Granger looked up. “What?”

“Finite incantatem,” said Draco, pointing his wand at her.

Her hair, in a lank blonde ponytail, returned to its full, brown curls. Her eyes, growing dark and warm as the glamour faded, flashed her amusement at him. “Shall I do you?”

“Do.”

“Excellent. I’m tired of the merkin. Finite incantatem.”

Draco felt the quiver of her magic through his hair and the caress of it across his eyes. It felt, perhaps, even more intimate than a touch would’ve been.

He ran a hand through his hair. “Less pubic wiggy?”

“Eh,” shrugged Granger, but she was holding back a smile.

“You can just say my hair is magnificent, you know,” said Draco.

“It’s adequate, for a wizard who just broke into a crypt and fled from nuns. Shall we eat?”

They ate and drank and rested, and began to replenish their depleted magical energies. Draco shared his shock that Granger was able to put together a meal not comprised of tuna and Cheesy Wotsits. Granger said that she had a packet of Cheesy Wotsits in her pocket, just for him, since they lingered so powerfully on his psyche. Draco asked if she had a few cat hairs too, to complete the experience. Granger said, of course, and plucked two out of her pocket, and wafted them in Draco’s direction. Draco said thank you, he felt quite at home now, and also, would there be Banoffee pie for dessert?

He’d half expected Granger to produce one, but she demurred: “The village’s shops didn’t carry those.”

Her dessert offerings were more of those marzipan-stuffed dates, dried figs, and apricots.

“You know,” said Draco as he chewed on a date, “We could ask the Magdalene if she brought this recipe over, after all.”

“Oh!” gasped Granger. And then, after half a moment’s thought: “Let’s!”

The skull was summoned out of Granger’s pocket and the Muffliato was dismissed.

“Hello, what’s this?” asked the skull, its shadowy eye-holes gazing at the ship’s hull. “Are we at sea?”

“No,” said Granger. “But would you settle a line of enquiry for us? Did you bring the recipe for marzipan-stuffed dates to France from the Holy Land?”

A date was held in front of the skull, for illustrative purposes.

“What is that? A clam?”

“Well, that’s settled, then,” said Granger, eating the date.

“You have restored the honour of an entire nation,” said Draco to the skull.

The skull’s attention turned to him. “O, it’s you. Do you know, I was just thinking you’d look better as a blonde.”

“Thank you,” said Draco.

He and Granger exchanged a look of realisation – the skull had now seen them sans disguise.

“Can skulls be Obliviated?” asked Draco. “They’ve got no brain.”

“We’ll have to try, now that she’s seen us,” said Granger, looking serious. “She has a mind, anyway.”

The skull, who had been completing an assessment of Granger, said, “As for you, you’re rather less corpsey than you were before.”

“Bit rich, coming from you.”

“I was a great beauty,” said the skull.

“You still have gorgeous cheekbones,” said Draco.

The skull giggled – a mildly disconcerting sound.

Draco noted that Granger had pulled her osteotome back out – she was finally going to get that sample. She angled the skull towards Draco. He distracted it by flipping his hair and looking at it seductively.

Granger pressed the bevelled edge of her instrument along an already jagged part of the skull. There was a dullish snap as a piece broke off, which she transferred to a test tube.

“What was that?” asked the skull. “Did you hear something?”

“No,” said Draco.

Granger produced a sack, which she threw over the skull so that it would see them no longer. Then she pointed her wand at the bump in the bag. “Obliviate.”

The skull’s muffled and confused voice came through the sack. “Sister Sophia? Is that you? Why is it so dark?”

Granger cast Muffliato and Silencio upon the sack, and stuffed it back into her pocket. She looked regretful. “Religious historians would give their eye teeth to have a chat with her. Can you imagine–”

“No,” said Draco.

“I know, I know,” said Granger, though the pain of the missing knowledge made her clutch at her breast. “I’ll send her back to the monastery as soon as we reach civilisation. Hopefully her safe return keeps the nuns off our backs.”

“I rather fancied a duel with the Prioress. She sounded like a fury.”

The meal being over, they crawled off of the uncomfortable stools and stretched. Granger produced a large, puffy blanket, which she placed upon the sand. She laid down upon it and Draco invited himself to lie down next to her.

“She did sound like a fury,” said Granger. “Sod Aurors and the Order – we should’ve sent French nuns after Voldemort.”

“Did you see that labyrinth? The good Sisters would’ve overthrown him in five minutes. We’d be living in a new, nunnish world order.”

“Everyone would wear habits,” said Granger, a laugh in her voice. “You’d have positively thrived.”

“I merely express surprise at Muggle skin-showing,” said Draco huffily. “Not objections.”

“Dismay, rather.”

“Astonishment. It’s culture shock.”

“Don’t robes interfere with the checking out of bums?” asked Granger.

“They are a blight on the entire sport.”

“Then?”

“I didn’t really think about the alternatives, until – until quite recently.”

“You don’t know what you don’t know,” nodded Granger sagely.

“Exactly. I’m developing a new esteem for Muggle fashions – they know how to do bums.”

Granger laughed. Draco raised his wand lazily and floated the wine bottle over to them.

“You know – the sun is setting here.” Granger’s voice was thoughtful. “It was midmorning at the monastery. That means we’ve jumped eight or ten timezones ahead, depending on our proximity to the equator.”

“Where would that put us? Western China?”

Granger had turned onto her stomach and edged towards the side of the blanket. She was scribbling a map into the sand. “Er – possibly. Any number of places, depending on how many zones we jumped. Iran… Oman… any of the ‘Stans…”

Draco floated over the dried figs and chewed on those while Granger made her speculations.

“Oh!” said Granger.

“What?”

She passed him something for his inspection: a whitish, elongated seashell.

“This used to be a seabed,” said Granger as she peered at the sand. “How curious.”

Now she was passing her fingers through the sand, digging up more desiccated bits of sea-life. Her eyes were alight with inquisitiveness. All of the day’s troubles – the curses, the near-death experiences – seemed to have faded away in light of this fresh mystery. With her hair strewn with crypt dust, and a purplish line of Mind Flayer residue across her cheek, and her torn-up walking kit, she looked rather like a wild-eyed archaeologist, seeking answers amongst the endless sands.

The effect was quite fetching. Had anyone told Draco, months ago, that he would’ve found a banged-up, dirt-smudged witch digging about in sand fetching, he would’ve scoffed. But there it was.

“That’s a Scaphopoda,” said Granger in reference to the shell in Draco’s hands. “But I don’t know what species, so that won’t help us narrow down our location.”

Draco examined the shell, concluded that it was, indeed, a shell, and passed it back to her.

Their fingers touched. Hers were warm, his were cool.

“Sea urchin,” she said, holding up another whitish thing, but round.

“Fascinating.”

Granger returned to studying her erstwhile map, now scattered with bits of shell. “I don’t know enough about ancient seas to make any kind of intelligent supposition, based on these creatures. It’ll be dangerous for us to Apparate anywhere, given that we haven’t any idea where we are on the planet. I think our next plan of action should be a reconnaissance flight to see if we can find civilisation, and hopefully an internationally connected Floo.”

Draco popped himself onto his elbows. “I’m sorry, did you just say flight?”

“Yes.”

“As in, use the broom?”

“Yes.”

“You? Willingly? Want to use a broom?”

Granger looked a combination of miffed and harassed. “Yes, all right? It ended up being terribly useful. Don’t be smug about it.”

“Too late.”

“I can see that.”

Oh yes, he was smug. Granger, with her Firmly Established Opinions on Everything, had changed her mind about flying, of all things. He dearly wanted to rub it in, but self-control prevailed. “The sun’s setting. Let’s wait until it’s under the horizon, and then do a little recce from on high. If there are settlements about, they’ll be lit up, and we’ll be able to see them from miles away.”

Just as Granger was nodding her agreement, an odd sort of groan echoed across the dunes towards them.

“Did you just hear a cow?” asked Granger.

“A cow? That sounded like Weasel on the loo.”

“Eurgh – don’t be – oh! Look!”

A herd of – of something – came into view over the dunes.

They looked like gazelles who had been half-Transfigured into tapirs.

“Oh, I’ve read about those – they’re Saiga antelope!” said Granger, leaping to her feet.

The animals paused at the sudden movement. They eyed Granger as though she was the half-Transfigured oddity, and not them. Then, with a strange loping gait, they carried on.

“Queer looking things,” said Draco. “Magical?”

“Mundane.” Granger was on her tiptoes, watching the herd pass. “Exceedingly rare, though.”

The lead animal groaned its peculiar moo and the herd disappeared behind a dune.

Granger returned to the blanket and kneeled at her sandy map. “This will help situate us. Those antelope have a narrow range. We’re somewhere in Central Asia.” Granger bit at her lip. “Population centres will be few and far in between.”

“We’ll fly south or west, then,” said Draco. “Definitely not north.”

“Agreed – nothing but Russia’s steppes that way.”

“I’d give it another hour,” said Draco, eyeing the sun as it sank behind the dunes. “Then we can fly.”

Granger stretched out on her back next to him and tucked her hands behind her head. There was a smile in her voice when she next spoke. “I can’t believe I saw a Saiga antelope.”

“I can’t believe we had a chinwag with Mary Magdalene’s skull.”

“And we were almost outwitted by nuns.”

“Those nuns were savage old birds. My next warding will be inspired. Shall I cast Beelzebub’s Barrier at your lab?”

“Could do. A spot of demonic possession would inject some vim into Trinity’s halls.”

Soon, the sun was nothing but a golden memory reflected in the firmament. There was no birdsong in the desert; all was quiet, save for the plaintive whistling of the wind amongst the rusted-out hulls.

The wind quietened as the world darkened. The moon emerged and painted the dunes a silvery white. Then, in the black stillness above them, constellation after constellation of stars glimmered into being, and galaxies, and nebulas innumerable.

Draco had never seen a sky like this one, so alight with its own brilliance, shimmering with mighty mysteries of worlds far away.

Together, in awed silence, Draco and Granger observed the whirling radiance above. Their hearts felt strangely full, and their troubles small and distant, under such living skies.

~

Neither Draco nor Granger had planned for a nap, but magical exhaustion took its toll and knocked them both out for two hours.

On the bright side, Draco awoke feeling positively rejuvenated, and ready to take on a hundred nuns, should circumstances require it. Granger, as she uncurled herself, also looked reinvigorated.

A few lively wand-waves packed up or erased all traces of their passing.

And then it was time to fly.

There must’ve been eagerness on Draco’s face, because Granger held the broom from him, and said, “Just because I think it’s a good idea doesn’t mean I’m going to enjoy it. Making me scream in terror is not the object of this exercise.”

“I would never,” said Draco, feigning offence as he set aside nefarious plans to do just that.

Granger, with a look of profound mistrust, passed him the broom. Draco mounted, and then angled his way towards her for her to hop on. She twisted her hands together, took a breath, muttered about bloody brooms, and, finally, clambered on.

“You do better when you don’t have time to think about it,” remarked Draco as Granger wedged herself between his legs. “Like in the crypt.”

“Imminent death does push slightly-less-imminent death out of my mind,” said Granger with a tight jaw.

Draco cast the usual assortment of wind-breakers and warming spells. “Ready?”

“No,” came the strangled response. “Just go.”

Draco did not wait to be told twice. He kicked off with a will, eager to get lost in these skies with their millions upon millions of stars.

The post-apocalyptic scene of the corroded fleet of boats grew smaller and smaller, until the hulls were mere specks below.

As they reached flying altitude, Draco revelled in the views. There was no sea here, but an ocean of silver dunes, undulating without end all around them. Above, long lanes of stars streaked – gates to strange eternities. It was Awesome in the true sense of the word and filled Draco with profound wonder.

To his surprise, Granger had her eyes open. She breathed out a single, stupefied, “Wow,” and then went silent.

Draco struck a south-eastern course. His broom hummed under him, wanting to be given its head as they flew. But this broom, the newest model Étincelle, was the quickest in Draco’s collection and he dared not go faster than he already was. Despite the wind-breaking charms, Granger’s ponytail had half unravelled and was having its way with his face. And, of course, the witch herself would kill him upon landing.

After a time, Granger asked, “Why’s the broom buzzing at us?” Her question was laced in unspoken fear of a malfunction.

“She wants to go fast,” said Draco.

There was a pause. Then, timidly, Granger asked, “How fast?”

Draco gave a moment’s thought to his answer, which took the form of a question: “How fast does your car go?”

“I’ve broken two hundred kilometres per hour – in Germany, mind.”

(Draco did not understand why Germany was relevant to this statement.)

“We can do two hundred on the broom,” said Draco. “If you’re game.”

Draco knew Granger’s body language enough now to see that she was torn, even without a view of her face. “This is a bloody big desert,” she said after some musing.

“It is.”

“We’ve been flying for twenty minutes and we haven’t seen a single sign of human habitation.”

“Correct.”

“We’d cover much more ground at speed.”

“We would.”

Granger straightened up between Draco’s arms. “Let’s do it. Cast a few more wind-breakers – I’m going to do something with my hair.”

Which was excellent, because between Granger and her cat, Draco had now ingested enough hair to last the week. He slowed them down to cast his spells as Granger coiled her ponytail into a plait and tucked it into her top.

Granger’s voice was tightened by nerves. “Don’t accelerate too fast or I shall fall.”

“You won’t fall. I’m holding you.”

“I know.”

“It’ll be just like we’re in your car,” said Draco, edging the broom up to speed.

“My car has seat belts and is solidly on the earth at all tiiiiiiimes–”

Granger’s statement gave way to a shriek as the broom surged ahead. Draco wondered whether he ought to slow down – and then he realised that the shriek had turned into a delighted, adrenaline-filled laugh.

The speed had Granger half enjoying herself, half frightened out of coherent thought.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Draco as the dunes turned to a silvery blur below them.

“Oh my goddd–”

“You are keeping an eye out for lights, aren’t you?”

“Ughfrlp.”

“Good.”

They streaked across the desert, meteoric. Draco wished for a shooting star, so that they might race it. Since Granger was doing so well, he gave the broom her head, and she spiritedly jetted forth even faster, and now the dunes were a silver radiance below, and the stars were a dazzling whirl.

He held Granger tightly, partially to keep her safe, partially because he wanted to, because the feel of it was enjoyable – the holding of this slightly mad, brilliant witch, who passed her weekends skylarking about crypts, and who provoked him at every turn.

She was warm between his arms, and she smelled like travel dust and adventure and exhilaration.

The whole thing was mad – the holding of Granger as though he wanted to, the flying over these unsettled wilds, the having no actual clue where on Earth they were, the illegal and unfinished Portus, the talking skull, the whole of it. Absolutely mental.

He had loved every minute.

“There!” said Granger, suddenly.

She made the mistake of holding out her arm to point. At this speed, it was whipped backwards and smacked Draco in the temple.

“Sorry!” blurted Granger. “But – look!”

To the south of them glowed the yellow glow of Muggle lights. At first they dotted the sands, here and there, and then they began to form long, parallel lanes. Roads.

“A city!” said Granger.

Draco flew them lower and slower. As they slowed, Granger cast Disillusionments on the two of them, lest a Muggle be stargazing on a night like this.

They skimmed the rooftops now, looking for more clues on their location. Signs across shopfronts were in Cyrillic and, oddly, Arabic, with what looked like Korean Hangul thrown in to confuse any lost witches and wizards as much as possible.

Granger asked Draco to slow down further so that she could consult her mobile, now that they had reached civilisation.

“Tashkent,” she said.

“Bless you,” said Draco.

“No, it’s where we are. We’re in Uzbekistan.”

“My word,” said Draco. “That’s a step off the beaten path.”

“This is excellent. There’s a British embassy here. There’ll be a Magical consulate tucked in there with them. We’ll be able to Floo home.”

With that, Granger’s mobile began peppering directions out to Draco, which led them to the roof of the British embassy, which was closed for the night. Draco broke them in and sniffed out the Consul’s chambers (his was the only trace of magic in the entire building), and they startled the poor wizard awake.

Draco intimidated the Consul into lighting the international Floo flue, despite their lack of any kind of documentation, and Granger Obliviated him, and Draco cast a Sleeping Charm on him, and then they were whisked back to London by blue flames.

Draco reflected that he and Granger made a rather decent team.

They were spat out on British soil twenty minutes later, after the longest and most dizzying Floo journey that either of them had ever experienced. Draco rolled out of it; Granger plopped down bonelessly.

Then, on the cold floor of the London warehouse that served as the Arrivals platform, Granger laid herself down and did not move.

Draco, who generally fared better than her in all things spinny, had a look about. His knee was stinging at him, unhappy with the way he’d landed on the concrete.

“They’ve put in a line of domestic Floo hearths,” he said, returning to Granger’s limp corpse. “We can each Floo straight home.”

“Shan’t,” said Granger.

Draco came to stand next to her and contemplated her greenish mien. “You look ready to be sick.”

“I feel it,” said Granger.

“It’s one more little spin in the Floo.”

“Go away and leave me to die,” came Granger’s feeble voice.

Draco, who fancied a hot shower and a nap, was moderately tempted, but leaving his Principal queasy and utterly prone on the floor was, unfortunately, contrary to protocol. “Haven’t you some potion to take for the nausea?”

“If I so much as smell a potion, I shall decorate this floor with aubergine and–”

“Shh,” said Draco.

Footsteps were ringing across the warehouse.

Draco knelt beside Granger. “There’s an agent coming and we haven’t got an explanation for how we just got spat out of Tashkent with no papers, nor a stamp from the Consul. We have to go.”

“Shit,” said Granger, raising her head weakly off the floor. “They’ll find my Extension charms, if they search us.”

“And we’ve still got the bloody skull. That’s a stolen Artefact – not to mention precious enough to spark an international incident.”

“I heard an arrival, I tell you,” came a man’s voice.

“Impossible,” came another. “There’s nothing scheduled till Istanbul at half-past.”

Granger held out her arm and whispered, “Disapparate us.”

“Where?”

“Bloody anywhere!”

Draco grasped her arm and Disapparated as quietly as he could.

~

The bath and the nap which had been at the forefront of Draco’s mind inspired his choice of destination. He and Granger materialised in the foyer of the Seneca, London’s choicest wizarding hotel.

Draco hoisted Granger up to her feet. The employees at the Seneca were the epitome of discretion, including the witch who stepped out from behind the front desk, took no notice of their filthy clothing, and graciously asked if they were looking for a room, or dining at the hotel?

The mention of dining made Granger go dangerously green.

Draco propped her onto a bench and made arrangements for a room with the front desk witch. The woman, sensing that they wanted a room more than chit-chat about the hotel’s amenities, summoned an ornate key, whisked them to the lifts, and enquired if they had any luggage? (No, nothing, and certainly no illegal skulls, thank you.)

And so Draco reached the end of this bizarre day, in one of the Seneca’s famous suites, overlooking the Kensington Palace gardens, with a droopy Granger thrown decoratively across a chaise longue.

On the low table next to her, a carafe of water magically materialised, as well as a bucket. Thoughtful sort, that front desk witch.

Deciding that Granger had been sufficiently provided for, Draco went off to shower. That was a delightful experience, far more enjoyable than the small closet provided by the Hotel Plaisance. Draco turned on every single jet that was available, amused himself with the soap selections, and didn’t crack his elbows against a wall once (which was good, because he had a nice bruise going on his left one from that morning’s activities).

Thoroughly clean, now, Draco decided that he was a little peckish, and placed an order for a light dinner with the mirror. Then, given that he hadn’t any clothes save for the reeking pile that he had stripped off, he pulled on a fluffy white dressing gown and matching slippers.

As he tied the dressing gown, he made sure that the V at the opening properly exposed the best of his chest (because he liked to show off in general, and not because of Granger in particular). Water droplets glistened artfully across his pectorals and down to where the top of his abs peeked out.

Then he fixed his hair so that it was appropriately, sexily mussed up, for that post-shower, delicious look.

The mirror commented that he looked quite divine.

“I know,” said Draco.

He emerged from the shower in a mist of well-being, sexiness, and soap.

And he needn’t have bothered with any of it, really. Granger didn’t even look up when he exited the bathroom in his steamy glory. She was engrossed in her mobile.

The water had been drunk and the bucket looked unused – at least she was feeling better.

“The Aral Sea!” exclaimed Granger, her eyes riveted on the mobile. “That’s where we were. It was almost completely desiccated in the 60’s because of Soviet irrigation projects…”

A blow-by-blow account of the Sea’s disappearance followed, with much outraged commentary from Granger on what an ecological disaster it was. Meanwhile, the sexy droplets of water dried off of Draco’s pectorals, uselessly unseen by any audience whatsoever. Sod the Aral Sea; where was Granger’s concern for Draco’s desiccated chest?

“Riveting,” said Draco.

Granger, detecting his lack of enthusiasm for her information dump, lowered her mobile.

She looked him up and down, from the ends of his artfully tossed hair to his slippered feet. Her sole comment: “Haven’t you any clothes?”

“No, I haven’t, given that my luggage is currently enjoying a sojourn on the coast of Provence, along with yours.”

“Ugh.” Granger tilted her head back against the chaise longue in exhausted annoyance. “I’ll make arrangements to have it sent back. And the car! We’re going to get about twelve parking fines, not to mention a nice kerfuffle to have the thing returned. Why can’t anything be simple? Right – I need a shower next, if you’re done. I stink of crypt and now I’m self-conscious about it because you smell g– you smell like soap.”

With that, Granger rose, and proceeded to monopolise the shower for a full hour.

Draco’s room service shimmered into existence on the low table.

“Granger,” he called at the bathroom door, “there’s food – do you want any, or shall I eat it all?”

“Have it all,” came Granger’s voice from amidst the sound of spraying. “I just want tea.”

“Ask the mirror,” said Draco.

“The mirror?”

“Yes, for the tea.”

Draco heard the mirror interject that the tea would be up momentarily. Granger thanked it.

Interesting feeling, to be talking to Granger while she was naked.

Draco made it all the way to dessert (chocolate bonbons) before Granger came out of the bathroom. She, too, was now wearing a dressing gown – ridiculously oversized on her. Draco noted that Granger had not strategically left a V open at the front – rather, she had crossed both sides into each other so high that the robe covered her to her chin. Nor had she sexily mussed her hair, which was a wet pile on top of her head, held in place by her wand.

She shuffled over in too-big slippers.

“What?” she said as she noted Draco’s observation. Then she looked down at herself. “Rather like a gnome in a housecoat, isn’t it? I’d like to know whose boat-like feet these slippers were designed for?”

A steaming pot of tea popped into existence on the low table as Granger approached. She pulled some pillows off of the bed and made a cosy nest for herself on the floor next to it.

“What are you doing with your clothes?” she asked, with a gesture at the torn, stained pile she had left in the bathroom next to his. “I unstitched my Extendable pocket. I can’t decide if it’s worth sending them to laundry? Do we donate to orphans?”

“Burn them,” said Draco.

“But what about the orphans?”

“The orphans can burn them to warm their hovels. Stop talking about the reeking clothes. You’re putting me right off my chocolate bonbons.”

Granger sighed at him, like she wanted to tell him that he was dreadful, but it wasn’t worth the effort, because he already knew that. Then she noticed a note on the table. “What’s this?”

“A welcome note from the hotel,” said Draco.

Granger picked up the note, which was addressed to–

“Miss Hormone and Mr. Crotch,” read Granger.

She set it down. Slowly, her hands rose to cover her face. Then, for a long minute, her shoulders shook, and she made small sounds, muffled by her hands.

“Er – are you laughing, or crying?” asked Draco at length, because if it was the latter, he supposed that he ought to do something?

“Both,” hiccoughed Granger. She sniffed, then rose to fetch a tissue.

When she returned, her eyes were bright, and a bit red around the edges, and her nose was pink. She resumed her seat at the low table and poured herself tea. “I can’t believe you did that to me again.”

“They wanted names downstairs,” shrugged Draco. “Though I rather suspect the witch knew who we were.”

“Do you think so? We came in looking like a pair of Muggle ruffians, one of which was bilious, and the other limping like Mad-Eye.”

“I wasn’t limping like Mad-Eye.”

“O, yes, you were. Still are, though the heat from the shower helped you. Do you want me to heal it again?”

Draco pondered this, then swallowed his pride and slid on to the floor next to her. He flipped open the dressing gown to expose his knee.

“I didn’t realise you observed me so closely,” said Draco. (Because she certainly didn’t observe the things he wished her to observe, the irritating creature.)

Granger’s wand tickled at his leg hair as she passed it over his knee. “Don’t flatter yourself; it comes with my job. Rather like how you assess everyone as though they’re a secret assassin.”

Draco scoffed.

“It’s true,” said Granger. “You eye everyone up like you’re deciding how best to break their necks. To say nothing of your devious uses of Legilimency.” She muttered a Healing spell, then added, “It’s not a complaint, mind you. It does feel safer to have someone of your calibre about. Especially today – today would’ve been an absolute catastrophe, had I attempted it on my own.”

Draco supposed that he could inform her that she’d performed quite competently in the field herself, and that he had been properly impressed by a few of her stunts, but Granger completed the Healing and the moment passed.

She gave his knee a pat, as though he were a naughty boy who had fallen out of a tree, and not an Auror who had been attacked by a rampaging Manticore. “There. Now, no more dramatic rolls on concrete for a week. Parnell won’t be as nice as I am.”

Then she pulled at the edge of Draco’s robe and tucked it forcefully under his thigh.

“…I promise no dangly bits are going to escape without permission,” said Draco, observing this activity.

“I’m not chancing it, especially with a man named Crotch.”

Draco released an unexpected snort of amusement, so strong that it hurt his nose.

Granger looked prim. “Today has been a comedy of errors.”

“Right. Let us not tempt the Fates,” said Draco.

Which was a big fat lie, because Draco had had a vague, not quite formed idea of Tempting the Fates by looking wildly seductive for absolutely no reason and seeing where that went (it had gone precisely nowhere). There had been an interesting sort of potential in hot showers and a luxurious hotel suite, and being all but stark bollock naked with a witch.

But that was all it was – potential; existing in possibility, but not in actuality. With any other witch, yes. With this witch? No. This was Granger, and Granger was, well – Granger.

Now she kicked off her oversized slippers and moved to the window. She undid her hair from its wet pile and untangled it with her fingers. The curtains opened magically as she approached, desiring to show off the exclusive view of the Kensington Palace gardens. As she combed out her hair, Granger admired the vista, and regaled Draco with bits of Muggle and magical history on the place.

The sun was setting upon the British Isles, as it had set hours ago in the graveyard of ships in the desert.

“Two sunsets in one day,” said Granger with a sigh. “Rather magical, isn’t it?”

And she stood in the red light, rather magical herself, as though touched by fire. And gloaming fell upon the great city of London, and the sky turned to purple, and then, finally, came night. Draco had a glimpse of an enchantress with a cascade of hair tumbling down her back – and then she twisted it up, and she was Granger again.

Draco joined her at the window. “Rather fewer stars than with the ships.”

“Rather,” said Granger, peering upwards. “Should anyone seek our counsel on where to build the next great wizarding observatory, we will have an answer.”

“Does that happen to you frequently? Being asked where to build observatories?”

“O, daily. Hourly, even. Doesn’t it happen to you?”

“Of course. I field incessant enquiries as I care for the orphans.”

“Good of you.”

“Noblesse oblige.”

Granger glanced up at him with a look that told him he was an absolute smart-arse. Unless he was mistaken, there was a kind of latent fondness in it, though it was very, very deep down.

She pulled her robe more tightly around herself. “D’you think that mirror would send up some clothing for us? I don’t fancy going to the foyer to Floo in this finery.”

“You’re ready to face the Floo again so soon?” asked Draco.

He had been rather enjoying this interlude of peace and luxe decadence and – well, nice company. It was the détente after an Adventure. If it was strictly up to him, he would’ve planned untold hours of idleness in fluffy beds, and several more delectable meals, and visiting the spa, and perhaps a massage. He would’ve most certainly carried on until past Monday, with an explanation to Tonks that he and Granger were Recovering from an Ordeal.

Granger, however, did not seem to have even considered this delicious potential for lazing about. Granger was not that sort of woman. Granger was the type to drag you on a violent adventure, reduce your brain to boiled mash through hours of curse-breaking, impose exhausting transcendental moments upon you under the stars, have you fly her across a desert, and then, over tea, expect you to form some some kind of intelligent opinion on Soviet irrigation projects. Beastly.

“Am I ready? No. But I must get on. I have so much to do, now that I have the fragment. And Crooks will be waiting, you know.”

Draco strode to the mirror to cover his mild disappointment. “Very well. Let’s make arrangements for the clothes.”

The request for robes was made, for a tall wizard and a witch of the approximate height of a pixie. (Granger stuck her head into the bathroom and corrected this non-error.)

It took about a quarter of an hour for the clothing to be sent up – Draco supposed that the unusual request must’ve sent the hotel’s house-elves all of a dither. Eventually, their dinner things faded off of the table, and two tidy packages surfaced.

The staid establishment had sent up equally sedate attire. The clothes were in the traditional style, with a great many buttons for Draco, and a great deal of lacing up for Granger.

“Well,” said Granger, eyeing her dark blue robes, “It’ll do to get me to the Floo, anyway.”

“Look – underthings,” said Draco, holding up a spectacularly unsexy pair of bloomers. “You can look like my great aunt Auriga.”

“Ugh – no.”

Draco added the bloomers to the orphan burning pile.

Granger went into the bathroom to change, while Draco made relatively quick work of his new attire, save for the buttons, which were too finicky for him to fasten using his wand. He did them halfway to his throat, and then decided that he didn’t care enough to do them up further. They were only making themselves decent for a walk across the foyer to the Floo, after all.

Granger popped out of the bathroom with a similar problem, though hers consisted of ribbons and laces. “I see that these robes come with an assumption that the wearer will have a lady-in-waiting. Would you help?”

Draco, having no idea how to tie proper knots for a lady’s robe, opted to grasp a handful of the ribbons and shove them into the back of the dress. And he did not spend a moment thinking about how Granger was not wearing underthings, thank you.

“That doesn’t feel quite right,” said Granger as the ribbons were stuffed in.

“No. It’s utterly shambolic.”

“The naughty bits are covered, that’s what matters.”

They stopped in front of the mirror for a look before they descended to the foyer.

Draco said that Granger looked terribly like a Pure-blood wife, off to drop off the sprogs at King’s Cross, in 1961.

Granger said that Draco looked like he’d just exited Scotland Yard in 1825.

The mirror chimed in to register its opinion that they were “An exceedingly handsome couple.”

Granger shuddered; Draco ran away.

The Seneca’s foyer was irritatingly busy. Draco, doing mental arithmetic involving two sunsets, realised that it was only Saturday night in London. The crowds made more sense, then; the Seneca’s dining rooms were the place to be for a certain slice of London’s wizarding set.

The Floo hearth was just across the foyer, crackling cheerfully at them as they exited the lift.

Granger’s stride lengthened. “We can finally put this surreal day behind us–”

Then she stopped, and grasped Draco’s arm in her pinchy grasp, and whipped him towards her.

“What–”

“Shush,” said Granger, flattening herself against the wall and manoeuvering Draco to stand in front of her. “Stand there.”

“What are we–”

“Be big. Why are you always large and in the way, except when I need you to be?” asked Granger in a peevish whisper. “Shield me.”

“From who?” asked Draco, dearly wishing to turn around and assess the Secret Assassin, and perhaps murder him in cold blood.

“Cormac.”

“McLaggen?”

“How many other bloody Cormacs do you know?” asked Granger. She raised her hands to Draco’s robes and pulled up his collar, as though the flaps would afford her more privacy.

“What’s he done?”

“Oh, he’s only been infatuated with me for years. Tenacious kind of man. Sticky. Viscous, really. Stay there, his group is about to go into the dining rooms. No – wait – they’re still talking. I’m going to cast a Notice-Me-Not. Oh no – Derrick’s just spotted you, I think. It’s your stupid hair. Like a beacon across the bloody Pennines. No. They’re coming this way. I was never here. Goodbye.”

With that, Granger slipped under Draco’s arm and attempted to dart back towards the lift, but it opened and a veritable flood of ladies and gentlemen ready for dinner poured out, and battered her to the side like a piece of flotsam.

Granger Disillusioned herself and asked why the lift was a bloody bollocksing clown car.

Draco, having gathered that his role was now to distract and deflect, turned around and greeted the approaching Derrick with a handshake (“Peregrine, my little lamb chop, how are you?”) and McLaggen with a very long double handshake: “Hello; I don’t believe we’ve met, Draco Malfoy – yes, I know I need no introduction – are you here for dinner with this scoundrel? I believe I remember you from Hogwarts. Do you still play Quidditch? You must join us at the pitch. Peregrine comes on occasion, still a decent beater, though the swing’s less powerful than it used to be – a touch of arthritis in his shoulder, I fancy, poor blighter. Do join us. Wednesday nights at the Manor. We’ve only had one death in five years. It’s all in good fun, really…”

McLaggen had grown into a tall chap, as tall as Draco, and quite handsome, so Draco decided immediately that he didn’t like him.

The man looked frightfully confused at Draco’s effusive greeting, which probably ran contrary to Draco’s general reputation as an arsehole. By the time McLaggen had regained possession of his hand, however, Granger had disappeared.

“Right,” said Draco, “I must be off.”

“Aren’t you dining, Malfoy?” asked Peregrine. A grin played across his mouth. “Or did you have other business you were getting on with?”

“Other business?” repeated Draco with an innocent blink.

“I could’ve sworn I’d seen Hermione with you,” said McLaggen, sidestepping around Draco to look towards the lifts. “I’d know that witch anywhere.”

“Hermione? Hermione Granger? With me?” said Draco, his eyebrows at his hairline.

McLaggen, still gazing longingly beyond Draco’s shoulder, did a kind of double-take towards him. “Oh – er – well, I suppose I might’ve been seeing things.”

Peregrine scoffed. “They’d sooner kill each other than talk, I’d wager.”

McLaggen’s gaze slid to Draco’s half-unbuttoned robes, and then to his crooked collar, which looked rather like a lady had gripped it in the last five minutes. “I suppose,” he said, but there was doubt in his voice.

Draco decided that a spot of Legilimency was in order, to quantify that doubt. And besides, Granger had felt unsafe and fled from this man, and given that his Principal had felt threatened, Draco was well within his rights to investigate.

This sound reasoning completed, Draco touched at McLaggen’s mind to see if this wanker had the slightest training in Occlumency.

He did not.

Draco made a few remarks on the recent win of the Kestrels over the Cannons. When both of his interlocutors were occupied with the subject, he had a look at McLaggen’s brains, such as they were.

He kept his examination at surface-level, flicking through the man’s most recent thoughts. He saw himself as McLaggen had seen him across the foyer, pressed against the figure of a woman in navy robes, with dark hair piled onto her head. Then he saw the woman’s back as she slipped towards the lift, undone ribbons streaming behind her. McLaggen was certain that Draco had been snogging someone, and almost certain that it had been Granger. Only the formal robes had thrown him off – that and the fact that she’d been with Draco Malfoy, of all people. The cognitive dissonance of the latter point rang throughout the memory.

Then Draco found associated memories: Granger speaking at the Ministry a year or two ago and then fleeing from McLaggen’s amorous attentions; Granger giving McLaggen flustered excuses to avoid a dinner date as he grasped at her hand; Granger at a pub with her friends, cornered by McLaggen near the loo and fending off his drunken kiss, something like fear in her eyes. Every memory was tinged by McLaggen’s mounting frustration, longing, and a chilling ongoing obsession with Granger.

Draco fought a very real urge to break McLaggen’s handsome jaw.

Any further delving into the wizard’s memories would bear the risk of discovery. Draco retreated from his mind and seamlessly rejoined the conversation with a snide remark on the performance of the Kestrels’ Chasers. Meanwhile, he added McLaggen to his blacklist.

They said their goodbyes. Draco grinned as he shook McLaggen’s hand. “Enjoy your dinner. See you at the pitch, I very much hope.”

Derrick and McLaggen left.

Draco stalked off in search of Granger.

“Here,” hissed a familiar whisper as Draco passed the lifts.

Granger’s voice led to a sort of conference room, just off the corridor. It was dark.

“Is he gone?” asked Granger.

“Soon,” said Draco. “Their reservation is at half-past. Where are you?”

“Here.” Granger undid her Disillusionment. “Why do you look so murderous?”

“What? This is my usual face.”

“No: your eyes are flashing.”

“We had an argument about Quidditch.”

Granger’s dark gaze studied Draco in the penumbra. She had a hand on her hip. “Quidditch.”

“Yes.”

So focused was Granger’s study of his eyes that Draco reflexively Occluded, even if Granger wasn’t a Legilimens.

Granger saw the change and her focus grew even more acute. “You’re lying.”

“Let’s go to the Floo.”

Granger refused to be distracted. “What happened?”

“How long are you going to let McLaggen terrorise you before you curse off his balls?”

“I knew it,” said Granger in a shrill mix of triumph and annoyance. “You used Legilimency on him. You can’t do that.”

“I can and I did.”

“Those are private matters. They have nothing to do with you.”

“He’s a danger to you.”

“What exactly did you see?”

“Enough to decide that he’s a threat.”

“A threat?” repeated Granger. “He’s just a handsy idiot. I can, and always have, handled him, in the way I deem most appropriate. If I thought hexing off his balls was the correct approach, I assure you that I would’ve done so.”

“Why haven’t you?”

“Because there are larger things at play.”

“What larger things?” asked Draco. “And don’t say his penis.”

“Disgusting. No. He’s on the MNHS Foundation Trust and on St. Mungo’s Board of Directors. Even reporting him would have repercussions I need to balance carefully – much less a direct attack on his genitalia.”

“He’s one Firewhisky away from cornering you in a toilet and Stunning you,” said Draco.

Granger made a gesture of flat dismissal. “He would never cross that line. He’s not that stupid. He toes it – that’s all. Stop looking like that, like you’re about to go duel him in the foyer.”

Draco scoffed. “He isn’t worthy of a duel; I’d happily curse him in the back.”

“No cursing. No nothing. None of this has anything to do with you. You shouldn’t have seen any of it.”

“Nothing to do with me?!” repeated Draco with fresh pique. “I’ve been mandated to keep you safe. That is literally why I am here, right now, dressed like a Victorian barrister, after a day of frolicking about labyrinths!”

“To keep me safe in the scope of my activities as a researcher – not my personal life!”

“This may shock you, but if you’re injured or incapacitated in your personal life, there would be a definite impact on your ability to research. Or do you disagree?”

Granger raised her eyes to the dark ceiling. “You’re acting like McLaggen is going to tear me limb from limb.”

“Were you in his head?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll decide what he’s likely to do,” said Draco, tapping at his own chest with unnecessary force.

Granger studied him. Then, warily, she asked, “Did you see him want to tear me limb from limb?”

“No,” conceded Draco. “But you’ve maddened him for years.”

“I know.”

The quarrel was blowing itself out. Granger’s hands were now hooked onto the back of a chair, rather than balled at her hips, and Draco had stopped looking murderously in the direction of the foyer.

“Are there any other randy suitors that I need to be aware of?” asked Draco after a beat.

Granger put a fingertip on her lip and thought. At length, she said, “Not to McLaggen’s extent.”

“That doesn’t inspire confidence.”

Granger tossed her head. “What can I say; I’m magnetic. I can’t even walk across a room without wizards falling into my lap.”

Draco recognised an echo of some of his own claims during their dance at the Delacroix party – at this very hotel, in fact. It was the exaggerated accent that got to him. “I do not sound that posh, Granger.”

“Oh yes, you do. You sound like you’re about to go to the opera after a day of shooting innocent wildlife. Partridges, probably.”

“I rather thought you were going to say orphans.”

“You are terrible, but not that terrible. Now, promise me you won’t go and do something stupid about McLaggen.”

“I promise I shan’t do anything stupid about McLaggen,” said Draco, truthfully.

Granger’s eyes narrowed at him in the shadowy room, and she wisely rephrased her demand. “Promise you won’t do anything about McLaggen, full stop.”

“No,” said Draco.

“Please.”

“No.”

“Malfoy.”

“Fine. I promise.”

“I wish I believed you.”

“I wish you did, too.”

Granger massaged her temples. “All right. I will take you at your word. I have no other choice.”

Draco did not bother to point out the severity of this mistake.

Now Granger stepped to the conference room door and poked her head out. “I think the coast is clear.”

Draco joined her at the door to ascertain the same. “Right. Notice-Me-Nots, this time, and a brisk pace.”

Thus equipped, they traversed the busy foyer, and made it to the hearth without further interruption.

“The Mitre,” said Granger, tossing in Floo powder.

The flames turned green and awaited Granger’s approach. Granger looked over her shoulder towards Draco, a new hesitancy in her expression.

“Poor darling. Be brave,” said Draco in mock encouragement.

Granger straightened. “I was going to say thank you, for today, but never mind.”

“Only doing my job,” said Draco, with as much devil-may-care insouciance as he could inject into it, as though today hadn’t been a Wickedly Dangerous Ordeal.

“Right. But perhaps a bit above and beyond.”

“Nonsense.”

Granger sighed. “All right. Goodbye, then.”

“Granger.”

“What?”

“Tell your cat I said pspsps.”

Her smile was brightness. She turned and disappeared into the fire.

And, briefly, it felt like there was less gravity in the room.

~

To Draco’s devious pleasure, McLaggen took him up on the invitation to pop by the pitch a few weeks later.

An unfortunate sequence of events occurred, which had positively, absolutely nothing to do with Draco – wet conditions, terribly aggressive Bludgers, temperamental brooms – that resulted in McLaggen taking a tumble off his broom from 30 metres up.

“I say,” said Davies, watching McLaggen being carted off the pitch by mediwitches. “That Bludger had it in for the bloke.”

“I didn’t even hit it that hard,” said Zabini.

“Poor old egg,” said Draco. “First time back on the broom in a while, as I understand it.”

“Perhaps Bludgers can smell fear,” suggested Zabini.

“Hope it doesn’t put him off the sport,” said Davies. “We need a decent Keeper. Bickford’s moving to Spain.”

The general mood was a little subdued after the accident. The players decided to call it quits for the night, said their goodbyes, and Disapparated off to shower.

All except for Draco, who found, to the contrary, that the accident had had a stimulating effect on his morale. He left the pitch feeling quite invigorated.

~

Granger had a grievance to air. This development was heralded by her silvery otter, which found Draco the next evening. The timing was hideous; Draco was on a sensitive stakeout in Fowlmere, about to apprehend the notorious Thomas Talfryn.

“You! You promised you wouldn’t do anything!” shrieked Granger’s otter into Draco’s face. “You are the worst!”

The shrill sound of Granger’s voice echoed through the alley where Draco had been hidden.

Talfryn, who had been smoking in a doorway, just out of Stunning range, started – and Disapparated.

“Fucking fuck!” hissed Draco.

The otter, having conveyed its message, disappeared.

With a snarl, Draco pulled out Granger’s schedule. She was home. Which was perfect, because he was going to murder her.

He Apparated to her cottage in an exceedingly foul mood. He swept her wards aside and stormed up the path to her front door, which he proceeded to hammer.

Granger flung open the door with a vehemence that suggested that she, too, was on the warpath.

“You’re a bloody idiot,” said Draco, by way of greeting.

“Me?” said Granger. She was wild about the eyes. “Me?! You’re the idiot! You weren’t to touch McLaggen!”

“You just ruined my best chance to catch bloody Talfryn with your stupid otter!”

“You sent McLaggen to A&E!”

“I’ve been pursuing Talfryn for three fucking months!” snarled Draco.

“Guess who was on shift at A&E last night?!” screeched Granger.

“Talfryn has charges against him longer than my arm! Beast-baiting! Forgery! Blood sports! Racketeering! Cruelty to Magical Creatures! Extortion!–”

“I had to take care of that troglodyte for four fucking hours! You broke all of his limbs!”

“–Fraud! Assault! Smuggling! And you utterly bodged it! Now he’s gone again!”

“McLaggen lived his every bloody hot nurse fantasy last night, thanks to you!” said Granger, jabbing her finger in Draco’s chest.

Draco snatched her hand and pulled it down. “If you could keep your fucking emotions under control, I’d have my man in shackles! But no! You had to send your rabid otter!”

“My emotions?!” blazed Granger. “You’re the one who worked himself up into a lather over McLaggen!”

“You’re the one who spectacularly bollocksed my stakeout with your shrieking!”

“If you had kept your word, none of this would have happened!”

“I didn’t even do anything – the man fell off his broom like the hollow-headed cretin he is!”

“I don’t believe you for an instant!”

“Believe whatever you want!”

“I will – you’re an opportunistic ghoul!”

“You’re a quarrelsome bloody shrew!”

“I can’t stand you!”

“I can’t stand you!”

Then they stood, tempers ablaze, lips parted, breaths coming quickly, and waited for the other to spit out a retort, so they might continue tearing off each other’s heads. Somehow, in the process of their screaming match and finger jabbing, they had come to stand close together. Granger was on the doorstop, so that, for once, her height almost matched Draco’s. He felt her breath flutter against his chin.

Her anger made her glow; her gaze was afire with the heat of her conviction; her cheeks were flushed. She wanted to throttle him as much as he wanted to throttle her. And there was a moment of madness, where the fulcrum between rage and passion wavered and tilted, and he could’ve throttled her, or he could’ve crushed his mouth against hers, hard, to do something with the intensity of the feeling; to shut her up; to prove a point.

The mad possibility was contagious – her eyes flitted to his mouth. Then she blinked and, like a thing awakening from a trance, looked distantly shocked.

Realising that he was still gripping at her hand, Draco released it, and took a large step back. Granger, too, took a large step away, and looked like she’d rather toddle back to the crypt and throw herself onto the Crucio carpet than be there. Her blush carried up from her cheeks to across the bridge of her nose.

Draco, feeling utterly thrown off-kilter by the Moment, cleared his throat, cast about for a thing to say (nothing was forthcoming), and then said he’d best be off, as it was getting dark.

Granger looked anywhere but at him and said, “Right.”

Mutually satisfied with this mature, robust conclusion to their quarrel, they stepped apart even further, and Granger made as though to shut the door.

There was a long, sustained meow from somewhere in the garden. In the shadows, an orangey blotch advanced towards them.

The cat paused at Draco’s feet, and then, as though it was bestowing a great gift upon him, it wound itself around his boots and coated his trousers in orange.

Draco was almost as wrong-footed by this as by the Moment with Granger. He hardly knew what to do with himself. However, when he bent down to stroke the cat, it hissed at him, and fled back into the dark garden.

“It’s on his terms, and his terms only,” said Granger.

“Pernickety creature.”

“He is.”

Granger studied a bit of peeling paint on the doorpost.

Draco stared at the wisteria.

Granger bit her lip. “Did I really ruin your stakeout?”

“Yes. Did McLaggen really end up with you last night?”

“Yes.”

They muttered something that may have been, to the listener with impossibly acute ears, an apology, in a language principally consisting of mutters and throat-clearing. Their seething fury gave way now to a certain degree of abashedness, which Draco was more adept at hiding than Granger.

“Did he really have all of his limbs broken?” asked Draco.

“All. And a concussion, to boot.”

“Ah. Poor boy.”

“Blood sports, though?” asked Granger, with a bit of Do-Gooder anxiety creeping into her voice.

“Nundu-baiting,” nodded Draco. “Talfryn’s made a bloody fortune on it, too.”

“Nundu?! How is he even keeping one captive?”

“We aren’t sure – a tranquiliser cocktail, no doubt. Stunners.”

“Shit,” said Granger, looking freshly guilty.

“Indeed.”

The conversation petered out. The wisteria’s long fronds fluttered in the breeze, so Draco looked at them again, out of pure intellectual curiosity. Granger took a powerful interest in a crack in the threshold.

Draco was about to say that he had to be off – again – but Granger’s stance shifted. She was no longer positioned to pounce at his throat – she was half turned into the house, hesitating over something.

Normally, Draco would’ve prompted her, rudely, but today, he rather felt that he had used up his rudeness allowance.

Granger cleared her throat and spoke in a smallish voice. “I had something I wanted to show you.”

“What is it?”

Granger disappeared into the cottage and returned with a newspaper clipping. She passed it to Draco. It was from the seventh page of the Prophet and titled, Plundering in Provence!

The article described the theft of a relic from a monastery that Draco had certainly never heard of in his life. The burglars were described as uniquely powerful individuals with a penchant for arson, who had defeated nigh-impenetrable security measures, unbroken since 1008.

Our readers will be as flabbergasted as the investigators when they learn that the prized relic – the skull of a saint – was returned to the monastery anonymously a few days after the break-in. Investigators suspect that the burglars may have been thrill-seekers looking for a challenge. A few of the Sisters sustained non-life threatening injuries following the intrusion. When asked whether the investigation would continue, French authorities said, “Quelle question idiote, la relique est de retour, non?”, which your correspondent takes to mean ‘No.’

“I got my alliterative headline,” said Draco.

“You did.” Granger twisted her hands together. “I got what I absolutely didn’t want, which was publicity.”

“You will be the prime suspect, certainly,” said Draco. “Everyone knows that beloved Healer Hermione Granger is secretly a thrill-seeker and an arsonist.”

Granger gave him a reproving look. “Be serious.”

“I am. You’re a perilous sort of witch.”

Granger plucked the article out of Draco’s hand, pulled out her wand, and burnt the clipping.

“See? More arson,” said Draco. “And we can add destroying evidence to your list of crimes.”

“You’ll have to arrest me, if I continue down this troubled path.”

“I’m already thinking of it. Did the skull end up being useful? Please tell me it was worth the faff.”

“It was,” said Granger. “Immensely. I’ve made significant strides.”

“Good.”

Granger leaned against the doorpost, a small amount of her awkward tension gone. “My next frolic will be devastatingly boring, in comparison.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“It’s true. I’m only going to Hogwarts.”

“Whatever for?”

“A medieval text. One of Snape’s.”

“Ah,” said Draco. Snape had bequeathed the entirety of his library to Hogwarts, and had thus, in one fell swoop, made the school’s rare book collection almost as extensive as that of most universities.

“That won’t be till later in the summer, at Lughnasadh. Not because any magical potencies are at play, mind you. It’s just my next weekend off before–”

A shrill sound interrupted her. Draco’s first thought was a ward alarm. He whipped around, brandishing his wand, with every intention to maim.

Granger gasped, “I left the cooker on!”

Draco had smelled something burning, come to think of it, but he’d thought it was the bit of newspaper.

Granger plunged into the house. Draco followed to witness whatever entertainment was to come.

She pulled something out of the cooker – something quite black. Draco opened a window and conjured a stiff breeze to air the place out.

“Well,” said Granger, looking sad. “That was dinner.”

“Mm mm,” said Draco, observing the coal.

Draco had naively thought that her font of fury had been drained. He was wrong. Granger always had an additional supply of wrath.

“This is your fault,” said Granger, turning towards him with a hand on her hip. “You distracted me.”

“What was it?” asked Draco, to ascertain whether he should feel bad.

Granger pointed to the bin. A box was sticking out of it, which indicated that it had been Miss Mabel’s Frozen Fish Pie.

“I haven’t the slightest regret,” said Draco.

Granger scraped the blackened heap into the bin along with the box, which was, in Draco’s opinion, where it had belonged in the first place.

Now Granger was poking about her cupboards, the contents of which were two tins of tuna, dried beans, and a packet of biscuits. “Take-away it is. I usually pop round to the shops at the weekend. Stop looking so judgy.”

Draco, feeling very judgy indeed about the dried beans, was struck by an impetuous, mad, wild idea.

“Granger.”

“What.”

“Come with me to dinner.”

Granger, who had disappeared halfway to Narnia to retrieve a stale box of crackers, pulled out of her cupboard. “What?”

Draco repeated himself slowly, with interpretive gestures, so that she would understand. “You. Me. Dinner.”

He might as well have suggested setting fire to a children’s hospital, for all the shock his suggestion generated.

“You want to eat dinner with me? Tonight? On purpose?”

“No,” said Draco with a thick layer of sarcasm slathered across the top. “By accident. We’ll trip up to the table with our mouths open and mash in some hors d’oeuvres.”

Granger was still looking at him askance.

Draco raised his eyes to the ceiling. She was making such a Thing of this. “I promise that if I were going to poison you, it would’ve been upon my arrival, not now. There’s a rather large amount of food waiting for me at the Manor. And it would delight the elves. And,” he hastened to add, “My mother is in Florence.”

She was still regarding him in a suspicious kind of confusion, her arms crossed in the typical Granger defence stance. “Why?”

“It’s my fault you burnt your cardboard pie.”

Granger’s raised eyebrow suggested that a lot of things were his fault, for which he’d never attempted to make amends previously, so he would have to pardon her misgivings.

“Shall we go?” asked Draco, ignoring these rather just qualms.

Granger stood unmoving, studying him sceptically, as though she was trying to work out his Ulterior Motive. It was a stark and aggravating contrast to the typical witch’s reaction to a dinner invitation from Draco Malfoy, which was usually breathless yeses and a great many giggles.

Not that he was inviting her to that kind of dinner.

He was simply observing the distinction.

The smell of burnt fish pie wafted from the bin and settled around them in a gentle, tragic aura.

It spurred Granger to action. She crammed the bin’s lid on tightly, turned, and made for the stairs.

Women didn’t run from Draco, as a general rule – quite the contrary. It was an unfamiliar and unpleasant sensation.

“Oi,” said Draco, vexed.

“I’m going to change,” called Granger. “I’m not going to the Manor in my house things. Besides, I stink like burnt.”

Draco, as he watched her and her bum sprint up the stairs in her short Muggle shorts, vaguely wanted to say that he didn’t object to the house things, and that it was only her and him at dinner, so it didn’t matter, and plus, she often smelled a bit like candle smoke, and it didn’t bother him in the least.

However, Granger was upstairs, so Draco kept these mawkish sentiments to himself.

He waited for her to change, which took approximately two business days. Then she came came a’tumbling down the stairs, wearing a red summer dress. “There, now I’ll be presentable.”

“Presentable for whom?”

“I don’t know,” said Granger, pulling her hair into a low side bun that was, somehow, both elegant and messy. “Being with you attracts chaos; I half expect Shacklebolt to decide to pop in for a chit-chat.”

Draco felt that the chaos attractor was her, but, nevertheless. “I rather hope he does. He can tell Tonks I’m building a rapport with my Principal and not being a frightful bully.”

“You aren’t a bully. You’re just pushy,” said Granger, sliding on strappy sandals.

“I’m pushy?”

“Bit bossy, really.”

“Oh, this is rich.”

They Apparated to the Mitre, and from there Flooed to the Swan, and from there they Apparated to the Manor. It was the same trajectory that they had taken on that fateful night when Granger had popped into existence on the Manor’s Quidditch pitch, only in reverse – and in less frantic circumstances.

This thought also seemed to have crossed Granger’s mind, as they materialised at the Manor.

Just as Draco was stealing a glance at her, Granger met his eyes. Then she held up her hand.

It was trembling only slightly.

“Progress,” said Granger.

Draco said, “Well done,” with quiet sincerity.

The Manor’s large front doors swung open at their approach. One of the younger house-elves scurried across the entrance hall with a high-pitched word of welcome – and then he saw Granger.

He squeaked in surprise, Disapparated, and then his high voice echoed from the kitchens: “Master is home! And he brought a lady! Make whipped cream!”

Then the elf Apparated before them again, as though he hadn’t gone anywhere in the first place. “Welcome, Sir and Miss.”

“Thank you, Tupey. Could you tell the kitchens that I will be joined by my colleague, Healer Granger, for dinner?”

Draco might as well have broken the house-elf’s heart with this clarification. “Of course, Sir,” he said, his large eyes filled with sudden devastation.

“And we want to dine on the south terrace,” added Draco.

Tupey bowed and Disapparated. Distantly, his shrill voice echoed with a request to cancel the whipped cream.

Granger looked bemused. “…Whipped cream?”

“Never mind that,” said Draco. “Let’s have an aperitif to start. I think we’ve just launched a panic in the kitchens.”

Granger was not quite so fixated on her feet as she’d been during her last visit. She glanced about, taking in the white walls, the enchanted clusters of candles floating every few paces, the fires ablaze in the many hearths. The new Manor was a sight less dreary than the old.

Draco steered her to one of the salons, which was well-supplied with all manner of snacks. They had twenty seconds to select a seat and pick at olives before Tupey materialised again, desiring to know what they’d like to drink.

“A cognac for me,” said Draco.

“And for Colleague Healer Granger?” asked Tupey.

“Red wine, please.”

“Cabernet Sauvignon? Merlot? Pinot Noir? Malbec?” asked Tupey.

Granger appeared paralysed by the onslaught of choices. “Er – I’ll try the Malbec. Thank you.”

Tupey bowed and Disapparated.

Next came Henriette, who was slightly better at concealing her excitement (only her quivering ears gave her away).

“Mademoiselle Granger,” she said with a curtsey, before proffering a tray. “Roulades de courgettes, noix épicées au piri-piri, blinis de saumon et de chèvre au pesto.”

The tray of amuse-gueules was set to hovering next to Granger. Henriette Disapparated.

Granger opened her mouth to say something, but there was another crack, and Tupey Apparated with the drinks. Draco was given his with the usual amount of politeness, but Granger’s was placed in her hand with the utmost care. Tupey Disapparated.

Draco opened his mouth to speak, but a third elf Apparated from the kitchens to ask whether Colleague Healer Granger had any allergies or preferences the kitchens should be aware of? She did not. The kitchen elf Disapparated.

Granger attempted a comment, but Henriette cracked into existence with serviettes and tiny forks, and Disapparated again.

Draco and Granger eyed each other warily as silence descended upon the salon, half expecting another loud crack to interrupt their next attempt at conversation.

“They are a bit – a bit intense, aren’t they?” said Granger.

“They are positively itching for guests,” said Draco. “When my mother is away, there aren’t any functions to host, and there’s only me to feed.”

“This entire tray is enough for dinner,” said Granger, selecting a salmon blini.

“Er – no. Save your appetite.”

They meandered towards the south terrace. It was an exquisite summer night, warm, but blessed with a sweet, playful little breeze. The breeze toyed with the escaped tendrils of Granger’s hair and tugged at the hem of her dress. Not that Draco was looking at her.

The grounds were illuminated at night by enchanted candles and lanterns at the foot of every tree, and strung along all of the footpaths. In some ways, the effect was even more magnificent than during the day – the fountains and water features shimmered and the flowers were luminous, as though glowing from within.

Draco left Granger to admire a prospect of the gardens while he strode ahead to see if the table was ready. He was satisfied by what the house-elves had put together on such short notice: a silver table and two chairs, a surfeit of summer flowers lending their perfume to the night air, and a real extravagance of lanterns and fairy lights.

It was, however, terribly romantic. Henriette was laying it on rather thick, given that Draco had specified a colleague. He had had countless dinners and drinks with colleagues and collaborators al fresco over the summer, and Henriette had never once seen fit to decorate with roses. Red roses.

“Henriette?” he called.

“Oui?” replied Henriette, cracking into existence at his side.

“You are a scallywag.”

“Je ne connais pas ce mot,” said Henriette, shrugging her lack of comprehension.

“The roses, Henriette.”

“What about them, Monsieur?”

“They are too much.”

“Too much what, Monsieur?”

“Too much everything, Henriette.”

“Il faut se laisser ensorceler, Monsieur.”

Which was just what Draco was asking for, really – unsolicited mysticism about allowing himself to be bewitched.

“Take them away, Henriette.”

“They are at the peak of their bloom, Monsieur. It seems a pity to waste them.”

“Nevertheless, I’d like–”

“Oh!” came Granger’s voice. “The roses!”

Henriette gave Draco a long look which suggested that, as always, she knew best, and if he’d stop second guessing her, he would also stop making a fool of himself, the silly boy.

Granger was clutching her hands together, standing before the table. “How beautiful! I’ve never seen this variety – is it double-flowered? – and the colouration, it’s so deep!”

“It’s the Apolline,” said Henriette. “The rose garden is quite resplendent with them, Mademoiselle. You should go for a walk after dinner. I am sure Monsieur would be pleased to escort you, in Madame Malfoy’s absence.”

The Monsieur in question gave Henriette a quelling look in the face of this fresh impertinence. Granger, however, found a vast delight in the idea, and said that she would adore it, and asked where the Apolline had come from, and how long they had had her, etc.?

“Food first, then feminine ecstasies about the rose garden,” said Draco.

Granger and Henriette both regarded him coolly and made Draco feel the weight of their Low Opinion of him.

Henriette indicated that she would fetch their first course.

Granger took her chair with a sniff. “I wouldn’t want my feminine ecstasies to get in the way of your masculine appetites, of course.”

Draco hid a smile in his cognac. “And what do you know about my masculine appetites?”

“Only that they are unrelenting.”

“Accurate.”

“And impair your judgement.”

“Sometimes.”

“We can only hope they will be satisfied by Henriette’s entrée, then perhaps we can have a civil conversation about roses, uninterrupted.”

“Partially satisfied, probably.”

Granger regarded him with narrowed eyes, as though she was detecting the double-entendre, but wasn’t quite sure he meant it. Draco decided to let her stew in the incertitude.

“Tourteau frais, décortiqué par nos soins,” announced Henriette, as she and Tupey arrived with crab and herbed butter.

They ate. Granger was dainty about it, as she tended to be, and easily distracted by long looks out past the terrace and onto the candle-lit grounds. Now she had her chin propped onto the back of her hand, and was gazing at the evanescent beauty of a row of poplars, whose young leaves shivered in the breeze like silvery medallions.

Draco half wanted to interrupt her and bring her back to the important things (himself), but it was also rather nice to sit in companionable silence and sip their drinks. Dinners at the Manor were normally agenda-driven affairs, with either the guest or Draco having something to gain or something to lose. This one was unique for its lack of any of those pressures; Draco had no manoeuvering to do and knew he wasn’t being manipulated against. They were merely eating together as he made small reparations for a burnt fish pie. Granger had no designs on his fortune or his person.

Sometimes, being with her was easy.

“Risotto au basilic,” said Henriette, sweeping away their crab and depositing a plump dollop of risotto in front of them instead. Basil wafted deliciously off of it.

“How do you know so much about roses, anyway?” asked Draco.

“My mum used to grow them,” said Granger, with a kind of laboured insouciance.

“Used to? She’s quit the hobby?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen my parents in a few years.”

“Oh.”

Given that she was trying to look unaffected, Draco did not question her further on the subject, which he thought showed great delicacy.

However, Granger continued. “I Obliviated both of them during the war. Sent them to Australia to keep them safe. By the time I’d found them again, it was too late to reverse the spell without risking damage to their minds. They’re living quite happily in Adelaide and have no idea that they ever had a daughter.”

Ah, yes, just what Draco had been hoping for. Some light-hearted reminiscing about wartime tragedies.

He didn’t bother with words of sympathy because he didn’t really do those, and she wouldn’t believe he was being sincere, anyway.

“This explains how careful you are with Obliviate,” said Draco.

“Oh, yes. It was a hard lesson to learn. Minds – memories – aren’t to be tampered with lightly. And I systematically dismantled eighteen years’ worth. That had repercussions.”

“It kept your parents alive,” said Draco.

“It did. At a cost.” Granger finished her wine. “Anyway – it’s too beautiful an evening to be maudlin. Let’s talk of other things.”

Draco finished his cognac so that her empty glass didn’t feel lonely. He was sensitive that way.

He eyed Granger. “You rather look as though you have a subject in mind.”

“Broken promises,” said Granger. Accusation lingered in the statement.

Draco raised an eyebrow, feeling rather targeted. “I’ve broken a promise?”

“Yes.”

“Have I? Illuminate me.”

Just as Granger was about to speak, Tupey cracked into existence to suggest a Sauvignon Blanc for the next course, given that it was fish. Draco and Granger agreed. Tupey served the wine and Disapparated.

“The archaeologists’ report on the Celtic ruins,” said Granger. “The ones you found under the dungeons. You never sent it to me.”

Draco sat back in theatrical shock. “You’re right. I never did. Caught en flagrant délit.”

“Je sais,” said Granger, looking grave. “A terrible breach of trust.”

“Will you ever forgive me?”

“No. I quite fancy holding a fearsome grudge about it. Perhaps launching a wholescale feud.”

“You say that as though the houses of Granger and Malfoy weren’t already feuding,” said Draco.

“True,” said Granger.

As Granger mulled over this new complexity, Draco waved Henriette towards them and sent her to fetch the archaeologists’ report. Henriette returned with a thick roll of parchment in her hands and a quizzical look on her face.

She then offered to fetch other reading materials more suited to a summer evening, such as some books of French poésie?

“No, thank you, Henriette – that will be all,” said Draco. “Mademoiselle has peculiar literary tastes and prefers to read about dead monks.”

Henriette Disapparated with a shake of her head.

Granger accepted the scroll with a smile playing across her lips. “When you put it that way, I most certainly sound peculiar.”

Draco shrugged. “Peculiar is, at the very least, not boring.”

“I accept your poorly delivered, backhanded excuse for a compliment,” said Granger, unfurling the scroll.

“I wouldn’t want you to become conceited, you know.”

“No. You are unerringly vigilant on that front.”

Granger sank into the report, leaving her risotto to grow cold on her plate. She occasionally remembered Draco’s presence, which was signaled by an “Oh!” and then a sharing of some fascinating snippet or other.

Henriette Apparated with the next course and gave Granger a reproving look when she took stock of the situation.

“Mademoiselle! J’ose vous rappeler que vous êtes à table.”

Granger jumped and blurted out an apology, and tucked the scroll away. She looked abashed as Henriette took away the risotto (now a congealed lump) and replaced it with the fish.

“Turbot poêlé, artichauts poivrade et citron confit.” Henriette deposited Granger’s fish and artichokes with particular firmness, with intimations that if she did not consume it all, there would be Words to be had.

The effect of Henriette’s menacing looming was somewhat lessened by the fact that her nose barely came above the table. However, Granger, wide-eyed, said the turbot looked utterly delicious, and crammed a few forkfuls into her mouth under Henriette’s watchful eye.

Satisfied, Henriette Disapparated.

Granger choked down her fish with the help of some wine.

Draco was holding back laughter. “You look properly terrorised.”

“She is frightening.” Granger cast a furtive glance over her shoulder and then looked back at him. “And I’m sorry – that was terribly rude of me. I got engrossed and I – I didn’t realise.”

“I should like to have a look about for a Boggart,” mused Draco between his own bites. “Perhaps in one of the spare rooms.”

Granger blinked. “A Boggart? Whatever for?”

“I have a feeling yours will now take the shape of an eighty year old French house-elf and I’d like to confirm the theory.”

Granger bit at her lip to keep from smiling. “You think you’re terribly funny.”

“I am,” said Draco.

“And what form would yours take, should we go Boggart-hunting?”

Draco sat back and steepled his fingers together. “Now, that’s a question. I haven’t encountered one since the war. I’d like to think it would no longer be Voldemort springing up at me like an Ennervated cadaver.”

“Well, what’s frightened you recently?”

“Would you like me to be honest with you?”

“I’d prefer it, but I don’t expect it,” sniffed Granger.

“There was a moment today, on your doorstep, when you looked like you were about to Transfigure me into an insect and stamp on me.”

Granger looked as though she were making special note of this new idea. “What kind of insect?”

“I don’t know – I’d assume a loathsome little cockroach.”

“Nigh unkillable,” said Granger, shaking her head. “Poor choice. I’d go with something more squishy. Though, if I was to kill you, I’d like you to know that I wouldn’t use Transfiguration.”

“Oh, good. That wouldn’t be sporting. How would you do it, then?”

“Perhaps tie you up and let Crookshanks have a go. Then I’d only be an accessory to murder.”

“The first part of that sentence was promising, until you brought in the cat.”

Granger took no notice whatsoever of this mild flirtatious overture. She was reminiscing. “He nearly suffocated Ron, once. Laid down across his face while he was sleeping. I harbour a private fear that it was on purpose.”

“Well, that’s settled, then: my new Boggart is your cat.”

Granger didn’t give him the honour of an all-out laugh, but she hid a smile behind a sip of wine.

Henriette returned to inspect Granger’s progress. Granger said that it was all delicious, and that the artichokes in particular were the most perfectly prepared that she had ever had the pleasure of eating.

Henriette said, “Parfait. They have a great many health benefits, you know, artichokes.”

“Do they?”

“Oui, oui, so many nutrients and vitamins. They are also an aphrodisiac.”

Henriette Disapparated after conveying this vital information.

Granger contemplated her empty plate with a kind of consternation. Draco dearly wanted to laugh.

“I’ll know what to blame, should you get handsy,” said Draco.

Granger turned her gaze to his equally empty plate and said, “Likewise.”

Tupey and Henriette Vanished the empty plates and served dessert.

“Millefeuille à la vanille de Bourbon,” said Henriette, presenting the final course with a flourish.

Tupey proposed a sweet Sauternes wine to accompany it, which Draco and Granger accepted.

Granger pressed her fork into the tender millefeuille. “Henriette, Tupey, I need to thank you. This meal was a great deal better than what I was going to have tonight.”

Henriette curtseyed and Tupey bowed.

“I’m certain Miss Mabel makes a cracking fish pie,” said Draco.

“Pardon? Who is Miss Mabel?” asked Henriette. “Is it your house-elf, Mademoiselle?”

“No,” said Granger. “She is, er – she makes fish pies that you can buy at the shops. Well, I’m not actually sure she’s a real entity; it’s all marketing, probably…”

“Frozen fish pies,” said Draco to Henriette. “Frozen pies that Mademoiselle keeps frozen, and then pops in the cooker when she has half a moment to think about feeding herself.”

Henriette gasped at this revelation. Tupey’s hands flew to his mouth.

“And when that fails, Mademoiselle has two tins of tuna and some dried lentils. Those are the entire contents of her cupboards.” Draco grew grave. “I’ve seen many troubling things in my life, Henriette, but Mademoiselle’s cupboards are another thing entirely.”

Henriette’s hands were upon her heart; her eyes were wide. “Non!”

“Oh, oui. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

“Monsieur is slightly exaggerating,” said Granger, her grip on her fork suggesting that she might poke Draco with it, if he didn’t stop scandalising the elves.

“You’re right,” said Draco. “There was also a box of crackers, only a few years old. Bit dusty, but still good.”

Henriette and Tupey both looked at Granger and seemed ready to weep.

“I hadn’t gone to the shops yet this week,” said Granger, in an attempt at reassurance. “That’s why my cupboards were so empty. I was a bit busy.”

“O, yes,” said Draco. “Because they’re usually filled to bursting, aren’t they?”

He’d been waiting for Granger’s under-the-table kick, and it came. He snatched her ankle in his hand and tutted.

Granger tried to regain possession of her foot, but Draco informed her that being kicky meant that she had lost foot privileges.

Henriette was oblivious to the exchange, too busy being distraught about why nobody was helping Mademoiselle and her empty cupboards? Tupey seemed on the verge of hyperventilation.

“I have a Modest Proposal,” said Draco.

Granger’s leg twitched. Draco’s grasp held firm. And that was all it was – a grasp. Her ankle was bare and soft under his palm, and his fingers were curious about the delicate shape of her bones, and what it would feel like to trace them, but he did not partake. It remained a grasp. Because this was Granger. And he had no interest whatsoever in caressing her ankle.

And if he had any interest in doing so – which he didn’t – it would be the fault of the artichokes.

Granger didn’t quite seem to dare demand her foot back out loud in front of Henriette, because that would lead to uncomfortable questions about why she had attempted to kick Monsieur at the dinner table, which was a gaffe far greater than reading.

“What Proposal?” asked Granger in a kind of growl, as of a cat caught by the scruff of its neck.

“The house-elves are bored out of their skulls without my mother and her fêtes – why don’t you give them permission to pop in once or twice a week, and fill up your cupboards? At least until my mother is back?”

“Absolutely n–”

Draco gave Granger’s ankle a squeeze before she could devastate the elves.

Henriette and Tupey swiveled towards Granger as she spoke, hearts in their eyes at the thought of her empty pantry just waiting for attention. Henriette’s hands were pressed against her breast; Tupey’s were folded into a kind of supplication. Their swimmy eyes positively shimmered.

Granger’s voice died.

“Absolutely necessary, I think Mademoiselle was going to say,” said Draco to the elves.

Granger gave him a look suggestive of a second incoming kick, if only she wasn’t frightened of losing possession of her other foot, too. She gave the elves her best attempt at a smile. “Perhaps Monsieur and I could discuss the details in private?”

“So it’s a yes, Miss?” asked Tupey, breathless.

“Of course it’s a yes,” said Henriette, starry-eyed. “Mademoiselle would never be so rude as to turn down Monsieur’s offer. She is too bien élevée.”

Granger’s smile was quite fixed.

The elves bowed and curtseyed half a dozen times, then Disapparated to the kitchens to share the good news.

“You would try the patience of a saint,” said Granger through a clenched jaw. “Return my foot before I turn you into that cockroach.”

Draco relinquished possession of her foot, probably a bit slower than necessary, the tips of his fingers brushing at her ankle as he let go.

She noticed. There was a flush of pink across her cheekbones. Possibly the wine. Possibly other things.

“I’ve only spoken to one saint, and she quite liked me,” said Draco, running his hand through his hair.

Granger, blush notwithstanding, was exasperated. “She’d only spent five minutes in your precious company, not long enough to discover how endlessly aggravating you are. Like imposing house-elves on me, of all people. What was the thought process, if any, behind that decision?”

“I saw a problem that was in my capacity to fix,” said Draco. “It’s a life philosophy I learned from a rather clever witch.”

Granger stared at him. The double blow of her own words and the genuine compliment threw her entirely off-kilter. She sat back, struggling to remain cross. “You are – you are simply –”

“Indescribable, I know,” said Draco.

“Must you always have the last word?”

“Only on the rare occasions when you permit it.”

Granger was struggling with her lingering annoyance and amusement. Her eyes sparkled with it. It made for a rather lovely picture.

“When does your mother come back to England?”

“Not for another fortnight,” said Draco. “Then you’ll be free of the elves. But in the meantime, you’ll have given them back their joie de vivre.”

Granger was looking in the direction of the kitchens. “Very well. But only because I don’t want Henriette to think me mal élevée for rejecting your offer. I think she would take personal offence.”

“If Henriette had concerns about your upbringing, she would’ve snubbed you from the beginning. She is a rather opinionated elf. Now eat your millefeuille, or she’ll be scolding you again.”

Granger turned her attention to her plate. Draco sipped at the sweet wine.

“What was the whipped cream for?” asked Granger.

“That is a private matter and it would be best for you to forget it.”

“Hm,” said Granger, studying him over her glass.

They finished their desserts.

Henriette materialised and kindly reminded Monsieur that he was meant to take Mademoiselle through the rose garden. Then she stood, her small hands curled onto her bony hips, and stared intimidatingly at him until he got up and offered his arm to Granger.

Granger’s touch on his arm was light, at first, but after a few steps, her grip tightened. “Shit. Is the ground a bit wobbly, or am I completely battered?”

“We are both steeped to the tonsils in wine,” said Draco.

“Tupey’s attentions were – unrelenting.”

It was a miracle neither of them had said something tipsy and stupid yet – but the night was young, and the path to the gardens beckoned, and the possibilities for stupidities glimmered like the candles that lined the way.

They wandered through a double row of lilacs heavy with bloom. On their right stood the greenhouse, its warm glow dappled by the riot of mauve blossoms. The breeze made the blossoms quiver in a butterfly-tremble; the light shimmered across the path.

In the mingling shadows, Granger held up her hand so that it was silhouetted against the light of the greenhouse.

It was steady.

It was her left hand that she held up. Her arm was bare and against the skin of her inner arm lay that blur.

Granger turned, intending to continue down the path, but Draco interrupted by committing the first of the evening’s stupidities. Later, he would blame the wine.

He took her wrist – gently, but she nonetheless flinched – and pulled it toward him.

Granger was shocked. “What are you–?!”

“I didn’t realise you still had this,” said Draco.

He turned her wrist so that the blur of the glamour caught the vacillating light.

“Well – I do.” Her voice was uncertain. She stared at him with a wide-eyed wariness – a wild thing about to pull away and run. She smelled like the sweetness of the Sauternes.

Two heavy words that Draco had been carrying since Provence came out with difficulty. “I’m sorry.”

“It was your mad aunt, not you.”

“I did nothing to stop her.”

To this, Granger gave no answer.

“I suppose that if there was a way to heal it away, you would’ve found it,” said Draco.

“I would’ve. I tried a great many things, but…”

“Some things don’t heal.”

“No. They don’t.” Granger was quiet for a moment. Then she waved the glamour away to reveal the word. “Ugly thing.”

The old injury stood clear on her skin, as raw as the day it had been carved. It glistened still. Draco’s mouth was cottony and dry. For a moment she was 17, lying as though dead on the drawing room floor, mere metres from where they stood. Then she was Granger again, a burning intelligence, a world-changer, but still, for all that, marked. Draco’s hold on her wrist grew a little tighter – shame and sorrow.

“Does it still hurt?” asked Draco, because it looked too raw not to.

“Sometimes. I’m used to it, now. Or I just forget.”

Draco had never had any intention to show her his own inner arm shame – all the more shameful because it had been willingly acquired.

And yet, he found himself unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeve.

What was left on his arm was a distorted, half-faded Mark. It was a grotesque mix of black flesh and raised scar tissue, now, from failed attempts to remove it.

“Oh,” gasped Granger.

“Mine’s uglier. In every way, Granger. I wanted it.”

The gasp had been shock more than horror. She was observing the twisted flesh with a Healer’s eye, one that had seen worse things.

Granger was silent for a long time. At length, she said, “But you don’t want it any more.”

“No.”

“That’s what matters.”

“It doesn’t erase the past,” said Draco. The defiled arm he held between them was an eloquent attestation of that.

“No. But the choices you’ve made since define you more than those you made then.”

“Do they?”

“You were sixteen years old. You were – we were all – child soldiers flung into a war, trying to do what we were taught was right. Trying to protect our loved ones.”

“Must you be so terribly forgiving?”

“It’s been fifteen years,” said Granger. She lowered her own arm. She looked weary. “I can assure you that I’ve ruminated on the matter at length. I’ve forgiven those who deserve it.”

“It rather interferes with my wallowing in self-reproach.”

“Wallowing isn’t productive.”

Now it was Granger’s turn to take his wrist. She pulled it to a triangle of light amongst the shadows and leaned in to observe the Mark more closely. Draco wanted to pull away – but she had been brave enough to let him look at hers, so he mustn’t be a coward now.

Her finger brushed over scarred ridges and half-melted flesh that had never felt the touch of another’s hand.

She looked heartsick. “You tried to curse it off?”

“Yes,” said Draco. Amongst other things. “Years ago, now.”

His arm twitched under her scrutiny. He wanted to put the Mark away again: it was so ugly, so misshapen, so full of hideous memories and shame.

“I don’t think there’s much I could do with this one, either,” said Granger. “In terms of Healing, I mean.” The thought seemed to make her sad.

“Mine is a memento of some terrible decisions. It’s well deserved. Yours – yours is a wretched tragedy.”

“It is,” said Granger. Then she added, “Well, they’re both tragedies in different ways.”

More righteous forgiveness. It made Draco want to flee.

They stood in silence. And now she knew some of his griefs and he knew some of hers. There was an intimacy to it. To being seen. It was unfamiliar, tender to the touch, unnerving.

They stood in silence and yet it wasn’t silence, it was thick and dense and whirling. It weighed upon their eardrums and chests like a pressure.

“I should like a pithy conclusion, or words of wisdom,” said Draco, to cut through it.

“Yes, please,” said Granger. She seemed relieved.

“I meant from you.”

Granger clasped her hands before her and looked up to the stars, as though she might find the pithiness there. “The Ennervated cadaver of a man who gave us these scars is quite dead.”

“And we’re alive.”

“I think that’s good enough.”

Draco rolled his sleeve back down and did up his cufflinks. Granger glamoured her scar back to the discreet blur.

“It’s too beautiful an evening to be maudlin,” said Draco.

“I do not sound that swotty,” said Granger.

“You do. Shall we have a look at the roses? Have your feminine ecstasies at the ready.”

They wandered down the path that curved through the candlelight until they reached the rose garden. At their feet, Midnight Violets peeped, here and there, lured out by the crescent moon.

Their footsteps were slow and drunk and deliciously aimless. It was perfect; Draco knew too little of roses to give a real tour and Granger was content to meander from one to the next without plan nor purpose, touching at their loosely cupped petals. Pretty names fell from her lips as she recognised a few: Annabelle, the Wildfire, the Apolline, the Duchess, Ivory Kiss, Claire, Crimson Romance.

Fairy lights twinkled amongst the rose bushes. Petals drifted onto the path. A nightingale sang and fountains gurgled. Granger, with a kind of dreamy-eyed tipsiness, said it was like being in an enchanted glade.

Draco wanted to have a go at her for being sentimental, but he found himself also in a soft, mellow kind of mood. The kind of mood in which he might tell a witch that yes, the roses were sweet, but she was the sweetest thing in the garden, just to see her blush.

He did not, because he was made of stronger stuff.

Fragrances, delicate and elusive, teased at their noses. Granger tried to name the scents and held up the roses to Draco, so that he could try, and he stood next to her, closer than necessary, and they made idle guesses together – apple, vanilla, clove, myrrh, honey – amongst the damask.

His wine-drenched mind collected impressions. Delectable nearness. Being close enough to feel her giving off warmth. The rose she held to his face, so close that his lips brushed its petals. The moonlight on her skin. The escaped curls of hair at her nape. The corner of her mouth. The biting of her lip. Eyelashes against a cheek.

They moved to the next rose. This one, Granger was convinced smelled of apricots. Draco came to stand behind her and leaned over her shoulder. To him, it was tangerine. Granger smelled it again, and said no, apricots, most certainly. And Draco leaned in closer and said no – tangerine, don’t be silly. Granger theorised that they might’ve found an Amortentia rose; that would explain the discrepancy. Draco said he would be sure to record this discovery.

They moved on to the next one, a splendid white rose. Granger cupped its heavy head and drew it out. Draco came behind her again and they both smelled it at the same time, and her cheek brushed his chin.

He caught himself, just in time, as he was about to put a hand on her waist.

That way lay madness.

The curve of her skirts brushed against the front of his trousers. Her hair tickled at the side of his face.

Granger said it was coconut and dared him to disagree. Draco disagreed as a matter of course – it was kiwi.

Kiwi?! repeated Granger. Kiwi, said Draco. Granger said that she would have him sent to an otolaryngologist, if he didn’t stop this nonsense. Draco said the only nonsense here was the word otolaryngologist.

The sweet paralysis was coming over him again, of not wanting to move, of lightness in his veins, of limbs feeling weightless and eyelids feeling heavy. He wanted to put his chin where her neck met her shoulder and just stand there. He wanted to say things in her ear and feel her shiver against him. He wanted to linger here, being stupid about kiwi, for an age or two. He wanted to float.

It was the wine, certainly. And the artichokes.

They moved to the next roses, small wild things that grew in bunches and smelled like vetiver. Granger asked if she might pick one. Draco did so for her; it seemed ungentlemanly not to. And he gave it to her, his arm wrapped around her from behind, and their fingertips touched, and that was as close as they could get – touching fingertips over a rose.

She looked over her shoulder at him to say thank you, and their eyes met, and hers were dark and curious and his were light and keen, and it was universes colliding. It was all of those contrapositions of Light and Dark and Muggle-born and Pure-blood and Order and Death Eater and terrible incompatibility after terrible incompatibility. The violent polarities that made them who they were.

They fell into each other a bit, in that moment of collision, a bit drunk, a bit soul-tangled.

She slid the rose into her hair and turned away.

They came to the end of the rose garden, where the hedges grew thickest and stupidities might be said most freely. Where terrible incompatibilities stopped meaning so much, because, here amongst green boughs and the rustling breeze, they were just a man and a woman, meandering through a garden, being idiots about roses.

They found a seat on a stone bench near a fountain adorned with chubby Cupids. Granger curled her legs under herself. The rose in her hair was askew, so Draco reached over to fix it, expecting to do so suavely but finding instead that he was transfixed by a feeling of exquisite nervousness, the likes of which he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager. Granger breathed out a thank you. Her cheeks were pink.

They talked of things trivial and not, of roses and cupboards and scars and war and artichokes and fish pie. They looked up at the smouldering stars, and the nightbirds warbled their unearthly cadences, and roses dropped their petals in beautiful melancholy. An hour drifted by, and then two, and then three – though it felt like they’d only just sat down beside each other on this damp bench amongst the roses to witter away the evening.

The memory of that night would remain with Draco for a long time afterwards, moon-kissed and sweet. The light in her eyes, the taste of wine, the glitter of starshine in the fountain, the slow seduction of the roses.

Il faut se laisser ensorceler.

I have something for you, came a Jot from Granger a week later. I think you lot would call it a lead. On the Nundu-baiter.

Well???, answered Draco.

Off to teach. Can you meet at 6? said Granger.

Where?

The café at Trinity, said Granger. I’ve got another meeting there just before. If I run late, don’t barge in shouting about brooms. It’s with a Muggle.

Draco was grateful for the instructions, as he typically arrived early and charged into cafés, shouting about brooms. He tossed the Jotter aside to check Granger’s schedule. The Muggle in question was Gunnar Larsen, the head of Skjern Pharmaceutics.

At 5.55 p.m. a Disillusioned Draco strode to the Muggle café at Trinity College, curious about Granger’s ostensible lead on Talfryn.

He saw her through the café window, still deep in talk with a man. Draco had formed a comfortable mental image of this Larsen fellow: a smallish and thin scientist type, probably balding and bespectacled.

Instead, sitting across the table from Granger, was a six-foot-something, eighteen stone hulk of a man. His hair was reddish-blonde, as was his rather impressive beard, and his eyes were a penetrating blue.

He was a Viking in a three-piece suit. There was probably more curly chest hair peeking over the top of his collar than Draco had grown since puberty.

Draco decided that he didn’t like him.

Still Disillusioned, he slid into the café after an exiting customer and leaned against a wall to eavesdrop. Granger and the Viking were chatting mostly in jargon (his, slightly accented). Granger was explaining, in that passionate way of hers, something about adaptive immune systems and microenvironments. Larsen responded something about checkpoint inhibitor therapy, to which Granger replied with vast enthusiasm.

The Viking’s eyes were riveted on Granger in a way that Draco didn’t like. There was something predatory about it – something hungry. And Granger was gesticulating away and too busy being excited about nanobiologics to notice. Suspicions began to percolate: was this meaty Muggle going to try to steal her ideas? Make money off her? Literally eat her?

There was only one way to find out.

Draco’s dive into the man’s mind was over as soon as it began. He found himself butting against extremely sophisticated mental barriers, the likes of which only a highly trained Occlumens would have in place.

So Granger was wrong. The man wasn’t a Muggle.

The Viking, feeling the attempted intrusion, turned to where Draco was Disillusioned. His piercing eyes roved across crowded tables, trying to pick out his attacker.

Granger asked him, “Is everything all right?”

Larsen turned back to Granger. “Yes – my apologies, Professor. I thought I’d heard something.”

They continued the conversation, though Larsen’s responses were reduced to distracted monosyllables.

Draco’s first reaction – to supplex the man through a table and ask him what he was playing at – was made difficult by the crowds. (To say nothing of the fact that Draco wasn’t actually certain that he could throw him.)

His second thought was to Stun Larsen and rip through his mind to discover what his designs were, but again, the crowds, and besides, the man was an Occlumens. He’d need to soften him up first, then render his brain into purée.

Granger checked the time and rushed the meeting to its end. Larsen shook her hand (her entire arm, really) and weaved through the tables. Draco saw him systematically observe every patron in the café as he walked to the door. Was this just to remember faces, or was he a Legilimens, too?

Draco followed Larsen into the street with vague thoughts of a Stunner to the back and a Side-Along to an Auror holding cell for a friendly chat. However, as soon as Larsen found a doorway out of view of the Muggle public, he Disapparated.

Draco did not like that at all.

He was a mixture of perplexed and irritable as he rejoined Granger at the café, Disillusion removed. For her part, Granger hadn’t any idea of what had just transpired, and she met his approach with a cheerful wave. She had bought him a coffee and one of those toffee panna cottas, but it was simply Not The Time.

“Let’s go to your lab,” said Draco in lieu of a greeting. “We need to talk in private.”

Granger’s cheerfulness faded. “Oh – but I–”

“In private,” repeated Draco.

Granger snatched up the coffee and panna cotta as Draco swept her out of the café.

When they arrived at Granger’s office, she sat at her desk and Draco began to storm from one end of the small room to the other.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” she asked.

Draco paused in his pacing, his Auror robes whipping dramatically about his boots as he did. “Larsen. He’s not a Muggle.”

Granger’s eyebrows rose to her hairline. “…What?”

Draco resumed his pacing. “He was Occluding as he was speaking to you in the café. Whatever he’s told you he is – he isn’t.”

Granger stared. “I’m going to set aside the question of why you were spying on my guest at a meeting that had nothing to do with you–”

“Good, that’s not the important bit.”

“–But I’ve looked into Larsen. I do background checks on everyone I consider for collaborations. He is everything he said he was.” Here Granger rose and rifled through a filing cabinet, pulling out a few sheets of paper. “PhD from LMU Munich, the European Commission has confirmed all of his patents, his firm went public last year and very much exists – he’s invited me to visit, in fact…”

“Invited you to visit? I can tell you now you’re not bloody going. Why is he pretending to be a Muggle?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t know I’m a witch? I met him at a Muggle conference; I don’t introduce myself as Doctor Granger the Witch at those events. He might do the same.”

Granger was looking at Draco like he might be making much ado about nothing. Draco disagreed.

“And the Occluding?” prompted Draco.

“I’ve no idea,” admitted Granger, pressing a finger to her lip as she thought.

“He knows you’re a witch,” said Draco. “He must do. The wizarding world is too small for him to never have heard of Hermione Granger, unless he’s got nano-ears on top of his nano-brains.”

“Nano-brains? He’s quite a brilliant scientist.”

“And also a brilliant Occlumens. Who was making damn sure that, if you happened to have a peek in his mind–”

“Which I would never do – I’m not even a Legilimens–”

“–If you did, you wouldn’t see anything. He’s hiding something.” Draco almost walked into the wall and pivoted to stride forth again.

“Stop bouncing about like a sodding ping-pong ball.”

“I’d like to interrogate him,” declared Draco.

“Interrogate him?”

“Friendly-like.”

“Please tell me what comprises a friendly interrogation by Draco Malfoy; I’d love a laugh.”

“We use you to lure him out to the pub. Get a few pints in him. More than a few, given the fellow’s sheer mass. A spot of Veritaserum, just because he knows how to Occlude. Take him out round the back, tie him up, pry open his eyes, and voilà. Answers. He’d wake up with a bit of a headache and be on his merry way.”

“And you? A nice fine and loss of your job for breaking about thirty laws?”

Draco waved those minor, vexatious concerns away.

“May I suggest that at my next meeting with him, I simply ask him?” said Granger.

Draco paused his striding to consider this. “And you think he’ll be honest with you?”

“I don’t know. But it’s a start – and a rather less drastic approach than yours.”

“When do you next meet him?”

“We’re to continue talks in a fortnight.”

“All right. But I’m going to be there.”

Granger opened her mouth to speak.

“No,” cut in Draco. “This is the same man you met the week someone tested out your wards. Who lied to you about being a Muggle. And who was Occluding so hard I bruised my brain trying to get in. Don’t argue with me.”

“…I was just going to ask if you could be Disillusioned, if you were going to be in the same room. So he isn’t immediately suspicious about me having an escort.”

“Oh. Yes.” Draco swept to the other end of the office. “But I’ll be close. I didn’t like how he looked at you.”

“How he looked at me?”

“Too hard. Too much.”

One of Granger’s eyebrows quirked at him. “His eyes aren’t half so penetrating as y– as other people’s, I can assure you.”

“He didn’t smell right,” said Draco, swishing his robes about him to pivot again.

“What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know. Instincts, Granger. I wish you’d be more in touch with yours.”

“I prefer hard facts, as a rule.” Granger sniffed. “Can we set aside the mystery of Larsen for a moment, to talk about your convict? And will you sit down, before your spinning about makes me ill?”

Draco sat. “He’s not a convict until he’s tried and sentenced. But yes. Lars the Arse can wait. Tell me what you’ve been up to – sans permission, of course. I would like to register my disapproval, incidentally.”

The look that Granger leveled at him was most unimpressed. “O, because you ask for my permission to jump into my life all the time.”

“That’s an entirely different affair.”

“I disagree vehemently. But let’s not get sidetracked, or we shall never get to the point.”

Draco gestured at her to proceed. She gave him a hard stare which informed him that she didn’t require his permission on that front.

“I had a think about what you said, about how your man was keeping the Nundu down. They’re meant to be all but impossible to keep in captivity.”

“Correct.”

Granger pulled some documents out of an envelope. “I assumed that you’d already have checked up on all tranquiliser suppliers or manufacturers in the UK, Magical or Muggle, to see if you could find anything interesting.”

“Naturally.”

“My thinking is that he’s finding a supply of incapacitating agents overseas – black market – otherwise the sheer quantities he’s ordering would be sure to raise eyebrows. And I assumed you’d also have looked into all of the remote drug distribution systems you could think of, to see if that would lead anywhere.”

“Obviously.” Draco rolled his hand in an impatient gesture. “Skip to the findings, please.”

Granger gave him a long look informing him that she would get to the findings when she got there, and should any impatient twats have objections, they could fuck off.

Draco’s hands occupied themselves with the panna cotta instead.

Granger resumed. “Given that your man is a wizard, I thought it’d be unlikely that he’d go for a dart projector – he wouldn’t know how to use a gun. Nor could he install a sophisticated vaporiser system for the immobilising compound he’s using, not if he’s hop-skipping across the country with this poor beast. Ingestibles would be too difficult to dose, especially if the Nundu refused to eat.”

“All excellent deductions.”

“The most portable, failsafe system would be something wizardish he could modify to use a ballistic syringe, filled with his tranquiliser of choice, wherever he’s sourcing that. And as it turns out, there are very few ballistic syringe manufacturers, globally. Did you know that?”

“No,” said Draco.

“Me neither. It was a convenient discovery – narrowed the search down rather a lot.” Granger pushed her document towards Draco. “This one does the most business with the UK – a German company. We haven’t a massive demand for the things, mostly a handful of Muggle zoos. But there is one private buyer who has been making repeated, large purchases over the past three months. The manufacturer will have a shipping address on file. How you decide to go about obtaining that information, I leave to you.”

Draco took the document, unsure of what impressed him more – Granger’s work, or the fact that she had somehow squeezed in the time to do this amongst her obscene amount of existing commitments.

“Thank you,” he said, examining the document.

“An attempt to make amends,” said Granger. “Plus, I feel awful for the Nundu.”

This made Draco sigh through his teeth. “If this leads anywhere, I shall need to make amends for McLaggen.”

“I’m not sure that’s possible,” said Granger, wrinkling her nose. “I saw things. I heard things.”

“I’d offer you an Obliviate, but…”

There was a knock on the door. One of Granger’s students brought in a package, hissing with a slightly leaky cooling agent, that needed to be signed for.

“Another pet project,” said Granger in response to Draco’s interrogative glance. “One of – well, far too many.”

“I’ll let you get on with it, then,” said Draco, rising.

As Draco made for the door, Granger called, “Malfoy?”

“What?”

“Be careful, won’t you?”

Draco waved over his shoulder and left.

~

Granger’s lead ended up being rather a solid one. How could it be anything else? It was Granger. The shipping address led Draco to a nondescript importer, who was passing the goods on to a known small-time miscreant, who was transferring them to a warehouse, which was being accessed at indecent hours by a handful of other known delinquents, who were dropping them off at a ruined fort in Norfolk. The fort was suspiciously well warded for an abandoned place. And nearby Muggles had recently submitted noise complaints – apparently, something occasionally roared at two in the morning.

Draco informed Tonks and they began to put together a mixed team of Aurors and Magizoologists, preparing for a full-scale raid in three days’ time.

And Draco was left pondering what he would do to make his own amends. Now he owed Granger. Bugger and blast.

Keep tomorrow eve free, he Jotted to her. I have something to drop off.

If it’s McLaggen’s head on a platter, you can keep it, said Granger.

I would never be so crass, responded Draco.

No?

It would be something a bit more elegant. Use him as compost in the gardens and then send you a bouquet.

A charming combination of gentlemanly and psychopathic, was the dry response. I’ll be home after 8.

Draco duly Apparated at Granger’s cottage after eight, bearing a precious thing that was not McLaggen’s severed head.

Granger looked unusually tired. Draco knew from her schedule that she had been putting in long hours at her laboratory that week, but seeing the shadows under her eyes made him ponder quite how late.

However, he was pleased to find her at the table with the remains of an actual meal – a stew of some kind, bread, and a bowl of yoghurt. He made no comment; she didn’t need an I-told-you-so to know that his idea had been a good one.

Granger eyed him and his rectangular parcel with wariness. “Well, I suppose it’s the wrong shape for McLaggen’s head.”

“Perhaps I put it in a box, just to trick you.”

“Rather a large box.”

“Maybe it’s an arm instead.”

“Eurgh.” Granger’s hands were clasped in front of her, but nervously – as though she knew, logically, that it wouldn’t be a body part, but also knew Draco enough not to be too certain about that.

Draco placed the parcel on the table with care. “First, I want you to know that this was an absolute pain in the arse to find.”

“Oh?”

“Secondly, I want you to know that I was originally going to use this as leverage to blackmail you.”

This remark caused Granger to cross her arms. “You were going to blackmail me?”

“Well – bribe, perhaps more accurately.”

Now Granger’s arms were crossed and her hip was cocked. Disapproval and amusement warred for primacy. “You were going to bribe me?”

“Yes.”

“In exchange for what?!”

“For you to tell me what your project is about,” said Draco, loosening the thick satin that wrapped the object.

“You are utterly shameless.”

“I didn’t, though, did I?”

“No. I suppose that showed a real strength of character,” said Granger.

Draco stepped aside and motioned Granger forward. She approached the table, mingled curiosity and worry in her eyes. The satin wrappings fell away to reveal an ornately carved box.

Granger glanced at him. “If this is a head, I will scream.”

“Open it.” Draco found himself holding back a grin.

Granger pried the lid off of the box.

Inside it, within folds of the finest silk, was nestled a book. Its title shone in worn gold lettering: Revelations.

Granger gasped and stepped back, her hands at her collarbone.

Then she said, in a breathy kind of shriek, “How?!”

“A friend of a friend.”

“But – but the last undamaged copy was destroyed when Glyndwr burnt down–”

“Was it?” Draco leaned against the table to better take in the giddiness. “Are you sure?”

Granger approached the box again and peeped over the top, as though the tome might disappear if it felt too crowded.

Then, without a word of warning, she launched herself at Draco, seized his face, and planted a kiss on each of his cheeks. Before he could so much as twitch out a response, she had released him again.

Now she was back at the box, her hands clasped at her mouth. “This can’t be! I’m dreaming.”

Meanwhile, Draco was recovering from the joyful assault upon his person, and thinking that Granger had felt rather nice all pressed up against him, and smelt good, and her lips were soft. She had leapt away too quickly for him to make any kind of further assessment. Which, frankly, felt like a pity.

But it was Granger he was being wistful about, and so he, too, must be dreaming.

Now she was walking about in a tight circle, muttering about a burning abbey.

“I can’t keep this,” she said at length. “It’s far too precious. When I’ve studied it – oh, I do hope the portions I’m missing are extant in this one – I’ll have to give it to one of the libraries. I can’t keep it to myself.”

“Do whatever you want with it. It’s yours,” said Draco with a nonchalant shrug. The nonchalant shrug was to show that he was cool and unaffected, rather than feeling stupidly pleased that she was so happy.

“Goodness,” said Granger, her hands upon her cheeks, which were rather pink. “I think if you’d tried to bribe me with this, it would’ve worked.”

“It would’ve? Bugger it all.” Draco put an arm between Granger and the box. “I take it back. You can’t have it.”

Granger gave him a look of utmost reproach, which, of course, made no impression whatsoever.

“You wouldn’t do that to me,” said Granger.

“Wouldn’t I?”

“No. We’ve just established that you have a real strength of character.”

“I lied. I’m a craven double-crossing coward.”

“I might’ve believed that if you hadn’t provided evidence to the contrary over the past several years.”

“What evidence? I deny everything.”

“You’re Tonks’ favourite, and it’s not because you flee from the baddies.”

“I’m her favourite? Tss. Did she tell you that?”

“Lupin.”

“Rubbish,” said Draco, though he was rather pleased.

Granger pressed a single finger to his hand and, from that mighty fulcrum, lowered his arm. “I suppose that this unspeakably precious gift must mean my lead on Talfryn got you somewhere?”

“It did. We know where he is.”

“Do give him my regards when you bring him in. What’ll happen to the Nundu?”

“A few Magizoologists are joining us on the raid. They’ll assess the beast and decide what to do with it.”

Granger nodded. Then her attention was back on the tome in the carved box. Draco saw the polite, restrained impatience in her stance, in the way she was twirling the tip of her plait.

“I’ll leave the two of you alone, shall I?” said Draco.

Granger gave him a Look, but she flashed him a smile.

“Jot me next time you’re meeting Larsen,” said Draco. “I’m not through with him.”

“Understood.”

“And if he shows up unanticipated – any kind of out of the blue, chance meeting – activate the distress beacon. Three turns on the ring.”

Granger tore her attention away from the book to regard him with surprise. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“Even if I run into him when I pop out to get milk?”

Draco held up a hand to stop her there. “First of all, you manage to pop out to get milk once a year–”

“Hey.”

“–Secondly, yes, especially that kind of off the cuff meeting. I don’t trust him. No wizard Occludes for an entire conversation unless he’s hiding something significant.”

“All right, all right,” said Granger. “Having you Apparate into Tesco in your full Auror kit would be terribly amusing to witness, anyway…”

She walked him to the door and leaned against the frame as Draco readied his wand for his Disapparation. A parting glance at her became a double-take, because Granger – her arms loosely crossed, her eyes warm, the memory of a smile on her lips – almost looked as though she might actually like him.

“Thank you again,” she said. “For the book.”

“Amends,” shrugged Draco.

“A fair and just reparation for the damages caused.”

“I’ll keep the head for next time.”

Granger laughed. “Make it the bouquet, rather.”

“Fine.”

“Bye, Malfoy.”

A general lightness of being always accompanied Disapparation, didn’t it?

Draco was feeling good. He and four other Aurors had set up a broad Anti-Apparition Ward half a kilometre away from the fort, with the old ruin at its centre. The team had been briefed by the Magizoologists accompanying them on the dangers of the Nundu – its lethal venom with no known antidote, its aggression, its wicked agility.

The Aurors were to deal with the naughty wizards and the Magizoologists with the beast.

At Draco’s signal, they began their stealthy assault on the fort. The Magizoologists were a well-trained bunch who kept well behind the Disillusioned Aurors, per their instructions.

Two half-asleep watchmen were Stunned, Silenced, and immobilised with cuffs. Then the Aurors moved into the fort proper, after Draco had rid the door of wards and Buckley had taken care of the rather complex Magical locking mechanism.

“German-made,” Buckley muttered by way of apology for taking so long.

Now they advanced down poorly lit corridors rife with ill-cast wards. Draco took care of the latter as Buckley raised his wand in a detection spell. He signalled two more guards ahead, which Goggin and young Humphreys crept onwards to take care of.

They came across a guard room, which was a mess of decrepit furniture and new sleeping bags, old food and heaps upon heaps of the ballistic syringes that had proven so critical to track Talfryn down.

Two Aurors stood sentinel as Draco and the others pulled in the Magizoologists to inspect the syringes and their contents. They concluded that it was etorphine hydrochloride – a Muggle opioid.

“Very potent,” said the most senior of the Magizoologists, a witch called Ridgewell. “Muggles use it to take down rhinoceroses. A squirt of this will stop a human heart in half a minute.”

“Blimey, they’ve got enough here for two dozen rhinos,” said her younger partner.

“Or one very large Nundu.”

They discovered a stash of small crossbows in a dark corner. After a brief conference, two the Magizoologists equipped themselves with them: “We’ve got our own sedatives,” said Ridgewell, “but we know these will work, if ours don’t.”

“Wait here,” said Draco as he opened the door to the next passage. “We’ll go ahead and clear the way. And what’s that bloody smell? Is it…?”

Ridgewell sniffed at the air, looking rather like an English Setter about to point. There was a foul, pungent smell seeping into the room. “That’ll be the Nundu,” said Ridgewell. “Male, judging by the potency. If you spot it, don’t make eye contact, move slowly, and come back to us. I’m not sure Disillusionment works on Magical felids.”

Draco, who was rather more interested in Talfryn than the Nundu, slipped into the corridor, flanked by Buckley and Humphreys, with Goggin bringing up the rear. Fernsby was left to protect the Magizoologists.

As they advanced, their detection spells suggested three more nearby human presences in the fort – as well as whoever else might be behind the metres of rock ahead of them. And underneath them–

“Something big,” said Humphreys, holding her wand to her ear as she knelt on the floor. “It’s growling, too – I wonder if it’s dinnertime.”

“Happy to let the Magis deal with that bugger,” said Buckley with a shudder.

There was a cry of frustration up ahead. The Aurors crept up close enough to hear someone swear. “I can’t fucking Disapparate,” came a rough voice. “You try.”

“Idiot,” came a drawl. There was a moment of silence, and then, “I can’t either.”

“Fuck!” came a third voice – Talfryn’s. “Anti-Apparition Ward. Sound the bloody alarm, you idiot! Accio broom!”

The Disillusioned Aurors slipped into a kind of inner courtyard. Goggin got a Stunner off on the drawly wizard just as he’d lifted his wand to raise the alarm. A broom whizzed by Draco in the dark. He hit it with an Incendio; it was a smouldering stick by the time it reached Talfryn’s waiting hand.

“They’re here!” said Talfryn, backing into a corner behind a half-collapsed pillar. “Finite incantatem! Finite incantatem! Hominem Revelio!”

He was casting the spells in the general direction of the passage the Aurors had emerged from, hoping to hit someone and break their Disillusionment. His remaining acolyte joined him behind the pillar and did the same, forcing the Aurors to take up defensive positions behind piles of rubble.

Talfryn swept his wand into the air to set off an intruder alarm. From a room behind them came footsteps, and then, suddenly, the courtyard was crawling with two dozen wizards.

“Shit,” hissed Humphreys.

Things had just become interesting.

“I’ll take the left with Goggin,” muttered Draco to Humphreys and Buckley. “You two stay here and distract – mind you keep moving so they don’t pin you.”

Now that they were heavily outnumbered, there would be no fighting nice. Which was excellent, because Draco preferred to fight dirty – Disillusioned and with liberal use of Legilimency. Goggin was an excellent partner; the Irishman was a brawler at heart and loved an opportunity to get messy.

Goggin’s Disillusioned shape bobbed behind him as Draco weaved to the ragged line of men that was forming around Talfryn. He went ahead, softening the ranks with Stunners while Goggin cleaned up after.

When he tired of garden variety Stuns and Petrificus Totalus, Draco added a little spice. Having identified the better fighters through observation or Legilimency, he cast a few of the more magically demanding Turncoat jinxes – and briefly, those opponents fought for the Aurors, until their colleagues cursed some sense into them.

Buckley and Humphreys pounded Talfryn’s line with explosive spells and kept their enemies’ attention on the front of the courtyard. Aguamenti was being sprayed where things (or people) had caught fire and added a heavy steam to the atmosphere. This was ideal for Draco and Goggin, who were even more difficult to spot within.

They continued their advance towards Talfryn. Goggin came behind Draco to Stun any who were still twitching after his passing. He secured them with the satisfying click of the cuffs.

Draco’s Legilimency showed him one man’s intent to collapse a pillar into the corner where Buckley and Humphreys had holed up. Fatigued by his repeated Stunners, Draco switched it up – a flick of his wand took the wizard out at the knees. Then he blinded him. Then he severed his Achilles tendons. All non-lethal measures, of course; Draco played by the rules. Mostly.

Gradually, their adversaries became aware of a growing stillness on their left flank as Draco and Goggin moved in, while Buckley and Humphreys hammered them with an unfriendly barrage of spells.

An unlucky Finite Incantatem hit Goggin and revealed him. Goggin Disillusioned himself again immediately while Draco levitated the big man to a spot fifteen metres away, just before a Bombarda exploded where he had stood.

“Cheers,” came Goggin’s throaty whisper.

They continued their advance. Stun, curse, Legilimens, dodge Finite, Stun, Turncoat Jinx, Impedimenta, dodge, blind, Legilimens, Stun.

Their numbers reducing alarmingly, Talfryn’s remaining men were now Disillusioning themselves as well, screeching Protego! and scattering across the courtyard. It was the Aurors’ turn to fire Finite Incantatem at will.

The Anti-Apparition Ward was a double-edged sword. Draco dearly wished that he could Apparate to Talfryn’s side and take him, but he was only two-thirds of the way there.

At Draco’s count, there were only four opponents left, plus Talfryn.

Buckley was hit with a Finite emanating from somewhere near Draco. Suddenly in the realm of the visible, he was forced to dodge behind piles of boulders before a friendly Disillusionment from the east side of the courtyard removed him from sight again: Humphreys.

Draco systematically ploughed the ground near him with Petrificus Totalus until he got the Disillusioned wizard who had hit Buckley. Three left.

“Yer man’s goin’ for that chain,” gasped Goggin.

Draco whirled to see Talfryn launching himself at a dangling chain connected to an ancient pulley. The pulley was connected to a large grille laying across a hole in the ground.

“Shit!” said Draco.

Both Aurors aimed desperate long-range Stunners at Talfryn. By some miracle, Goggin hit the man’s leg and Draco his shoulder, but Talfryn had already wrapped his arms around the chain and his Stunned body pulled it down.

There was a grating sound as the grille was slid out of place. Then a rumbling growl shook the very stones under their feet.

The Nundu leapt out of its underground prison and was now loose in the courtyard. A fetid odour accompanied it, enough to make the weaker-stomached men retch.

The Aurors called out their retreat; they were not equipped to deal with this beast. Draco heard Goggin’s breathless run at his side as they sprinted for the passage.

The Nundu turned to them.

As it transpired, Disillusionment did not work on Magical felids. Draco made a note to tell Ridgewell, should he survive long enough to speak to her again. The beast was tracking their movement, as well as that of a handful of other invisible-to-them figures in the courtyard.

As the Nundu’s eyes slid over him, Draco felt, for the first time in his life, what it felt like to be prey – the yellow gaze had a paralysing effect. The creature’s movements were so easy and sinuous they were hypnotic. Its scarred, Magic-repelling hide, bristling with venomous spines, rippled as it walked. Draco’s wand felt as useless as a twig in his hand.

He and Goggin stilled and looked at the ground, as they had been taught by Ridgewell. It was one of the singular most difficult things Draco had ever done. His every instinct was screaming at him to flee or to fire a Bombarda at the creature’s face.

He could hear Goggin swearing a constant stream of fuck under his breath.

There was a scuffle at the passage that led to the exit. Two of Talfryn’s men were fighting to get through before the other. The Nundu leapt, crossing the courtyard in two graceful bounds. The men’s Disillusionment dissipated as they died, one crushed by the creature’s weight, the other casually decapitated by the sweep of a paw. His head rolled to Draco’s feet like a gory Quaffle.

The passage was too small for the Nundu to enter. It turned its attention back to the courtyard, its nostrils flared wide, venom drip-dripping from its muzzle. It was sniffing for something.

Another of Talfryn’s Disillusioned men made a run for it. He was summarily killed, cut in two bloody halves by a bite.

That was, at Draco’s best count, the last of Talfryn’s crew. Now there were only Aurors left standing.

The Nundu turned its nose back to the wind. It found what it had been sniffing for: Talfryn’s Stunned body.

Talfryn was snatched up and tossed into the air like a child’s plaything. He hit the wall with a musical crunch. Then the creature eviscerated him with an easy swipe and began to eat.

Slowly, amongst the wet sounds of Talfryn’s innards being slurped up, Draco and Goggin moved towards the passage. Draco hoped that the Disillusioned Buckley and Humphreys were doing the same – no sudden movement, no eye contact, just an uninteresting drift towards safety.

The Nundu raised its head. It looked to the east of the courtyard.

Humphreys.

The creature ambled towards the eastern corner with a kind of lazy anticipation.

Draco couldn’t blame the young Auror for the explosion of spells she cast towards the beast; he would’ve done the same, had he been cornered. She sent something cutting at its face; it shrugged it off with a sneeze that scattered venom in a two metre radius.

Draco raised his wand; Goggin’s Disillusioned arm by his side did the same.

“Confrigo, as hard as you can go,” said Draco.

They slashed their wands downwards with identical timing, causing their spells to twin together and hurl like a fireball towards the beast’s flank. The spell exploded upon impact, leaving their ears ringing. Humphreys was hit by the percussive force of the blast; she hit a wall and lost her Disillusion. Draco could see her crawling away through the smoke.

And the Nundu? It had been knocked sideways by the explosion, but now it regained its feet and shook its mane, as though this had been a playful shove and not a deadly spell.

It turned the considerable weight of its attention to Draco and Goggin.

“Shite,” said Goggin.

They raised their wands. The beast leapt. Goggin hit it with a Bombarda in its open mouth, which bought them a moment of respite as it landed, mere metres from them, and hacked out a cough wet with venom. Draco’s Blinding Jinx was next, aimed at the eyes, almost at point-blank range.

It did nothing but seal one eye shut – and piss the thing off.

Draco and Goggin scrambled backwards as pneumatic whizzing filled the air.

The Magizoologists had come. They peeked out of the passage and peppered the beast with the ballistic syringes and their own tranquilisers. At this distance, half of the syringes were bouncing off the Nundu’s hide.

Buckley, limping badly, was dragging Humphreys towards the safety of the passage. Fernsby stood guard in front of the Magis and thickened the air with Protegos before darting out to assist Buckley.

Ridgewell Conjured a herd of small leaping things which danced around the beast and distracted it for a moment, until it vomited out its venom and they all dissolved. It bought enough time for Draco and Goggin to pull themselves behind a boulder.

The Nundu’s attention turned to Humphreys and Buckley.

A dozen syringes were embedded in its shoulder and neck – to, so far, minor effect. The Magizoologists levitated half a dead doe, stuffed with tranquilisers, towards the creature. It batted the doe aside, having learnt in the course of its captivity not to trust any meat except what it had killed itself.

The Magizoologists launched projectiles full of inhalant sedatives which exploded at the beast’s feet. This had been their last-ditch plan, as the inhalant would be just as dangerous to the Aurors as it would be to the beast. Draco and Goggin cast Bubble-Head Charms at each other and staggered further away.

The Nundu stepped through the purpling cloud with a hiss, and, finally, showed signs of slowing – one eye jinxed shut, blood running from its mouth, sedatives in its bloodstream and lungs. Its remaining eye was fixed on the stumbling Humphreys and Buckley, who were both now being dragged by Fernsby.

Draco saw the sweep of the tail and the lowering of the hindquarters that signaled an imminent pounce. He slashed his wand towards the chain and pulley and whipped the chain around the Nundu’s hind leg just as it leapt. Goggin joined him, his wand crackling with effort as they pulled the chain backwards through sheer force of magic. The Nundu was forced back, its claws digging deep gouges into the rocky ground.

The injured trio of Aurors collapsed into the relative safety of the passage, leaving Draco and Goggin to face the beast. The Magizoologists were scrambling to distract the creature, Conjuring a female Nundu (ignored), more meat (swatted aside), prey animals (ignored), a cage around it (smashed to bits), and, finally, launching enough immobilising agents to sedate twelve rhinoceroses.

Draco believed the tales, now, of a single Nundu wiping out entire villages in Eastern Africa.

The Nundu had half-collapsed – the sedatives were finally working. Its remaining eye was bleary, its mouth hung open, its legs grew boneless. It bared its fangs at Draco and Goggin and a hot stream of venom jetted out at them. They dodged and were separated by a hissing black-purple flow.

Draco was on the side of its remaining good eye. He aimed another Blinding Jinx just as the beast turned its heavy head to him and bared its fangs again.

He got the beast in the eye, the beast got him across the throat with searing venom.

The pain of it shocked his system. His Bubble-Head Charm vanished. He gasped out to breathe and took in a lungful of sedative-filled air.

As the Nundu finally collapsed, so, too, did Draco.

~

Draco awoke to a white ceiling streaking past him, as though he or the ceiling were moving at high velocity. There were raised voices and indistinct words and sounds of general chaos. Running feet, clinking equipment, the whirr of wheels.

Then there was a crisp voice of command. The voice was reassuring, somehow. It was the voice of Competence and Order, and it was Good.

His body was no longer his body; it was a thing chiefly composed of pain. He could not scream.

His ears caught words and communicated them to his numb brain. Envenomated. Respiratory depression. Paralysis of the diaphragm. Lethal dose.

And then, distantly, he could hear a scream. But it was not his – it was his mother’s.

“Get her out,” said the Voice of Competence. “I’ll speak to her when I’ve saved this one’s life.”

~

Draco awoke to another white ceiling. This time, it was not whizzing by impossibly fast. He took this development to be good news.

Other good news: he felt no pain. In fact, he felt excellent. He had never felt so wonderful in his life. Full of vitality. Full of joy.

“Full of painkillers,” came a kindly voice. “You’re stuffed to the gills with them, child. Don’t try to get up. I’ll fetch your Healer.”

The kindly voice belonged to a matronly sort of witch in light green St. Mungo’s robes. A nurse. Draco watched her leave, giggling at the odd fish-eye effect occurring in his vision, which made her bum hilariously large. Then he blinked and the walls began to squeeze inwards. If he closed his eyes, he saw kaleidoscopes. An orange cat and a Nundu, whirling into each other, fighting one another in concentric spirals, on and on and on.

He opened his eyes again. He was at St. Mungo’s. He was alive. Shouldn’t he be dead?

“You should,” came the cutting Voice of Order.

“Am I saying everything I’m thinking?” asked Draco of the ceiling, with a deep philosophical curiosity.

“Yes, and you will for another few hours, at least. You’re on a little cocktail that affects neurotransmission. It was the only way to manage your pain during the procedure. You’ll probably experience hallucinations – if you haven’t already, of course.”

The swot was strong with this one.

In a kind of slow motion, Draco turned his head to observe the Healer. Her deep green robes swam into sight. Her mouth was set in a straight line, but her dark eyes were warmed by concern. She was beautiful. The light behind her glowed into a blinding halo. He thought he heard the sound of hymns.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Positively top-hole,” said Draco. “Are you an angel?”

The Angel-Healer did her utmost not to laugh – which was an angelic sort of thing to do, and only further proved her secret identity.

“You can trust me,” said Draco. He attempted to tap his nose but poked himself in the eye instead. “I’ll keep your secret.”

The Angel-Healer did not respond; she was reading a chart.

“I had an operation?” asked Draco.

“We’ll talk about it later. When you’ve slept this off a bit.”

Something about her authoritativeness was terribly familiar.

“I know who you are,” gasped Draco.

“That’s good.”

“You’re Hermione Granger.”

“Correct.” She rose. Her robes danced about her in green swathes of colour. “Your mother is frothing to be let in. She Flooed back from Italy as soon as we sent word. But I want you to sleep first. I’d prefer you to have your mouth under control before you see her. All right?”

“Fine,” said Draco.

“Excellent. Have a nap. We’ll talk again when you wake up.”

Draco, with an effort, patted the bed.

“Join me,” said Draco.

“No.”

“Why not?” asked Draco in a long sort of whinge.

“Because you don’t know what you’re saying,” said Granger. There was restrained amusement in her voice. “I hope you don’t remember this, for your sake.”

Draco, with a distant thrill of horror, heard himself say, “I want to kiss you.”

“No you don’t.”

“Come and sit in my lap.”

“Go to sleep, Malfoy.”

Granger was a distant figure now, melding in and out of the shadows of the corridor. She shut the door behind her.

Draco closed his eyes. The Nundu and the cat continued their whirling battle, on and on until he fell asleep.

~

Draco woke up again. Something about the sun streaming through the window told him that it was the next day.

Unfortunately, he remembered every word of his conversation with Granger.

Where was the Nundu? Could it come and finish the job of killing him?

The kind nurse was back. She fussed a bit over Draco’s sheets and then applied a paste that smelled strongly of pine to his neck.

“Dittany?”

“Vahlia. It should help with the scarring.”

The nurse cast a few diagnostic spells on him and seemed satisfied by the results. “You are doing remarkably well, Mr. Malfoy, all things considered. Your mother is here. Do you feel like seeing her? You needn’t if you don’t want to.”

Draco nodded.

A few minutes later, his mother rushed in and embraced him in her thin arms. She looked frightfully shaken, pale, and tired. She perched next to the bed and fussed over him at length, enquiring about how he felt, how his neck felt, whether he could breathe, whether he could swallow, how he had slept, and so on and so forth, until Draco’s mouth grew dry and he had to call for water.

Draco learned that his team had made it out of the fort with a mix of injuries, though none as dire as his. This was his third day at St. Mungo’s.

The Nundu had survived and been transported back to the wilds of Tanzania. And the baddies? The beast had taken its blood-soaked revenge on Talfryn and company. Many were dead. Those that had survived the courtyard massacre were awaiting trial.

Narcissa squeezed Draco’s hand. There were tears in her eyes. “But enough about them. I am so – so happy to see you well. I very nearly lost you. I don’t know what I would’ve done.”

Narcissa stopped and took a deep breath to force down a sob. She didn’t like to cry.

“I’m going to be fine, mother,” said Draco.

Narcissa straightened and dabbed at her eyes. “Don’t be cavalier about it. You almost weren’t fine. You almost died. The Granger girl – Healer Granger – she was instrumental. Nobody knew what to do. That venom doesn’t have a known antivenom. Most of the Healers didn’t even know what a Nundu was. Neither did I, mind you – what possessed you to go in pursuit of such a creature, I shall never understand. You were as good as dead. But she knew things. Muggle things, I think. She whisked you away for four hours – I composed an entire eulogy in my head – and when she came back, she said you were going to live.”

Draco squeezed his mother’s hand. He attempted humour. “Will you write the eulogy out for me? I should quite like to read it.”

Narcissa sniffed. She rose and strode to the window with her back to Draco. Her thin shoulders shook. “Can’t you take a desk job?” she asked breathily. “Quit this terrible Auror business?”

There was a knock on the door.

Narcissa wiped away her tears. With her back ramrod straight and her usual severe expression back into place, she went to answer.

It was Granger. She wasn’t wearing her Healer robes, today – it was her professorial Muggle attire. Another of those high-waisted skirts and silky blouses.

“Oh – er, I’m sorry for interrupting,” said Granger. “I can come back later.”

Draco couldn’t really see what happened next – his mother lunged into the corridor with her arms spread wide, and all he heard was an oof from Granger as she was, presumably, hugged quite hard.

There was the sound of weeping. Some awkward words of comfort. Then his mother’s heels click-clacked down the corridor. Her voice, thicker than usual, asked where the loo was.

“Er – your left,” came Granger’s voice. “No, your other left.”

A door slammed. Then, silence.

Granger poked her head into Draco’s room. “And how are we?”

“A sight better than her,” said Draco.

“She’s had a rather distressing few days. She was convinced that you were going to die.”

“So I gathered.”

“One of my attendants had to Stun her.”

“You Stunned my mother?”

“Yes. She went quite mad when she saw you on the stretcher. She was a danger to herself and hospital staff.”

“I am terribly sorry that you had to witness that.”

Granger’s expression grew rather wistful. “It means she loves you very much. You’re lucky to have that.”

“…Right.”

Granger was being a bit standoffish, hovering at the door.

“Aren’t you coming in?” asked Draco.

“Oh, I’m not on duty today. I was just popping round to see how you were getting on. I’ve got to be at Trinity in a quarter hour.”

“Teaching?”

“Examining. A PhD viva.”

“Are you going to be nice?”

“In direct proportion to the strength of the candidate’s thesis.” Granger stepped back into the corridor and glanced down it. “Should I send someone to check on your mother?”

“No. Let her compose herself. She detests crying and she loathes public displays of affection, and she’s just done both with you.”

“Perhaps I should leave, before she comes back,” mused Granger. “She won’t have to relive the ignominy of the hug so soon.”

Draco agreed; however, there was one thing that he wanted to address, in private, before Granger left – his anaesthesia-fuelled idiocy.

“Might I borrow your wand?” he asked.

“Whatever for?”

“I – unfortunately – remember the things I said yesterday.”

“Oh.”

“I’d rather like to Obliviate myself.”

“No self-Obliviations. You can use Firewhisky, just like everyone else.”

A bit cheeky, sometimes, was Granger.

“Right,” said Draco. “Then I’ll be off to the pub as soon as bloody possible. When can I leave?”

Granger finally abandoned her post at the door to enter the room. She examined the documentation variously pinned or floating above Draco’s bed. Then she cast a series of diagnostic spells which glowed in abstruse green schemata above his chest.

“Frankly, I could have you discharged tomorrow morning,” said Granger. “But no alcohol for at least a fortnight, I’m afraid. You’ve just survived a lethal toxin, kindly allow your body to recover before you begin to imbibe another.”

“Not even a Butterbeer?”

“No.”

“But I have things I need to forget.”

“So do I.” Granger’s mouth quirked.

“Bloody hell,” said Draco, running his hand down his face.

“It happens all the time,” said Granger.

“All the time.”

“Yes.”

“You get called an angel all the time?”

“Truly.”

“And invited for a nap?”

“Yes.”

“And sitting in laps?”

“So frequently I’ve stopped taking notice.”

“Fuck,” said Draco, reliving the memory again.

“I’m going to go now,” said Granger. There was a warble in her voice, the kind that indicated that she was on the verge of laughter.

She left. Draco did not – repeat, did not – look at her bum as she walked away. For all he knew, some lingering trace of the cocktail would make him blurt out something stupid.

All right, so he stole one glance when she was already well out of the room.

Narcissa returned, nose powdered, eyes glamoured to be bright rather than red.

“A brilliant girl,” she said of Granger. “Quite brilliant. But what in heaven’s name was she wearing today?”

Draco did not inform her that he rather liked it. Narcissa had endured a great many shocks already.

Finally convinced that her only son, her treasure, the apple of her eye, wasn’t about to pop his clogs, Narcissa retired to the Manor.

Draco joined her there the next day and was near-suffocated by the joint attentions of his mother and the worried house-elves. For the next week, his every step – amongst a steady stream of friends and well-wishers – was haunted by either an elf or Narcissa bearing Vahlia ointment or restorative soups or warm compresses. He languished in delicious self-indulgence under their care for the first few days, and then grew tired of it, and took to hiding in distant reaches of the Manor grounds for the rest of his recovery.

One morning, when Draco was feeling sociable enough to join his mother for breakfast in the dining room, he found her hard at work on a truly breathtaking floral arrangement. It was alive with movement – hummingbird hyacinths fluttering, the glitter of ruby poppies, the dance of halla vines.

“You’ve outdone yourself, mother,” said Draco.

“Do you like it? Good. I hope she does, too.”

“She?” repeated Draco.

Narcissa spared him a look over her shoulder, as though to check that it was, indeed, her son behind her, and not a stupid idiot who had snuck in unannounced. “Yes, she. Healer Granger. Who else?”

“She will positively adore it, I’m sure.”

“It’s to be delivered later today.”

“One of the elves? I’d suggest Henriette, she–”

Narcissa interrupted with severity. “A house-elf? Really? That witch saved your life. You are going to take it to her, with as much effusive thanks as you can convey.”

She slid a thick envelope under a ribbon at the base of the arrangement. “My words of thanks, I wrote. I doubt I’d be able to speak them without further hysterics. I’ve embarrassed myself enough on that front.”

Now Narcissa dusted her hands and stepped away from the flowers, observing them with a critical eye. She called for Tupey to bring more ribbon. “And your other task, Draco, will be to uncover whatever cause is near and dear to Healer Granger’s heart, and ensure that our name and Galleons are immediately lined up in support of that cause.”

“I had been thinking the same,” said Draco.

“Unless it’s more of that chicanery about house-elves.”

“Right.”

“Or Muggle things. No Muggle things. Well – perhaps yes to Muggle things. Have they got orphans? See to it that you find out.”

“Of course.”

There was a lull in the conversation. Narcissa cleared her throat and, with casual insouciance, said, “Speaking of elves – they mentioned that you’d had a great many dinner guests in my absence. I’m glad that you were able to keep them occupied.”

“Happy to,” said Draco, with an equal measure of insouciance. “They did very well.”

“They mentioned, en passant, that Healer Granger had been by,” said Narcissa.

Draco felt that they had just arrived at the real crux of the conversation. “She did come by, yes.”

“…Might I inquire about the subject of discussion?”

So his mother was going to be nosy about it. Not a surprise.

“I had to make amends – I made her burn a pie,” said Draco.

“You made her burn a pie.”

“Yes. We were quarrelling about her otter.”

“Her otter.”

“Yes. She was partially in the right, mind you; I did concuss McLaggen.”

“You concussed McLaggen?”

“Amongst other things. He hadn’t much in the way of brains anyway. Have we finished with the quizzing?”

“I must confess I’m left with more questions than answers,” said Narcissa. “Henriette also tells me they replenished Healer Granger’s larder?”

“Oh, that. Yes – I was rather dismayed to find that the witch who was to save my life was subsisting on dried goods and tinned tuna. And it gave the elves something to do.”

Narcissa looked eminently confused, but said, “Of course.”

Draco turned the insouciance up a notch. “It was a dinner with a colleague, nothing more.”

“A colleague?”

“Ministry business; terribly dull and also top secret. Can’t discuss it.”

“I see,” said Narcissa. “I shan’t pry further, then.”

“That would be the best course of action.”

Narcissa’s speculative look was interrupted by a crack.

Henriette popped into being and curtseyed. “Pardonnez-moi for the intrusion, Madame, Monsieur. Monsieur Draco, Madame Tonks is Flooing for you.”

Draco left his mother to her confused dissatisfaction.

Tonks’ head was protruding from the fireplace in the Floo parlour.

She said something that might’ve been “Wotcher,” but might’ve also been a sneeze.

“Do you want to come through?” asked Draco.

“No, haven’t the time. I just wanted to observe you with my beady eye–” as she said this, her eye grew quite beady “–and ensure that you did survive the Nundu venom. The rumours are true. Show me the injury; it must be dramatic.”

Draco tugged down at his collar, which was gooey with Vahlia ointment.

“Oh, my! Are they saying it’ll heal?”

“Probably,” said Draco, grimacing as he replaced the collar against his still-raw neck.

“Better it doesn’t – the scar would be quite dashing.”

“How are the others?”

“O, you know, a little worse for wear, a bit limpy, a bit bruisy. Goggin and Buckley are still coughing up inhalant; we’ll have to devise better than the Bubble-Head Charms, next time.”

“And Humphreys?”

“She’s developed a phobia of cats, poor thing.” Now Tonks’ arm was sticking out of the fireplace. She shook out a scroll. “But look at this: you lot cuffed twenty naughty wizards, all told – other than the dead ones, I mean. They must’ve been planning for a show that night, that’s why there were so many of them there.”

Draco crouched to examine the list. “Shit – we got Hawkes? Kerr was there? I didn’t recognise him.”

“And Royston. Lovely harvest. One of our best in years. I’d offer you a pay rise, but, you know.” Tonks gestured to Draco’s grandiose surroundings. “It seems a paltry sort of bonus, considering. I thought I’d offer you something else as a reward.”

“Oh?” asked Draco, curious about how one rewards the man who has everything.

“Absolute freedom on your next assignment – you choose from my box of surprises.”

“Goody.”

“And I’ll be taking you off the Granger protection jobbie, because that is the kind of tender-hearted, grateful cousin I am. I know you were never keen on that one.”

Draco felt himself grow unaccountably tense. “What?”

Tonks, under the impression that she was making a grand and generous gesture, wiggled her eyebrows at him. “I know. I was thinking of Humphreys. They’d get along, wouldn’t they? Better than the two of you, anyroad.”

“Humphreys couldn’t – Granger has a cat,” said Draco. To his ears, the weakness of the excuse resonated embarrassingly through the Floo parlour.

Tonks scoffed. “Humphie would work around it. Don’t be silly. Or perhaps I slip the job to Goggin to keep his nose unbroken for a bit; the man gets into a punch-up with every mission…”

Tonks withdrew her head from the flames. Draco heard her screech, “Someone kill the bloody thing!”

Her head popped back into view. “Sorry. Weasley is having a crisis: there’s a spider.”

The interval had given Draco time to work out an excuse. “Not Goggin, for Granger,” he said, keeping his voice disinterested and neutral. “Not any of them, really. My family rings are a rather key component of the game. I think it’ll be best for me to stay on this one.”

Tonks arched an eyebrow. “Really? Are you sure?”

“Yes. We’ve found an – an equilibrium,” said Draco.

“An equilibrium,” repeated Tonks with unnecessary poshness. She was fixing him with a shrewd look behind the mockery. “All right. The offer stands, should you change your mind. I’ll see you next week?”

“Before, no doubt. I’m being suffocated.”

Tonks tutted. “Poor darling. Enjoy the remainder of your convalescence. My regards to Narcissa.”

Tonks’ head disappeared from the fireplace with a pop.

As the flames in the hearth resumed their normal colour, Draco was left to ruminate on the unexpectedness of his reaction at the thought of losing the Granger assignment. His response had been almost physical, almost jealous. He dearly hoped that Tonks hadn’t noticed.

He also pondered the uncomfortable question of why he hadn’t let the Granger job go. Some immediately obvious reasons sprung to mind. Well, not exactly reasons – memories, rather, of specific moments: a golden evening on a beach; the way she bit her lip when she didn’t want to laugh; roses and their bewitching effects; the feel of her joyous kisses. But these were not reasons and were therefore easily dismissed as pointless Sentiment.

After some grasping about for sounder arguments, which took altogether too long, Draco concluded that it was because he was an Auror with pride, who wanted the job to be done right, and who wanted to see the thing through to the end.

There. That was better. It all made sense. And if a minuscule part of him enjoyed Granger’s ludicrous ‘holidays,’ or took delight in her company, or had rather begun to look forward to seeing her, or any such nonsense, it was vastly overpowered by this robust rationale.

His mother called him into the dining room to advise him that the flower arrangement was completed, and that he could deliver it to Granger at his earliest convenience.

Draco sent a note to Granger enquiring about her availability that evening.

She’d be at the pub with Potter and Friends, but home by nine. Would that suit?

Draco replied that it would.

Home by nine. Granger was a wild one.

That night, Draco retired to his chambers for a shower and a shave. As he dabbed a drop of cologne on his wrists, he felt oddly like he was preparing for a date. Which was idiotic, because all he was doing was being an errand boy for his mother, really.

When he dressed, he made sure that his collar remained half-open to show off the dashing injury. But only because it was so dashing, and not because he wanted to solicit any kind of fussing or attention from Granger, or anything like that.