NEW: Harry Potter Fanfiction in English: Draco Malfoy and the Mortifying Ordeal of Being in Love – Chapter 1-12

The Lumos dissipated harmlessly into Granger’s robes, but her shock was nevertheless evident.

“That was unnecessary,” she gasped, a hand at her breast.

Draco made his way towards Granger’s office with a bit of a saunter. “I promise you other spells wouldn’t be so friendly.”

“No one’s going to be casting unfriendly spells at me for no reason,” said Granger, following him.

“They don’t have a reason now, but if your Big Breakthrough is as significant as Shacklebolt thinks, and if – when – it gets out, then…” He turned to her again, his wand raised.

She was readier this time and spat out a Protego.

“Better,” said Draco. “How’s your resistance to the Imperius Curse?”

Granger grew still, her hand gripping her wand. “If you cast that on me in my own laboratory, I shall drown you in Sanitatem and enjoy the irony.”

Draco glanced above him. Every vial of Sanitatem had levitated off the benches and was hovering over his head. In a real situation, he’d Vanish the lot and blast Granger through two walls for the cheek. But, nevertheless – it was an impressive bit of nonverbal magic.

“I’ll concede that your research is more-or-less safe, physically, from most wizarding intruders,” said Draco. The vials settled back into place. “But it all lives in your head and can therefore be read – or tortured – out of you, or any of your staff.”

“I’m the PI on the project in question. My staff consists of five undergraduates and eight graduate students whose combined understanding of the project is probably fifteen percent, scattered through thirteen minds. They aren’t much of a vulnerability.”

Draco gave her a hard look. “Then you’re the vulnerability.”

She, predictably, looked offended.

“How’s your Occlumency?” asked Draco. The question was accompanied, of course, by a friendly bit of Legilimency.

Draco was granted a clear view of Granger’s perception of him at that precise moment – tall, arrogant ponce with good hair – and then he was mentally slapped out of her mind.

He pressed a finger to the centre of his forehead; this witch was making his brain sting. Meanwhile, Granger looked like she wished to double down and slap him in the material world for good measure – and wouldn’t that just be a lovely throwback to their school days?

“I thought we were assessing my laboratory, not me,” said Granger, her eyes flashing at him.

‘We’re assessing risk exposures,” said Draco. “And it’s quickly becoming obvious that you’re a significant one. Is your home warded?”

“Moderately. I can enhance it.”

“I’ll enhance it,” said Draco. “How do you travel?”

“Floo, Apparition…”

“Those are trackable, you know. Broom?”

“I detest flying,” said Granger.

Draco made a valiant effort not to curl his lip. What a terrible position to take. What a dreadful thing to hate. What a sad circumvention of one of the greatest joys of being Magical. Granger fell in his esteem quite irredeemably.

“Since when is Apparition trackable, other than the Trace?” asked Granger.

“Top secret,” said Draco, now in Granger’s office. He riffled through the various stacks of paperwork and books, encountering, again, nothing but that highly specialised, utterly incomprehensible Muggle jargon, and no sign of recent developments, note-taking, record-keeping, or anything of a useful nature that might point him to Granger’s precious findings.

There was another computer in the office, which Draco eyed with a resigned kind of vexation. How stupid to be flummoxed by a device that any Muggle off the street could probably operate. Perhaps he should’ve kidnapped the porter at the gate and brought him in to assist – Statute of Secrecy notwithstanding.

He stared at the computer intimidatingly, waiting for it to confess its sins, but it merely offered him wobbly lines.

art by Ghoulsed

As Draco snooped, scanned and searched for interesting magical giveaways in the rest of the office, Granger pulled off her Healer robes and dropped into the chair that Draco had occupied upon his first visit. She let out a sigh of unadulterated fatigue.

Draco glanced at her. Muggle clothing again, underneath. This time a long-sleeved top and some trousers that barely merited the name, more like opaque black tights, really. Was this decent public attire by Muggle standards? Shocking. He could see the precise outline of her calf and the exact shape of her knee.

He didn’t spend too long musing upon the foibles of Muggle fashion, however, as the witch herself was a bit of a concern. He could see now how thin she was, how her collarbones shadowed, how her neck seemed too dainty to hold the mass of hair pinned upon her head. She was pale, peaky, and generally looked overdrawn.

“What’s your schedule like, Granger?” Draco asked, as though continuing his querying about her travel patterns, but really wanting to get a sense of what exactly this woman did with herself, day in and day out.

Typically, Granger had a schedule ready – colour-coded and planned to the hour. She waved her wand in the direction of her desk and the schedule floated to Draco and deposited itself into his hands. Using his wand as a makeshift quill, Draco drew circles around her moments of exposure, when she’d move between places and be most vulnerable to attack.

And there were many – Granger was everywhere and did everything. She had dedicated laboratory hours, clinic hours, teaching hours, volunteering for a horrid amount of Good Causes, tutoring sessions, mentoring sessions, Healing at St. Mungo’s and what sounded like a local Muggle surgery, one (1) pub night every fortnight with Potter and Friends, College dinners, something called “yoga” at unholy hours in the morning, something called “Crooks Vet” that recurred every three months, and then occasional days, here and there, marked only with an asterisk.

“What are these?” asked Draco, pointing at one of the blocks with an asterisk.

“…Holidays,” said Granger.

“Your Occlumency might be passable, but your lying isn’t.”

“They’re days off.” Granger grew snippy. “And I shan’t be divulging more details of my personal life than I already have, thank you.”

Draco dropped the subject – and the schedule, back onto her desk. Overdrawn wasn’t even the right word for Granger: exhausted, or depleted, maybe. Draco recalled some vague rumour that young Granger had been granted a Time-Turner during their Hogwarts years, to squeeze more classes into her school days. Potter and Weasley had quickly dismissed that bit of Auror lunch-hour chatter.

Looking at the overzealous, overachieving, overtired witch before him, Draco found himself rather inclined to believe the tale.

He continued his search, though he doubted there would be much else to find. The wall at the rear of the office was covered in frames of various sizes, certificates, diplomas, awards…

“Nice mosaic,” said Draco.

Granger gave him a look. Well, he found himself funny, even if Granger didn’t.

The mosaic informed Draco that Granger didn’t quite have twelve doctorates, but her combination of Muggle and Magical diplomas probably approached that number. Again, the Muggle ones were a mystery, awarded by Muggle universities he hadn’t heard of: Bachelor’s in Biomedical Sciences, Master’s in Microbiology and Immunology, joint M.D.-PhD in Oncology, some minor certificate in Genetics. He recognised the Healer’s Seal, at least (Cambridge, specialising in Magical Diseases). Her other magical certifications were a Master’s in Transfiguration (Edinburgh; an earlier degree, just after the War, probably) and a Specialised Study in Healing (Blood Magicks) from the Sorbonne.

A smattering of other certificates and qualifications completed Granger’s educational oeuvre. A box on a low shelf revealed a few dusty older frames. The things he knew her for in her brilliant Hogwarts days – the record-breaking O.W.L.s, the absurd amount of N.E.W.T.s – didn’t merit a place upon her wall of adult achievements. He spotted an Order of Merlin, First Class. Potter had similar, proudly hung upon his cubicle wall, but Granger hadn’t the room, apparently.

Granger excused herself to make tea, and, in a show of civility that appeared moderately challenging to verbalise, asked if he’d like a cup. Draco said no. Granger looked relieved.

After she’d left, Draco, being a pragmatic and sneakish kind of person, took advantage of the moment to cast a few discreet tracking spells upon a handful of her personal items: the trainers under the desk, hairpins (the blarmed things were everywhere), a half-finished mug of tea. He rifled through the paperwork on her desk and found nothing of interest (conference invitations, Muggle grant application results, notes from students. Useless tat).

The computer made a sound like a small ping. Draco turned to it. Its dark surface and wiggling lines challenged him to touch it and die of Elektik Shocks.

Then Draco gasped and said, “Hang on!”

“What?” asked Granger, who had just reentered the room.

“This whole place is so Muggleish that I hadn’t even thought to ask, but – how are these computers working? We’re in a magical building.”

“Oh, that,” said Granger. She made what Draco presumed was meant to be a casual shrug (it wasn’t very casual). “I found ways to circumvent the issue.”

“How?”

“Ways,” said Granger.

“What ways?” asked Draco.

She stared at him as though assessing his worthiness for this knowledge. In the face of her open eye-contact, Draco was sorely tempted to attempt Legilimency again. Just as the thought passed his mind, her eyes lost some of their sparkle. She was Occluding.

“I found a solution,” said Granger with another vague gesture. “I couldn’t possibly work with only quills and parchment; that’s positively archaic. Not to mention the hundreds of thousands of calculations and projections I’ve needed to do… Anyway, you needn’t preoccupy yourself with it. I can assure you that it’s nothing dangerous.”

Draco stepped closer to the computer, observing the various gadgets connected to its periphery by long smooth fibres. Only a few things weren’t connected to the Principal Organ (as he named the glowing box part), including three smallish metallic pucks set around the thing.

Rather how one might set up a perimeter, really. To keep things in or out.

He strode to the collection of computers in the laboratory proper, Granger following with a kind of polite curiosity.

There, too, were the metallic pucks. Six of them, this time, creating a jagged circle.

“I’d be careful handling those,” said Granger.

Draco, whose hand had been hovering above one of the pucks, pulled back.

“It’s not dangerous, but you won’t like the feeling.” She came beside him and held one up. “I’m calling it an Anti-Magical Forcefield, for lack of a better term. Rather challenging to create, but it serves my purposes.”

Draco stared at her. Blocking magic was a tricky bit of work – a thing mostly relegated to abstruse theoretical discussions. The handful of magic-inhibiting artefacts he’d heard of were things of distant legend, lost to the passage of time. And yet…

“I got the idea from wifi hotspots in cafés and airports, only, of course, this is the contrary,” said Granger. Then, seeing from his face that that explained nothing, she said: “Never mind.”

“I’m not entirely certain that those are legal,” said Draco, looking at the pucks.

“Better report me to Shacklebolt,” said Granger.

Her eyes met his, unfriendly, unafraid. Draco decided that Granger had balls, possibly rivalling Tonks’ enormous pair.

The beginnings of a Plan were germinating in his head.

“I need a copy of your schedule,” he said, leading the way back to Granger’s office.

A quick Duplicatus sorted that, paired with a Protean Charm to ensure that changes to her version would be reflected on his.

“Right. I shall prepare a tidy little report with some recommendations to ensure Healer Granger’s continued safety and well-being,” said Draco, scribbling out a few notes. “I’m also going to see what I can do to reassure Shacklebolt that you’re not going to be murdered tomorrow, and that I needn’t be your minder on a daily basis.”

“A relief for all parties,” said Granger.

“Watch for my owl in a few days. Also, please stop giving him treacle tart, it makes him unruly.”

“Understood,” said Granger, looking only slightly abashed. “Is the test over, then?”

“Yes.”

“Finally,” said Granger. Then, because she was a normal, well-adjusted individual, she sat down at her desk to work some more.

Draco saw that he had, for all intents and purposes, ceased to exist, and decided to show himself out without further ceremony.

“Mind the tile just in front of the door – Quicksand Curse,” said Granger absently. “It was to catch the baddies on the way out.”

“Saw it, Granger.”

“Of course you did.”

~

A few exchanges with Shacklebolt ensued, during which Draco outlined his Plan and convinced the Minister that it was the correct approach, and that, moreover, no other approach would do because the Principal would be too uncooperative.

Draco studied Granger’s schedule in quiet moments, puzzling over the asterisk “holidays.” His first thought was that the days were a personal indicator of some private thing. They were too scattered to be a reminder for her period. The pattern wasn’t lunar, either – good to know Granger wasn’t a secret werewolf.

Dates for some romantic entanglement, perhaps? Was that why she hadn’t marked down details? Was he looking at Granger’s sex schedule? Would she really take entire days off? Draco felt that he ought to shake the hand of the man responsible.

He also surreptitiously checked the off-day requests book at the Auror Office, and neither the Weasel’s nor Pothead’s upcoming holidays coincided. The mystery endured.

Draco spent a few days tinkering with the key element of his Plan. And by ‘tinkering,’ we do mean, of course, mucking about with ancient magicks best left untouched.

~

“Recommendations,” said Draco, slapping a roll of parchment onto Granger’s desk. “Fairly standard stuff for fairly obvious vulnerabilities. I’ve run them past Shacklebolt. He’s agreed to withdraw the protection request if you comply with them.”

Granger unrolled the parchment and found that it reached the floor. She gave him a slow blink. “Anything you’d like to draw my particular attention to, in the interest of saving time?”

“Yes,” said Draco. “Item fifty-six.”

Granger ran down the list to the line in question. “The Principal must agree to wear the Ring at all times, until completion of the Project.”

“That’s the one,” said Draco.

“What ring?” asked Granger.

“This one,” said Draco, tossing a ring towards her. The small silver band landed on the parchment, spun once, and was still. “I don’t care to train you on Imperius and Veritaserum resistance, or personal protection magicks, or Advanced Occlumency, or drill you on physical self-defence (gods forbid; you look like your punches might concuss a gnat, at best) – and nor, I think, do you want to endure these things.”

“Correct,” said Granger, her suspicious look moving from the ring to Draco.

“Nor do I want to stand sentry at your door like some glorified bodyguard, waiting for whatever Shacklebolt expects to happen, to happen.”

“Yes,” said Granger with enthusiasm. “Continue.”

“So I presented Shacklebolt with this option, which will allow me to – in essence – be alerted if anything were to happen to you, and Apparate to you instantly. I can find better uses for my time, and you can carry on with your – distressingly full, by the way – schedule, unimpeded.”

Draco waited to be praised for the simple elegance of this brilliant solution. Instead, Granger poked the ring with her wand.

“It isn’t going to kill you,” said Draco.

Granger met his eyes seriously. “My dataset is, admittedly, rather small, but I saw the aftermath of the last piece of jewellery that Draco Malfoy handed out, and it was – alarming. You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t immediately put this on. I’d like to analyse it.”

Ah, yes. The Katie Bell Incident. If Draco had any feelings, they would’ve been a little hurt, probably, by this display of mistrust stemming from the actions of an idiot boy being manipulated by the Darkest wizard of the century, a decade and a half ago. But he didn’t, so the point was moot.

“I’m happy to see that you’ve got some self-preservation instincts,” said Draco. He swept his hand towards the ring. “Analyse away.”

Granger cast a few revelation spells, which set the ring aglow with slow-rotating, translucent spellwork. “So – what’s all this?”

“Telling you would rather spoil the fun, wouldn’t it? You tell me,” said Draco. And with that, he settled back into his chair into a relaxed pose. Now it was his turn to watch her unpuzzle a thing.

She flicked through the spells with some adeptness, quickly picking out the more critical ones. Draco supposed that diagnostic magic would come easily to her as a Healer.

She listed her findings. “A Locator Charm, miscellaneous protective runes (thoughtful, thank you), a distress beacon, heart rate monitoring…”

Now her lips quirked.

“What’s funny?” asked Draco.

“You’ve invented a Wizarding FitBit.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Unless he was misunderstanding, Granger was suggesting that his exceptional creation was a knock-off of a Muggle thing? What?

“Never mind. What’s this unfinished mess here?” asked Granger, holding her wand-point to a ghostly green knot of Arithmantic calculations.

Draco felt his nostrils pinch: that unfinished mess was the result of many frustrating hours of work. “I haven’t got round to finishing that yet.”

“What was it meant to be?”

“Portkey. For moments when you couldn’t Apparate, or if you were trapped in an Anti-Apparition Ward. I haven’t worked out the calculations.”

Granger looked mildly impressed. Draco supposed that she was surrounded by the nation’s greatest magical brains on the daily, and that he ought to be pleased that she was mildly impressed by a mere Auror’s paltry creation.

“An on-demand Portkey would be something,” said Granger.

“Portus is a pain in the arse of an enchantment,” said Draco, trying to sound resigned, rather than sullen.

“Have you ever thought of making more of these rings? You could monetise these easily,” said Granger, holding the ring aloft.

“Do I look like I need money?” asked Draco.

Granger levelled a stare at him. Her back straightened. They had been dangerously close to lapsing into a civil conversation and she seemed to have forgotten who she was talking to. She sniffed in lieu of responding.

“Anyway, I can’t mass-produce the ring.”

“Right.” Granger was weighing the ring in the palm of her hand. “Because this isn’t just some trinket you put a few neat charms on.”

“No.”

“This is an Artefact.”

“Indeed.”

“A family heirloom, if I were to hazard a guess.”

“Yes.”

Of course she’d spotted the concealment charm that made the ring look like a plain silver band. Now she tapped her wand to reveal the ring’s true appearance – an ornate silver ouroboros, ever eating its own tail. And on the inside, the family motto: Sanctimonia Vincet Semper. Purity will always conquer.

“You’re certain this ring won’t immediately attempt to amputate my finger? I’m not Pure, after all,” said Granger.

Draco felt that the temperature in Granger’s office had dropped rather suddenly.

“Did you see a sign of Dark magic?” asked Draco. Too quickly – he’d sounded defensive. Blast.

“If there was Dark magic, it’s gone now,” said Granger.

She tapped the ring again, reverting it back to the plain silver band. She looked thoughtful.

“I’ll need some time to go through this extremely comprehensive list of recommendations,” she said at length.

“Take the time you need,” said Draco. “But know that the alternative is Shacklebolt setting up a camp bed for me, for overnights in your laboratory.”

She eyed him, then seemed to decide that he must be joking. “I’ll need to think about item fifty-six in particular. Do you want the ring back in the meantime?”

“Keep it,” said Draco. “Have your friends analyse it – isn’t one of the Weasley brothers meant to be good at that stuff? – and when you’ve quite settled any doubts, owl me, and we can get on with our lives.”

Granger perked up, as though getting on with her life without a Draco-shaped barnacle attached to her was the kindest hope he could’ve offered her.

“I will,” she said.

Two of her students, kitted up in their strange white cloaks and goggles, knocked at the door, excited to share some new development with dear Professor Granger.

Draco rose to leave as Granger donned her own white coat to join the students in the laboratory. There was an awkward, conflicted look on her face.

Draco, never one to make things easy, merely raised an eyebrow at her.

“I suppose I want to say thank you. For working through this as you are. I haven’t exactly been pulling my weight trying to find a solution to Shacklebolt’s request. The ring is a good idea.”

“I think you’re more than pulling your weight elsewhere,” said Draco.

He left; she muttered something that might’ve been a goodbye.

Chapter Text

Draco’s eagle owl was given a decent workout in the coming days as Draco and Granger negotiated back and forth on a few of the recommendations that he’d made. She suggested that some of the measures were positively draconian (“pun intended; do forgive me”) and tried to push back on them, with an especial focus on the home visit for personalised warding.

Eventually, Draco pulled out his most severe quill, and composed the following:

Granger – Shacklebolt’s orders on the warding of the Granger domicile aren’t up for negotiation. Do let me know when would be convenient to come by this week for the warding. If you don’t, I shall drop by at an inconvenient time by default. – D (for Draconian)

Malfoy – Unsure if you heard my sigh of exasperation from London, so I am recording its occurrence here for your information. I am more than capable of improving the warding on my own property, or of hiring a warding firm. But, if Shacklebolt is insisting on your particular expertise, so be it. See my schedule for options, I have just updated it. N.B.: they are very few; Tuesday evening looks the most promising, but I will be the doctor (Muggle Healer) on call at the local surgery and may have to leave in the middle. – H

Granger – I know what a doctor is. – D

~

So, what did the home of a nationally famous scholar / war heroine / Healer / Champion of Just Causes / Researcher-In-Danger look like?

A modest sort of cottage in Cambridgeshire, as it happened. Three bedrooms, at Draco’s best guess. Granger stood at the gate. As he approached from his Apparition point, she waved her wand to allow him to pass whatever preliminary wards she had set up.

“What’s wrong with your face?” she asked as Draco neared the gate.

Always to the point, was Granger.

“Bludger,” said Draco.

“Oh. It looks bad.”

(It probably did, too; Zabini had a mean swing.)

As he neared the gate, Draco saw Granger scrutinising the injury with a well-practised eye. She vacillated for a moment, then, apparently unable to resist Do-Gooding, blurted out, “Do you want me to have a look at it?”

“No. I’ve already put a salve on,” said Draco, brushing his fingers against his slowly bruising jaw.

“That’s going to make a lovely hematoma.”

“I’m fine. I came here to ward your house, not for a consult.”

Granger’s mouth pressed into a thin line.

“Are you going to invite me in?” asked Draco, irked by her standing there, watching him with something like concern. Now he felt like some kind of vampire angling for an invitation over the threshold.

“Come in, then,” said Granger, a little snappish, pulling the gate open.

Draco saw that she was dressed in another version of the white coat, this time accessorised with a dangling contraption wrapped around her neck.

“You’ve left your auto-asphyxiation device on,” said Draco, pointing to it.

“It’s a stethoscope,” said Granger, with an unspoken, you cretin, attached to the end of the sentence.

“Right,” said Draco, not deigning to request clarification. “Give us a tour and let’s crack on.”

She brought him through to the cottage’s front room, which might’ve been a living room, except that it was an explosion of books.

“You scolded me for placing a book half an inch out of place. Look at this disaster,” said Draco, piqued by the injustice.

“It’s my digitising project,” said Granger. “It’s a temporary disaster.” She gestured to a Muggle machine in the centre of it all, connected to a flattish version of a computer.

“Digitising?”

“Yes. Preserving magical knowledge through Muggle means, as I’m growing tired of lugging enormous books about, of finding irreparably damaged or lost material because some idiot spilled tea on a page twenty years ago, and of having to search for things through ancient record cards like it’s 1855. It’s a pet project for my rarest volumes. Unfortunately, I haven’t as much time to dedicate to it as I’d like…”

She brought Draco through to the kitchen, a rather Muggle space, save for the variety of magical plants explosively taking over her window ledges and various potions aglow here and there. There might’ve been something magical slowly brewing in a cauldron at the hearth, but she swept him past it.

“Conservatory?” asked Draco as they moved to the next room.

Granger looked at him as though he had just confirmed what a posh twat he was. “A conservatory? This isn’t Ascott House. The letting agent called it a sun-room.”

That seemed an optimistic appellation to Draco, who watched January sleet begin to drizzle against the glass ceiling with scepticism.

Then an odd, orange, squash-faced creature appeared, and wound its way around Granger’s ankles.

In another moment of wild optimism, Granger referred to it as a cat.

“What’s wrong with your cat?” asked Draco, bending over to regard the creature with concern.

“Nothing’s wrong with him,” said Granger. Both she and the creature looked at Draco with great offence. “He’s part Kneazle, and very intelligent. Aren’t you, my darling? My sweetums? My angel boy?”

As its ears were massaged by Granger, the cat regarded Draco with an expression of utmost disdain.

Then it decided that it had had enough of Granger’s attention and turned to leave, its absurd tail held high, so that Draco got a full view of its bumhole.

“Charming,” said Draco.

The tour continued to the cramped upstairs space. Three small bedrooms, as Draco had guessed, with predictable points of entry that he would have to ward.

The first bedroom appeared to be used as a study. Draco noted a kind of plinth in the middle of the space. On it rested a grimoire, very old and damaged, surrounded by the glow of stasis charms.

Granger saw what had caught his attention. “A tragedy. Don’t ask me about it or I shall cry.”

Draco did not wish to deal with bookish snivelling and did not pursue the subject, but he made a mental note of the object, for future prying.

The second bedroom was quite bare, save for a long mat on the floor, candles, and a cluster of orchids. What ritual was Granger preparing to cast here? He tried to make sense of the candle arrangement, but it didn’t match the geometry of anything he recognised.

Finally, they came to Granger’s bedroom, which she permitted him a glance into with evident unease. Draco couldn’t find a civil way to say, stop bloody fidgeting, I only need to see how the baddies might try to kidnap you; I’m not here to rifle through your knickers, so he said nothing.

An obnoxious jingle began to play somewhere in Granger’s vicinity. She pulled a palm-sized Muggle thingie out of her pocket and spoke into it. From what Draco understood, she was being summoned to the surgery by the means of this device.

She confirmed this by rushing past Draco to the stairs. “I have to go. I think you’ve seen enough to orient yourself – please set the wards to let Crookshanks in and out. He likes to roam. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“Crookshanks?” called Draco as Granger tripped down the stairs.

“The cat!” said Granger.

She disappeared outside, but instead of the crack of Disapparition, Draco heard the sound of a motor. Granger was driving. A Muggle car.

The absolute weirdo.

Or perhaps not, he thought upon reflection, as he made his way back to the garden. If she was going to a Muggle surgery, she’d have to show up by Muggle means; an instantaneous Apparition at the door would raise questions.

As he pondered the overfilled dual life that Granger led, Draco began to ward.

~

After about two hours of work, Draco pronounced himself satisfied. The wards would need to be recast every week or so, but no one would be able to waltz in sans Granger’s permission. Points of entry and egress were all reinforced with the Auror’s standard kit and a few of Draco’s own inventions; underground approaches would be flummoxed by a robust Depellens Penetrationem and aerial attacks would be rebuffed by a Caeli Praesidium. The usual assortment of intruder alarms was scattered about.

Frankly, for a witch of Granger’s relative fame, whose two closest chums were now Aurors, her protection measures had been paltry. But then, it was peacetime, and she was a scholar, now – not a child chasing Dark Objects to murder an evil wizard seven times over.

The half-Kneazle stared balefully at Draco through the sleet from the shelter of the stoop. Draco added the creature’s magical signature to the wards and told him so. The creature blinked at him. Draco was unnerved.

Just as the rain began to lessen, a car made its way up the drive and behind the cottage.

Granger rounded the corner a moment later. “Still here, are you?”

“I’ve just finished,” panted Draco. Warding was a magically exhausting task.

The half-Kneazle was given a great many kisses on his ugly head as Draco stood by and tried not to look wet and sweaty. And where was his thank you, if you please?

“I shall have to ward your car,” said Draco. “If you use it to get around a lot. And the Muggle surgery, if you’re there regularly.”

Granger frowned at him. “My car is brand new. You can’t ward it; you’ll muck something up.”

In the face of Draco’s confused offence, she added, “Cars have electrical components in them, now. Maybe they didn’t when you were in Muggle Studies.”

This was said as though Draco was approximately 120 years old and had last taken Muggle Studies when cars were called horseless carriages.

“I’ll bung a Sneakoscope into the glovebox,” said Granger.

For someone so clever, she certainly was an idiot.

“Excellent,” said Draco. “That’ll definitely ward off a Bombarda Maxima from twenty metres out. I’ll be able to tell Shacklebolt that we’d taken all necessary measures to protect you, when we pull your charred remains out of the wreckage.”

The violent imagery was successful. Granger gave in. “Fine. You can ward it. But do try to stay away from the – the centre bits, with all the buttons. Next to the steering wheel.”

Draco’s moment of triumph was ruined by a long and echoing hungry growl, unmistakably from his stomach (unfortunate – he was prepared to blame the cat).

There was a pause. Granger’s eyes flitted to Draco’s midriff. She appeared to be struggling between her natural feelings for him and her manners. Then, finally: “You must be famished. Do you want to come in? I’ve a few snacks. We can go over the recommendations – and the ring.”

Why yes, Draco was starving. Two hours of warding really did take it out of a man. However: there was a five course meal waiting for him at the Manor. However (bis): he wanted to wrap up this affair and have his next communication with Granger be regarding the return of the ring, however-many months hence.

“All right,” said Draco.

Draco popped into the loo to refresh himself, which mainly involved Scourgifying his armpits (the height of class; mother would be proud) and attempting some drying charms on his robes. His hair he deemed a lost cause tonight. Not that he had anyone to impress here. And besides, in this cottage, with Granger the Human Anemone and her orange toilet brush of a familiar, his hair still easily won best-in-show.

His entire look was complemented by the magnificent bruise starting to develop along his jaw. He pressed more of the salve into it, annoyed that Granger had been right about how bad it was going to get.

He trudged to the kitchen, where Granger had the scroll of recommendations and the ring set out upon the kitchen table. She removed her white coat and stuffed it into a Muggle machine at the end of the worktop (judging by the folded piles around it, a washing apparatus). Another long-sleeved top underneath – who knew that Granger had such an aversion to exposing her elbows?

The kitchen table was pushed into a corner. Draco therefore took a chair next to Granger. From this vantage – far closer than he’d been to her at any point previously – he noted that she was in possession of a decent pair of tits.

However, Granger chose that moment to unravel the scroll, now liberally scribbled with question marks and counter-suggestions, and Draco was unable to feel attracted because he was being suffocated by waves of Swot.

“Some of my principal concerns,” said Granger, nodding her chin towards the parchment, which promised a long and arduous evening of argument. “But first, let’s eat something.”

She rummaged about in a pathetically empty cupboard and popped some options onto the table.

As far as Draco was concerned, the principal article of diet was cat hair. He pulled a few orangey strands from his mouth as the cat (damn the creature) wound its way around his chair’s legs, looking smugly at him.

Granger did him the courtesy of looking abashed when she noticed.

“Sorry!” She waved her wand in Draco’s direction, Vanishing most of the fur. “It does get everywhere. Sometimes I think he can actually will it into existence – into unspeakable places.”

Draco, pulling at a hair, said “Ptht” in response, but what he really wanted to say was, If I find orange fur on my balls tonight, I shall skin that animal with my bare hands.

Granger tore open a package of something and passed it to him.

“What is this?” asked Draco, holding up one of the things.

“Cheesy Wotsits.”

Which explained everything, obviously.

For her part, Granger ate tuna, directly from the tin.

“Grim, Granger,” said Draco.

“It’s protein,” said Granger. She looked at the mediocre spread that Draco was scowling at and got a bit defensive. “I haven’t had time to go to the shops.”

“Why don’t you send a house-elf–”

As the words came out of his mouth, Draco cut himself off, but it was too late. Granger was looking at him like he’d just confirmed, for the second time that evening, what an over-privileged wanker he was.

She rose, tight-jawed, to make tea. It seemed an excuse to get away from his immediate vicinity. But, whatever – Draco wasn’t here to make friends.

Granger banged about with the kettle. She looked like she was holding back a certain quantity of Draco-oriented vitriol. He surreptitiously checked his pockets. He did have a bezoar on him, in case his tea had any special additives courtesy of the House-Elf Vigilante.

Granger set their mugs on the table with rather more firmness than was necessary. There was no immediate evidence of poison. She had found a packet of biscuits to go with the tea. Draco ate two thirds of it like a famished thing, and if they were poisoned, then so be it.

Then Granger straightened out the parchment, seemed to – with an effort – compartmentalise her feelings about Draco the Wanker, and became all business.

She queried him on the recommendations as though he were an apprentice Auror who had submitted this for review, and ought to be grateful for the feedback. And so they argued through the list: on item 14, whether he would add caretaking staff to the laboratory’s wards (he conceded); on item 26, whether she really needed to give him notice when she was leaving town (yes) and if so, how much notice (24 hours); on item 33, what constituted a ‘public event’ (over 40 people); on item 34, why did she have to advise him of her attendance at Muggle ones? (because he said so); could he not make her home Unplottable, she had Muggle friends who might want to visit? (no); and so on and so forth until they came to item 56.

Granger refilled their tea and pulled out another packet of biscuits, given that Draco had stress-eaten the entirety of the first one.

“So. The ring,” said Granger.

“The ring,” repeated Draco. The crux of the thing – the object that meant he could continue his life in happy, Granger-less freedom and still satisfy the Minister and Tonks.

“I’ve had it looked at by a few experts. It does seem quite safe. They were rather impressed by it, actually.”

Draco wanted to say, Naturally; I’m a genius. Where is your FitZit now?

He sipped his tea self-righteously instead.

“I’ve also had a chat with Tonks,” continued Granger. “She probably told you how much she likes the idea, too. Means you’ll be able to take on other assignments while monitoring me at a distance. So – all told, glowing reviews all around, with minimal cons, and I am willing to proceed. I do have a question for you, however.”

“Yes?” said Draco, even though he had a fair guess about the question. In fact, he was surprised she hadn’t asked earlier.

“How does the information tracked by the ring come to you?”

Draco held up his hand and waved his wand at it, cancelling the Notice-Me-Not Charm there.

“Ah,” said Granger, as the silver ring on Draco’s finger came into view.

Her gaze flicked from Draco’s ring to the one on the table. Then, after some private deliberations in that overlarge brain of hers, she said, quite intelligently in Draco’s opinion: “I shan’t ask more questions about the original use of these things. I feel that further details might put me off the whole affair.”

“Good shout,” said Draco.

Because, yes, these ancient rings had long been worn by married couples in the Malfoy family. His mother had removed hers many years ago, following Lucius Malfoy’s death in Azkaban – the ring’s silence was a constant reminder of the loss and she could no longer bear to wear it.

Draco had modified the rings so that there would only be one-way communication between Granger’s and his. He certainly didn’t need her being alerted every time his heart rate spiked when he was having a morning wank, thanks.

Living on in happy ignorance of these thoughts, Granger asked, “Is anything special required or do I just – just put it on?”

“I’ll do it,” said Draco. “It needs to be done by the person wearing the ring’s – er, mate.”

He tried to be gruff and businesslike about it, but there are very few things in the world as un-businesslike as a man putting a ring on a woman’s finger, and it was awkward despite his best attempts. He wondered if Granger found it as awkward as he did. She was studying the kitchen wallpaper, a tint of pink high on her cheeks.

Her hand was small in his, and delicate. The ring went on effortlessly. He felt a kind of enlivening in the ring on his own hand – it had someone to talk to, now.

“The distress beacon is activated by twisting it three times around your finger,” said Draco to break the silence. “Do that and I’ll Apparate to you immediately.”

Granger snapped away from her fascination with the wallpaper. “All right.”

“Do reserve it for critical situations, Granger – not because you’ve found tea spilled on a book.”

“I’m very much hoping I’ll never have to use it at all.” She looked at the ring glinting on her hand. “At least the thing didn’t immediately try to kill me.”

“Don’t get too comfortable. It could be playing a long game.”

Draco tapped the scroll they had discussed ad nauseum, integrating the scribbled results of their back-and-forth into a clean version. Then he created a duplicate for her.

“Now that we’ve finalised this, you must stick with it. We’ve established a duty of care and I’d rather not be dragged in front of the Wizengamot for professional negligence resulting in the death of the great Hermione Granger.”

“I understand,” came the great Hermione Granger’s serious reply.

“Good. Now, before I go, one last thing.” Draco dug a hand into his pocket. “My owl’s lost half a pound of weight since we’ve been communicating, so I–”

“Feed him more treacle tart,” interjected Granger. Her cat was on her lap, finishing the tin of tuna.

“–I’ve decided to give in to the trend and buy these things,” finished Draco. He placed a pair of Weasleys’ Jabbering Jotters on the table. “You’ve probably heard of them – all the rage amongst the younger generation. Owls aren’t quite the thing anymore. Not immediate enough.”

In Draco’s opinion, a sad end to a long Wizarding tradition. One couldn’t write a strongly worded letter on a Jabbering Jotter – one simply couldn’t.

“I am familiar with those,” said Granger. She was very obviously holding back a smile. Draco weighed the pros and cons of asking for the reason behind the smile. He decided against: between her and the cat, the levels of smugness in the room would soon asphyxiate him.

“So you know how they work?” asked Draco, passing her the small magical notepad.

“O, yes,” said Granger, accepting the object. “Thank you. I feel bad about your owl.”

“He’ll recover and soon grow fat from lack of exercise.”

His job here done, Draco rose with a general mutter of thanks for the tea. Granger replied with some inaudible words of gratitude for the warding.

The cat attempted to trip him and break his neck on his way out of the kitchen.

Draco decided that that was a suitable end to an unpleasant evening.

Chapter Text

In his handful of years working with Potter and Weasley, Draco had developed a cool, professional kind of rapport with them, which Weasley demonstrated the next morning by calling, “Oi! Dickhead!” and hanging over Draco’s cubicle wall like a disjointed ginger muppet.

“What do you want, Weasel?”

“We heard Hermione’s been assigned Auror protection – and that the bloke’s a tosser,” said Weasley.

“Was that her description, or yours?”

Potter, whose disastrous hair and vivid green eyes now popped up over the cubicle wall, said, “Ours. She says you’ve been quite professional. We know the truth.”

“Lucky bugger,” said Weasley. “How come Tonks gives us the vampires, and you the Hermione-minding? You don’t even like her.”

“I understand that it was a question of competence,” said Draco. “Tonks said she needed to assign the finest Auror to protect the finest mind in the UK–”

Weasley scoffed; Potter laughed.

“–And the nuisance Aurors to deal with the nuisance vampires,” finished Draco.

“I said no such thing,” said Tonks, waddling by in the form of a short, overweight man. “Shouldn’t you all be off working, you blatherskites? You’re all nuisance Aurors, as far as I’m concerned.”

Potter and Weasley chortled. Draco was offended.

“What’s Hermione working on, anyway, that’s got old Shack so worked up?” asked Weasley. “She won’t tell us.”

“That information’s on a need-to-know basis,” said Draco, tapping his nose.

He hadn’t a clue either, but winding up the Nuisance Duo was always a good time. The two of them looked suitably annoyed that Draco seemed to know something they didn’t.

“Work!” shouted Tonks from her office.

“Yes, boss,” replied Weasley.

“Word to the wise, Malfoy,” said Potter as they left. “Don’t insult Hermione’s cat.”

“Too late,” said Draco.

~

Two weeks passed, during which all was quiet on the Granger front. Her ring had been calibrated to alert Draco to extreme physiological or emotional shifts that might indicate immediate danger: significant spikes of fear, panic, pain, or an unusually high heart rate.

In general, Granger seemed to be miraculously even-tempered. There was one day when Draco’s ring tingled at him throughout the morning, signalling that Granger’s pulse was elevated at various points – but not quite at the threshold signalling a wild panic.

He set it out of his mind and joined Goggin and a few junior Aurors for a hand-to-hand combat session. Tonks insisted that her Aurors not only maintained their Duelling expertise through rigorous practice, but also their abilities as physical fighters. Many had moaned about having to learn to fight like Muggles. Tonks had set them straight. A disarmed Auror with hand-to-hand training could still outmanoeuvre, disarm, or maim an opponent, if he kept his wits about him. A wandless Auror without those things was a very dead Auror.

Granger’s elevated pulse – the fourth such incident that morning – interrupted Draco’s spar. His momentary distraction earned him a solid uppercut from Goggin.

He called for a pause, clutching at his jaw, and used the Jotter to send Granger an annoyed message, consisting solely of punctuation: ???

She responded with a brief note: Losing a patient.

Draco didn’t respond, mostly because he didn’t know what to say, but also because Goggin had decided that the break was over and was now attempting to concuss him.

A while later he received the following missive from Granger: By the way – going out of town tomorrow morning, just for the day. I know our agreement said 24 hours notice for departures and this is more like 12. Sorry, it’s been hellish.

Where? was Draco’s response.

Somerset, was Granger’s.

Why?

Holiday.

One of those asterisk holidays?

Granger didn’t respond. So, yes.

That evening, while Draco was at dinner, his ring signalled pain. But it wasn’t physical pain. It was the heart-pain of grief, from somewhere in Cambridgeshire. The poignancy of the feeling surprised him. The sincerity of it. Granger truly was a Do-Gooder to the core. He supposed that she had got home and was giving way to the loss of her patient.

“Draco? Is everything all right?”

Draco found himself being observed by the thoughtful blue eyes of Narcissa Malfoy. He realised he’d stopped eating when the ghostly grief had suffused his senses.

“I’m fine,” said Draco. “Just thinking about work.”

Draco hadn’t told his mother that he’d requisitioned the Malfoy rings. He was certain that she wouldn’t agree with his repurposing, nor with his choice of recipient.

He cast about for a safe subject for discussion and remarked on the nicer-than-usual flower arrangement in the centre of the table. Floristry was one of his mother’s hobbies.

“Do you like it?” asked his mother, leaning over to touch a few delicate petals. She seemed in a pensive mood. “It’s Imbolc tomorrow.”

“Imbolc?” The word was vaguely familiar to Draco – some Pagan festival or other.

Narcissa pulled up an already perfectly placed blossom and replaced it even more perfectly in the bouquet. “Yes – it marks the end of winter. Your grandmother used to observe those old traditions when I was a little girl. The house would be decorated with snowdrops and daffodils on every surface, we’d have a feast – and we’d feel hopeful, knowing that spring was finally on its way.”

Draco made some polite reply. His mother watched him eat, her own hands folded onto her lap. She had something else to say.

“What is it?” asked Draco.

“Are you going to be home tomorrow? I’ve got some friends coming for tea.”

Draco made a few quick calculations. Those few friends would most certainly happen to have lovely and accomplished daughters, who would no doubt come too. His mother had grown rather less subtle about her matchmaking since he’d turned thirty.

Unfortunately for Narcissa (and the eligible young ladies), Draco’s own interest in anything longer term than dirty weekend escapades in Paris was nil. He’d done the longer term thing once – a two-year engagement to Astoria – and it had been sufficient to confirm that, no matter how Pure-blooded and well-bred the witch, he wasn’t ready for marriage.

Granger’s note earlier that day offered a convenient lifeline. Draco grimaced and said, “I’ll be working. Business in Somerset tomorrow.”

Granger herself didn’t know she’d have company, but too bad for her. He’d call it a spot check. Her safety against threats – real or imagined by Shacklebolt – was his highest priority, after all.

Narcissa seemed unsurprised at the ready excuse. “A pity. Next time, then.”

Dinner concluded. Draco retreated to his chambers, where he took a long bath and nursed his training wounds.

His Jotter buzzed. He summoned it to find a note from Granger, a delayed response to his earlier question. Yes, one of the asterisk holidays. A spot of sightseeing. I’ll turn the ring if I need you.

That last sentence was Granger-speak for “I don’t need you, do not come, you are not invited.”

No doubt she would get shirty when he turned up. The thought elicited an unexpected tingle of amusement.

Then something that had been percolating in the back of Draco’s mind since dinner clicked into place. He got out of the tub, dried himself off with a few waves of his wand, and summoned Granger’s schedule.

Tomorrow was – what had his mother said? Imbolc?

And that coincided with one of Granger’s asterisks.

Were there other such interesting coincidences? He ran through the rest of the dates. The next asterisk was a weekend in late March. Then one at the beginning of May. Then June. Then early August.

Abuzz with anticipatory triumph, Draco descended to the Manor’s library, where he pulled out a few volumes on Celtic and Germanic Pagan traditions.

He was right. Granger’s dates matched the old calendars. Draco rolled the old words out on his tongue. Imbolc. Ostara. Beltane. Litha. Lughnasadh. Mabon. Samhain.

What was Granger up to?

Draco was officially intrigued.

~

Draco gave Granger the morning to set out on her Somerset adventure before he joined her. That permitted him an exquisite lie-in, some invigorating flying in the February wind, and the opportunity for a luxurious brunch. He kissed his mother’s cheek with insincere regrets about missing tea.

Somerset was just far enough from Wiltshire that Draco had to Floo into a wizarding pub in Cannington before Apparating to Granger’s ring.

The Apparition took a moment longer than usual, with an odd sort of stretch in the final half-second, like it was trying to keep up with the destination. When he arrived, Draco understood why. Granger had been moving at a rather rapid pace, given that she was belting down a country lane in her car.

Granger shrieked as Draco materialised in the seat beside her. His head was in the passenger footwell and his boots were, by the feel of it, in Granger’s face. It was altogether not his most graceful arrival.

Granger swerved onto a verge and brought the car to a halt. Draco turned himself the right way up with difficulty as a barrage of questions came his way, including what the hell he thought he was doing, who did he think he was, how dare he, and whether or not he was actually insane?

Granger’s voice could be quite shrill. Penetrating, really.

“You just Apparated to a moving target! Have you completely lost the plot? You could’ve been Splinched into a hundred different pieces, scattered about the A37!”

“I didn’t expect it to be a moving target,” said Draco, feeling dishevelled and a bit sick. “Why are you driving?”

“Because you told me Apparition and Floo were traceable.”

“Who cares if they’re traceable? You’re allowed to be on holiday. Nice morning for it, by the by,” he added, as rain pelted the car. “Unless your holiday has something to do with your project?”

Granger glared at him.

“Aha,” said Draco.

Seeing that the worst of the fracas had abated, Draco, having spotted a mirror just above Granger’s head, swivelled it towards himself. It was the perfect height to check one’s hair. Good sorts, Muggles, really – they had their priorities straight.

Granger sputtered. “Did you just commandeer my rearview mirror to fix your hair?”

“You can have it back in a moment,” said Draco.

Granger was staring at him with an expression of dislike strong enough to unnerve a lesser man.

She swivelled the mirror back towards herself. “I need that. And get your overlarge feet off my dash.”

“It’s not my fault your car is so cramped,” said Draco, attempting to bring his legs in.

“It’s not my fault you’re a gangly marionette of a man who decided to Apparate into my Mini.”

Before Draco had time to register his offence at this unfair comparison, she got to the crux of the issue: “And why are you here?”

“I’m conducting a spot check,” said Draco.

“A spot check,” repeated Granger, looking thoroughly unconvinced.

“Yes.”

“And? Have you established that I’m sound of mind and body?”

Draco examined her critically. She seemed sound of body, from what he could see under the hat, anorak, scarf, and Muggle walking boots. Soundness of mind was less easy to gauge – there was a sparkle of something dangerous in her eye.

“Well?” she pushed. “I’m fine, as you can see. You can go away now.”

Draco decided to take the high road and attempt some honesty. “I’m also using this as a pretext.”

“A pretext for what?”

“Avoiding some unpleasantness at home.”

“What sort of unpleasantness?”

Relentless sort of witch. “My mother is having ladies over for tea.”

Whatever Granger was expecting, it hadn’t been that. A queer expression flashed across her face, as of one holding back a laugh. “Ladies over for tea?” she repeated.

“Yes. What is so funny?”

“I thought it’d be something more – more fearsome.” The held-back laughter faded. “Anyway, I don’t want to suffer because you’re afraid of some ladies. I don’t need, nor want, you hanging about today. I have things to do.”

“It’s Imbolc today,” said Draco conversationally. “Did you know?”

Granger said nothing, but looked freshly annoyed.

“What’re you up to in Somerset at Imbolc?” asked Draco. “I didn’t know you kept the Old Ways. You don’t seem the type for flowers and dancing about poles.”

When Granger didn’t answer him again, Draco settled himself into his seat. “I’ve assessed the situation and – since it’s obviously to do with your dangerous project – I will be monitoring you today, for your own safety. Per item eleven of my recommendations. Don’t argue.”

“I will eject you from this car,” said Granger.

“You can’t do that.”

“I can. This button, here,” said Granger, pointing to a round thing on the dashboard. “It’s a safety feature Muggles invented.”

A whining whistle began to wail through the car. Granger jumped. “What is that?”

“Oh, that,” said Draco. “A safety feature wizards invented. I put a Sneakoscope in your glovebox, as you suggested. You lied to me about the eject button and I’m hurt.”

Granger leaned over him and popped open the glovebox (“Ow – my knees!”) to see that there was indeed a Sneakoscope therein. It whistled and flashed for a few moments more, then, given that there was no more lying going on, it stilled.

There was a long silence. Granger pulled back into her seat, leaned her forehead on the steering wheel, and appeared to be collecting herself.

“Fine,” she said at length. “You can stay for the duration of this distressing tea of your mother’s. Just don’t get in my way.”

She turned the key and the car’s engine kicked into life. “Put on your seatbelt. Or don’t. I suppose I don’t care if you die a gruesome death.”

The Sneakoscope wailed again. Granger swore at it quite colourfully.

“What does that button really do?” asked Draco when the row had faded.

This innocent question seemed to set Granger off anew. “It used to be the stereo system – until someone’s warding messed it up. Now it only plays Austrian folk songs.”

Draco pressed the button. Austrian folk songs began to play.

Granger’s hands were tight on the steering wheel as she pulled back onto the road.

It was clear that, in her opinion, Draco was the real Nuisance Auror.

~

Muggle signposting was excellent. As they made their way down progressively windier country lanes, Draco was able to guess at their final destination with a degree of certainty.

“Glastonbury,” he said. “Interesting.”

Granger said nothing. Her displeasure at his presence continued and she was not hiding it. It mattered little to Draco – a rainy drive through the English countryside with an angry Granger was a refreshing change from the usual too-small sandwiches and coquettish fortune-hunters.

Honestly, the winding drive, the Austrian music, the fuming witch – it was absurd, it was amusing, it was fun.

Draco reached to press another button on the car’s central panel, out of curiosity. Granger slapped his hand away.

She had decent reflexes, reflected Draco as he sucked on his stinging knuckle.

Instead of driving down the street that led into the town of Glastonbury proper, Granger made a detour to a car park at the edge of a forest.

There, a footpath wound into a woodland, rather soaked and frosty-looking at this time of year.

“What’s this?” asked Draco.

“The Mendip Way,” replied Granger, in that way she had of answering his questions without actually answering his questions. She got out of the car. “I’m going for a walk. You may wait in the car.”

May he? So generous. Draco – after a brief struggle with the handle – let himself out of the vehicle. He withheld groans as he stamped some feeling back into his legs.

Granger observed his emergence from the Mini with her hands on her hips. He felt her observing his choice of clothing (his Auror robes over his perennial suit) and footwear (perfectly functional dragonhide boots). She must’ve concluded that it would have to do – or otherwise, that it wouldn’t do, and would put him in peril, and that that was perfect.

At any rate, she turned around and began to walk towards the woods.

Draco saw her cast some rain-repelling and warming charms on herself. He imitated her; it seemed a good idea.

As they entered the Mendip Way, Draco cast a few detection spells, looking for evidence of other beings, magical or Muggle. However, it seemed that only he and Granger were mad enough to go for a ramble on a day like this. Save some roe deer in a nearby clearing, they were alone.

Satisfied that no madmen were about to vault out and attack Granger, Draco caught up to her in a few long strides.

It quickly became obvious that this wasn’t just a walk for Granger’s health. She was looking for something. Or several somethings. She peered into the underbrush, touched the trunks of trees, gently caught the fronds of ferns in her palm and studied them. She took nothing, however, and so quashed any theories about ingredient gathering that Draco might have been entertaining.

They progressed in this manner for a good half hour, marked by a pause to refresh their fading Impervius charms.

Finally, Granger stopped, and pulled out a list.

Draco unashamedly peeked over her shoulder.

Singing Sedge
Greater Bladderwort
Royal Fern
Ophioglossun vulgatum
Wood-sorrel
Mellifluous Honewort
Helianthemum apenninum
Helianthemum nummularium
Spiny Restharrow
Tassel Moss

Granger used her wand to cross out the majority of the list. Only the Tassel Moss remained.

“What’s Tassel Moss?” asked Draco.

Granger flinched away from him. Apparently, she’d been so much in her own head that she’d quite forgotten that Draco was there, much less noticed that he was skulking over her shoulder.

Her hand flew to her fast-beating heart (Draco felt faint echoes of it through the ring). He expected to be told off. However, her bad mood seemed to have been replaced by tentative excitement related to this list.

“One of the rarer mosses in this part of England,” said Granger.

“Why are you looking for it?”

Granger began to walk again, her attention focused, this time, on dead logs, old stumps, and other likely habitats. “Because it will confirm that I’m in the right place.”

“The right place for what?”

Granger waved the question away. “I’m merely confirming a theory.”

“What theory?”

(Draco, too, could be relentless.)

“Something related to my project,” said Granger with irritating ambiguity.

“What’s moss got to do with your Chimaera cells, or whatever?”

“Nothing – at least, not directly.” She turned to look at him through the rain, as though to gauge what was worth telling him. “I’m retracing the steps of an old, long-forgotten witch whose work included – amongst many things – descriptions of certain sacred sites in the British Isles.”

“So, the Vale of Avalon?”

“Specifically, Glastonbury’s wells. Or at least, that’s my educated guess. Not much of her work is still extant today. All we have are fragments. She tended to wax lyrically on flora, which helps me narrow down possible locations by cross-referencing the rarer plants. Of course, she was writing hundreds of years ago, so things may have changed. But few places on the island will support both Singing Sedge and Mellifluous Honewart. They typically thrive in radically different ecosystems, as you no doubt know…”

No, Draco didn’t know – in fact, he’d never even heard of these plants – but he nodded instead of admitting it.

When Draco next looked up, for a heart-stopping moment, Granger had disappeared – he snatched his wand – then he saw her backside poking over the edge of the path. She was on her hands and knees, examining a rather wet ditch.

Whatever had caught her eye, it wasn’t what she was looking for. She regained her feet. She didn’t look disappointed, however – she looked determined. And muddy.

“Tassel Moss looks as you’d imagine,” said Granger. “Tiny tassels across the top. It’s the sporangia – unusually big in the genus. They turn pink in the summer – of course, we’re a little too early for that.”

Was this woman a genius at Herbology, on top of everything else? Draco wondered how much of Potter and Weasley’s limited scholarly success was due to absorbing her knowledge by intellectual osmosis.

She was, frankly, overwhelming.

Granger carried on along the path, squatting down occasionally to observe things. It was altogether rather a peaceful ramble, with the charms keeping him dry, the sound of the rain and the occasional brave songbird, and verbalisations from Granger telling off various mosses because they weren’t the right one.

For the first time since he’d taken the Granger casefile from Tonks’ hands, Draco felt glad of the decision. This was certainly more pleasant than most of his work as an Auror – fewer hexes and eviscerations coming his way, for a start.

And, bonus, it got him out of tea with the ladies, and promised many more opportunities to do so. That set would be tut-tutting at Granger over their teacups – Granger with her hat askew, her face smeared with dirt, clambering about in ditches instead of finding herself a rich husband. But she was apparently doing something great for wizardkind, and what, pray, had they achieved?

“I think I found it!” called Granger.

Draco pushed through some brambles to be, once again, presented with a view of Granger’s bum. Familiarity breeds fondness – he was rather developing an appreciation for it.

For reasons known only to herself, Granger had all but pressed her face into a patch of moss and was breathing deeply into it.

“Granger, what–”

“It’s meant to smell like candy-floss. And it does!” said Granger, rising with a leap.

There was dirt on the tip of her nose. In the shadows of the great oaks around them, her dark eyes shone with excitement. A curl of hair clung damply to her lip. Her cheeks were pinched pink by the February wind. Her smile flashed at him, a brief, rare thing.

Draco realised with a shock that Granger was pretty.

She clapped her hands together and squealed at the clump of moss, as though it was a treasure worth thousands upon thousands of Galleons.

Before Draco could process his realisation, a hoarse scream echoed from some distant corner of the woods. To his amusement, Granger leapt to his side immediately, her wand raised.

The queer screaming continued. When Granger saw that he hadn’t reacted and didn’t seem alarmed, she asked, “What is that horrid racket?”

“That’s a fox,” said Draco.

“Oh.”

“Some slag of a vixen’s asking to get her back blown out.”

“I see,” said Granger.

Another scream. Draco wanted to laugh – Granger’s expression had gone rather prim.

She pulled out her list of plants and crossed the final line out. “This is an excellent development. The moss, I mean, not the slaggy fox. Let’s go back to the car.”

“That’s it?” asked Draco. It had seemed rather easy.

“Oh, no,” said Granger. “If only. I have about three thousand other things to do before that’s it.”

Knowing her, that was probably not an exaggeration. They walked back to the car. Without Granger’s constant hops into the vegetation, it was rather quicker than the way in.

“Why did you have to do this on Imbolc?” asked Draco. In his opinion, this would’ve been better planned for Beltane, for more congenial weather.

She ignored the question in favour of posing one of her own. “Do you think your mother’s guests have left?”

Draco conjured a pocket-watch. “No,” he lied.

“Are you sure? Rather a long tea, isn’t it?”

“Society teas are multiple hour affairs. My mother’s favourites will probably stay for dinner and drinks.”

Granger’s moment of smiling amongst the oak trees was fading and being replaced by the annoyance that seemed a chronic condition in Draco’s presence. “Why don’t you go somewhere else? She won’t know that you aren’t strictly working.”

“I’m not leaving,” said Draco. “If you were to be attacked while out and about on project work, Shacklebolt would have my hide.”

“What are you protecting me from?” asked Granger with a sweeping gesture at the nothingness around them. “Randy foxes?”

“If you’d tell me what you were doing, I’d be better able to establish potential threats.”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned from the enormous mistake I made telling Shacklebolt, it’s that I’m not sharing another word on my work.” Granger crossed her arms. Her posturing was rather undermined by the single leaf stuck in her hat, waving in the wind.

“Brilliant. I’ll just continue to wave my wand about, waiting for the nameless baddies, shall I?”

“No. You can Apparate to the nearest pub, have a cosy drink, and go home when you’re safe from the ladies.”

“I’m not the one who needs to stay safe,” said Draco.

Granger made a sound of frustration. “You can’t come. You complicate things.”

“Complicate things how? I can stay out of the way – didn’t I just stay out of the way?”

“I’m visiting the Chalice Well Gardens next. That involves passing as a Muggle. Which you don’t.”

“I can very well pass as a Muggle,” said Draco, indignant. “The Auror programme includes a substantial unit on concealment and disguise, and I passed with a distinction, thank you.”

Had he just been thinking that Granger-minding had ended up being a good decision? Why must she fight him on everything?

Granger rubbed at her temples. “We’re wasting time – time I haven’t got.”

“Then let’s go,” said Draco.

“Show me your best attempt at a Muggle disguise,” said Granger. There was a desperate kind of hope in her eyes, as though she knew it was going to be rubbish, but wanted to see, just in case.

Draco shrank his Auror robes into a handkerchief, which he pocketed. Then he modified his suit to fit the current Muggle fashion, a little more relaxed in its tailoring. His boots he made into shiny men’s dress shoes. His wand was concealed in a holster at his wrist. His hair he didn’t touch: it was the height of perfection, magical or Muggle.

“And?” he asked, rotating slowly under Granger’s critical gaze.

“It’d be ideal if we were going to the Dorchester for dinner,” said Granger. She sighed. “But – I’ll take it. Maybe we can make you look like a spiffy young professor, rather than a banker who’s lost his way…”

She approached and made her own modifications, removing his tie and Transfiguring his shoes into Muggle trainers. Then she reached up and undid the top button of his shirt. (Queer sensation, to have Granger do that. Draco filed it away for further analysis later.)

“That’ll have to do,” said Granger, though she looked cynical.

“If we’re critiquing each others’ appearances, you’re in need of a Scourgify,” said Draco.

Granger Transfigured her car window into a mirror to discover, with an “oh, my,” quite how mud-caked she was. She made quick work of the stray leaf and the dirt, then gave Draco an odd look.

“What?” asked Draco.

“Nothing,” said Granger.

“Tell me,” said Draco.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I just – I might’ve expected some joke about the mud, from you,” said Granger.

Draco stilled. “Those days are long past.”

Granger arranged her hat and shrugged.

Draco frowned. This wasn’t the time for this conversation, but one day she would need to know how he had seen, firsthand, the horrors of those hideous attitudes, and how they still lived in his head in the dead of night, and how much he wished he could take back.

“I’m not that person anymore,” said Draco.

Seeing that he was so solemn, Granger, too, grew serious. “All right. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“I shouldn’t have insisted,” conceded Draco.

“That too.” Granger waved her wand and her erstwhile mirror became a car window again. She grew brisk in her movements. “Shall we?”

“Let’s,” said Draco.

Then he ruined the serious moment by needing help with opening the car door. Granger came round to help him with saintly patience.

She did not, to her credit, cast any aspersions on his ability to behave like a Muggle.

Chapter Text

They drove in silence for a little while. Granger looked preoccupied. Her thumb tapped at the steering wheel and she was worrying her lip.

“It’s going to be busy this afternoon,” said Granger at length. “At the Gardens, I mean. Let’s try to keep a low profile. We have to go through the gift shop to buy tickets to go in, but after that we’ll be able to go into the gardens themselves and avoid the worst of the crowds.”

“I can keep a low profile,” said Draco.

Granger gave him a side-eye in lieu of response.

“Does the water have magical properties?” asked Draco. “Why do the Muggles even know about it?”

Granger sat up straighter and took a breath, and Draco realised that had activated Swot Mode.

“The wellsprings in this area have been in use by both Muggles and magical folk for millennia,” said Granger. “It would’ve been too difficult to wipe the entire thing from so many minds after the Statute of Secrecy, I suppose. But, to answer your question, Muggles only know of two water sources in Glastonbury: one they call the White Spring, and one they call the Red Well. No real magical properties in either, though Muggles have ascribed their own spiritual and mythological significance to both. They have stories linking them to the Holy Grail, and King Arthur (he’s meant to be buried in Glastonbury Abbey), and other bits of legend.”

They were now approaching the outskirts of town. Granger turned at a sign pointing to the Chalice Well Gardens.

“But,” she continued, “there’s a third wellspring, one that you won’t find in the Muggle brochures. It’s called the Green Well. That one has bona fide magical properties. I need–” here Granger hesitated, but seemed to decide that Draco would work it out anyway “–I need a sample from it.”

“For your project.”

“Yes.”

“And why at Imbolc, specifically?”

“You’re being rather too inquisitive,” said Granger. Draco felt that she meant meddlesome, but had chosen the more polite option.

“I suppose the well reaches its highest magical potency at Imbolc,” said Draco.

Granger made no answer.

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

He saw her glance at the glovebox, wherein lay the Sneakoscope, promising to give away blatant lies.

“Stop being so curious,” said Granger.

“That’s a bit rich, coming from you.”

She scoffed. “Being curious is literally my job. I’m a researcher. Your job is to protect me from Forces Unknown, not interrogate me on a highly confidential, proprietary project.”

Granger pulled into a parking spot, turned off the car, and waited for his retort.

This witch was – something. Draco had never endured such unrelenting points and counterpoints. He rather felt that, if he’d been keeping track of the score, he’d be the losing party.

“I’m not a bodyguard. I wasn’t assigned to you to clomp along brainlessly behind you,” said Draco.

“No. You’re a highly trained, highly competent Auror and this is an utter waste of your time.” Granger took a breath, visibly suppressing her irritation at the entire situation.

The opening compliment elicited a tiny spark of delight, quickly suppressed by Draco. He didn’t care what Granger thought of him.

A group of Muggles passed the car, distracting the both of them. Mutually deciding on an unspoken truce – very temporary, Draco was sure – they climbed out of the car.

The car park was busy. Muggles in families, Muggles pushing prams, Muggles in outfits that seemed exceptionally outlandish, even for Muggles.

“I’ll warn you now, there are a lot of New Agey types here,” said Granger as they joined the crowd headed towards the entrance.

“New Agey?”

“Hippies. Wiccans. Pagans. Woo-woo types.” Granger seemed to be struggling for a definition. “Muggles who are very spiritual and believe in magic – or greater powers, anyway – to some extent. Some of them even call themselves witches. They don’t realise that there are actual witches and wizards, of course, and actual magic. They collect crystals and things, and perform rituals they read about in old books.”

“Ah,” said Draco, though he didn’t really understand. “I thought Muggles were meant to be relentlessly logical.”

“Some are,” said Granger. “Some are – rather less than logical. Or perhaps some part of them remembers magic. Or subconsciously knows it exists. Or maybe they just want to believe in something…”

They entered the busy gift shop – bustling, cloyingly over-scented.

Granger saw Draco wrinkle his nose and said: “That’ll be the essential oils. The New Agers love those.”

Draco examined some offensively perfumed candles, labelled ‘For Relaxation.’ “Why doesn’t someone tell them they’ve over-synthesised these things to the point where any minor magical property is utterly lost?”

Draco now found himself being steered by Granger and parked in a corner of the shop, like a Draco-shaped Mini Cooper.

“Stay here,” she said. “I’ll get us tickets. Don’t break anything.”

Thank goodness for that last tip; he might’ve begun to pulverise things out of sheer excess of spirit, otherwise. Shoving his hands into his pockets, Draco stood in the corner and watched Granger go. The crowd around her didn’t look at her twice. She really did blend in. As for him, he was the subject of more than a few upward glances – his height, his white-blond hair, his ‘spiffy’ suit.

Granger had now joined the slow-moving queue for tickets. Having his Principal away from him in a busy spot was not something that Draco was keen on, from a purely professional standpoint. He performed some surreptitious Legilimency on a random sampling of the people in the shop. The crowd was comprised mostly of Muggles. There was one wizarding couple, but they had no ill-intent – nor any idea that Granger was here. Would they recognise her if they saw her? Maybe – but Draco couldn’t delve into their minds so precisely from this distance.

Granger’s instructions to keep a low profile were rather hypocritical, given that she had just struck up a conversation with the Muggles in the queue behind her. Draco, annoyed, cast a surface-level Legilimency on the family to check for sinister intentions. Nothing of interest – they were just friendly tourists.

He grew aware of a presence lurking about him, peeking at him from around one shelf, then around the other. He pretended to be interested in the smelly candles.

Eventually, she showed herself. She was a shop assistant, heavily draped in diaphanous scarves, observing Draco with bulbous eyes. A name-tag was pinned to her jumper: Eunice.

“Hello,” she said to Draco. “Might I help you find something?”

Draco caught her gaze and read her immediate thoughts. Nothing ominous, save for the fact that she thought him dreadfully handsome.

“No, thanks,” said Draco, turning back to watch Granger between candles. She was finally nearing the front of the queue.

Instead of taking this as the firm dismissal it was, Eunice fluttered closer to Draco, her eyes glued to his face.

“Your aura is… disturbed,” she said.

Draco felt like he was being addressed by a Muggle incarnation of Trelawney crossed with a large moth.

“I don’t think these candles will do you good,” said Eunice.

“I agree with you there,” said Draco.

The sarcasm was lost on her. She nodded to herself and palpated the air around Draco, as though grasping at something.

“I’d suggest something stronger, like one of our cleansing incenses,” said Eunice, drifting down to point at a different shelf.

Draco watched Granger make a beeline to the café-bar. Would she kindly hurry up and save him from the moth?

Eunice was now holding her hand towards him with her eyes closed. She shook her head gravely. “Your heart chakra is underactive.”

“Is it?”

“The Venus Incense, I think,” said Eunice. She grasped a packet and waved the pungent thing under Draco’s nose. “Although, with your need for grounding, perhaps the Saturn…”

She rummaged around the shelf and said things about transmuting energy and ascending to the celestial plane. Draco spied Granger’s hat bobbing in his direction through the crowd.

“I have to go,” he said, making his escape.

“Oh, do you?” Eunice seemed put out. She slipped something into Draco’s hand. “My card. I do chakra realignments. Do reach out – our energies are quite compatible…”

Eunice floated away just as Granger arrived, bearing coffees.

“Who was that?” asked Granger, observing the retreating flutter of scarves.

“Eunice,” said Draco. “She gave me this. Do you need your chakras realigned?”

Granger exchanged one of her coffees for the proffered card. Something had been scribbled hastily on it.

“Ooh, she gave you her number.”

“What’s that mean?”

“That Eunice fancies you,” said Granger, looking amused.

“Most women do.”

Granger snorted, like this was a wickedly funny joke instead of a universal truth. She caught herself, sobered up, and looked at him with fresh wonder. “You’re funny, Malfoy.”

“I live to serve,” said Draco, to cover his vexation.

Granger returned the card to him. “Too bad you don’t even know what a mobile is. Poor Eunice was quite barking up the wrong tree.”

“She thought me dreadfully handsome.”

“She also thinks your chakras need realigning. Let’s not get too wrapped up in the soundness of Eunice’s judgements,” said Granger crisply.

Let it be known that if any man needed his ego checked, a simple exchange with Granger would quite set him to rights.

Draco sipped at the coffee Granger had brought. It was, remarkably, not terrible. “How did you know I like double espressos?”

Granger shrugged. “It seemed your style.”

“Bold? Bitter?”

“Overpriced.”

Draco hid his scoff in the cup.

Granger set them on a course towards the gardens. The rain began to let up and make way for tentative sunlight. The gardens were unexpectedly lovely, even if the Muggles in charge didn’t have access to the warming charms and magical additives that made wizarding gardens such a spectacle through winter. Draco thought his mother might even appreciate the place. Though it was February, there was colour about, thanks to careful plant selections. Musical gurgles of water from wellsprings everywhere added auditory interest and the whole thing was gently illuminated by hundreds upon hundreds of candles tucked away in stony recesses.

Signposts here and there asked visitors to maintain silence, out of respect for those meditating. Granger cast a silencing charm around the two of them so that they could talk.

They came upon the Red Well – aptly named, with its rust-coloured water. Draco read the plaque with passing interest. As Granger had noted earlier, the Muggles had fabricated some fanciful bit of Christian mythology suggesting the Holy Grail was buried here. There were also a few references to Arthurian legend.

“The Muggles know about Morgan le Fay?” asked Draco, an eyebrow rising at the sight of such a famous witch’s name on a Muggle placard.

“Yes – but she’s a figure of myth,” said Granger. “Most of them don’t think she really existed.”

Draco tutted. Imagine.

Next, they strolled through the well house that contained the White Spring – a dark, wet-smelling place, where Muggles had decorated the rough stone walls with candles and small shrines to deities real and imagined: Saint Brigid, the Lady of Avalon, the King of the Faeries…

“Here we are,” said Granger, as they made their way down a quieter, less-used path round the back of the well house. “There should be a sort of platform to take us down to the Green Well. We’ll have to use our wands to get in – let’s Disillusion ourselves in case any Muggles pass by.”

Granger was now a Granger-shaped patch of garden in front of Draco, glimmering in the weak February sun.

They stopped (well, Granger stopped, and Draco ran into her) at what looked like a manhole cover, tucked halfway under a bush. Across its weathered, cast-iron surface, were two large circles, intersecting under dead leaves and moss.

“That symbolises the interplay between the physical and spiritual worlds,” said Granger. Draco could make out her ghostly wand gesturing at it. “You might recognise the shape – the Red Well is constructed the same way. Let’s get on. It’s the platform down.”

They stood together on the manhole cover, rather squished.

“Incantation?” asked Draco, getting a mouthful of Granger’s invisible hair for the trouble.

“Vesica piscis,” said Granger, mimicking the circular symbol with a wand-wave.

The manhole cover shuddered. Granger crept closer to him. She smelled like a gorgeous combination of rain, wet forest, cappuccino, and soap.

Then, without a by-your-leave, the platform dropped out from under them.

The gorgeous-smelling witch clung to Draco and pierced both of his eardrums with her shriek.

Thank the heavens for those silencing charms, thought Draco as they fell.

A thick cushioning spell met them at the bottom of the drop. Which was excellent, as Draco hadn’t intended to break both of his ankles today.

He and Granger landed, bounced painfully into each other – he was quite certain he elbowed her in the tit; she narrowly avoided his groin with her knee – and collapsed, spread-eagled, on a thick bed of glowing fungi.

“Wow. A first class voyage,” drawled Draco in the dark.

“Gah,” responded Granger with something less than her usual acumen.

Draco rose. Granger was somewhere on his left. She didn’t seem to be making out quite as well as he was – she was rather shocked.

“C-couldn’t they set up a levitation charm?” she asked weakly. “I thought that thing was a lift. I didn’t expect a h-harrowing plummet to my death.”

Draco groped about in the dimness to find that his coffee was a lost cause. A pity.

They dismissed their Disillusionments and, when Granger managed to find her feet, began to walk down a passage illuminated by large, bioluminescent mushrooms. The sound of trickling water echoed throughout. Draco saw that even the walls were wet with a constant stream of moisture.

As they entered a kind of long, low-ceilinged cave, Draco saw that there were other witches and wizards about. In a corner was what looked like a kind of bookshop, which Granger eyed longingly. There was also a counter that served as an apothecary. The entire place was lit solely by the glow of the mushrooms, which were everywhere – the floor, the walls, dangling from the ceiling.

“Omphalotus luxaeterna,” said Granger. “Pretty, in a slimy sort of way.”

If she added a “Like you,” Draco was going to hex her – his ego had taken enough abuse today.

She didn’t. (It was almost disappointing that she’d let the occasion slip.)

They came at last to the Green Well – a bubbling green-lit wellspring, flanked by two statues in the penumbra. At least, Draco had thought they were statues – until they moved.

“The Keepers of the Well,” said Granger, who seemed unsurprised at the sight. “Right. You stay here. I need to do the talking. They have to be dealt with politely. And respectfully.”

Ignoring the insinuation that he couldn’t be polite or respectful, Draco said, “I think I’d rather come.”

His eyes strained to get a sense of what, exactly, lurked in the mushroom-speckled darkness.

Granger’s irritation flared immediately. “You said you wouldn’t get in the way. You’re not even meant to be here. This is delicate. And critically important.”

“Fine,” hissed Draco. “I’ll stay here.”

He was within hexing range, anyway.

Granger advanced. Draco peered at the two black-draped, hunch-backed forms. Were they witches? It was hard to tell in the dark. If they were witches, they most certainly had Hag blood, somewhere up the family tree. As well as a few other things, no doubt.

Their twin pale stares, as luminescent as the mushrooms around them, disconcerted him. He found himself gripping his wand as Granger stepped up to the nearest of the Keepers.

His first thought, as he processed this situation, was that Granger was either stupidly brave, or absolutely fucking reckless. Secondly, he didn’t like this at all. These beings felt Dark. Old. Dangerous.

Yes, Tonks, she was killed by a Hag. Yes, I was right there. Yes, I let her walk right up to it. Yes, she was disembowelled right in front of me. She wanted to pop by for some fancy water from this well, you know; nothing else would do.

“Here for a fill, dearie?” croaked the Keeper to Granger. The husky, dry voice echoed eerily.

“Yes – if I might? I have an offering,” said Granger. Her figure was a slight silhouette, backlit by the luminescence of the Green Well.

“Show me,” said the Keeper.

The creature leaned towards Granger. There was something hungry in her movements. Draco’s wand-hand twitched. If the thing moved any closer to Granger, he had a decapitation curse ready to be unleashed.

Granger, as always, was well-prepared. From somewhere in her anorak (where?!) she produced three large satchels, which she passed into the claws of the creature. “Grain, offal, gold.”

The second Keeper shuffled over, stuck her talon-like fingers into one of the bags, and pulled out a handful of glinting Galleons. (And where had Granger come by an entire sack of Galleons, by the by?)

The gold’s provenance did not seem to worry the second Keeper, at any rate. She crooned her satisfaction. “Very nice. Lovely. Let the good girl through.”

The first Keeper gestured Granger forward. “Haven’t you got a vessel, child?”

Granger produced a large flask, whose golden stopper shone in the dim light. “Yes – will this do?”

The thing wheezed in assent. At a gesture from the Keeper, Granger plunged the flask into the Green Well.

The second Keeper stared at Draco, as though aware of his tightly gripped wand and the well-practised curses that awaited on his tongue. She sniffed the air in his direction.

“Put the wand away, little boy. This girl won’t be meeting her demise here.”

The first Keeper looked up from where she stood beside Granger. “The wizard is worried, is it?”

“It is.”

The first Keeper’s white eyes caught Draco’s. There was ancient magic in them. He dared not perform Legilimency on this old mind.

She cackled as though he had spoken aloud. “That’s right, you won’t. Silly boy. I’d make your brain soup and drink it while it’s still warm, wouldn’t I?”

“But look at his eyes,” sighed the other Keeper. “Eyes like the rain-troubled skies…”

Cold dread trickled down Draco’s spine, though the creature hadn’t spoken a direct threat. He wondered whether his Darker curses would even be of use against these things – perhaps he should be thinking Light.

“Don’t you start with the rhyming,” said the first Keeper to her sister. “We don’t want to mess with his melon.”

“Er – I’m finished,” said Granger, who was now holding up her dripping flask.

It was a blessed interjection. Draco was genuinely beginning to feel spooked and trigger-happy.

“Good girl,” said the first Keeper. “Mind you use it wisely.”

“I will,” said Granger, stepping away from the two of them. “Th-thank you.”

“Love and light, my girl,” said the first Keeper.

She and her sister cackled, as though that was the most riotous thing they had ever heard.

Granger gave them a kind of bow and came back to Draco’s side. He kept his grip on his wand until they’d walked well out of the Keepers’ line of sight. Even then, he felt the twin pairs of white eyes touching at the back of his head.

“No,” he said, holding Granger to him when she darted towards the underground book shop.

“But I wanted to–”

“No,” said Draco, his grip on her elbow unyielding. “Let’s go.”

Granger seemed to sense Draco’s anxious anger and did not argue further. They walked back to the low passage that led to the platform, Granger taking two steps for every one of his.

When they were finally out of the central cave, Draco turned her to him. “What the fuck was that? You might’ve told me you were off to barter with Dark creatures!”

Granger’s face was pale in the phosphorescence. “I didn’t know they’d be so – so–”

“Haggish? Cadaverous? Lethal? The way the first one was eyeing you, she looked like she wanted to pluck your bloody liver out! And you walked right up to her! No wand!”

“Stop manhandling me,” said Granger, shaking off his hands. “She was not going to pluck out my liver. They were nice to me. And they’re certainly not hags.”

“Not hags?!” sputtered Draco. “You presented them with offal.”

“That’s a traditional gift – it’s what you’re meant to bring to the Keepers of the Well.”

“Who look like hags, and smell like hags, and eat like hags,” enumerated Draco, with irritated vigour.

“They don’t eat like hags!”

“You’ve just given them the ingredients for offal couscous! If those weren’t hags, then what the hell were they?”

“I don’t know! They – or successive incarnations of them, anyway – have recurred in texts about the Green Well for centuries. They’re usually described as crone figures. They aren’t evil. They’re ancient.”

“They were bloody She-Dementors, and you’re never to deal with that kind of creature again, without telling me first. I need you to understand that if anything happens to you, Shacklebolt will have my head, then Tonks will have my balls, then Potter and Weasley will scavenge the rest. My mother would bury me in a Marmite jar. Do you understand?”

“Fine. But you’re overreacting.” Granger shook her flask of water at him. “I got what I came for. I was prepared. I said the right things and brought the right gifts.” Now she hit her stride and went on the offence. “You almost threw a wrench in the works, getting so bloody hostile that they started taunting you. They could’ve told you things that would’ve tormented you for years–”

“What things? What do you mean?” interrupted Draco, freshly disturbed.

“Nothing,” said Granger. Seeing how intensely he was looking at her, she stepped back. “It’s stupid.”

“What things, Granger?” repeated Draco, looming over her now.

She hesitated, but, in the face of his agitation, gave in. “It’s just – part of the legendarium surrounding the Keepers suggests that – it’s silly, and obviously made up – suggests that they are Seers.”

“Seers,” repeated Draco.

“One of them knows when you die, and the other knows how you die.”

Draco shuddered in spite of himself.

Granger tucked a curl behind her ear and began to babble. “It’s all speculation, of course. Storytelling. It’s such a common conceit in old magical texts. They love giving guardian figures added mystique with alleged powers. I don’t put much stock in stories involving precognition, of course–”

Draco cut into her ramble. “How can you be so cavalier about that kind of legend? You’re literally best friends with the most precognitioned, prophesied, prognosticated, Bollocksing Boy Who Fucking Lived!”

Granger straightened and looked ready to sink her teeth into this new argument. “That was a highly unusual occurrence.”

Draco stared into space, running a hand through his hair. “I think one of those hags was about to say something, too. She started talking in rhymes. Fuck me. I wonder which she knew, the how or the when–”

“The tales are utterly unsubstantiated,” cut in Granger like the Chief Swot she was. “They don’t know anything. Don’t start thinking about it.”

“Too late. I am thinking about it. What rhymes with skies?” asked Draco. “Flies? Spies?”

Somehow, Granger was squeezing her large flask of well water into a pocket of her anorak. The impossibility of it distracted Draco from his morbid suppositions.

“What the–?! What is this, the Anorak of a Thousand Pockets? How did that fit in there? You didn’t even shrink it.”

“I’m a dab hand at Extension Charms,” said Granger, rather too lightly. “Can we–”

“So that’s how you were carrying around those unholy offerings for the Voodoo Twins,” said Draco. Finally, one Granger mystery solved. “You do know that those Charms are heavily regulated by the Ministry, don’t you?”

“I’m aware, thank you,” said Granger, snippy. “If I’m reported by anyone – hopefully not present company, if he knows what’s good for him – I’m prepared to pay fines in exchange for the convenience.”

“Oh, I see. Is that why you haul enormous sacks of Galleons about? For fines?”

“No. I carry those for ballast.”

Granger fished about in her pocket and, for a wild moment, Draco thought she was going to pull a sack of Galleons out to swing at his head. But no. She merely produced her wand and waved it to tell the time.

“Ugh – I’m late! I had one other thing to do, but you’ve put me so far behind schedule…”

Draco raised his eyes to the mushroomy ceiling. Of course it was his fault. “What thing?”

He and Granger squelched their way towards the manhole cover nestled amongst the fungi.

“A moment of pure self-indulgence,” said Granger. “I’ve wanted to go for ages and now I’m in the area, but…”

“But what?”

“You’re here,” said Granger. “And I don’t want you to be.”

“Too bad,” said Draco. “Any trust I might’ve had in your judgement has just been obliterated by your decision to haggle with hags, without a single sodding contingency plan if they got peckish.”

Granger made a sound that was more growl than anything else.

“Anyway – what self-indulgence? What’s your vice, Granger?”

“None of your bloody business.”

“I promise I’ve seen worse, whatever it is.”

Granger ignored him, Disillusioning the two of them while Draco made guesses at her secret peccadillo. A brothel? Getting detention? Offal couscous?

They stepped onto the platform. Draco heard the invisible Granger take a deep, steadying breath.

It served her well for the long scream that accompanied their expulsion to the surface.

And just like that, they were back in the Chalice Well Gardens, blinking in the sunshine. Draco couldn’t immediately step off the platform – Granger was holding onto him like a drowning creature clinging to a lifeline. An echo of her heartbeat and fear thundered through his ring. Her grip shook. She was terrified.

She made to step away, but her knees buckled, and she swung back into Draco instead.

“Fucking – damned – sodding – gah!” said Granger into Draco’s chest.

“A brilliant observation,” said Draco.

His voice seemed to bring her back to herself. She held him for a moment longer, then took a shaky breath and stepped away with a muttered apology. Draco glanced about for Muggles and, seeing none, he cancelled their Disillusionment.

Back in the realm of the visible, Granger looked bloodless.

“That was awful,” she said.

“I thought it was rather fun.”

“Yes, well – you’re also one of that diverse cohort of lunatics who enjoys Quidditch.”

“Oi.”

They followed the meandering path back to the entrance of the Gardens. Draco could see that Granger’s hands – well, her fingertips where they peeped out of her anorak – were still trembling.

She ran her hands down her arms a few times. “Right. You needn’t worry about me ever coming back to barter with the Voodoo Twins. I never want to use that death trap again. If I need another sample, I’ll just send you.”

“Me?” said Draco. “Not a bloody chance – one of them wanted to sip my brain out of my skull, or didn’t you hear that part?”

“She’d need a rather thick straw,” mused Granger.

“Funny.”

“You could land head-first on your way down, next time, make a bit of a milkshake for her…”

Draco stared at Granger. Perhaps it was Healer humour, but she could be grisly when she worked off her adrenaline. Maybe it was a good thing she didn’t play Quidditch. Then again, pondered Draco, she might make an exceptional Beater. No bludgers needed, Danger Granger could collapse psyches with a few syllables.

They passed through the gift shop (Eunice gave Draco a lovelorn look) and through the car park back to Granger’s Mini.

“Is there anything I can say that will make you go away?” asked Granger.

“No,” said Draco.

“What if I ask nicely?”

“No.”

“I’m not going to go interact with anything Dark – or anyone at all. It doesn’t even have anything to do with my project.”

Draco studied her. She looked genuinely crestfallen that he was going to ruin a third activity on today’s list. He decided to be charitable. “Tell me what it is and I’ll decide if it’s dangerous or not. Perhaps I’ll wait in the car.”

Granger checked her Muggle pocket device. Apparently, it gave the time, amongst other things. “Damn it. They’re closing in an hour. Get in. I’ll tell you on the way.”

They got in without mishap, Draco having now developed an expertise in opening Muggle car doors.

“One thing before we go, Miss Dab Hand at Extension Charms,” said Draco. “Extend this footwell before I behead myself with my own knees.”

~

As it turned out, Granger’s moment of pure self-indulgence? Her terrible indiscretion? Her vice?

Visiting a library.

“A library?” repeated Draco.

“Yes. At Tynstesfield.”

Draco wanted to scream with laughter, but felt that would be unprofessional. He settled for gasping out, “The decadence.”

“I wish you’d go away,” said Granger with cutting sincerity.

“The absolute sin of it all,” said Draco.

“Please Apparate home to your mother–”

“A library. I shall have to report it.”

“–As you can see, I’m quite safe here; the only remotely bad things are your attempts at humour.”

“What other naughty habits have you got? Churchgoing? Baking?”

“It’s a remarkable library.”

“Of course. It must be.”

“And I don’t know when I’ll be back in Somerset.”

“Yes.”

“It’s one of the largest libraries owned by the National Trust.”

“Mm.”

“The estate also has a beautiful orangery – a rare surviving example from the late Victorian period.”

“A thrill, to be sure.”

“All of these are things I wish to enjoy without you.”

Draco spotted the clenched jaw that signalled Granger reaching a breaking point – either a jinx, or a painfully incisive remark was forthcoming. He backed off.

“Fine. You can visit your blessed Titsfield–”

“Tynstesfield.”

“–And I shall wait in the car. I can sincerely say I haven’t the slightest desire to join you–”

The rest of his sentence was overpowered by a sudden wail. Draco swore. The sodding Sneakoscope.

Granger took her eyes off the road to give him a look of absolute surprise.

“It’s malfunctioning, clearly,” said Draco.

“Clearly,” repeated Granger somberly.

Draco gave the glovebox a harrowing glare.

“Hoisted by your own petard,” said Granger.

All of her previous annoyance had dissipated. She was most definitely holding back a grin.

The wail faded.

“I’m going to throw that blasted thing out of the window,” said Draco.

“Don’t. I’ve grown rather fond of it.”

Thanks to some rather zippy driving on Granger’s part (“Speed limits? A suggestion, really,” as the Sneakoscope sang) they made it to Tynstesfield half an hour before closing.

Granger was able to partake in the library and the orangery, and Draco enjoyed a poppyseed cake from the café, and they watched the sunset together, and only quarrelled four times.

Chapter Text

After their Imbolc outing, Granger all but disappeared from Draco’s life. He visited her laboratory and home once a week to recast the wards, but their schedules rarely coincided, and he saw her cat more often than he saw her.

Occasionally, his Jotter would buzz, and inform him that Granger was attending X public event at Y location. As her assigned Auror, she left his attendance to his discretion, though she made it clear his presence would be superfluous at best and bothersome at worst.

Most of the events took place in secure magical locations – panels at St. Mungos or Huntercombe, symposia at magical universities – so Draco had rarely seen a need to exert himself and attend. In the unlikely event of a research panel devolving into a Situation, they had the rings.

Tonks, seeing that Draco’s reports had become rather rote and that the Granger assignment was taking up only a little of his time, gleefully piled on additional missions. The cruel reward for competence was More Work and Draco wondered whether Potter and Weasel and their general bumbling wasn’t the better plan, after all.

And so, Draco found himself bunking with Buckley in a dingy hotel in Manchester, where they were gathering intelligence on a group of Dark artefact smugglers.

Buckley was a good sort. He was a newish Auror, over-eager and keen to prove himself, which meant that Draco could take on a more – well, he would call it managerial – role, and delegate the majority of his surveillance shifts to the lad. This would, as Draco nobly explained to Buckley, permit him to garner more hands-on experience. Buckley nodded with enthusiasm and put Draco in mind of a puppy.

He thus foisted off the three A.M. watch onto his zealous young colleague and went to bed.

Draco felt as though he had just fallen asleep when his ring burnt him awake: pain and an elevated heart rate, reverberating from Cambridgeshire.

It was half four. Nothing good ever happened at half four. Draco leapt out of bed and pulled his cloak over his pyjamas.

He was too far across the country for a direct Apparition to Granger. He blasted a fire into the hotel foyer’s dusty grate and Flooed to a Cambridge pub, and from there Apparated to Granger’s ring.

Draco materialised in Granger’s spare bedroom, the one he called the ritual room.

Granger was contorted into a dreadful, sweaty knot on the floor. Draco cast a flurry of Homenum Revelio and Finite Incantatem, looking for the invisible assailant who was obviously casting Crucio on her.

“Malfoy?” came Granger’s strangled voice from the floor.

Draco’s revelation spells showed absolutely nothing.

“What the bloody hell are you doing?” asked Draco.

Granger collapsed out of the horrid tangle and found her knees. “Yoga. What the bloody hell are you doing?”

Draco had seen this mysterious term on Granger’s schedule. “That’s yoga? What kind of self-inflicted martyrdom–?”

Now that he had ascertained that there was no immediate threat, Draco could take in the scene. There were candles flickering in a corner and soft music was playing. Granger was outfitted in those ridiculously form-fitting Muggle clothes, khaki green this time. Her hair was pulled into a French braid, thick as Draco’s wrist.

Granger was looking at him like he was an absolute bellend. “I was trying a Taraksvasana–”

“A what?”

“A scorpion handstand – I’ve been working towards it for weeks, and I almost had it, until you came in like a bolt from the blue and frightened me out of my wits!”

Draco was feeling increasingly foolish. He pulled his cloak closed to cover his pyjamas. There was little he could do about his bare feet. “What, pray, is the point of yoga?”

“Flexibility. Strength. Balance. Finding serenity.”

Draco eyed Granger with cynicism at the last bit. “Have you found it?”

“No,” said Granger. She got to her feet with evident irritation. “Kindly recalibrate your ring so you only show up in a real crisis.”

She flicked the Elektik lights on. Her cheeks were flushed. A trickle of perspiration was running down her neck. Her chest still heaved from her exertion. Draco could smell salt, female sweat, and the burnt wick of a candle.

His idiot brain took this image and immediately created several new neural pathways that had never existed previously, connecting the idea of Granger with the concept of sexy.

It was an extremely unwelcome development and Draco wondered whether he should lobotomise himself on the spot.

A gravelly meow interrupted his thoughts. The bandy-legged cat had wandered in. It trotted up to Granger and then, upon noticing Draco, favoured him with a hiss.

Draco did not hiss back, but it was a near thing.

“I’ll just leave then, shall I?” said Draco.

“Do,” said Granger. “Goodbye.”

Draco Disapparated out.

~

Draco had expected (and rather desired) nothing but annoyed silence from Granger after he’d barged in on her like an unhinged maniac. However, he was surprised to receive a message from her the next day – and not just a message, a bona fide apology.

Malfoy: I’m sorry about my behaviour yesterday. I should’ve been more appreciative that you arrived so fast when you thought something was the matter. Will warn you next time I try a Taraksvasana. -Hermione

Apologies weren’t part of Draco’s natural lexicon. His upbringing, both at home and at school, didn’t encourage the practise. Sorry was an admission of wrongdoing, a sign of guilt, an obvious weakness.

There was something nice about receiving one, however. It warmed the soul, really. He wasn’t sure which part he liked the most – Granger mulling this over for a day and then apologising, or Granger admitting she’d been wrong, or Granger appreciating him.

Instead of dismissing her note from the Jotter, Draco saved it in one of the back pages. He’d have to ask Potter how rare Granger apologies were, and whether he ought to have it framed.

“Draco, darling, you’re distracted.”

His mother’s voice, with an undertone of reproach, called him back to reality.

Reality was an unfortunate place – tea in the stuffiest parlour at the Manor, with his mother, her friend Madame Delphine Delacroix, and Madame Delacroix’s daughter.

Today’s debutante was Rosalie Delacroix. Beauxbatons educated, Pure-blood, objectively beautiful.

Draco put the Jotter away. “Pardonnez-moi, mesdames. Que disiez-vous?”

“Vous avez un Jabbering Jotter!” exclaimed Rosalie. “Those have only just begun to cross the Channel to us in France. We can’t get enough of them. Even my mother, who is so traditional, adores hers.”

“Indeed,” nodded Madame Delacroix. “I couldn’t get my husband to reply to an owl, not for love nor money – but these make it so easy. A true innovation. England should be proud of these – Weasleys, was it? These Frères Belette?”

When the conversation drifted away from him, Draco sent a response to Granger: Do advise of future scorpion pushups. P.S. Apologies from you may become my new drug of choice. -D

Draco looked up, a vague smile on his face, to find Rosalie chattering about an upcoming gala that her father was going to host. Draco had missed the beginning of it. In support of orphans, or something, probably.

“We would be so delighted to see the two of you there,” said Rosalie, her hands clasped into a knot of entreaty. “It’s such a good cause. They helped Father so very much, you know.”

The orphans helped Augustin Delacroix? Draco didn’t care enough to seek clarification. His Jotter buzzed. He checked it under the table to see a note from Granger: You do realise that I’d have to do bad things that warrant apologising for.

You do a great deal of bad things. I’ve compiled quite a list of your illicit activities, responded Draco.

“...Qu’en pensez-vous, Draco? Would that suit you?”

Draco raised his head. Madame Delacroix had asked him a question that he’d only partially heard, something about his schedule in March. He answered in the affirmative – of course, yes, he’d be happy to clear his calendar for such a noble cause. His mother beamed at his easy acceptance and indicated that she, too, would be delighted to come.

Granger answered, If only illegal extension charms were the worst of my sins.

No, responded Draco, I know the real extent of your depravity.

She anticipated him. I see that the library visit will haunt me.

Draco grinned into his teacup. His mother saw the smile and, encouraged by what seemed like his good mood, asked the ladies if they’d like to see the gardens. Rosalie declined, claiming to have caught a bit of a chill. Madame Delacroix and Narcissa left for the gardens.

Draco sobered up as he found himself in a forced tête-à-tête with Rosalie.

The pretty witch spoke charmingly of anything she thought might catch his attention – Quidditch, his job, the weather. Draco listened with only one ear, because it wasn’t about hags wanting to use his skull as a sippy cup and it was therefore rather dull.

He found himself wishing to be continuing a conversation with another witch, one whose newest message had just buzzed in his pocket.

The talk turned to mutual friends, to upcoming dinners, to other frivolities. Rosalie agreed enthusiastically with every point Draco made, no matter how inane, instead of whipping counter-arguments back at him. She laughed at his mildest jokes instead of retorting with something snappy. She clung to his every word – uncritical, eager – instead of challenging him. She complimented him to excess.

It made for rather weak conversation.

When Draco realised who he had unconsciously made into Rosalie’s foil, he was taken aback. Since when had Granger become the yardstick by which he measured female company?

The conversation – such as it was – lasted twenty minutes. Eventually, Rosalie convinced Draco to add a page to his Jotter for her, under the pretext of sending more details for the gala. Draco shrugged in absent-minded agreement. (It was a careless moment he would later regret, as Rosalie was a proficient Jotter and wrote to him incessantly thereafter.)

The ladies returned from their tour. Smiles were smiled, goodbyes were said, and Draco sighed in relief when Henriette the house-elf escorted their visitors back to the Floo parlour.

Later that night, Narcissa drifted into Draco’s study to probe. “Rosalie is a sweet girl, isn’t she? You seemed like you were getting along.”

There was such a quiet optimism in her voice, Draco wondered if it wouldn’t be kinder to lie. But that would give his mother hopes, and dashing them later would be all the crueller.

“I suppose we got along well enough,” he said.

She detected the lack of enthusiasm immediately. “But?”

“Rather a milquetoast kind of girl.”

Narcissa’s thin hands clutched before her in disappointment. “Oh.”

Quarrelling with his pale, sad mother was never high on Draco’s to-do list. He tried to be gentle as he admonished her. “We’ve had this conversation before. I don’t need, nor want, you to hand-pick witches for me.”

“I only want to help you.” Narcissa’s thin fingers clasped at each other. “I want you to find someone who is educated, and lovely, and who will be a devoted companion, and give you children, and fill this great empty house with laughter again. Rosalie would be all those things. Any number of the witches I’ve introduced you to would be all these things.” She paused, then added, “I only want you to be happy, Draco.”

“I am happy.”

Another sigh from Narcissa. “At your age, your father was married, you know – and had you – you were four or five by then…”

“I am not my father.”

Narcissa, seeing that she would make no further headway here, glided towards the door.

“I don’t think she exists,” she said over her shoulder as she left.

“Who?”

“The perfect witch you’re apparently waiting for.”

~

Granger wrote to Draco about a week later, advising him that she was speaking at a Muggle conference that Thursday.

Where? he asked.

Magdalen College, Oxford, said Granger. Thurs 2-5pm. I’m on at 2.30. I doubt I shall be murdered but leave your attendance to your expert judgement.

Yes, Granger, thank you for the cheek: he would use his expert judgement.

Audience? he asked.

Muggle doctors, said Granger.

How many? asked Draco.

150, said Granger.

Draco’s eyebrows rose. He sometimes forgot quite how small the wizarding world was. There were probably less than a hundred fully fledged Healers in the entirety of the UK. Maybe three or four hundred if you included Mediwitches and other field medics.

I’ll look in, said Draco.

Spiffy prof. look please, said Granger. Don’t embarrass me.

Draco didn’t deign to answer her.

The day of the conference came around. Draco Apparated a small distance away from Magdalen College and walked to the auditorium Granger had specified, at the time she specified, wearing the clothing that she had specified.

Bossy sort of witch, was Granger.

The volunteer at the registration table was gently Confunded into thinking that Draco was a registered participant, and he was let in with a name badge and a programme. He took stock of the building, discreetly casting revelation spells when Muggles weren’t looking. The foyer, cloak room, and toilets were free of any naughtiness, as were the back rooms. The handful of people he covertly cast Legilimency on were who they were meant to be – brainy Muggles, here to become even more brainy.

Draco found a shadowy alcove near the front of the auditorium from which to survey the place. He was about twenty metres away from the stage, from which vantage he could see Granger seated at a long table, along with three of her fellow experts. They were chatting amongst themselves as the crowd filed into the auditorium.

From a risk assessment standpoint, Granger couldn’t have been more exposed, sitting as she was under a literal spotlight. Draco pried through the minds of the people in the front row and found nothing but eagerness to begin and high levels of admiration directed towards the doctors on the stage. Then he peeked through the minds of the unseated people idling on the stairs at the edge of the auditorium, as he was, and found only volunteers, students sneaking in, and a bearded gentleman wearing large ear-coverings, whose chief role seemed to be managing blinky boxes with wires coming out. There wasn’t a single witch or wizard present, as far as he could tell.

Satisfied that there were no immediate threats, Draco cast precautionary wards across the front of the stage and settled into his alcove. As the conference began, he flipped open the programme. It informed him that today’s panel would feature international leaders in immune cell engineering and immunotherapy.

This told Draco very little, of course. Cancer was a decidedly Muggle ailment. Wizarding folk were rarely afflicted with it, and when they were, it was quickly resolved. However, it seemed that this was not the case with Muggles, for whom it was a serious condition, and nigh incurable in some forms.

Enter Granger and her cohort of fellow brains. Their talks today included such thrilling questions as FL and CLL: A New Care Paradigm and Hodgkin’s Lymphoma: Mitigating Toxicity while Preserving Cure.

Draco decided that it would be quite safe to leave Granger to her CLL’s. The only threat in this room was death by obscure acronym. Just as he was about to leave – he rather fancied a nap – the mediator announced that Dr. Granger’s presentation was next.

Draco watched her walk across the stage and decided to stay.

She was a small figure on the stage, by far the shortest amongst the panellists. She smiled at the audience as she approached the Muggle voice-amplification device on the podium. Her movements were confident and poised. She didn’t have notes, but the large screens behind her projected diagrams and bullet points.

She made a few opening remarks that included a joke that went completely over Draco’s head, but the auditorium filled with laughter. Her presentation focused on the advancements of something called CAR T cell therapies in B-cell malignancies. She made eye contact with everyone, took questions throughout, was challenged, counter-challenged the challengers, and defended her position without skipping a beat.

She was confident, she was clever, and in this room, she was important.

Granger in her element was a rather impressive thing.

After finishing her presentation, Granger returned to the table and her fellow panellists discussed her talk. At some point, Draco wasn’t even certain that Granger and her interlocutors were even speaking English anymore, as they cross-examined each other on EBV and TNK-cell lymphomas and their diagnostic challenges, and the architecture of liquid biopsy research. Granger made a pun about MALT1 degradation which was, apparently, uproariously funny.

Draco entertained himself by performing Legilimency on the panellists. Not a single one thought that Granger was an insufferable swot. He found only respect, admiration, and a surprise crush from the male doctor on her left.

Draco learned that something called quantitative radiomics analytics existed. Their predictive values were discussed at length. These Muggle doctors were another thing entirely, brilliantly working through the impossible, dedicating their entire lives to it. How had he ever thought Muggles base and ignorant? Draco shook his head.

Granger must’ve caught the movement of his white-blond hair in the shadows. When saw that it was Draco, she gave him a brief smile of acknowledgement – bizarre feeling, that – and carried on with her current dissertation, her hands making wide arcs as she explained something.

At length, conclusions were drawn, closing remarks were made, and the conference ended with much applause. The participants milled about, with Granger and the panel at the centre of the crowd.

Draco, feeling rather mushy in the brain from all the new words and Legilimency he had performed (perhaps the Keeper wouldn’t need such a thick straw after all), decided that he was no longer needed here.

He made for the exit, but Granger caught him as he passed the stage.

As usual, small talk was dispensed with. Instead, he found his Muggle disguise being assessed by her, her gaze accented by a raised eyebrow.

“Passable,” was the pronouncement on the outfit.

“Why the eyebrow?” asked Draco.

Granger pointed at the name tag that the Confunded volunteer had affixed to Draco’s lapel. “Hello, Professor Takahashi.”

“Ah,” said Draco. “Yes. That’s me.”

“And how is Tokyo at this time of year?”

“Very nice,” said Draco.

“Professor Takahashi is from Kyoto,” said Granger. Her arms were crossed, but there was amusement in her eyes. “Rather ballsy to pose as one of Japan’s most renowned clinical oncologists.”

“I am nothing if not ballsy,” said Draco, flipping his hair. “Did you know that the good Dr. Driessen fancies you?”

Now Granger’s second eyebrow joined the first, at her hairline. “What?”

“He’s going to ask you out for drinks tonight.”

“No.”

“Yes. He also liked the skirt,” said Draco, gesturing to the high-waisted, close-fitting garment in question. (He also quite liked it, incidentally; Muggle fashion and its emphasis on bums was growing on him.)

“Ugh – I mean, he’s very nice, but – wait – how do you know this?” Granger’s hand flew to her mouth. “You did not perform Legilimency on innocent Muggles.”

“Part of my risk assessment protocol.”

“Is that allowed? Bit of a violation of privacy, isn’t it?”

“Aurors have privileges,” said Draco. “Anyway, Shacklebolt gave me carte blanche to use whatever means necessary to keep you safe. Except for murder – I’ve got to get permission for that. There’s a form and everything.”

Granger seemed ninety percent sure he was joking, but she was nevertheless eyeing him like he was the most unprincipled, depraved Auror ever produced by the Ministry, and it was just her luck that she’d been saddled with him.

Dr. Driessen popped by and, to Granger’s evident dismay, asked her if she’d join him for drinks that night. Draco appreciated the guts, if not the subtlety of the approach.

A few things happened very quickly. Granger moved to Draco’s side, her hand found his chest in a gesture of affection, which conveniently hid his ridiculous nametag, and she announced that, unfortunately, she was already spoken for that night, but perhaps another time?

Dr. Driessen looked up at Draco, at his hair (perfect), his jawline (also perfect), his eyes (perfect, and icy, and perfect) and decided that he was quite outranked.

Smart man.

“Of course,” he said, backing off and looking flustered. “So sorry – I didn’t realise. Where are you two going?”

“Er–” said Granger.

“The Turf Tavern,” supplied Draco.

“Classic!” said Dr. Driessen. Then, with a wag of his eyebrows to Draco, he said, “Just across from the Bodleian. You’ll have to keep Hermione on a tight leash.”

“Oh yes,” said Draco, wrapping his arm around Granger’s waist. “I always do.”

He felt Granger’s hand on his chest twitch.

“Well – lovely to see you, as always, Hermione,” said Dr. Driessen.

“Goodbye, Johann,” said Granger with a rather fixed smile.

Granger was tense as the man walked away – her body felt coiled and ready to leap away from Draco.

“Don’t jump away like you’ve been burnt,” muttered Draco. “He’s watching. Act natural.”

Granger cleared her throat and let her hand slide down Draco’s chest, taking the nametag with it. She stepped away from him slowly and tried to make it look natural. (It did not.)

Draco himself vacillated between amusement at her discomfiture and alarm at how nice the curve of her hip had felt against him, and how good she smelled (again).

Granger peeled the Japanese professor’s name off her palm. She looked discombobulated, which mirrored Draco’s sentiments nicely.

“Sorry,” she said. “I had to come up with something, and you were conveniently – there.”

“Use me as a prop anytime,” said Draco, scanning the crowd instead of looking at her.

Granger was accosted by other colleagues, who had heard that she was going to the Turf, and they were going too, so they’d see her tonight, and her first G&T was on them, pip pip, etc.! Granger smiled faintly and waved them off.

“This may have been a mistake,” was her sombre conclusion. “You can leave. I’ll make up an excuse for you.”

This was a fine suggestion, except for one small problem: upon a meticulous reflection lasting eight seconds, Draco had decided that he rather wanted to go.

“But I want a G&T,” said Draco.

Granger was still muttering to herself and not listening. “I’ll tell them you felt sick, or something.”

“Sick? I’m the picture of health.”

“I’ll say you ate something funny.”

“I think not. There are hundreds of Muggle doctors here – if I say I’m sick, they’ll all descend on me and try to cure me. I don’t want anyone sticking a stethoscope up my bum.”

“No one sticks stethoscopes up anyone’s bums,” said Granger in loud exasperation.

Two conference participants who had been passing by gave Granger a shocked look.

Granger watched them go, aghast.

“Oops,” said Draco.

Granger’s jaw was tight. “You are positively the worst.”

She turned and walked briskly away.

Draco found himself grinning.

And, speaking of bums, let it be known that Draco absolutely did not check hers out, nor did he find the view pleasing at all, nor did he slow down on purpose to watch her.

Separately, with no connection whatsoever to Granger’s bum, Draco concluded that robes were overrated.

The Turf Tavern was a stupidly busy place, especially so when the conference had disgorged hundreds of thirsty participants into Oxford’s streets. Draco found a table while Granger got them drinks (G&Ts all around) and they found themselves crammed on a bench amongst a dozen of the finest immunologists and oncologists in the world, getting progressively more drunk.

Draco was asked what he did for a living. Granger had gone rather worried-looking when the question was posed (tch – had she no faith?) but Draco had a well-practised cover story at the ready. Tonks insisted on every Auror developing a few Muggle biographies, and some backup wizarding ones, and she quizzed them on their covers routinely to keep them on their toes.

Draco shared his favourite. This evening, he was a pilot. Few Muggles knew very much about the technicalities of flying, so, unless he encountered a real pilot – unlikely, surrounded by tipsy doctors – he was safe. And, of course, he had a genuine passion for wizarding flying, which lent a certain veracity to his tales of aeroplane heroics.

“Flying isn’t that hard, you know,” he said to the table. “Keep the blue side up.”

Laughter. The doctor beside him indicated that such simple principles applied in medicine, too: keep the guts in. More laughter.

Draco caught a wonder-filled glance from Granger, a mixture of pleasant surprise, and who the fuck are you. He twitched an eyebrow at her. She looked away, nonplussed.

When asked when he’d arrived in Oxford, Draco said, “This morning.” When asked what he was doing in Oxford, he said “Doctor Granger.”

Granger choked on her drink. More laughter. When Draco next stole a glance at her, Granger looked like she was going to lure him into a lonely alley and, there in the darkness, strangle him.

Who knew that teasing the swot of the century could be such a glee-filled activity.

Someone else joined their table to raucous cries of welcome – the real Professor Takahashi. Granger shuffled closer to Draco along the bench to make room.

Draco bent over and whispered, “Ask him if he had any troubles with his registration.”

Granger kicked him.

She spoke politely with the professor – Draco heard snippets of their conversation about Kyoto – but his focus kept drifting to the feeling of Granger’s shoulder pressing into his arm, and her leg touching his under the table.

A waiter arrived bearing more food and drink. Someone had ordered an enormous platter of cheese toasties – oily, salty, and served with onion chutney. Narcissa Malfoy would’ve had a heart attack just looking at the greasy things, oozing with three different kinds of cheese.

Granger passed Draco the platter in an ambivalent kind of way, as though she expected him to turn his nose up at Muggle pub food.

Draco took one. It was the best filth he’d ever eaten.

Someone, somewhere, rang a triangular instrument, and called for those who wanted to join tonight’s pub quiz to form teams.

Some of the doctors at the table took this as a sign to depart. Others appeared amused at the timing, and eager to join in.

“I love pub quizzes,” said the grey-haired woman on Draco’s right. “Half the fun is learning you’re a colossal moron.”

“Bet we get trounced by some freshers,” said the doctor across from him.

“Nonsense,” said a third. “With Hermione here, this’ll be a doddle. You are staying, aren’t you, Hermione?”

Granger glanced at Draco. “What do you think? If you’re tired, you can go back to – back to our hotel.”

Draco appreciated the attempt at providing him an escape, but he didn’t take it. He had rather an excellent buzz going, and he wanted to try this pub quiz thing, and there was the warmth of a woman at his side, and it was all rather nice. “Pish tosh – of course I’ll be staying.”

There were cries of “Brilliant!” and then there was a general kerfuffle as everyone looked for paper and pens.

Draco was of absolutely no use for the first handful of questions, which focused on Muggle politics and sports. However, he did know how many keys a baby grand piano has (88), and what year Cessna was founded (1927), and which country’s national anthem had 158 verses (Greece; all 158 had been sung at the last Quidditch World Cup).

There were a few biology and science questions which the doctors hammered into the ground with an unnecessary level of detail. Draco learned that Picolax was used for something called colonoscopy preparation; one of the doctors nodded grimly and said, “Night of a thousand waterfalls,” and Draco was too frightened to ask for clarification. Then they quibbled with the host over the definition of “subcutaneous” and quite intimidated the poor lad until he gave them the point.

The history and art questions would’ve sideswiped the whole team, but for Granger, who pulled them through. Then – to general groaning – they were hit by mathematics exercises, and the team of youngsters beside them whizzed through the lot and left the doctors sweating in the dust.

“Engineers,” said one of the doctors. “We never stood a chance.”

Granger, still stuck on a problem, looked vexed.

Then geography, then music, then zoology, which Granger was solidly capable of handling with occasional assistance from her colleagues. Draco didn’t even attempt to help; he was on his fourth drink, and working out what monotreme meant was too deep a philosophy for him to pursue at the moment.

In the end, their team won – largely thanks to Granger.

“We’ll have Hermione registered with English Heritage as a national treasure,” said one of the doctors, giving Granger a pat on the shoulder.

Granger smiled, but her gaze quickly returned to the maths problem that had tripped her up, scrawled out on a napkin.

The winning team received vouchers with some kind of monetary value. The doctors handed over theirs to the young engineers who had come in second, saying it hadn’t been a fair fight, since their combined years at uni were greater than the poor engineers’ years alive in the first place.

The evening wound down. The place grew quieter as most of the crowd left after the quiz, except for Draco, who was rather enjoying the drinks, and Granger, who was still working on the maths thing.

Eventually, she poked one of the youths at the table next door and asked for an explanation.

“It’s Borel’s paradox,” said the boy.

“Oh!” said Granger. “Obviously…”

The mystery was unlocked and she scribbled out the solution on her napkin. Then she threw down her pen with finality and stood up.

“Let’s go,” she said.

Draco rose to his feet with care, waiting to see how much the drinks were going to catch up with him. It wasn’t too bad, considering. The cheese toasties turned out to be rather absorbent.

“Have a nice night, you two,” said the barkeep with a wink at Granger.

Granger gave him a rather sickly smile and all but ran for the door.

Outside, neither of them was quite walking with their usual level of booze-free confidence, though Granger was certainly getting on better than Draco. At one point, she pulled him to her, just as he had been about to collide into a lamp post.

“You’re meant to be watching over me,” she said. “Not the other way round.”

“That pole came out of bloody nowhere,” said Draco into Granger’s hair.

She stepped away from him until he was firmly at arm’s length. “How are you getting home? And don’t say Apparition. I’ll Stun you if you try.”

Draco was quite certain that, even in his giggly state, he’d be quicker on the draw than her, but, nevertheless. “Floo, I s’pose.”

“There’s a connected hearth at my hotel. This way.”

Draco followed her through Oxford’s storied streets. The booze was settling and the philosophy began to flow. He felt generous and at ease with the world. “Those Muggles today – they were all rather clever.”

“Yes,” said Granger.

“You’re rather clever. With all the – the diagrams, and the malts, and carts, and things,” said Draco. It felt important that she know this.

She gave him a sideways glance in the dark. “Thank you. And please stop, you’re frightening when you’re nice.”

“I’m frightening?”

“Go back to making fun of my hair.”

“Fine. It’s horrid. You should shave it off.”

“Better,” said Granger.

“Don’t actually, though,” said Draco.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Here we are,” said Granger. She pushed open the door of a small wizarding inn. The reception desk was empty and the fire in the hearth was low.

Granger waved her wand at the embers and they blazed back to life as though she’d cast a full Incendio.

“Are you a dab hand at fires, on top of the extension charms?” asked Draco in the face of this demonstration.

“A bit,” said Granger, with unconvincing false modesty.

“I heard you set fire to Snape in first year,” said Draco, “but I didn’t believe it.”

“Good – that’s utter bollocks,” said Granger, not meeting his eye.

“You’re a bad liar.”

“Off you go,” said Granger, sidestepping the remark and gesturing him towards the fireplace. “I’m shattered and need my bed.”

“But I want the story about setting fire to Snape,” said Draco.

“Go home, Malfoy.”

Seeing that he was getting nowhere, Draco threw Floo powder into the fireplace. “You’re positively no fun. Malfoy Manor.”

The flames glowed green. His last sight, as he looked back, was of Granger, her arms crossed, her hip cocked to one side. Her dark eyes observed him like he was a fresh maths theorem to unpuzzle.

On one hand, it flattered his ego to have intrigued the Great Brain. On the other, given her propensity for solving things, it rather frightened him. He didn’t want to be solved.

“Good night, Malfoy.”

Draco stepped into the fire.

Chapter Text

Draco’s next warding visit to Granger’s house was marred by what was, in retrospect, a slight lapse in judgement. As weeks had gone by and he had made little further headway on discovering the nature of her research project, his mind turned to a certain Object of Interest in her study: the tattered grimoire on the plinth. The one that she had threatened to cry about.

And so, one morning in early March, when Draco was preparing for his perennial visit to Granger’s cottage, he sent her a note indicating that he’d be going into her house, if that was all right, because he hadn’t warded the windows individually, and it was bothering him.

Granger acquiesced with a dry, If you really find it necessary.

Yes, he did.

Draco timed his visit to coincide with one of Granger’s lessons at Trinity, to ensure that he wouldn’t be disturbed as he snooped. When he arrived, her cat – perhaps sensing something nefarious afoot – took up a position of power on the roof, and stared at him as he recast the outside wards.

“Only doing my job, cat,” said Draco, making a great show of it.

The cat regarded him with cynicism.

He entered the cottage and warded the first floor windows with alacrity, then bounded upstairs to do the others. Granger’s bedroom was done first, with minimal looking about, because the cat was at the door, and watching him. Then the yoga room. Then, finally, he came to the study.

The grimoire was still on its plinth, open in the middle, still surrounded by the green glow of stasis charms. Draco warded the window under the watchful eye of the cat and drifted towards the tome.

The cat’s stare grew more penetrating.

Draco peered at the visible pages. Through the stasis charm, the words were blurred and seemed to dance. The script was laboured and heavy. It wasn’t English – in fact, bits of it looked French – Anglo-Norman, perhaps? In that case, this was an old book – five centuries, at least.

From the bits that he could understand, he was looking at an elaborate description of a landscape: a green hill under dancing bluebells, and gleaming thistle-down, and the velvet-soft leaves of Fali’s Gossamer.

That was all that Draco could make out, the rest was too damaged. He remembered Granger’s moment of volubility at the Mendip Way, something about descriptions of flora giving her clues for her mysterious pursuit. None of the plants mentioned here had featured on her list, however. This must be a different site.

He dearly wanted to see the book’s cover.

He glanced at the cat. The cat all but shook its head.

“Just a quick look,” said Draco to the cat. “I might be able to help her, you know.”

The cat whisked its tail in disapproval.

Draco did it anyway. Using his wand as a lever, so that he didn’t touch the book at all, he lifted the cover enough to peek at the front.

It was entitled, Revelations.

The cat meowed a wrathful meow.

Draco let the cover fall back into place and left the cottage rather quickly.

~

Draco didn’t know how, but Granger suspected something. First his Jotter went off with a series of messages, questioning him about whether he had touched the book. Draco denied, denied some more, and then Stunned the Jotter so it would stop buzzing.

Then Granger somehow got hold of Boethius, and used Draco’s own owl to send him increasingly heated queries. Draco sent Boethius off with a missive to a friend in Italy, which would keep him out of Granger’s hands for at least a week.

Then a Howler landed on his lap in the middle of a briefing with Tonks. It got as far as, “MALFOY, DID YOU–” before Draco incinerated it.

Tonks’ eyebrows rose. “Was that Hermione?”

“Yes,” said Draco.

“That explains that,” said Tonks. She gestured to the Foe Glass behind her. One of the shadows looked rather familiar in form: a slender woman, a pile of curls on her head, her hands on her hips, silhouetted against the grey.

“I suppose she’s having violent thoughts about me by proximity to you,” said Tonks. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” said Draco, which was essentially true.

Tonks stared at him for a long time, her fingers tapping against her desk. “I will assume that whatever you did was done in your professional capacity as an Auror, to ensure her continued protection.”

“That is always my primary objective,” said Draco.

Tonks gave him another long look, then turned back to his report on the Dark artefact smugglers. “Be careful, Malfoy.”

Thus dismissed, Draco returned to his cubicle.

He had barely sat down when a silver otter dove at him out of nowhere. It called him a nosey prat and a bloody liar, and advised him to jump off a bridge.

Draco sent his own Patronus back with a request to Granger to kindly keep her loud otters to herself: he was working.

For a short while, that was that.

Draco kept an eye on Granger’s schedule to spot breaks in her calendar during which she might decide to come and find him in person. She did not, possibly because she was saving lives or other such tomfoolery.

That was when he noticed that another of her asterisk holidays was coming up rather soon – that weekend, in fact.

So – Ostara is coming up, he Jotted casually that evening.

Her response was instantaneous, if off-topic. That book was NOT yours to touch.

Where are you going at Ostara? asked Draco.

You are NOT invited, said Granger.

Don’t need an invitation, said Draco.

I do not need supervision by prying nitwits, said Granger.

See you soon, said Draco.

She didn’t respond.

Bit pouty, sometimes, was Granger.

~

The Not-Invited Prying Nitwit had a lovely lie-in on Saturday before getting ready to Apparate to Granger.

Frankly, after her hijinks with the Keepers of the Well, she had lost any privileges she might’ve had to make calls about whether or not she needed Auror supervision. Draco had no faith that Granger wasn’t about to throw herself into a den of vampires to get her hands on some other obscure flask.

Those virtuous reasons aside, the timing of Granger’s weekend escapades continued to serve Draco’s purposes. Today, Granger’s frolic, whatever it was, coincided with one of his mother’s luncheons. Draco was glad of the excuse to be away, even if his mother promised that she had no ulterior motives and that the presence of any young, eligible witches would be coincidental.

Draco Flooed to the Mitre, the usual Cambridge pub, and from there he Apparated to Granger’s ring, which brought him to her kitchen.

And, lo and behold, there was the ring, but there was no Granger.

“You’re bloody joking,” said Draco to the ring on the kitchen table.

Only the cat responded – a pitiful meow at his mistress’ absence.

“Your witch is a pain in my arse, you know that?”

The cat curled itself into a sad orange loaf at Draco’s feet.

Draco pocketed Granger’s ring with a mutter. Then he pulled out his wand and cast his tracking charm. Good thing he made contingency plans.

In front of him glowed a map, and on that map were points of light brighter than the rest.

Granger’s old trainers remained, it seemed, in her laboratory at Trinity College. The tea mug was somewhere in this cottage. The handful of her hairpins that Draco had charmed were rather scattered – some at the laboratory, some at St. Mungo’s.

A single hairpin was currently gambolling through Uffington, for reasons unknown.

Reasons that Draco was rather eager to discover.

Draco Apparated to the hairpin.

“Surprise,” he said as he materialised before Granger.

She jumped a metre into the air, which was satisfying, and then swore at him, which was even more satisfying.

Draco looked around to find himself at the top of a green, wind-swept hill. It was a strange kind of formation: tall, but flat across the top. The turf below his feet was rich, green, and deliciously springy, except where it was interrupted by large splotches of chalky white. All around him undulated a lovely vista of rich pasture-lands, meandering hedgerows, and wandering sheep-paths.

Now Draco turned his attention to Granger herself, who was all kitted up in her Muggle walking gear. Her hair was in a high ponytail, which lent her a sporty kind of air over her usual scholarly bun. Her nose was pinkened by the March wind.

Her brow, of course, was marred by a frown.

“How the bloody hell are you here?” asked Granger.

“Where are we?” asked Draco.

“How did you find me?”

“What’s in your anorak?” asked Draco, because it looked suspiciously puffy.

Granger zipped the anorak a little tighter. Her bright eyes grew dull with a sudden veil of Occlusion. “Nothing. There – I’ve answered one of your questions, now you answer mine.”

“That was a lie, though.”

“Well, that’s all you’re getting from me,” said Granger. She began to make her way down the hill and away from Draco. “I don’t want to speak to you.”

“Don’t you? Because you exploded my Jotter, commandeered my owl, and then sent me a Howler and an angry otter. Oi – where are you going?”

“Away from you,” said Granger.

Draco was annoyed – had he missed whatever she’d come here for? Her Ostara thing?

He must’ve. She was hippity-hoppiting her way away from him, looking altogether too pleased. He shouldn’t have had quite such a luxurious lie-in.

“Granger! Get back here. We’re not done,” said Draco, hippity-hoppiting behind her down the hill.

“I’m done here,” said Granger with an exaggerated lightness of spirit. “I wouldn’t know about you.”

“You need to wear the bloody ring,” called Draco to Granger’s bouncing ponytail.

She clambered on, ignoring him. Then, without an iota of warning, she bent over. Draco narrowly avoided ramming into her with what would have been full pelvic contact.

Yes, Tonks. She broke her neck falling down a hill. I thrusted into her too hard. Yes, it was an accident. Yes, she’s dead. Please return my body to my mother in the fewest pieces possible.

Granger sprang up again, holding a sprig of something aloft.

“What’s this?” she asked.

Draco stared at the thing. “A plant.”

“Specifically, gossamer. Do you know what kind of gossamer?”

“F–” began Draco, remembering the old tome. He caught himself. “F-frankly, I’ve no idea.”

“Fali’s. It’s Fali’s Gossamer.”

“Good for Fali.”

“But you knew that, because you read the book.” Granger’s façade was cracking. She looked slightly manic under it.

Draco waved the plant away. “Taking the ring off wasn’t in our agreement. You’re to keep it on at all times. That’s the entire point.”

Granger, who had turned to continue her descent, whipped back around. Her ponytail slapped Draco in the face, a severe injury for which she did not even remotely apologise.

“D’you know what else wasn’t in our agreement? You breaching my trust and touching my things!”

Ah, there it was: the shrieking.

“I didn’t do anything to your book.”

“You weren’t to touch it in the first place! That book is beyond price!”

Whipping around again (and hitting him in the face with her hair again), Granger stormed down the hill.

“Put the damned ring back on, Granger,” said Draco.

“No. I’m through with your surveillance device.”

“Fine,” called Draco to her retreating back. “I’ll tell Shacklebolt that I’m through and he’ll have you actually put under surveillance. With Aurors who will literally watch you round the clock. Every move, every fucking vial of whatsits you pour in your laboratory, and every word you plonk into your computers!”

Granger stopped. She made a strangled noise.

Draco took that as agreement.

He stomped towards her.

“Hand,” he said.

Granger stuck out her hand.

Draco grabbed it roughly. He wanted to put the ring on equally roughly, to show her how cross he was, but he didn’t, out of fear of breaking her finger. There was a moment of blessed shriek-free silence while he slipped the ring back on.

“Oh!” came a voice.

Some Muggle walkers had just popped around the side of the hill.

Cries of delight followed: “An engagement!” and “What a lovely couple!” and “Congratulations!” and “What a beautiful spot for it!”

Anyway, Draco hadn’t known that Avada Kedavra could be cast using only one’s eyes, but Granger was doing it quite competently.

Then she turned to the Muggles and made some sounds of agreement and false joy to move them along. Draco did not join in because he was dead.

The walkers eventually bimbled off, having wished them well in their wedded life and provided inane advice to Draco.

Granger was grasping her sprig of gossamer destructively. As soon as the Muggles left, she flung it at the ground and asked why this was her life?

Draco assumed that the question was rhetorical and so did not respond. He pulled out his wand and walked to where the Muggles had rounded the corner.

“What are you doing?” asked Granger.

“I’m going to Obliviate them all,” said Draco.

“Don’t,” said Granger with unexpected vehemence. “Memory charms are not to be used lightly.”

“But–”

Now Granger was beside him. She snatched his wand hand and pulled it down. “Don’t. It doesn’t matter. I promise you that those Muggles won’t be tarnishing your reputation or going to the Prophet with this – this supposed development.”

“I don’t care,” said Draco, because he didn’t. “I thought you cared. You just garroted me with your eyes.”

“You don’t care?” Granger looked, for once in her life, perplexed. “I thought you’d care.”

“Why would I care? They’re Muggles.”

“I don’t know. Never mind. Are we done here?”

“Are you done here?”

“Yes,” said Granger.

“Then so am I,” said Draco.

Granger stamped off through a kissing gate to a car park.

Draco lingered long enough to watch her manoeuvre the car off the grassy verge and onto the winding country road.

She drove off without a backwards glance.

Her registration plate said CRKSHNKS.

Draco Disapparated with an irritated crack.

~

A few days later, Draco got ready for Wednesday night Quidditch, which he hosted on the Manor’s well-manicured pitch.

Kitted up and ready to go, he flew towards the pitch, where the usual miscreants were waiting: Zabini, Davies, Flint, Doyle, and other old school mates, and a handful of whatever players they’d rounded up for tonight’s game.

“Oi oi,” waved Flint.

“The Chief Toff has arrived,” announced Doyle.

“Wind your neck in, Doyle, or I shall do it for you,” said Draco, angling his broom down to their altitude.

Doyle raised his Beater’s bat at Draco in mock threat. “I’m more equipped to be bashing heads in.”

“Five on five?” asked Davies, edging his broom between them and obviously eager to get started.

“Let’s do it.”

They played. It was after eight when they started, but the pitch was magically illuminated, and permitted a long game full of questionable rule interpretations and feats of near death. The Snitch was an elusive thing that night: neither Draco nor the opposing Seeker had much luck, and they were both subject to taunting by their teams as a result.

Midnight came around and Davies said shit, the missus was going to have his head for staying out so late. They agreed to call it a draw, given the uselessness of their Seekers and the otherwise even score, and to carry on next week, and celebrate the eventual winner with too much drink.

Pops and cracks reverberated across the pitch as the players Disapparated home, leaving Draco with the whole thing to himself.

Now he could have some fun.

He flew lazily upward in long loops, farther and farther up, until the pitch was a green rectangle far below, and the Manor was a doll’s house, softly glowing in the night.

Then he angled his broom down and plummeted into a Wronski Feint. He pulled up at the last minute, barely holding in the whoop of joy that wanted to burst through his lips, and spiralled his broom back towards the black sky.

Once again, the pitch was a small green rectangle below, but Draco flew up even higher, until he fancied there might’ve been wisps of clouds between him and the earth.

He dropped again, relishing the wind on his face, the paralysing sensation of the plummet, the adrenaline bursting in his veins. It was glorious. It was freedom.

He pulled out of the dive at the last moment possible, his heart singing in his ears, his toes clipping the grass.

The soft, but distinctive, pop of an Apparition echoed across the pitch. He looked about for who it was, ready to tease Davies for running away from his wife.

But it was not Davies.

It was Granger.

Had she come to berate him about that damned book? Draco flew in low and drew his broom to a hovering halt in front of her. “What the hell are you doing here?”

But Granger didn’t look angry. She looked confused. Her wand was held aloft, sparkling green Healing sparks.

In fact, she looked as though she’d just rolled out of bed. Her hair was in a long plait rife with escaping curls. She wore Muggle shorts and a large, well-worn University of Edinburgh jumper. Her legs and feet were bare.

“I – I felt you–” she stammered, gazing about at her new surroundings in bewilderment. “Your heart rate was through the roof, and your adrenaline spiked, and it was horrid, I–”

“No, it was wicked,” corrected Draco, still catching his breath.

“–I thought you were about to die!”

“Hang on – how did you feel it? How the hell are you even here?”

“The bloody ring!” said Granger, waving the hand with the ring in question in his face.

“Impossible,” scoffed Draco. “It’s only one way.”

“Then how am I here, you utter crumpet?!”

This was a fair point and Draco was forced to consider that he might have to revisit his charms. His ire rose, however, because the malfunction was most certainly her fault. “The only crumpet here is the one who took off the ring when she wasn’t meant to and damaged something. That spellwork is delicate.”

Granger held her hands aloft, as though she couldn’t believe the absurd turn of the conversation. “I didn’t come here to argue about who is the bigger crumpet!”

“It’s you,” said Draco. “And since you came barreling here in your pyjamas to ascertain my wellbeing, I can confirm that I’m fine. You can go. I’m sure you have better things to do.”

This statement of fact was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. Granger’s shriekiness increased. “Better things to do? Me? O, no. My life is a lovely plinky plonky time!”

“Granger–”

“I love nipping down to the Quidditch pitch in the middle of the night! In March! Barefoot! To trade insults with Draco Fucking Malfoy! Positively adore it! I’ve so little to do, I’ve been thinking of taking up lawn bowling! Ships in bottles–!”

She cut herself off, having mercifully been interrupted by something touching her neck. She flinched away. “What is–”

At the nape of her neck, glinting teasingly at Draco, was the Snitch.

Draco glided closer and plucked it away. “Been looking for this bugger all night.”

“Wonderful. S-so glad I could help,” said Granger.

Her teeth were clenched – but it wasn’t out of anger, Draco belatedly realised – it was from the cold.

She took a breath and appeared to be assembling what remained of her dignity. “Since you’re quite all right, might you take me to the nearest Floo?”

Why the hell did she need him to take her anywhere? Draco landed beside her, realising at last that Granger did not look well. She was white-lipped, pale, and shivering.

“Did you Apparate from bloody Cambridgeshire?” asked Draco with dawning comprehension.

“It took a few s-sets,” said Granger through her clenched teeth. “I d-did a double shift at St. Mungo’s this morning – so between that and long-distance Apparition, I am rather drained.”

Draco cast a warming charm on her, his irritation at the situation now giving way to anger. She had depleted herself of far too much magic on his account, the reckless idiot. “What, exactly, was the plan when you arrived to save my life with almost no magical reserves?”

“I was going to put a plaster on the injury,” said Granger, but the sarcasm was blunted by the violent tremble that shook her shoulders. “S-sod off with the lecturing – I wasn’t thinking. I was asleep and the next thing I knew, this damned ring was screaming at me that you were about to die.”

Draco felt that he should be touched, though his displeasure at her imprudence rather overshadowed it.

“Right. So I might’ve been in the middle of a duel with a gang of Dark wizards and you decided to pop along barefoot, magicless, in your jimjams. Bloody brilliant.”

“It was a reaction!” hissed Granger. “I’m sorry I didn’t pause to evaluate my options when I thought you were in the midst of dying! I’m a Healer; odds were strong I’d have been able to do something about your – your–”

“My non-existent grievous injury. Right.” Draco hopped back onto his broom and drew near her. “Get on. I’ll fly you to the Manor. You can Floo home from there.”

“No,” said Granger, backing away.

Draco assumed, with no small degree of exasperation, that her objection was the flying.

“Fine.” He jumped back off his broom and held out his elbow to her instead. “I’ll Apparate us to the Manor. Let’s go. You look about to faint.”

Granger backed away again. She looked even paler. “No – not the Manor. Please. Apparate me to the Swan. I’ll Floo from there.”

“What’s wrong with my bloody Floo?” asked Draco, close to losing his patience and snatching her arm to force a Side-Along. “My mother’s in France this week, if that’s what you’re–”

“No. It’s not your mother. I just – I just don’t want to go back there. All right?”

She wrapped her arms around herself. At this moment, the formidable Hermione Granger looked small, pale, and afraid.

Draco realised, horridly late, that it was his home she was objecting to. That the Manor still held the horrors of the War.

He was an idiot.

He offered his elbow again. “The Swan, then.”

She took it. Her hand was light on his arm and, against his sweat-soaked Quidditch kit, it felt cold.

They Apparated into the cloak room of the Swan, the boisterous wizarding pub that served as a waypoint for Wiltshire Floo travel. The voices of the pub’s patrons rumbled cheerfully through the walls. Draco cast a Notice-Me-Not on himself and Granger, which served to avert gazes from them as they exited the cloak room and made their way to the hearth.

Draco noted that Granger was still holding his elbow – in fact, she had begun to lean on him.

He tossed a handful of Floo powder into the fire and Granger gave the name of the wizarding pub nearest her cottage, the Mitre.

“You haven’t enough in you to Apparate home from there,” said Draco.

“My cottage isn’t on the Floo network. I was going to walk – it’s only a few minutes,” said Granger.

Draco made a sound of disbelief. “You’ve proven that you’re an idiot once tonight, but I see you’re doubling down. I’m coming with you.”

It was evidence of the true level of Granger’s fatigue that she did not argue the point. They stepped into the hearth together and were spun and jostled along two dozen fireplaces until they were spat out at the Mitre.

Draco was quicker to find his footing than the exhausted idiot of a witch, who made a brave attempt at standing that was more of a sideways collapse into him. He snaked an arm around her waist and Apparated them to her kitchen.

An orange blur whizzed into the room as the crack of Draco’s Apparition echoed. There was an immediate meow of concern as the cat noted the sagging form of his mistress against Draco’s side.

“Are you still with us?” asked Draco, giving Granger a jostle. “Should I call someone? Should I take you to St. Mungo’s? Say something, or I shall send my Patronus to Potter and launch a wholescale panic.”

“Don’t.” Granger’s grip on his arm tightened. “It’s just – just magical exhaustion. I spent all day Healing. The long-distance Apparitions were – stupid. Give me a replenishing potion – the reddish vial on the worktop, there.”

Draco propped Granger up on a chair, where she sat back with a sigh. He floated the vial in question towards them and snapped off its waxy stopper.

“I’m the utter crumpet,” said Granger, before downing the entire thing.

Draco felt that he ought to get that in writing.

The cat was winding its way about Granger’s feet with a chorus of anxious meows.

“I agree,” said Draco. “She needs rest.”

“You don’t understand him,” said Granger, dropping the empty vial onto the table with a feeble gesture. “Stop pretending.”

“He said there’s a sofa somewhere under the mess of books in the front room that you should go lie down on.”

“Do not touch those books,” said Granger, combative even through her faintness.

The cat made a sustained wail.

“Bed, then. I concur,” said Draco.

Draco didn’t give Granger a chance to object. He slipped one hand into the crook of her elbow and Apparated them both upstairs, where he deposited her onto her bed.

It was obvious, as he looked around the dim room, that Granger had indeed departed in as much of a hurry as she’d claimed to. The bed was in disarray, as though she had forgotten that she had a blanket over her when she’d leapt to her feet. The bedside lamp was askew as though she’d hit it. Her Muggle mobile device was face-down on the floor.

Draco rearranged these things with a few wand waves. The cat, which had bounded up the stairs after them, leapt onto the bed and joined Granger with a reproachful sound.

The cat settled into Granger’s armpit like a furry water bottle. Granger pulled the cover over herself with a weak hand and stroked the cat’s head with the other.

Draco, who had been waiting to see if the replenishing potion was having the desired effect – and that Granger wasn’t going to die on his account – suddenly felt as though he was intruding.

He took a step towards the door. “Right. I’m going to go now. Mind you don’t do that again.”

“I’m sorry,” said Granger. “For being – complicated. About your house.”

“I don’t care,” said Draco. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I know that the awful things that happened there are ancient history.”

“You don’t need to keep excusing yourself. Go to sleep,” said Draco, taking a bigger step towards the door.

“I know it’s not rational,” said Granger, making an irresolute gesture to the ceiling. “But…”

“Stop thinking, Granger,” said Draco, even though he knew that was an oxymoron of a request. He walked out of the room. “Bye.”

“It was just to use the Floo,” said Granger, softly, mostly to herself, now. “Bit pathetic, really.”

Draco took a long step back into the room. Somehow, he couldn’t let that one slide. “It’s not pathetic to not want to revisit the place where you were tortured.” (He wanted to add, you idiot, but he felt that he may have maximised his quota on that front, tonight.)

Granger said, “Mm,” in an absent way.

“Anyway,” said Draco, “much of the Manor was destroyed at the end of the war. That entire half is gone. The drawing room is gone.”

“It’s gone?” asked Granger of the ceiling.

“Yes. It’s just gardens now. Greenhouses. Flowers, medicinal herbs…”

“What herbs?” asked Granger.

Why did she have to know everything in excruciating bloody detail? She was exhausting.

“I don’t know,” said Draco. “My mother donates the useful stuff to apothecaries. Go to sleep.”

“That’s good.” Granger’s voice had taken on a softer, more absent quality. The replenishing potion was knocking her out to begin its work.

“Yes.”

“I’m happy that something good could come out of such a…”

“Such a terrible place?” supplemented Draco.

“Yes.”

She said nothing further for a few moments. The moonlight through the window caught her face in soft light: delicate, wide-eyed, still pale. Her hair was a dark coil across the pillow, slowly unfurling.

Draco felt as though he were seeing double. In her oversized jumper, tucked up in bed, with her hands over the blanket, she looked like the girl he remembered from school. But that vision dissipated to leave him with this portrait of a lovely, tired witch, who had brought herself to the brink of total magical depletion to get to him, because she thought he was in danger.

She had done this to herself for him.

It was a peculiar sensation.

Granger’s eyelids began to drift downwards. Draco edged towards the door, intending to leave the cottage by foot before Disapparating outside as quietly as he could. She was asleep now, certainly – she’d been quiet too long.

“Malfoy?”

Draco muttered a curse. “You’re meant to be sleeping.”

Now her words were blurred at the edges. She was drifting towards unconsciousness, but still fighting it.

“Your Patronus is lovely,” said Granger. Her eyes were closed.

“Er… thanks.”

“What is it?”

“Go to sleep, Granger.”

“But what is it?”

“Sleep.”

“Is it a kind of dog?”

“Yes. Go to sleep.”

“What kind?”

“A Borzoi.”

“Oh. The Tsars used to have those.”

“They did. Go to sleep. This isn’t a pub quiz.”

“He’s a rude thing, though he’s pretty.”

“I’m leaving now,” said Draco.

“His fur looked so soft…”

Finally, silence fell.

Now only the cat was awake, staring at Draco.

Draco noted that the yellow stare was not as hate-filled as it usually was. If anything, it seemed approving.

Chapter Text

March drew to a chill, damp, close, and with it came the day of the Delacroix fête. Draco was reminded of the occasion when his afternoon nap was interrupted by Henriette the house-elf.

As Draco yawned with delicious languor, Henriette began to quiz him on his evening attire.

“This purple would be so becoming on you, Monsieur,” said Henriette, holding a rich robe aloft for Draco’s inspection. “Like a Roman emperor, non?”

“The black robes, please,” said Draco.

“This silver, perhaps? With your eyes, it would be so fetching…”

“The black, Henriette.”

Undeterred, Henriette produced the black dress robes, but also a set of constellation-spangled midnight blue ones. “Or perhaps?” she asked, holding the blue ones up higher.

“Did my mother put you up to this?” asked Draco, eyeing the insistent elf.

Henriette’s large ears twitched backwards. “Madame suggested that you might be amenable to trying something else. Madame would like you to not look as though you were attending a funeral.”

“I rather fancy looking like an undertaker. The black ones – leave them on the bed.”

“As you wish, Monsieur,” sighed Henriette, spreading the robes onto the bed.

She curtseyed and Disapparated.

Henriette was a well-spoken, well-trained French elf, but far pushier and more opinionated than the English elves that Draco had grown accustomed to in childhood. However, his mother loved her, and Draco had to admit that her cooking was a far sight better than the stodgy fare prepared by her UK brethren.

Draco showered, perfected his hair, pulled on the hard-won black robes, perfected his hair again, and observed himself in the mirror to confirm that he was devastatingly good-looking.

He was.

Which was excellent, because tonight, Draco Malfoy was going out on the pull. It had been far too long since his last shag (some witch at Pansy’s last birthday party, at his best recollection) and he had been feeling the lack of action in the past weeks.

It was time to rectify the situation. The Delacroix party would make for an excellent opportunity. There would be witches aplenty – perhaps Mademoiselle Rosalie Delacroix herself, if she was interested, mused Draco as he applied his cologne.

Satisfied with his toilette, Draco descended to the Floo parlour.

“Henriette, did my mother leave yet?” he called as he threw Floo powder into the hearth.

“Oui, elle est partie,” said Henriette. “She left about two hours ago, Monsieur. I believe she thought you’d be on your way shortly after.”

Oops, thought Draco. “The Seneca,” he said out loud, and he stepped into the flames.

~

Draco dusted himself off on the Seneca’s hearth, assisted by a pretentious-looking youth bearing a charmed feather duster.

A moment later, he found himself accosted by Theodore Nott.

“There’s fashionably late, and then there’s you,” said Theo. “Bordering on rude, I think: it’s half eight and you’ve missed the speeches.”

“Careless of me,” said Draco, straightening out his robes. “Summarise.”

“Very pretty words about the True Magic of Gratitude, and also please give money.”

“I can’t believe I missed such a momentous address.”

A sniff interrupted them. “Ah. The usual blackguards.”

Zabini had spotted Draco and Theo as they made their way into the crowded Rose Room, where canapes were being circulated amongst a beautiful crowd.

“Didn’t know they let riffraff like you lot in here,” said Zabini. His dress robes were impeccably tailored – possibly even more so than Draco’s.

He and Draco stared at each other hard, until Zabini’s face split into a broad grin. “Good to see you two – the few, the brave, who aren’t married and popping out sprogs.”

“Here to join you in the evening’s debaucheries,” said Theo with an elegant bow. “What are our plans tonight, gentlemen? Chaos and mayhem?”

“Drinks, dancing, and finding a lovely lady to cuddle with,” said Zabini, casting his gaze around the crowded room.

“What he’s having, but more fucking and less cuddling,” said Draco, also observing the surrounding crowd.

“Oho,” said Zabini. “Leave me the brunettes.”

“Fine,” said Draco, thinking vaguely of Rosalie and her ilk. “I fancy something blonde anyway.”

“Redheads for me, then.” Theo relieved a waiter of three dirty martinis and passed them around. “Drink up – these’ll put some hair on your chest. Barkeep is generous with the vodka.”

They drank, they bantered, they drifted in and out of groups of friends and old enemies. Draco learned by the by that the evening’s event was in support of a new ward at St. Mungo’s – something about Delacroix Senior’s life being saved had turned his mercenary mind to more philanthropic pursuits. So, not orphans. Whatever.

The lights were dimmed and, in the centre of the room, space was cleared for a dance floor. Draco found Rosalie and attempted conversation, but Rosalie was giggly and seemed rather attached to the arm of some French Pure-blood or other whose name Draco couldn’t remember. He decided that she was a lost cause and continued his cruising.

Two or three other witches that Draco was acquainted with crossed paths with him as he made his rounds. They were charming, eyelash-fluttering, and obviously willing, but he wasn’t feeling the spark (or, less romantically, the remotest twitch in his trousers).

He divested himself of them one by one, distantly registering that, attractive and willing as they were, he found them clingy and bothersome more than anything else. Miss Luella Clairborne was particularly tenacious; Draco had to lie that his mother was summoning him to make his escape.

What was wrong with him? Luella would’ve been willing to give him a quick gob job behind a curtain, probably, but that wasn’t what he wanted. Nor did he want to bring her home with him. Nor did he want to have her in one of the Seneca’s luxurious rooms. So what did he want, exactly? Not her, anyway. Not any of them.

To make good on his lie, Draco joined his mother amongst a circle of St. Mungo’s higher-ups. Narcissa looked pointedly at Rosalie’s French companion and pressed her lips together in lieu of saying, There, you see? All the good ones are snapped up and you, my son, will die alone.

Draco was fine with dying alone. At this precise moment, he simply wanted to find a witch who awakened something in him, to bed once or twice and get some of his randiness out of his system.

A slender thing in an open-backed dress kept catching his eye as he made his way around the room. She was chatting with a mixed crowd of former Hufflepuffs and upper echelon Ministry employees, but her figure kept disappearing from view as the speakers mingled. The lights were so low that all he could really make out was the curve of her back, the graceful movement of a hand holding a glass, the peek of a delicate ankle in a strappy shoe.

“Oi,” said Zabini, materialising at Draco’s side. “I said leave me the brunettes.”

“My first choice found some French ponce,” said Draco.

“Spoken as though you weren’t yourself the greatest French ponce in the room.”

Draco favoured Zabini with a black look. “Anyway – sharing is caring.”

“Fine. You can soften her up for me. I shall look positively delicious after you’ve bollocksed your way through an introduction.”

Draco drained his glass and handed it to Zabini. “Watch me.”

He sauntered his way past the group, making a show of greeting a few acquaintances as he walked by, including a quick nod for Potter. (And why was Potter here, pray? Something about orphans, probably.)

Ernie Macmillan, bless him, caught a wave and gestured Draco over in his ostentatious way. The chubby lad of Draco’s Hogwarts days had grown into a stout man, broad-shouldered, who now headed the Department of International Magical Cooperation.

“Macmillan,” said Draco, shaking his hand. “How are you? Introduce me to your fr–”

The lovely woman turned towards Draco as he spoke.

It was bloody. Fucking. Granger.

Draco’s shock was such that he almost heaved up his martini.

But it was her. Her unruly hair was caught into an elegant chignon at the base of her neck. Her usual attire was replaced by a long green gown, probably Muggle in provenance, but nevertheless beautifully tailored. Her intense gaze was made even more so by the dark smudges of some cosmetic thing or other around her eyes.

“What are you doing here?” asked Draco, freshly perturbed, because he had been imagining this woman’s back and bum from all kinds of interesting angles for the past quarter hour and it was fucking Granger.

Literally. Fucking. Granger.

His question was rudely put. Macmillan stepped closer to Granger (which, somehow, annoyed Draco further), and said, “Hermione was personally invited by Monsieur Delacroix, along with all the Healers who helped him. Didn’t you hear the speech?”

“Ah,” said Draco, feeling stupid.

Granger raised one eyebrow in enquiry. “I wouldn’t have expected you here, either. I didn’t think health care aligned with your interests.”

Macmillan, who appeared to have taken on the role of mediator between them, now stepped closer to Draco. “I understand that the Malfoys are making a rather substantial contribution to the new ward.” He slapped Draco’s shoulder officiously. “Good sorts after all, these Malfoys, aren’t they?”

Granger gave Macmillan one of her fixed smiles.

Meanwhile, Draco was nodding as though he was perfectly aware of this large contribution, which, come to think of it, his mother might’ve mentioned two or three times, if only he’d been paying attention.

“Of course,” continued Macmillan, “we haven’t pieced together the identity of the Anonymous Contributor, who is going to be matching the evening’s proceeds Galleon for Galleon. My money’s on one of those old French blokes in Delacroix’s entourage. Lemaitre owns half the vineyards in Burgundy…”

Macmillan interrupted himself at the sight of a tall wizard passing their group. “Ah – I’ve spotted Finbok. Please excuse me. I’ve got to harass him about some new legislation he’s pushing – perhaps if I get him more to drink…”

This left Draco and Granger alone, off to the edge of the larger circle. Granger was still observing Draco with a raised brow, which made him realise that he was gaping at her like a cretin.

However, there was no way to say, Sorry, it’s just that I’ve been fantasising about taking you from behind for the past quarter hour without sounding like an even bigger cretin.

To cover his botheration, Draco said, crossly, “You’re meant to inform me when you’re attending public events. Now I can’t even enjoy myself – I have to mind you.”

It was Granger’s turn to get testy. “Mind me? Who is going to attack me? My colleagues? The family of the man I helped pull back from the brink of death? Delacroix brought in the best security money can buy, or did you not notice the other Aurors? Have you done anything other than look at bums since you arrived? And I did inform you that I was attending – two weeks ago!”

There were rather a lot of accusations being levelled at him in this tirade. Draco selectively addressed a few. “I came to look at bums – that’s the only reason I’m here. And the bum selection is paltry, just so you know, barring a few – er – anyway, it’s been a monumental waste of time. And you most certainly did not tell me you’d be attending. I would’ve remembered, because I would’ve been annoyed, because minding you interferes with looking at bums.”

Granger crossed her arms. “I most certainly did tell you. Check your Jotter.”

Draco pulled out his Jotter under her withering glare, a seed of doubt now in his mind. He was a little slow about doing it. Granger made an impatient sound and leaned in closer to him to turn the pages herself. (Draco noted that she smelled good, again; light whiffs of something sweet and airy tonight.)

They flipped through a few pages of Granger communications, until–

“Ah,” said Draco.

As it happened, Granger had indeed told him two weeks ago – shortly after he had Stunned the Jotter into silence.

The Jotter closed with a snap.

Granger looked indignant, though she was attempting to keep her body language neutral to not cause a scene.

“See? How dare you scold me like a wayward child,” she hissed in a fierce whisper. “I’m meant to be here. I’m a guest of honour!”

Some angel or other rescued Draco by calling Granger over to meet a cohort of French Healers. She left, but not without a dark backwards glance at Draco that promised that this wasn’t over.

Draco made a strategic retreat to Zabini and Theo with something less than his usual swagger in his stride.

Zabini chewed delicately on a quail brochette. “That looked like it went well.”

“Fuck off,” said Draco.

“Poor old boy needs more drink in him,” said Theo, gesturing over a waiter to refresh their libations. “Have this, Draco, and stop staring at Granger like a slack-jawed idiot. I don’t fancy Potter coming over here to defend her honour.”

“I didn’t realise it was fucking Granger,” said Draco, feeling utterly wrong-footed by the entire affair.

“Neither did I,” said Zabini. “She’s grown up into something rather nice, hasn’t she?”

“I work with her,” said Draco. He took a fortifying swig of whatever throat-burning substance Theo had provided.

“Do you?” Theo looked intrigued. “What have Aurors got to do with Healers?”

“Top secret, so you can fuck off, too,” said Draco.

“Interesting,” said Zabini, studying Draco a little too closely for comfort.

He turned his attention back to Granger, who was now deep in conversation with the French Healers. “Why isn’t she taken and popping out kidlets yet? Wasn’t she engaged to the youngest weasel?”

“I think so,” said Theo. “But let us remember that Granger was snogging international Quidditch players at age fourteen. Menfolk might’ve peaked early for her.”

“It’s all downhill after Krum and his broomstick,” snickered Zabini.

“The rest of us oiks haven’t a fucking ice cube’s chance in hell.”

“I like a challenge,” said Zabini. “And I do like brunettes. Brunettes with brains are another thing entirely.”

Draco had fallen silent for the duration of the conversation. The subject matter was irritating him profoundly, though he didn’t know why. He had heard – and participated in – a thousand versions of this banter himself, previously, but tonight…

Narcissa called Draco over to introduce him to some of the Delacroix family’s particular friends. A friendly patriarch, his elegant wife, and their two pretty daughters, aged 26 and 28, respectively. Draco was aware, as he spoke to the women, that he could please his mother by showing an interest in one of the daughters, and also please himself by fulfilling his aim of finding a witch to bring to bed.

However, he found himself uninterested by their conversation and distracted by the crowd around him, where he occasionally saw a glimpse of a dark green gown. He told himself that, now that he knew Granger was here, he was once again seeing her as his Principal and therefore keeping an eye on her.

Draco was asked if he liked to dance, and he said yes absently, and found himself on the dance floor with the younger of the two sisters, still distracted.

Granger was dancing with Potter.

“I didn’t know you were the strong silent type,” giggled the woman in Draco’s arms. What was her name again? Amandine? He’d go with Amandine.

“Mm,” said Draco, still watching Potter and Granger.

“Is that Harry Potter?” asked Amandine, following his line of sight. “I’ve heard a bit about him, I think.”

“Only a bit?” asked Draco. (Bless the French and their utter disinterest in English affairs.)

“I think he was involved in your last war, non? A hero.”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

“And the woman with him, too?”

“Yes,” said Draco.

“They are rather beautiful together,” said Amandine, watching Potter laugh at something Granger said. “You can see the connection–”

“He’s married,” cut in Draco. “They aren’t together.”

“Ah. Well – friendship is an equally strong bond.”

Draco let the Amandine prattle on about her opinions on the bonds of love and friendship. The song was drawing to its end. If he was going to gauge her interest in any nighttime activities, the time was now. He could slide a hand towards her backside, dip his face into her neck, ask her what her plans were after the party.

The steps were clear and the witch, from the way she was pressing herself to him, was interested. However, Draco found that he had no interest in doing so.

The song ended and a slower number began. Draco relinquished his grasp on Amandine’s waist. He walked her back to her parents with some polite commentary about the evening and how lovely it had been to meet them all.

He ambled towards the bar, where Theo and some former Slytherins and Ravenclaws had set up camp.

“Zabini’s gone,” said Theo as Draco neared. “Took the older sister with him. Said he’d leave you the less experienced one. But it doesn’t look like that panned out for you either. Losing your touch, mate?”

“No spark,” said Draco with a shrug.

“There’s always Granger,” said Theo. “She looks like she’d like to set you on fire – sparks aplenty.”

Draco stole a glance towards where Granger stood amongst other Healers. It was true that her looks in his direction were of the fiery variety.

“But I suppose you don’t want to die tonight,” said Theo. He made room for Draco at the bar.

“She’s off-limits in about a hundred different ways, even if I did have an inclination towards masochism.”

“How does she get on with your mother?” asked Theo. “No reason.”

Draco’s eyes widened. He looked over his shoulder. Theo chortled. They watched as Narcissa Malfoy’s small group drifted towards the French Healers that Granger had been speaking with.

Draco wasn’t certain that his mother and Granger had ever addressed each other in person since the trials fifteen years ago. Those had been a tense affair, but Granger’s testimony had been of tremendous assistance in clearing up Narcissa Malfoy’s name. Granger had been (terribly) honest in her accounting of her time in the Manor, but had made it clear that Narcissa Malfoy had been an unwilling, powerless onlooker, and that her later actions had ultimately saved Harry Potter’s life.

Granger had, however, been less generous in her testimony on Lucius Malfoy’s wartime acts, and her depositions on that front had added to the substantial pile of evidence that had resulted in the elder Malfoy’s Azkaban sentence.

Draco wasn’t certain where Granger fell on his mother’s list of people to blame for Lucius’ eventual decline and death in Azkaban. Nor did he know how that weighed against Narcissa’s own freedom, as well as Draco’s, in which Granger had also played a part.

Draco was too far away to make out much of what was said between the two groups. He saw Granger’s back straighten at Narcissa’s approach, but her expression remained neutral. Likewise, his mother’s shoulders were set, but her usual polite smile was firmly in place. They shook each others’ fingertips and quickly turned to converse with others.

“Psh.” Theo swirled the ice cubes in his glass. “I’d been hoping for something more interesting.”

“Haven’t you got a red-head to chase?” asked Draco, making a shooing motion.

“I do,” said Theo. “But first, liquid courage. She’s one of the French delegation. And most certainly too good for me.”

Theo jutted his chin towards Granger’s group of Healers. Narcissa had moved on and a lovely red-haired witch was now beside Granger.

“I’m not even sure she speaks English,” said Theo.

“Try voulez-vous coucher avec moi,” said Draco.

Theo repeated the phrase with great sincerity, though his accent was appalling. “Bit forward, I think. But maybe I will. I’ll blame you when it all goes awry. I’ll say you told me it meant she had pretty hair.”

“Do not speak my name in front of Granger. I’d rather she forget that I exist.”

“Too late,” said Theo, pushing away from the bar. “I like this plan. It makes me look like a sweet innocent and you like a dickhead–”

Draco reached out to stop him but Theo’s sleeve slipped through his fingers.

“–Which is the natural state of things, anyway,” said Theo over his shoulder.

Draco debated the ethics of a quick Tongue-Tying Jinx to the back of Theo’s head as he neared his red-haired target.

The problem with morals was that they made you waste time. Theo was at the red-haired witch’s side now, having somehow procured two glasses of wine, one of which he offered to her, and the other to Granger, who declined, as she was still nursing her champagne.

Theo said something that made the two Healers laugh. He looked theatrically distressed. Then he turned around and pointed at Draco with an exaggerated gesture. The red-haired witch shook her head at him; Granger looked unimpressed.

Draco rather felt that he had to defend his good name. He snatched up his own drink and stalked over.

“Do not believe a word out of this man’s mouth,” he said as he neared them.

“Draco assured me that it meant that I was admiring your lovely hair,” said Theo, his hand on his chest. “I would never say anything so ungentlemanly, Mademoiselle.”

The red-haired witch looked amused. Meanwhile, Granger was regarding Theo with a healthy dose of scepticism. At least she could see through his charade.

“How do I say, ‘do you want to dance’?” asked Theo.

“Voulez-vous danser avec moi,” said Draco and Granger simultaneously.

“What they said,” said Theo.

The red-haired witch regarded Theo for a long time. Finally, she said, “D’accord.”

Theo gallantly held out his arm, said something pretty about strangers in a strange land, and swept his new companion towards the dance floor.

“Suave fuck,” muttered Draco.

“Unctuous, rather,” sniffed Granger. “I can’t believe that worked on Solange.”

“Perhaps Solange wants some English beef for a change,” said Draco.

“I shall ask her to review of the quality of the beef in the morning,” said Granger with a cynical look at Theo’s retreating back.

“You must tell me if it’s mediocre,” said Draco.

“Why?” asked Granger.

“Ammunition.”

“You are terrible friends to each other.” Granger studied Draco over her glass. Then she seemed to recollect herself. “I’m still angry with you. Go away.”

“Fine,” said Draco. There were a dozen witches in this room who enjoyed his company; he didn’t see why he’d waste time with the one who despised it.

However, before he could plunge back into the crowd, Granger asked, in French, “Since when do you speak French?”

The question was posed in an irritated kind of way, as though he owed her an explanation on that front.

“Since when do you speak French?” replied Draco, also in French, because if anyone owed anyone an explanation, it was her.

“I have family in Haute-Savoie,” said Granger.

“The Malfoys are from the Loire region.”

“Hm.” Granger sipped at her champagne, regarding him with narrowed eyes.

“What?” asked Draco.

“It explains so much,” said Granger, switching back to English.

“So much what?”

“Just–” Here Granger made a gesture towards Draco’s general being “–Everything.”

Draco wasn’t certain of what she was implying but he felt that it was less than complimentary.

“Haute-Savoie explains a lot about you,” was his retort.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Granger, bristling immediately.

Draco gestured towards Granger, as though she were composed entirely of raclette and too much vermouth.

Granger put a hand on her hip. “Do you own a chateau?”

“Yes,” said Draco.

“So there,” said Granger, triumphantly, because obviously, that explained everything.

“Psh – you probably do that Muggle thing – the thing on those long foot paddles.”

Granger regarded Draco with an artificial blankness of expression.

“Stop playing stupid. It doesn’t suit you.”

“But I haven’t any idea what you’re talking about,” said Granger.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. Ksiing? Sciing?”

Granger did her best to look uncomprehending. (It was not an expression that she was used to – she did it terribly.)

“Skiing!” said Draco, pointing sharply at Granger’s face.

Granger occupied herself with her drink.

“I knew it,” said Draco. He opened his mouth to cast further aspersions on her character in the form of queries about her gîte in the Alps and getting guttered on génépi, but a limp hand caressed his forearm for attention.

It was one of the eyelash-fluttering Pure-blood witches from earlier: Luella. “Draco, you’ve hardly danced at all.”

This was very much an invitation, and as a well-mannered wizard, Draco’s response should’ve been to ask Luella to dance. However, the very feel of Luella’s languid hand on his sleeve was aggravating, as was the moon-eyed look in her eyes.

He simply didn’t want to.

Draco’s delay in responding was noted by Luella, who peeked around his shoulder to see Granger. Granger studied Luella with one of her analytical looks.

“Oh,” said Luella with a polite gasp at the sight of Granger. “Unless you were already–”

“No,” said Granger, at the same time as Draco said, “Yes – we were just about to.”

“No, no,” said Granger, backing away. “You two dance. Please, enjoy yourselves.”

“O, but I couldn’t take your partner away from you,” said Luella with a colourless smile. “I’m so sorry to have interrupted – so silly of me, I hadn’t seen you…”

“But–”

Luella cut off Granger’s protests with a wave and minced away in the direction of the bar.

“What are you doing?” hissed Granger as Draco took her arm and placed it over his. He plucked her half-finished glass of champagne and dropped it onto a floating tray.

“You owe me,” said Draco. “Or did you forget me saving you from Dr. Whatsit?”

“If I’d known this would be the payment, I would’ve taken the drink with Dr. Whatsit.”

Draco steered Granger towards the dance floor. “One dance to keep me out of her clutches.”

“Your mother is here,” said Granger, looking about in obvious unease.

“And? I’m meant to do goodwill stuff. Building bridges and all that rubbish.”

“But – but we’re not even on speaking terms, normally – does she even know you’re working with me?”

“No. And you’re working with me,” corrected Draco.

“You were assigned to me.”

“Exactly.”

Granger made a sound of irritation, as though Draco was the most frustrating creature in the entire world. She was wrong, however – that title went to her.

“Harry is here,” was her next objection as the dance floor came into view.

“Brilliant. I’ll tell Potter I wanted to keep a closer eye on you. Someone was acting suspicious.”

“Who?” asked Granger, because, evidently, she had to interrogate Draco on every aspect of this fabricated plan.

“Theo,” said Draco without hesitation.

Theo was currently snogging the red-haired witch a few metres away. Granger observed this fact, then asked what exactly Nott was doing that was so suspicious?

“That’s a diversion tactic,” said Draco. “Don’t underestimate him.”

“The only thing I underestimated was Solange’s fondness for Lincolnshire sausage,” said Granger, watching Solange grope at Theo’s crotch.

“Will you stop gawping and dance?” asked Draco. He slid his hands to her waist and gave her a squeeze, which served to remind her that her hands should be at his shoulders. With evident reluctance, she placed them there.

“Put some sincerity into it, Granger,” growled Draco under his breath. “I pretended to be a pilot for you for six hours in that pub. This is one bloody dance.”

“You enjoyed pretending to be a pilot!” whispered Granger. “I am not enjoying pretending to be whatever I’m pretending to be, for your friend and whatever game it is you’re playing with her.”

To her credit, she did attempt to lessen the obvious tension in her stance, but Draco could feel the lingering rigidity in her hips. “Can’t you relax?”

“No. I’m dancing with Draco Malfoy,” snarled Granger. “There is nothing relaxing about this.”

Draco permitted himself a large and dramatic sigh. “Also, it’s not a game. Make it look real. If my mother suspects that I turned down a dance with a Very Eligible Witch for a fictive dance with you, I shan’t hear the end of it.”

Granger manoeuvred him towards the wall at the back of the dance floor, using other couples to screen them from view.

“Why did you turn her down?” she asked. “She seemed your type.”

Well, that was presumptuous. “What’s my type, Granger?”

“Wealthy (I assume), Pure-blood (I also assume), blonde, stunningly beautiful… probably also owns a few chateaux in the Loire valley…”

It irritated Draco that this list was more or less correct. She had neglected certain other womanly attributes he kept an eye out for, but then, she was rarely vulgar.

Seeing that Draco hadn’t responded to her, Granger gave him an inquisitive look. “Am I wrong? Aren’t you going to tell me I’m making terrible assumptions?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“None of your bloody business,” said Draco, because he owed her no explanation whatsoever. And also because he couldn’t quite put it into words himself.

“Hm,” said Granger.

Once again, Draco found himself the subject of one of her looks of assessment, the same look she gave particularly intriguing problems.

“Stop looking at me like I’m a maths theorem,” said Draco.

To Draco’s surprise, this earned him a smile from Granger. It brightened her eyes and dimpled her left cheek. It was gone as quickly as it had appeared. Draco blinked – it had felt like a flash of sun.

“Malfoy’s Paradox,” said Granger, more to herself than him.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing.”

The witch in his arms grew quiet and thoughtful. Though she was there – the silk at her waist was warm under his hands, her wrists were a small pressure on his shoulders – she was also not there. Her eyes had grown distant.

Granger was thinking. About him. That was alarming.

There was at least one happy side-effect, which was that, with her mind occupied elsewhere, Granger’s body relaxed into him a little more, and he felt less like he was holding up a plank, and more like he was dancing with a woman.

Which was alarming in its own way, as this witch was more pleasing under his hands than any witch that evening had been, and the occasional soupçons of her scent that drifted his way when they moved were more delicious than the potent perfumery that had accompanied Luella and her ilk. Which was all well and good, but this was Granger, for fuck’s sake.

Draco straightened his arms out so that Granger was literally at arm’s length. She came back to herself with a frown, as though dealing with some disturbing thought.

“Hi,” said Potter’s voice, making both Draco and Granger jump. A moment later, Potter’s dishevelled head was between the two of them. “Excuse me, but what the hell is going on here?”

Draco did not permit Granger time to answer. “Fuck off and let me do my job, Potter.”

Never one to fuck off on demand, Potter persisted. “Why are you keeping her so close? Did you see something?”

“It’s not–” began Granger.

“Exactly – it’s Nott,” said Draco, jutting his chin towards Theo. “Acting suspicious. Sniffing around.”

Potter turned to observe the wizard in question, whose face was somewhere in the red-haired witch’s neck. He frowned. “I’ll take care of him.”

“Harry, it’s not–” said Granger with fresh frustration.

“It’s Nott, yes,” interrupted Draco with benevolence.

“I’m on it, Hermione,” said Potter, retreating to take up what he no doubt considered an inconspicuous position near Theo.

Granger’s grasp on Draco’s shoulders now shifted towards his neck and suggested thoughts of strangulation. “You are the worst,” she said in an exasperated whisper.

“Be quiet – I want to watch this,” said Draco, angling them so that they could both see Potter.

“Why Nott?” asked Granger.

“Why not, indeed.”

“I am going to murder you.”

“All right,” said Draco. “But first, let me enjoy my revenge.”

In the next five minutes, Draco was treated to the highly enjoyable sight of Potter glaring at Theo, ‘accidentally’ bumping into him, spilling his drink on him, and generally being a hostile presence within two feet of the man, no matter where he moved. Potter could cut a rather intimidating figure when he wanted to, bolstered by the legends of his feats as a war hero and as an Auror, and Theo soon began to notice his observer and break a sweat about it.

Eventually, Theo relinquished his grasp on Solange and made some excuse to her. Then he tottered drunkenly towards Draco and asked Draco to be honest, as he’d had a lot to drink, but was he actually snogging a French red-head or was it Potter’s wife, the Weasley girl, that he’d been getting off with by accident? And was Potter the type to curse a man when his back was turned, or would he be able to leave the party unscathed?

Draco magnanimously pointed Theo to the exit and said that he would take care of protecting him from the wrathful Potter, not to worry, old chap.

“You are dreadful,” was Granger’s comment, when all was done, and Theo had left, witch-less and nursing blue balls.

Draco said, “Job well done,” to Potter, who gave Draco a thumbs up, and disappeared into the crowd.

“I love Potter,” sighed Draco. “You rile him up and point him in a direction and–”

“I do hope you’ll find me less easy to manipulate,” said Granger.

Draco preferred not to answer that precise question. He moved her hips in one direction, and then in the other. “Not too bad,” he said. “A bit stiff; perhaps we need to get another champagne in you.”

“I meant metaphorically, as you very well know,” said Granger, growing even more rigid under Draco’s hands.

“I don’t think you’re quite as gung-ho as Potter,” said Draco. (More was the pity.)

“But still overzealous.”

“High-strung,” suggested Draco.

“I am not high-strung,” said Granger in a high-strung voice. After a pause, she amended the statement with, “You make me high-strung. You are infuriating.”

“Load of tosh,” said Draco. “I’m charming and debonair. Magnetic. I can’t even walk across a room without witches falling into my lap.”

“Tss.”

“It’s true. Have a look about.”

Granger glanced around and found that it was indeed true, as Amandine, Rosalie, Luella, and some of the evening’s other witches who were dancing nearby were casting long glances towards Draco.

“Do they want your name, your money, or the inexpressible pleasure of your company?” asked Granger.

“All three. I’m a triple threat.”

“You certainly are,” said Granger. Before Draco could be flattered, however, she counted to three on her fingers: “Tension headaches, heart palpitations and general chaos.”

Draco scoffed. “If you didn’t traipse about with offal in your pockets to deal with hags, I wouldn’t have to be such an imposition. You give me tension headaches. Why can’t your gallivanting take you to safe little teas and meetings about orphans?”

Now it was Granger’s turn to scoff. “Safe little teas? You fled your mother’s last tea, or have you forgotten?”

“I haven’t,” grimaced Draco. “From one coven of hags directly into another.”

Granger looked pensive. “However – if my next bit of gallivanting involves tea and ladies, it would guarantee your absence, and I can avoid you altogether.”

“When is it?”

“Beltane,” said Granger.

“Where?”

“Malfoy Manor. The Tea Parlour.”

“There isn’t a Tea Parlour at the Manor.”

“No?”

“No.”

Granger waved her hand. “Wherever the ladies gather in the greatest numbers with the most orphans. Do you think I should patent this?”

“Patent what?”

“My recipe for Malfoy Repellent. I think there could be a market for it.”

“That market would consist entirely of you. I rather think there’s a greater demand for Malfoy Attractant, but good luck identifying the formula.”

Granger cast furtive glances towards the miscellany of witches looking longingly at Draco. “You could be right.”

“I’m always right.”

“Bums,” said Granger.

“I beg your pardon?”

“For the Attractant formula.”

“…Yes,” said Draco.

“Bums and not inviting you. Two key components to ensure that you’ll pop by. And removing tracking devices. And telling you to go away. You are a contrarian of the highest order. I still want to know how you tracked me at Uffington without the ring, by the by.”

“Dowsing rods.”

It amused Draco that Granger did not immediately dismiss the possibility. However, after a moment of reflection, she said, “Liar.”

“Tell me about Beltane,” said Draco.

“You are very, extremely, intensely invited to come. I would give worlds for you to be there. Nothing would make me happier,” said Granger, exercising this new reverse psychology theory.

“Excellent,” said Draco.

“I will be removing my ring to ensure your presence.”

Here Draco stilled, but Granger’s eyes sparkled in mirth.

“You think you’re funny,” said Draco. “If you break that one-way spell-work again, I shall be cross, and I shan’t fix it.”

Granger gave him a querying look. “You say that as though it’s a terrible threat.”

“It is.”

“How?”

“Do you really want to feel every permutation of my heart rate through that ring?” asked Draco.

“You’ve got it calibrated so you only feel dangerous extremes, I thought?”

“Do you know how to calibrate it on your end?”

“No.”

“Exactly. You don’t want to feel my every exertion and wonder what the fuck I’m doing – or who.”

“Eurgh,” said Granger, shrinking away. “Noted.”

The song they had been more-or-less dancing to faded into silence. The magically amplified voice of Augustin Delacroix echoed towards them from somewhere in the middle of the room, thanking all for their attendance.

“What did you cure the bloke of, anyway?” asked Draco.

“Healer-Patient confidentiality,” tutted Granger. “I can’t tell you.”

Draco, who had posed the question out of idle curiosity, was intrigued to find that Granger’s eyes had lost their sparkle. She was Occluding again.

Delacroix continued his speech. He indicated, to raucous applause, that between his family’s own philanthropic contributions and the evening’s proceeds, they had doubled their original objective. The Delacroix Ward was going to become a reality.

Hundreds of champagne glasses materialised at head-height for the guests to pluck out of the air and raise amongst cries of Cheers! and Santé!

Since Granger was conveniently beside him, Draco touched his glass to hers.

A group of Healers swallowed Draco and Granger and there was much clapping, bise-giving, and chinking of glasses. Granger exclaimed, with other overexcited St. Mungo’s Healers, how wonderful this was, how brilliant the new ward was going to be, how many lives this would change for the better, and so on and so forth.

Draco quietly faded out of the group, leaving Granger and her colleagues to their celebration.

His last sight of Granger was her smiling as she clasped hands with another Healer and spun about. She was bright-eyed, joyous, and lovely under the soft lights.

Chapter Text

“I saw you dancing with the Granger girl,” was Narcissa’s opening remark at breakfast the next morning.

Well – for Draco, it was breakfast. More technically speaking, it was lunch, given that it was noon. (Theo was getting the last laugh: whatever drinks he had served Draco had resulted in an enormous hangover.)

“I did,” said Draco.

“Why?” asked Narcissa. Her tone was light. She buttered her toast as though she didn’t actually care about the answer, which meant that she cared very much.

“I was saving her from a dance with someone she didn’t want to dance with,” said Draco. (This was an inverted kind of truth, but it was fine. His mother was no Legilimens.)

“Ah,” said Narcissa. “The gentlemanly thing to do.”

“Yes.”

“I think it was a good idea,” said Narcissa.

Draco met her eyes in surprise.

Narcissa nodded to herself. “Public perception is so important. Draco Malfoy dancing with Hermione Granger sends the right kind of message. We are progressive and we have moved beyond old prejudices. We are relevant; we aren’t vieux jeu.”

Draco made a muffled sound of acknowledgement around a mouthful of omelette.

Narcissa poured tea. “Miss Granger is making a name for herself far beyond her accomplishments in the War. You heard Monsieur Delacroix talk about her last night – really a remarkable witch.”

“Mff,” said Draco through his omelette, because he hadn’t.

Narcissa gave him a sharp look (she strongly opposed speaking with one’s mouth full). “In any case, you may have given me an opening to invite her to some of my functions, if she owes you a favour for the rescue. I’ve got a few Half-bloods on my lists, but a real dearth of Muggle-borns…”

Narcissa continued in this vein until she was interrupted by a tap at the window. Boethius, Draco’s eagle owl, was petitioning for entry, bearing a letter.

“Excellent,” said Draco when he opened the letter.

“What is it?” asked Narcissa.

“Leverage,” said Draco.

He conjured a quill and scrawled out a response.

~

April came and went in a foggy drizzle. Draco saw little of Granger, whose schedule seemed even more impossibly crammed than it had been previously.

He forced an interaction – a wellness check, really – on a Friday evening when she, wonder of wonders, had nothing on the agenda. It seemed a convenient time to pop by and recast her cottage’s wards.

It was pouring, as it was wont to do when Draco had to work out of doors. He cast the strongest rain-repellent charms in his arsenal upon his person and got to work.

The lights were on – Granger was home. He could see her silhouette in the warmly lit cottage, curled on the sofa with a book. Eventually, the shape of the cat appeared at the front room’s window to observe Draco. The cat must’ve made a sound, because Granger’s figure followed soon after.

She peered outside and gave Draco a small wave, then came out to stand on the doorstep, wrapped in an overlarge Muggle jumper. Muggles still worshipped the Greek goddess of victory, apparently; Nike’s name figured in prominent letters across Granger’s chest. Her legs were clad in those Muggley leggings. Her feet were bare.

“Hullo, Malfoy,” called Granger through the rain.

Draco supposed that they had last parted on decent terms – they must’ve, since her first words weren’t go away.

He aimed his wand high and cast a silvery grid of light above Granger’s cottage.

“What’s that one called?” asked Granger as the geometric filaments spread overhead. “It’s beautiful.”

Draco, focused on his casting, did not answer until the ward was set.

“Caeli Praesidium,” he gasped at length. “It’s to repel airborne entry.”

“Never heard of it,” said Granger, watching the silvery sheen dissipate into the rainy sky.

“It’s one of mine,” said Draco. “There’s a point of weakness at the apex of most parabolic wards. This one is like armour – based on geodesic polyhedrons. Strong, but a real bugger to cast.”

This was an understatement – the thing was exhausting at this scale, over an entire dwelling, but Draco, being a prideful sort of wizard, didn’t like to admit that.

He wiped at the mixture of sweat and rain that dripped down his brow and eyed Granger. He was satisfied that she was alive and that she had remembered to eat in the last week. He could make a clean report to Tonks in good conscience.

“Right – I’m off,” he said, holding up his wand to Disapparate.

“Wait,” said Granger.

Draco waited.

“You look done in,” said Granger. There was a moment of hesitation, and then she asked, “Can I offer you a cup of tea?”

Draco stared at her. “Now I’ve got to check if you’ve been Imperiused. Where did we get engaged?”

Granger’s fists found her hips somewhere under the Nike jumper’s ample folds. “Uffington, and we didn’t. And forget I asked. Invitation rescinded.”

With that, Granger stamped her way into the cottage and shut the door behind her. Draco reflected, as he climbed the steps after her, that she was correct about him turning up when he explicitly wasn’t invited, like some kind of reverse-vampire.

“Anyone home?” he called as he walked in.

“Go away,” said Granger from somewhere within. “I shall never be nice to you again.”

“Good. It unbalances me.”

Draco followed Granger’s voice to the kitchen, which looked positively disastrous.

“If you comment on the state of my kitchen–”

“Absolute bedlam, Granger.”

Granger had a cooking mitt in her hand and seemed, briefly, to consider slapping him with it. However, she took a breath and turned away to take something out of the cooker instead.

Draco pushed his hands into his pockets and sauntered in. Globs of cream climbed all the way up the splashback. It looked as though a small dairy had exploded.

“I do like what you’ve done to the place,” said Draco.

“Overzealous mixing spell, if you must know. I’m not bothering to clean up until I’m finished.”

Granger cast a cooling charm on the pan’s contents – a crust of some kind – and began to spoon generous portions of condensed milk, toffee, and cream onto it.

Draco was intrigued. And hungry.

Granger waved her wand towards a bunch of bananas, which peeled themselves somewhat messily. She sliced them with another movement – rather uneven slices, but she nevertheless floated them towards her concoction.

“It’s not the prettiest in the world, but it’s… something,” said Granger, looking doubtfully at her lopsided creation.

“What is it?”

“Banoffee pie. I fancied some but the village bakery closed early today. And, well, I had bananas.”

“Excellent,” said Draco. He pointed his wand in the general direction of Granger’s cabinetry. “Accio spoon.”

A drawer burst open and a large spoon flew towards Draco. It was adorned with cat ears.

“Really,” said Draco, as the spoon floated into his hand.

“That was a novelty gift,” said Granger, attempting to snatch the spoon from him.

Draco kept her well out of reach with one arm and stretched towards the pie with the other.

“It’s not ready yet,” protested Granger. “It’s got to set!”

“It’s fine,” said Draco. “I’m bloody starving.”

Granger stopped straining for the spoon. “Ugh. Don’t blame me if it’s gooey. Can’t you cut out a piece and put it on a plate? Surely we can be more civilised than this?”

“No. I’m always civilised. Let’s be barbarians.”

Granger pushed a plate into his hand regardless. He laughed when she attempted to serve a “piece” to him, which collapsed into a glob of cream and caramel sauce.

As ugly as it was, the pie was delicious. Draco disregarded the plate and ate directly from the pan, and Granger soon followed his heathenish ways, and they shared a heavenly mess of buttery biscuit crust, condensed milk, whipped cream, and the occasional wonky banana slice. Draco only ate three (3) cat hairs.

Draco had done a great many sinful things in his life, but demolishing a banoffee pie with Granger, with their shoulders brushing and their fingers sticky with toffee, felt so delightfully naughty, it gave him a frisson.

The cat assisted in licking the worktop clean between bursts of Granger’s Scourgify.

As Granger put the kettle on, Draco was reminded that he ought to give her a heads-up about Narcissa’s plans.

“By the by,” he said in a casual sort of way, “You should expect an invitation from my mother. She wants to have you for tea.”

“What?” exclaimed Granger, immediately on the alert. “Tea? Me? Why? What did I do?”

“She saw me dancing with you and decided that it was a Good Look to cultivate a rapport with a much-beloved Muggle-born witch.”

“How strategic of her,” said Granger, fetching mugs with evident agitation.

“It’s not a punishment.”

“Yes it is. I don’t like society things.”

“Psh, you were just at the Society Thing of the season, and you did very well,” said Draco.

That had been a compliment, by the way, but Granger didn’t clue in. “The Delacroix event was different – it was for Healers. I was amongst my own. Not posh Pure-bloods who will laugh at my every misstep.”

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” said Draco. “Obviously.”

“I’ll have scheduling conflicts for the next year; tell your mother that, will you?”

Draco gave Granger his most unimpressed look.

“What? You’ve seen my schedule – is it not true?”

“You find time to host Kneazle information booths. Surely you can find time for a cup of tea.”

“I do not host Kneazle information booths.”

“I promise that the ladies aren’t that frightening.”

“Might I remind you that you nearly Splinched yourself to get away from them?”

“You’d Splinch yourself too, if you were threatened by the bonds of holy matrimony with every lump of sugar.”

Granger grew serious. “I would, at that.”

“I promise my mother won’t be trying to marry you off to the Delacroix daughter.”

Granger placed a mug of tea in front of Draco. “Is that what she’s trying to do with you? Rosalie is a nice girl. I got to know her when I was treating her father.”

Draco waved his hand; this conversation wasn’t meant to be about him. “Anyway, look out for my mother’s owl. Consider attending, at least.”

Granger was not so easily diverted. “Rosalie is sweet. I like her.”

“Then you marry her,” said Draco.

“Maybe I will,” said Granger.

“She was on some French nobleman’s arm last I saw, mind you, so you might’ve missed your chance.”

“Damn it.”

They sipped at their tea. Granger began to watch the clock. Draco felt that whatever time she had allotted for her break and socialising was coming to an end. He could almost see her working out how rude it would be to leave him alone with his tea, versus how much she wanted to return to her reading, versus how little she wanted him to be unsupervised in her house.

Draco was never one to make her life easy – in fact, tormenting her was becoming a preferred amusement and hobby – and he therefore drank his tea with agonising slowness.

Granger’s foot was bouncing under the table. Her mug was empty and had been for some time.

“Is it too hot?” she blurted out at length. “Cooling charm?”

“No, I’m enjoying it,” said Draco moralistically, as though he were being virtuous rather than a nuisance. “Have you any biscuits?”

Granger waved her wand to summon biscuits and placed the package rather forcefully in front of Draco.

He opened it with unsurpassable care and delicacy.

Granger suspected something. Her gaze surveyed Draco with doubt, which turned to mistrust when she saw him smirk.

“You’re doing it on purpose. I knew it.”

She rose, all pretence of politeness gone. “I have things to do that are far more productive than watching you pretend to drink tea. Don’t touch anything. You can see yourself out.”

The gig being up, Draco picked up his half-finished tea and a biscuit, and followed Granger to the front room. He, too, had better things to do than to pretend to drink tea – it was a Friday night, and his mates were all out getting bollocksed and waiting for him to join them – but, truth be told, Granger could be an even more stimulating source of entertainment.

In the front room, Granger had resumed her seat on the sofa. There was a large book on her knee and a foldy kind of computer beside her. A fire purred and flared in the hearth. The cat was stretched out on a fluffy rug, so flat that it wasn’t immediately clear where the rug ended and where the cat began.

It was rather a tranquil scene. Granger seemed to have found her peace again.

She sighed. “Reading by the fire when it’s raining is the closest thing we have to a cure for the human condition.”

Draco crunched his biscuit loudly.

This was not the correct response. Granger glowered at him. Then she returned to her book.

Draco slurped at his tea.

Granger obstinately kept her eyes on the page.

Draco sauntered over and joined her on the sofa, quite uninvited. Granger’s eyes narrowed at the impertinence.

“What are we reading?” asked Draco. “Is it the book?”

Granger shuffled away from him a little. “No, it’s not the book. I would never handle that one so casually.”

“What’s in the Orkney Isles?” asked Draco.

“What?” said Granger, looking up.

Draco pointed at the foldy computer, where a paragraph on those distant Scottish islands glowed on the screen. Granger reached over and slammed it shut.

“None of your business.”

“That’s Beltane sorted, then,” said Draco. “Good. I was wondering where we’d be off to.”

“No, it isn’t,” said Granger, in an utterly transparent lie. “I was looking them up out of – out of simple curiosity.”

Draco was feeling magnanimous. “Try again, but with more eye contact, this time.”

She really did try. Her eyes met his and she held his gaze, and she opened her mouth to lie again, but all that came out was “Ugh.”

Draco tutted.

Granger looked vexed.

“I’ve never been to the Orkney Islands,” said Draco. He attempted to open the computer thing again, but Granger swatted his hand away. “I’m rather looking forward to it.”

“There’s nothing to look forward to. You aren’t coming.”

“Is it to do with your project?”

“No,” lied Granger, making strong eye contact with Draco’s left eyebrow. “It’s for a holiday.”

“Eyes, Granger, eyes. You need to convince me in my soul.”

She met his eyes again, but only an exasperated truth came out. “Yes, it’s to do with the project.”

“Then I’m going with you.”

“No. You can go to Orkney whenever you’d like. You needn’t come with me. This will be an absolutely safe, harmless trip. No offal. No hags.”

“I’m not letting you go to the arse-end of Scotland on project business by yourself. With my luck you’ll be gutted by a kelpie and I’ll be made a martyr amongst wizardkind.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I won’t be near any bodies of water.”

“You are going to the Orkney Islands,” said Draco, enunciating the final word slowly.

“I know that, obviously. But my business there is fire, not water.”

“Right. Beltane is one of the fire festivals,” said Draco.

“It is. Actually, it–”

Granger cut herself off, seeming to belatedly realise that the more she continued the conversation, the more she was disclosing.

“Have you finished your tea?” she asked in an overt attempt to change the subject, and also kick him out of her house.

Draco checked his mug, which was empty. “Almost.”

Granger, her mistrust evident, reached over, hooked her hand around his wrist, and tilted it towards herself.

“I wish I could lie with a fraction of your brazenness,” said Granger, contemplating the empty mug.

She released his wrist. Her fingertips had felt warm against his skin.

“Comes with practise,” said Draco.

Granger rose and tidied up a little, which was a clear signal that Draco was overstaying his welcome.

“How are you getting to Orkney?” asked Draco.

“The Hogwarts Express,” said Granger with a bit of a snarl.

“There’s a wizarding pub in Thurso,” said Draco. “I caught a trafficker there a few years ago. Stop growling at me. I’m being helpful.”

“I thought Floo travel was tracked.”

“I thought this was a holiday.”

“It is.”

“Then make it look like one. Use the Floo.”

“Fine.”

“Pub’s called The Polished Knob.”

“You’re joking.”

“No.” Draco rose. “Thank you for the tea. See you at the Knob.”

~

Granger was late.

Draco paced back and forth across the Knob’s flagstone foyer for ten minutes before caving in to the barkeep’s friendly offer of blackberry mulled wine.

“S’fair jeelit oot,” said the barkeep. Draco nodded, assuming that this incomprehensible statement was a comment on the bollocks-freezing weather.

“It’s the first of May,” he said, cupping the warm wine. “Why does it feel like bloody January?”

“Who are ye waitin’ for?”

“A witch,” said Draco.

“Obviously, or ye’d have gone by now. I’ll bottle up some wine for yer lass.”

“A colleague,” specified Draco. “But, thank you.”

He took out his Jotter and sent an impatient series of ???????????? to Granger.

He received no response. Through his ring he felt faint echoes of her heart rate, not panicking, but certainly elevated. Her schedule told him that she was at St. Mungo’s A&E – or at least, that she was meant to be there till 4.30, and Flooing into the Knob at 4.45, and yet, she wasn’t here, and it was now quarter past five.

Another ten minutes passed, during which Draco sat near a window and watched the rain mercifully make way to grey sky. Whatever obscure island amongst the Orkney archipelago that Granger needed to get to was warded in its entirety against Apparition, so they would be taking a ferry.

Given that dinner time was approaching and Granger was still missing, Draco accepted the barkeep’s offer of cured meats and cheese.

If you aren’t here in fifteen minutes, I am assuming you have been captured and will be Apparating to you, was Draco’s next missive to Granger. Rather more of a threat, really.

After contemplating his empty plate, he asked the barkeep to prepare a second portion as a takeaway. It wasn’t in the range of his normal behaviours to be so thoughtful, but, well, Granger clearly wouldn’t have had time to eat, and he didn’t want to waste a moment on her arrival scurrying about for food.

The last ferry for the Holm of Eynhallow was scheduled for six. It was now five to.

Draco paid the barkeep for the provisions, Jotted to Granger that he’d be at the docks, and made his way there.

5 minutes, came Granger’s response.

Draco arrived at the docks just in time to watch the last ferry disappear into the misty sea.

The lad at the dock was interrogated with vigour on why the ferry had left at 5.58 and not 6.00 as indicated on the schedule. He shrugged and said that his father left when he wanted to leave, and ‘sides, there had been no other passengers here. The posh mister should’ve shown up sooner. Come back tomorrow.

“I’m here,” came a breathless squeak.

Draco turned. Granger was running towards them along the docks. Her Healer robes were streaked in something that looked rather like six gallons of blood.

“Merlin’s tits,” said Draco. “You look as though you’ve just murdered someone.”

“Crivvens,” said the dock boy, growing pale. “Is that blood?”

“Severed carotid artery – it looks worse than it was – he’s alive,” panted Granger. She waved her wand at herself in an Evanesco. “Where’s the boat?”

“S’gone, miss,” said the lad. Draco noted that he was addressing Granger with far more courtesy than him – looking like a murderer inspired respect. “Ye’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

“Come back tomorrow?” repeated Granger. She was on the verge of getting shrieky, but she was attempting to keep it together. “I can’t come back tomorrow. It has to be today. It’s Beltane.”

The dock boy gestured powerlessly at the empty dock. “Please don’t murder me, miss, it weren’t my doing. We do let brooms, if ye fancy the flight? The rain’s let up, at least?”

Draco took a fresh interest in the conversation. “Show me the brooms.”

“Brooms?” repeated Granger, now definitely on the verge of shrieking.

“Don’t let her kill me,” said the lad as he showed Draco to a shed. “Two Knuts to hire one, but we ask for a Sickle for a deposit.”

The brooms were everything that Draco might have hoped for in this remote outpost: weathered, fatigued, and of questionable durability.

“Any two seaters?”

The lad disappeared into a dark corner and pulled out an ancient model. “Old Glory. She looks tired, but she’s weather worthy, sir. My daddy taught me to fly on this one.”

“A formidable endorsement, to be sure. Has she got nav?”

“Rudimentary, sir. But she knows the Holm.” The lad tapped his wand to the broom and said, “Holm of Eynhallow.” The broom tilted herself to a mounting position and pointed steadily northwards.

“Done,” said Draco, handing over a Sickle that was worth fifteen of these brooms.

The boy pocketed the coin and, apparently not daring to face Granger again, scurried away.

Draco returned to Granger with the broom.

“No,” said Granger.

Draco propped the broom against the ground and leaned on it with great munificence. “All right. I await your solution.”

“I’m thinking,” said Granger. “Give me a moment.”

Granger thinking apparently involved stripping. Draco looked away. Though she was wearing Muggle clothing under her Healer robes, it felt too intimate to watch. From a minuscule pocket in her Muggle jeans she pulled out her anorak, boots and scarf. The ensemble was finished off with knobby woollen mittens.

“We’re going to conduct a SWOT analysis,” said Granger.

“Every conversation with you is a swot analysis,” said Draco.

“S.W.O.T.” said Granger.

“I know how it’s spelled.”

“No. S.W.O.T. – it’s an acronym.”

“Funny way to spell Granger.”

Granger took a deep breath and told herself loudly that Draco Malfoy’s central ambition in life was to be a perfect nuisance, and she must stop encouraging him.

Draco said that there was no encouragement needed – it was his natural state.

Granger waved her wand and a glowing quadrant came to life before her, with the following labels: Strengths, Weaknesses, Opportunities, Threats.

Above it glowed “Broom Ride Across the Sea.”

Granger populated the quadrant with a rapidity that suggested a familiarity with this technique. Weaknesses and Threats she filled easily, with things like ‘Sea-ghast attacks,’ ‘Hypothermia,’ and ‘Probable death.’

In Strengths she put ‘Not delaying research for another year.’ This seemed to have import – she made it glow red.

Draco was pleased to see her also put ‘Malfoy’ under ‘Strengths.’

“Because,” as she explained, “You can actually fly.”

However, she also put ‘Malfoy’ under ‘Threats’: “Because you’re a maniac who will probably do loops and things and kill us both.”

In Opportunities, Draco took the liberty of adding ‘Make Granger scream.’

Granger crossed that out and put, ‘Obtain ash.’

“From the Beltane fires?” asked Draco (surreptitiously adding Granger screaming back in again).

“Yes. You’d have worked it out eventually.”

“Already had,” scoffed Draco. “But, good – there won’t be anything left but ash by the time we get there, at this rate.”

“Right, well, I hadn’t counted on an idiot wizard attempting to wear a Lebengo Viper as a tie today.”

Granger stood back and studied the glowing quadrant for a few minutes. Then she looked at the 1965 Glorious Glider in Draco’s hand. Then she looked at the stormy sky.

‘Not delaying research for another year’ glowed red.

“Fuck,” observed Granger judiciously.

Draco cracked a grin.

“Let’s do it.” This was said very bravely. However, Granger’s face was pale. “You needn’t look so pleased,” she added.

Draco grinned harder. “Front or back?” he asked, holding the broom horizontal. “I’m steering, either way.”

“Which is least horrid?” asked Granger as the broom wobbled before her.

“If you’re on the back, you’re solely responsible for holding on,” said Draco. “But you’re out of the wind and you can’t really see anything, if that helps. If you’re on the front, there’s nothing between you and the wild blue. But you can hold the shaft and I can hold you.”

(There were about sixteen jokes that Draco could’ve made about shafts at that moment, but he was sensible enough not to do so. He thought he should be congratulated for his restraint.)

“I’m not sure I trust myself not to faint away and fall off the back,” said Granger. “You would be holding me at the front?”

“Yes.”

It wasn’t clear whether this was a good or bad thing. Granger wrung her hands. “Haven’t they got any life vests or helmets or things? I should’ve packed a parachute.”

“A what?”

“Never mind. I’ll take the front. Hold me. If I die – I just – I have a lot of things I want to do before I die. Please don’t let me die.”

She looked both deathly serious and ready to cry.

“You aren’t going to die, Granger.”

“I hate flying.”

“I know. Get on.”

“Maybe you should Stun me and wake me up when we get there.”

“I can’t hold your ragdolling corpse in these winds, Granger.”

“I’ve got it – I’ll take a Calming Draught,” said Granger, riffling through a pocket. “Just half of a dose, mind, to keep the edge off. I don’t want to overdo it on the soporifics and topple over…”

The Calming Draught was drunk and, finally, Granger climbed on. Her seat on the broom was tense and pinched up. Her grasp was white-knuckled through the mittens. Her eyes were closed. The Calming Draught clearly took more than a few seconds to kick in.

“Are you ready?” asked Draco, climbing on behind her.

“Just fly,” sputtered Granger through clenched teeth.

Draco flew. He took them on a few low circles around the shed to get acquainted with Old Glory. The broom was a stiff old harridan, but she was doughty enough to make headway through the northern wind, encumbered with the two of them. She was steady in the air, far more so than Draco’s flighty models at home, which twitched away at the touch of a finger. For a voyage over this arm of the North Sea, Old Glory would do well. Slow and steady.

Draco informed Granger of this fact in an attempt at reassurance. A gurgle was his only response.

Given that Granger’s hands were occupied with strangling the broom, Draco cast wind-breaking spells over the two of them, so that they might hear each other talk. He also cast warming charms, which made Granger shudder gratefully against him, which felt interesting.

Draco’s final adjustment was having a passenger, which was a rare occurrence for him. The weighting felt different and the steering trended downward.

The few times he’d doubled up on brooms had been for dates and those flights were succeeded by landings in a secluded location and a good snog. Draco rather doubted that there would be sexy bum wiggles against his groin on this flight: Granger clung to the broom like grim death, unmoving, as though she had been Petrified onto it. Only her hair eluded the stiffness. The few strands that escaped her bun softly touched his face. She smelled like shampoo and antiseptic.

Draco leaned forwards and put his hands on the broom in front of Granger, ready to go. She felt small and fine-boned between his arms.

“Cosy,” said Draco.

“Urk,” said Granger in an eloquent verbalisation of her terror.

Draco turned them northward and began to pick up speed. Granger, eyes closed and all, felt the change, and expressed violent wishes with regard to Draco’s fate in this world and the next, which would have made a more delicate man weep.

Draco merely said, “Steady on, Granger,” and slowed them down by 0.01 percent.

“To the Holm of Eynhallow, old bird,” said Draco, giving the broom a pat.

Next stop: the sea.

Draco had enjoyed a great many flights in his young life, but that trip across the North Sea ranked as one of the most savagely beautiful he’d ever experienced. He was almost glad for the old broom – it forced a level of care in his flying, and attention to the winds, that his newer brooms didn’t. The flight was quite technical. The cross-winds were many, and the weather capricious, so Draco chose a low flight path about ten metres above the surge.

The air was salty and cold and splashed across their faces like kisses from ghostly mermaids. As they reached open waters, a Great Skua joined them in their flight. It observed Draco with a beady eye, its wingtip a mere metre from his face. Then it dropped to the sea’s surface, skimmed wings with its dark watery double, and soared away again.

As they flew northwards, the skies cleared to reveal a fragile scatter of stars in the sky. Below them, the reflected constellations spilled and plunged into the waves. The sight was sublime. It made Draco feel small and inconsequential.

The Calming Draught must’ve kicked in, because Granger felt a hair less tense between his arms, though her mittens were still twisted hard around the broom. As far as Draco could tell, her eyes were still closed and she was missing all of these breathtaking vistas. But, he supposed, whatever got her through it.

Something big broke the water below them.

“Granger – look! There’s a Hippocampus! No, there’s two of them! Hippocampuses! Hippocampi?”

“Oh!” gasped Granger, finally opening her eyes.

She looked down to where the enormous, sleek heads of the horse-like creatures had split the waves. One disappeared again, but the other breached, its huge tail arcing just below them, then vanishing without a splash into the waves.

Draco slowed, wanting to turn back and observe them, but the first Hippocampus had appeared again ahead, closely followed by its mate. He urged the broom to catch up. The creatures picked up speed and Draco matched them, skimming the waves just at the height of their manes.

They raced.

Draco asked the broom for more. The majestic creatures moved below and beside them with no sign of exertion save the pearling mist that burst out of their wide nostrils.

One, slightly smaller, was sea-glass green, her mane as white as the foam cresting around her. The other was larger, blue as the sea-swells, and just as swift, keeping close to his mate.

Saltwater soaked them. Draco pressed on, and he was a wave, and the sea-horses were waves, and they flew and crashed and foamed, and they surged on, and now they were the wind, and now they were the brine, and now they were seafoam before the storm.

The wave-riders turned west towards the open ocean. Their pale eyes peered at Draco and Granger, and the male threw back his gorgeous head, as though challenging them to follow towards unknown shores. Draco knew that he could not.

The pair disappeared like swift-finned spirits, a vision fast-fading against the elusive sea.

Then there was only Draco, breathless, and Granger, shuddering, and the cloud-foamed waves.

Neither of them spoke.

The broom resumed her course.

Now, on their left and right, there loomed the dark forms of landmasses. They had entered the Orkney Isles.

The wind grew less cutting and the seas less rough.

Ahead of them, a small island glowed like a jewel amongst the dark seas, alight with Beltane fires. The broom, sensing her destination near, put on a fresh burst of speed.

Draco spotted a flattish rock face by starlight and came in for a landing. Granger must’ve closed her eyes again, because when her toes hit the ground, she squeaked, and would’ve tumbled off the broom but for Draco’s arm around her waist.

Draco dismounted. Granger’s activity would’ve been more accurately described as a kind of sagging tumble into the moss.

“That was brilliant!” Draco spun under the stars, holding his arms aloft. “Exhilarating. Fucking magical.”

Granger said nothing. Draco cast a Lumos at her. She appeared to be hugging the earth.

“You all right?”

“Just a moment,” gasped Granger.

Draco left her to compose herself. He cast a few spells inland, which informed him that there were about a hundred witches and wizards on the island, and almost an equal amount of fires, great and small.

Granger had regained her feet. Draco, seeing how bloodless she still looked, offered her his arm in a kind of gentlemanly automatism. She took it, her own grasp all a-tremble.

They advanced towards the centre of the island with the Beltane fires and the sound of a cheerful fiddler guiding them in. As they walked, Draco began to notice immense shapes on either side of them, only perceivable because they were a black opacity, permitting no light of the stars through them.

“Standing stones,” said Granger.

“There are henges this far north?” asked Draco.

He didn’t actually care whether or not there were henges this far north, but questions of that nature were sure to awaken the swot in Granger and distract her from her jitters.

He was right. Granger began in a weak kind of voice which gained in strength and enthusiasm as she progressed. “Yes – this is one of the oldest stone circles in the UK. The megaliths are thought to date back to about 3200 BCE. They’re around three metres tall – absolutely breathtaking in daylight, I’d imagine. This henge is called the Ring of Eynhallow.”

“We’ll have missed most of the merrymaking, I think,” said Granger as they grew close enough to the crowd to hear voices. “Too bad. I’d hoped to see some of the rituals in person…”

“Which rituals?”

“Oh, old protection magicks. Handfastings. Offerings to the Aos sí. Lots of jumping over fires and other silliness, too. I don’t know why wizards think that’ll impress a witch, but then, wizards do a great deal of things I don’t understand. Like viper neckties.”

Now Granger fell silent, mulling over that particular bout of idiocy. “But, well – at least I’ll have got what I came here for.”

They were near the centre of the ring now, walking amongst many peat fires and carousing witches and wizards. Granger was staring at the fires in restrained excitement. Her grasp on Draco’s arm grew tight.

As Granger’s attention was elsewhere, Draco pointed his wand at a few passersby and cast nonverbal Legilimency. He was satisfied that this was a low risk situation – the general mood was festive and tipsy and no one cared who they were.

The peak of the celebration was over and things were drawing to a jolly close. Tents were being put up here and there on the periphery of the fires, while around others, groups were settling down for some whisky-fueled philosophy.

Draco and Granger were accosted by friendly merry-makers and invited to join their fires. Granger politely declined and steered them to a quieter end of the henge, where a small fire burned low.

“Let’s wait for this one,” she said.

“I suppose it has to go out naturally?” asked Draco. “No dousing charms?”

“No dousing charms. Beltane ash at its most primitive.”

Granger Transfigured two stumps into cushy ottomans, which she and Draco pulled towards the fire.

After the bitterly cold flight, the heat was positively magnificent. Draco sat close, but Granger was near enough to roast her knees and set fire to her hair. She pulled off her mittens and held her hands close to the flames.

“Of the thousands and thousands of Beltane fires tonight, why these ones, specifically? In the most desolate corner of the UK?” asked Draco as his face began to thaw.

Granger had a ready answer, of course – and seemed delighted that he’d asked. “Because the fires on this Holm are from a very specific fire – the very one that Cerridwen used for her cauldron. I don’t know if you remember her tale…”

“Only whatever was on her Chocolate Frog card,” said Draco, vaguely recollecting a witch with masses of dark hair. “Looked rather like you, come to think of it.”

“Psh,” scoffed Granger. “I can only dream of becoming a fraction of the witch she was. She was a mistress of Transfiguration, amongst many things – she could transform into any creature at will. She makes today’s Animagi look jejune. Anyway – I’ll spare you the treatise – you might’ve noticed that these flames look a little redder than normal fire?”

Draco nodded; the flames were indeed ruddier than usual. “I assumed it was the peat.”

“No. They’ve kept her legendary flame alive, for generation upon generation, in these islands. Isn’t it incredible?” Granger’s eyes were bright. “What a thing to witness. What a thing to feel, on my own hands. It’s surreal. It’s extraordinary.”

“What do you need the ash for?” asked Draco, since she was being so voluble.

Granger clamped her mouth shut.

Draco shrugged. It had been worth a try.

He dug into the pockets of his cloak to pull out the provisions from Thurso. He passed the cured meats and cheese to Granger and tucked the flask of mulled wine against the fire to warm up again.

Granger looked surprised, though whether it was at the foresight or the unexpected kindness, Draco wasn’t certain. She tore the packet open. “I’m actually starved. Thank you. This was so thoughtful of you, I–”

Draco cut her off to waylay further fluff. “Didn’t bring any Banoffee pie in that anorak?”

“No,” said Granger. She fished about in one of the pockets. “I do have a few protein bars, though. They might be a bit squished…”

Draco didn’t know what a protein bar was, but it tasted like cheap chocolate, which was glorious on his tongue after all the sea salt.

They ate. Granger was mannerly about it, taking small bites interspersed with further commentary on Cerridwen. Draco wondered, for the first time, what her family was like, and whether they were well off Muggles? She had a sense of decorum and a kind of innate dignity that spoke of good breeding.

“Hippocampus would be correctly pluralised as Hippocampuses, I think,” said Granger. “I think Hippocampi would be an incorrect attempt at regularising Latin – Hippocampus is a Greek word. Technically, you could say Hippocampodes, I suppose? Although Hippocampus is now an English word, so really, Hippocampuses is quite correct, too.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” said Draco, fetching the warmed mulled wine.

“I’m not a linguist, so you shouldn’t.”

Draco proffered the flask to her.

“I’ll make us some goblets,” said Granger, plucking protein bar wrappers from Draco’s lap.

“So proper,” said Draco. His mother might actually like Granger.

“This wine has been heated by the flame of Cerridwen. We aren’t sucking it out of a flask like sixteen year olds behind The Hog’s Head.”

Granger Transfigured the wrappers into handsome golden goblets.

Draco would’ve informed her that she was quite the mistress of Transfiguration herself, but he didn’t want her to develop an inflated ego. She nevertheless caught the way he tested the weight of the goblets. She smiled into her scarf.

“Nice sheen on the gold,” he admitted.

“A pretty illusion,” said Granger, looking pleased. “But thank you.” She paused and hesitated before adding, “I heard you’ve an interest in Alchemy, so your approval means more than the average wizard’s.”

“My approval should mean more than the average wizard’s in all things,” said Draco, studying the goblet in the firelight.

Granger raised her eyes to the night sky.

Draco filled their goblets with the mulled wine. “While we’re on the subject of Alchemy – you’d tell me if your project involves the creation of a Panacea, wouldn’t you?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” said Granger, though she was grinning.

Draco was seized with sudden excitement, because if anyone could, from what he’d learned of this witch over the past five months, it was probably her.

“Are you creating a Panacea?” he asked, leaning towards her. “Is that what Shacklebolt’s so worked up about?”

She met his eyes without hesitation. “No. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Hm.”

“I’m afraid you’re developing rather too high an opinion of me. I’m a mere Healer, muddling along with my Muggle methods and paltry magical know-how.”

“Paltry,” repeated Draco with a scoff.

“D’you want more cheese? This one’s rather too sharp for me…”

Draco took the cheese and mulled over his mulled wine. Perhaps it wasn’t an outright Panacea that she was working on, but he rather felt the scope was similar. He had a plan to pry the information out of her, however. He simply had to be patient.

The fire crackled on, eating away at its remaining peat. They stared into it, and, as the night wore on, found themselves almost hypnotised by the dance of the flames. The fiddler’s song turned mournful and grave.

The fire, the peat smoke, the earth – it smelled like history, like new becoming old, and old becoming new.

Perhaps it was the wine, perhaps the late hour, perhaps the lingering potency of Beltane night, but the moment took on a dreamlike quality to Draco. Granger became a chiaroscuro-painted vision of a witch, her windblown hair melding into the shadows behind her, her eyes catching the red firelight. Her hands were stretched to the fire and it seemed to Draco that the flames were attracted to her, and that she could have stroked them, if she’d wanted to.

Granger yawned and the spell was broken.

Her sleepiness wasn’t a surprise. It was edging towards Draco’s usual bedtime, which meant that it was far past Granger’s.

She put her mittens back on and cast a warming charm around herself and Draco. The fire was low, but still burning.

Peat fires, Draco realised, took a very long time to go out.

Granger fell asleep on his shoulder.

Draco, who had himself been growing tired, suddenly found himself alert and ill at ease. This was an entirely new display of vulnerability that he wasn’t prepared to deal with. Her breathing was slow and steady, her mittens curled into her lap.

Draco’s Transfiguration skills were decent, but not good enough to Transfigure a tent out of the remains of a cured meat packet. He settled for elongating Granger’s ottoman into a kind of lopsided chaise longue. She slid into the new configuration without waking.

Then, because she seemed small and even more vulnerable lying supine under the open sky, he threw his cloak over her. He topped this off with another warming charm over the two of them, since the dying fire’s warmth was decidedly giving way to the night’s chill.

He cast a few wards, in case his own fatigue took over and he, too, fell dead to the world. It was most certainly excessive prudence, as the other celebrants had retreated into their tents, but Draco hadn’t survived this long by being careless.

He sat with his back against Granger’s chaise longue and watched the last of the flames turn to embers.

After another hour, the edge of the pit had turned to ash. It stirred in the silent breeze, then settled, white upon white.

Dawn broke fresh and bright, spilling gold over the Orkney Islands under the cries of wheeling seabirds.

Draco awoke with a crick in his neck and a nose gone numb from the cold.

As for Granger, she looked perfectly comfortable, tucked up in his cloak. Draco wondered when he had become such a virtuous fucking martyr, sacrificing his own comfort for bloody Granger of all people?

He stomped off on frozen feet to take a piss.

When he returned, Granger was up and examining his Transfiguration handiwork. The chaise had held up through the night, which was a pleasant surprise to Draco, anyway.

Granger saw him coming and grew flustered. “You should’ve woken me! You didn’t sign up to be my manservant on top of everything else. You made me a chaise? It’s lovely. Thank you. I had a wonderful sleep, which is terribly odd, considering. Oh – and your cloak. Here. Thank you for lending it to me. What’s it made of? It’s so warm. You’re moving terribly. Is it your neck? Can I look at it?”

Draco took his cloak, swatted Granger’s hands away from his neck, and expressed a curt wish for a hot coffee and a prompt departure.

Granger pulled her hands back into her chest. “I saw someone unfurling an entire kitchenette, a few tents down. You might convince him to spare a cup. I’m going to collect my sample.”

Draco went in search of this salvation, leaving Granger kneeling next to the fire pit, scooping ash into test tubes.

As it turned out, the kitchenette-unfurling wizard was willing to spare two cups and slightly dodgy croissants in exchange for the Sickle that Draco wordlessly offered him.

The hot coffee was worth the ridiculous premium. After the first sip, Draco felt slightly less inclined to murder everyone.

Granger annoyed him afresh by not being where he had left her. After a brief, wand-grippy search, he found her a few fires over, speaking with a couple dismantling their tent.

She forestalled his lecture with news: the ferry back to Thurso would be here in fifteen minutes. To Draco, this was merely good news, as he didn’t fancy another flight in his sleep deprived state. To Granger, it was excellent news. She even asked to carry Old Glory to the dock, wanting to return the broomstick to the ferry master, and rid herself of it forever.

They wandered through the weathered standing stones to the vestigial docks. Granger was lively and bouncy and gave Draco an unasked-for history of Orkney’s Neolithic peoples, using the broom to point at areas of interest on the monoliths.

Seeing that Draco did not match her enthusiasm, she gave him her own coffee to pep him up further, and most of her croissant.

The sea breeze picked up as they neared the shore, a beautiful mix of salt and sand and new grass.

They boarded the ferry. Old Glory was reunited with her master. Draco said to keep the deposit. He and Granger had a dispute over whether or not she owed him any money, as she tried to pay him back. He shut her down by threatening to buy the broom outright and kidnapping her for further flights if she didn’t leave off.

Then, as the ferry reached open waters, he kipped down on a bench for a well-deserved nap.

Granger quietly Transfigured the bench’s wood top into plush velour when she thought he’d fallen asleep.

~

“Who knew the Knob would offer such an excellent breakfast?” exclaimed Granger, piling scrambled eggs onto a piece of toast.

Draco choked on his coffee and asked her to warn him when she was going to say things like that.

Granger looked prim and said it wasn’t her fault that he interpreted innocent remarks as boorishly as possible. But she did know a handy charm for trachaeic expulsions, so he could continue to giggle about penises as he pleased – she would save him from choking.

Granger finished eating far before he did, which meant that she had ample time to watch him not quite move properly, because of his neck. She began a spontaneous lecture on cervical muscle spasms, pondered the health of his spinal accessory nerve, described in detail what she would do to his sterno-cleido-mastoid, if only he would let her, and generally badgered him until he was no longer enjoying his eggs.

“Fine,” snarled Draco, shrugging off his cloak and pulling his robes aside to expose his neck.

You would’ve thought he’d given her a great gift, permitting her to help him. She shuffled closer to him along the bench, eyes alight. “Finally. Don’t move. This won’t take a moment.”

The tip of her wand found the juncture where his neck met his shoulder. That was not a feeling that Draco liked; in fact, it was a real manifestation of his nascent trust in her that he allowed it at all. The next feeling was much better: a cooling, instant relief, as Granger spoke a Healing spell.

“That’s better, isn’t it? I know it’s a Muggle remedy and you won’t do it, but I would recommend heat therapy if this still feels tender tomorrow. It’d help with blood flow.”

Draco rolled his shoulders. His neck felt wonderfully free.

“You had a horrid night because of me, and I’m sorry,” said Granger.

“Let me eat.”

Granger insisted on paying for breakfast and  they made their way to the Knob’s hearth to Floo to their respective homes.

Granger reached for the Floo powder pot at the precise moment that Draco did, resulting in a skimming of hands and immediate retraction from both parties. Then they did the idiotic thing where they insisted that the other go first for a long and annoying minute.

Draco, his patience thin, waved his wand at the pot and levitated it firmly into Granger’s chest. “Go.”

“Ugh,” said Granger, hugging the pot to herself before it dropped.

She pried the lid open and looked ready to fling the Floo powder into the fire and leave in a huff. However, she stopped and turned back to Draco instead.

Her expression changed to something uncertain and awkward.

“Malfoy, I – I wouldn’t have been able to collect my sample without you. I would’ve had to put off my project until the next Beltane festival, if it wasn’t for you being there. I would never have made that flight by myself.”

Draco had never been one to shy away from receiving the praise that was his due – in fact, he tended to bask in it – but something about Granger’s guileless sincerity and gratitude made this frightfully awkward.

Plus, it was Granger. Her being nice gave him the heebie-jeebies.

“Go home, Granger,” he said.

Granger threw a fistful of powder into the flames. “Okay. I’m glad you came. I’m goingtogonowthanksagainbye. The Mitre.”

She didn’t meet his eye and turned away into the flames.

A few minutes later, Draco was dusting soot from his cloak, in his own parlour. He was very much looking forward to a bath and bed. Henriette, who had materialised upon his arrival, was sent off to run the bath, as hot as she could make it.

As Draco made his way to his chambers, he wondered whether the bath would count as heat therapy – not that he cared for Granger’s Muggleish treatments, but.

Should he send her a note asking about it?

She would probably answer with a twelve page explanation and suggestions for further reading.

His cloak still smelled like Granger and peat smoke.

He sent her the note.

The dissertation on heat therapy notwithstanding, Draco had little contact with Granger through the merry month of May. He and his fellow Aurors were kept occupied by new and exciting criminal behaviours throughout the country (a wizard who had Imperiused the entirety of a Muggle village and lived as their king; werewolves targeting infants; a theft at Gringotts; a few kidnappings for variety).

Mid-May found Draco cleaning up a messy case – a potioneer in Sheffield, posing as something called a “love psychic,” selling love potions to Muggles. Draco was in the midst of confiscating a stash and Obliviating a Muggle when his wand hummed an alarm at him. That specific alarm signaled that someone was setting off Granger’s wards. And not her office or her laboratory: her home.

Draco finished up with the Muggle briskly and Disapparated to the nearest Floo. That took him to the Mitre, followed by an Apparition to Granger’s cottage, wand out and Disillusioned.

Between his wand’s alarm and his arrival, Draco estimated that three minutes had passed. But it was three minutes too late; whoever had been poking about had left. Draco’s revelation spells indicated no human presence nearby save for Granger’s Muggle next door neighbour, who was napping.

Draco cast a delicate magic detection spell. His warding around the property glowed brightly under it, but he ignored that in favour of examining the ground around Granger’s cottage. He held his wand aloft until he found what he sought: a faintly visible trace in the air, left by a being who had used magic here moments earlier.

The faintly glowing trail ended suddenly in the middle of the field behind Granger’s cottage: a Disapparition or Portkey, perhaps.

Draco did not like this. It might only have been a curious wizard, or even a thief – that was the best case scenario. It might also be a first indicator that someone had their eyes on Granger and that Shacklebolt’s paranoia wasn’t for naught.

Draco sent a quick note to Granger: Someone set off your wards. We need to talk.

When Granger didn’t respond immediately, he checked her schedule. She was currently lecturing in Muggle Cambridge.

Draco decided to join her there – he was essentially next door, anyway.

I’m coming to you, he wrote.

Still Disillusioned, he Apparated to Trinity College.

~

Granger’s lecture had been on the cusp of ending. Draco only had to wait for ten minutes outside the door of the small classroom. A half-dozen students filed out as he, all but invisible to Muggle eyes, slipped through them into the room.

The chalkboard indicated that the day’s topic had been ‘Conjugated monoclonal antibodies.’ Draco was pleased that these antibodies knew their verb tenses, if nothing else.

Granger, unaware of his presence, was packing papers (sans wand) into a briefcase. She wore a pinstripe blouse tucked into high-waisted trousers – pieces that Draco wouldn’t have immediately thought of as complementary, and yet, on Granger, the ensemble was rather flattering.

As the last student filed out, Granger pulled her Jotter out of her pocket. It gave Draco a strange pleasure to watch her flip the Jotter open and grow visibly interested when she saw that it was a message from him.

She read the note and drew her eyebrows into a frown. She began to compose a response. Draco supposed that he ought to reveal himself, as the responding buzz from his own Jotter would soon give him away.

He came to stand in front of her and dismissed his Disillusionment.

Granger gave a kind of gasping shriek, jumped back, and tripped over her chair.

Draco caught her by the wrist, preventing an outright tumble. Granger landed awkwardly in the chair.

Draco leaned against the desk and said, conversationally: “You know, I wish you’d go for your wand and shriek out a curse rather than a scream. You saw my message?”

Granger was not ready to talk about the message. His ring told him that her heart was racing. “You’ve just frightened me out of my wits! How long have you been here? Warn me, next time!”

“I did warn you that I was coming,” said Draco.

Which was true, but Granger nevertheless looked irascible. “I read that message a millisecond before you materialised before me like the Bloody Bollocksing Baron!”

“It’s not my fault you were too busy conjugating antibodies.”

Granger’s expression shifted from cross to confused. “I – what?”

Draco jutted his chin towards the chalkboard.

Granger observed the chalkboard, processed his comment, raised her forefinger, and said, “That’s not what that means–”

Draco cut her off because he, frankly, wasn’t interested. “I’m here to talk about who is nosing around your cottage. And why.”

His interruption earned him a scathing glare. However, Granger took a deep breath and seemed to quell whatever intemperate urges he had roused.

She folded her hands on the desk in a facsimile of serenity. “Sit. And tell me what happened.”

Draco sent a Colloportus towards the classroom’s door. Then he levitated a chair towards them and sat in it across from Granger. Something about this shifted the dynamic between them. He was on the student side of the desk, feeling rather like he was about to be examined.

She crossed her arms and waited, her eyes fixed on his face. The weight of the entire attention of the great Granger brain pressed upon Draco, ready to acquire his information and make meaning of it.

“One of my wards triggered an alarm round the back of your cottage,” said Draco. “Someone was either testing the warding or attempting a disarming. I got there within minutes, but they’d already left. Nothing from Hominem Revelio except your neighbour, but I found a magical trace of them–”

“How?” interjected Granger.

“A magical detection spell,” said Draco. “One of mine.”

Granger looked intrigued but appeared to bracket her questions for later discussion.

Draco continued. “Based on the size, it was most certainly an adult witch or wizard. I followed the trail to the field behind your house. The individual Disapparated or Portkeyed out; the trace ended too suddenly for broom travel.”

Granger clambered to her feet, her wand in her hand. “Is the trace still there? I want to see–”

“No. They dissipate quickly. I only saw it because I’d arrived moments afterwards – and knew the spell.”

Granger sat back down with a moue. “And they definitely interacted with the wards? It wasn’t just the postie?”

“Obviously it wasn’t just the postie. I’m alerted to magical interactions, otherwise I’d be fielding alarms whenever a robin lands on your wisteria.”

“Might the neighbour have seen something?”

“She was asleep and on the wrong side of your cottage. And if this intruder was worth anything, they were at the very least Disillusioned for a jaunt into Muggle Cambridgeshire.”

Granger’s fingers tapped the desk. “You said that Apparitions could be traced. Mightn’t we track this one?”

Draco was growing fatigued of being interrogated like a wayward undergraduate, but he supposed he should’ve expected it from Granger. “The rumour – which you did not hear from me – is that the Ministry tracks Apparitions on certain Individuals of Interest. I’m going to have a look, but unless this person has been particularly naughty or interesting, there’ll be nothing on the books.”

“I wish I’d thought to install cameras at home,” said Granger, looking irritated with herself. “I’ve got some at the lab. I’m rectifying that immediately. Did you see anything else? Footprints? A bit of fabric?”

Draco twitched a sardonic eyebrow at her. “No. This isn’t a Muggle film where suspects leave convenient clues. Now, if you’re quite finished quizzing me, Professor, I have some questions of my own. Or should I wait until your office hours?”

Granger stiffened visibly at his use of her title. “Eurgh. Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what, Professor?”

“That is profoundly unsettling,” said Granger.

“I kind of like it.”

The Professor gave him a black look.

“You look cross. Are you going to give me detention?” asked Draco.

“This is uni – we don’t do detentions. Can we move on to your questions?”

Draco took special note of Granger’s discomfort for next time he wished to push her buttons. Perhaps he’d send his next Jot in the form of an assignment for her to mark.

But for now, business. “Best case scenario, this was a one-off visit by a wizarding burglar who wanted to make a quick Galleon and was frightened off by your warding. But we are going to proceed as though it was a first contact by a possibly hostile party. Have you given anyone a hint, recently, that you’ve made a Discovery?”

“No,” said Granger, squaring her shoulders and looking defensive. “Ever since Shacklebolt’s disproportionate reaction, I’ve said nothing. The project is entirely self-funded and has therefore always been under the radar – hang on, you don’t know what a radar is – always been low profile. I’ve not mentioned a thing to friends or colleagues. I have several research projects on the go – more than enough to explain away my time.”

“So why now? Why today?”

“I don’t know,” said Granger. “Isn’t it your job to work that out?”

“That’s what I’m in the process of doing, Professor.” For this remark, Draco was rewarded with a glower. “The incident occured all of twenty minutes ago, so if you’d give me a moment, rather than interrupting–”

Granger flared. “You’re one to talk about interrupting.”

“Who is Larsen?”

“…Gunnar? How did you–”

Draco waved Granger’s schedule at her. “I’ve developed an unfortunate level of familiarity with your schedule and he’s the only new element in the last fortnight.”

“I met him when – last Thursday? He’s the head of a Danish pharmaceutical company. They’re developing a new drug delivery system. Nanoparticles. The potential clinical applications are extremely interesting for my field.”

“So he’s a Muggle?”

“Yes.”

Draco’s fingertips rapped impatiently on Granger’s desk. That wasn’t helpful. “And you’ve been a paragon of discretion, otherwise.”

“Yes. The Auror protecting me doesn’t even know anything.”

“Oh, I am aware of that, as well as his frustrations on that front.” Draco’s fingers rapped the desk harder. “It makes it that much more difficult to know what the hell I’m to protect you from.”

“From nothing. No one knows.”

“And yet, someone was at your cottage today.”

“Yes. But you said yourself it might very well have been a housebreaker on the prowl.” Even as she repeated this supposition, Granger looked sceptical.

“But why your cottage, specifically?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t believe in coincidence, not when you’re involved.”

“Neither do I.” Granger looked as troubled as Draco felt about the entire affair. She was bouncing one of her feet under the desk, as she was wont to do when she was irked. Again, Draco was reminded of the annoyed swish of a cat’s tail.

“If someone leaked something, and there are people sniffing about, this situation is no longer the same as it was in January when we were taking precautionary measures. We’ll call this a one-off, but another incident like this, Granger, and I’m going to have to know what you’re up to. You can bind me with a Vow of Secrecy if you must.”

“I understand. And I hope there isn’t another such incident. I’d rather no one know anything until I’m ready to go public. You’ll probably force me into hiding or something equally inordinate.”

Draco regarded her seriously. “If you think I’d force you into hiding, then this thing must be Big.”

“It’s Big. But it’s also Good. But it will upset some people.”

The urge to use Legilimency was strong. The Big and Good thing was at the forefront of Granger’s mind at the moment. She wasn’t Occluding, because at some point in the past few months, she had begun to trust him.

In fact, right now, Granger was in an utterly unguarded state, her gaze openly meeting his. She awaited his retort or further questioning. He could be in her mind and see the thing before she could Occlude, and then he’d know. She’d be furious, and never trust him again, but he’d know.

Draco, gripping his wand in his pocket, found that he couldn’t do it. He told himself that it was because he didn’t want to endure the righteously angry shrieking that would be sure to follow. And that it had nothing whatsoever to do with the weight of that new trust, with the preciousness of it.

Granger ran her hands up and down her arms as though she were cold. “I find this entire thing disquieting. I don’t like it. I really hope it was a stupid burglar.”

“If it wasn’t a stupid burglar, well – the baddies now know that you’re well protected.”

“Is that good or bad?”

Draco shrugged. “Both. It’ll tell them that you – or the Ministry – are aware of the risks and have taken precautions. That you’re being guarded. That might scare them off. Or it might drive them to nastier manoeuvres.”

“I was rather thinking the latter,” said Granger, concern drawing her brows together. “However, I’ve got the ring and I’ve got you. That’s something.”

The unasked-for earnestness there made Draco want to flee the room. Why did she have to inflict such sincerity upon him? He wanted to squirm.

“And I’m not exactly a defenceless imbecile,” continued Granger. “Shrieking and falling over chairs because of you notwithstanding. And I’ve got the best warding available for private residences. Well – most private residences. I suppose Manors and chateaux in the Loire valley are a rather different breed.”

“There are advantages to ancient abodes,” said Draco. He wasn’t trying to sound smug; it was true.

Granger’s enumeration of her protective measures seemed to have calmed her, at least – until she recollected something and asked, “Did you see my cat?”

“No,” said Draco. “But I wasn’t looking. I’m sure the bugger’s fine.”

“I won’t tell him you called him that,” said Granger. “He’s only just stopped hissing when I talk to him about you.”

“…You talk to your cat about me?” asked Draco, unsure whether this was deranged behaviour, or normal for Granger.

“He likes to be kept informed. Helps him decide how much fur to make you eat.”

“Tell him I think he’s a fine animal.”

“I will.”

“The most impressive specimen of a half-Kneazle I’ve ever seen.”

Granger’s mouth quirked into a smile for the first time during this conversation. She rose and resumed piling student papers into her briefcase. “I’d better crack on.”

Draco, too, stood, and floated his chair back to its place. “What’s a love psychic?”

Watching Granger process non sequiturs was developing into a new and amusing sub-hobby, under the umbrella of Bothering Granger.

She stared at him as though she couldn’t possibly have heard him correctly. “Did you just say love psychic?”

“Yes.”

“Where on earth did you hear about those?”

“A naughty potioneer’s been posing as one. What are they?”

“They claim to be able to help lonely people find love through the usual flimflam – mind reading, tarot cards, tea leaves. They’re fraudsters cheating the vulnerable out of money.”

“Well, this one was getting results. Magically assisted, mind you.”

“No. Love potions?”

“Yes.”

“For Muggles?”

“Yes.”

“That’s awful,” said Granger. “You’ll want to keep an eye on the poor things. Potions have vastly different potencies on non-magical populations.”

“I know. The victims are being checked in on by medis for the next fortnight.”

“Good. What potions were they?”

“I’ve no idea,” said Draco, jangling the satchel into which he’d hurriedly stuffed the confiscated stash. “Haven’t taken inventory yet.”

“Ooh, you have them?”

Draco flipped open the satchel.

Granger peered in. “Contraband! What a thrill!”

Draco pulled out a few of the dark, unlabelled vials. “I reckon the bigger ones are Cupid’s Brew. The smaller – Amortentia?” He popped the cork on one of the vials and held it out to Granger. “Does that look mother-of-pearl to you?”

“Hard to say,” said Granger, peering into the dark vial. She passed it under her nose. “It doesn’t smell like Amortentia. It smells like expensive cologne.”

“What? Give it here,” said Draco, and he smelled it too. It didn’t smell remotely like cologne to him; it smelled sweet, with notes of coffee and toffee, and afterwards, something smoky.

“Well?” asked Granger, a hand on her cocked hip. “Are you sure you didn’t raid a perfumery?”

“Smells like coffee to me,” said Draco. “It’s Amortentia.”

Granger sniffed at the vial again. “But Amortentia smells like grass cuttings to me… this is a man’s eau de toilette. Let’s see the sheen.”

She Transfigured one of the papers on the desk into a flat dish, upon which she poured out a measure of the potion. The liquid emerged from the dark vial with a shimmery mother-of-pearl gloss. A faint spiral of steam hissed out of it as it made contact with the air, confirming evidence that it was, indeed, Amortentia.

Granger stared at it for a longish moment, her arms crossed.

“Well,” she said finally, “It’s Amortentia.”

“When’s the last time you smelled Amortentia?” asked Draco.

“Er – the one time in Slughorn’s class.”

Draco’s own memory of his experience of the potion was vague: he recollected the smell of citrus, perhaps. This new version was rather nice. Another breath of it wafted towards him: this time it smelled like the vast sky, sea salt, and a faint trace of something clean-smelling.

“Amortentia is meant to smell like things you find appealing or attractive,” muttered Granger. “So why…?”

“Why what?”

“What happened to my grass cuttings and new parchment?” asked Granger. She looked accusatory, as though Draco were personally responsible for the change.

“Your taste in men has evolved,” shrugged Draco. “You can do better than the gardener’s assistant, surely…”

Granger looked irritated. “Don’t be patronising. Did yours change?”

Draco observed Granger for a moment, judging whether or not she was worthy of this rather private information. “Perhaps.”

“What was it, before?”

“I don’t remember. Lemon sweeties, or something.”

“And now it’s coffee?”

“Yes,” said Draco. “And toffee.”

“Do you ever stop thinking of food?”

“No.”

“Romance is dead.”

“Preaching to the converted, Granger.” Draco Vanished the sampling of Amortentia that Granger had poured out. Then he packed the vials back into his satchel. “I’m going to go find a café, and incidentally my soul-mate.”

“The café downstairs has a toffee-coffee panna cotta. Perhaps your soul-mate is a custard.”

“Show me.”

They left the classroom together and walked down the few storeys to the ground floor. Granger waved her wand at Draco’s chest to hide his Auror insignia from view; his black robes did not otherwise elicit second glances in Muggle Cambridge.

She led him to the small café. There was a single panna cotta remaining in the window.

“It’s a sign,” said Granger.

She bought it for him (he hadn’t any Muggle money), and a cappuccino for herself.

“Thank you for letting me share this special day with the two of you,” said Granger, placing the dessert in Draco’s hands with great solemnity. “Here’s to a lifetime of happiness and love.”

Then she handed him a small plastic spoon. “My wedding gift for the happy couple.”

Bit sarcastic, sometimes, was Granger.

They walked out of the building and into warm May sunshine. Draco, eating his soul-mate with his spoon, saw his revenge in the form of a strapping young lad cutting the lawn.

“Look, Granger – your gardener is trimming the quad. Do you want me to talk to him for you?”

“They’re courts, not quads. And don’t–”

“Oi,” said Draco to the strapping lad. “Do you have a mobile?”

“Er – yes?” said the gardener.

Draco grasped Granger by the shoulders and stood behind her. “She’s a bit shy, but this Professor here would like your numbers?”

“My what?”

“You know,” said Draco, mimicking Granger using her Muggle device.

“Oh!” said the gardener. “My number.”

Granger knocked Draco’s hands down. “Ignore him,” she said to the gardener. “He’s an imbecile.”

The gardener looked confused, yet – to Draco’s enormous amusement – hopeful. He eyed Granger up and down. “Do you want my number, though?”

“No. I’m sorry for disturbing you. Please, carry on.”

The gardener’s face fell. “All right. You know where to find me if you change your mind, Professor…?”

“Granger,” said Draco, helpfully.

“That won’t be necessary. As I said, this man is an imbecile.”

Granger, with a grasp on Draco’s elbow that was more of a pinch than anything else, walked them away from the gardener, who looked on in disappointment.

Draco, feeling about twelve years old, was snickering to himself. “Poor man looked frightfully sad, you know.”

Granger was, apparently, too peeved at him to answer.

“Gutted, Granger.”

“Oh, hush.”

“Where are we going?”

“To a place where I can Disapparate and get away from you.”

There was a shadowy alcove behind some shrubbery that seemed to suit. Granger pulled out her wand and, with a last irritated glance at Draco, Disapparated home.

Draco, still chortling, dug his spoon into his toffee-coffee thing.

That was when he discovered that Granger had Transfigured it into Flobberworm mucus.

“That fucking witch,” said Draco.

Draco’s Jotter sank into taciturn silence in the next few days. He assumed that Granger was pouting and that he wouldn’t hear from her again until he prodded her about her next asterisk holiday.

He was therefore surprised to receive a missive from her before the week had elapsed.

Received invitation to tea from your mother. This Sunday.

Will you be nice and attend? asked Draco.

Not sure you deserve me being nice, said Granger.

Don’t punish my mother because of me, said Draco. Besides, I ate Flobberworm mucus – haven’t I suffered enough?

Did you really eat it? asked Granger.

Yes, replied Draco.

Liar, said Granger.

Draco didn’t respond, because she was right.

His Jotter buzzed again. Am only going if you’ll be there. Not suffering alone.

I can’t. I already fabricated a scheduling conflict for myself, said Draco.

Too bad, said Granger. Unmake it.

But that’s complicated, said Draco. He hoped that she could hear the whinge through the text.

So is attending an event at Malfoy Manor.

Draco straightened in his seat. So she was playing that card. He supposed he hadn’t a choice, then. Understood. I will be there.

She didn’t respond.

~

Sunday came around and with it the usual flurry of preparations that preceded Narcissa’s functions. Draco remained in his chambers until the whirlwind of Henriette and her fellow elves had abated and the first guests had arrived.

Narcissa managed her guest lists with a strategy and refinement developed over decades of serving as the perfect hostess. Today’s invitees were a mix of higher level Ministry employees and academics. For Granger, the group would permit comfortable mingling with a familiar crowd. For Draco, it was a boon, as the categories of clingy débutantes and high level Ministry employees were normally mutually exclusive.

He caught Henriette and asked her, quietly, to let him know when Granger had arrived.

Then he made his way into the salon, which Narcissa had opened up onto the west terrace on this lovely May afternoon. Delicately wrought silver tables, piled high with finger sandwiches and cakes, spilled out onto the terrace. Guests were shielded from the sun by floating lace parasols that drifted over them.

Draco recognised some old school mates and wandered over to make small talk with Terry Boot (Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes), Davies (Magical Transportation), and Padma Patil (University of Edinburgh). The conversation moved from mutual ribbing about getting old, to the recent performance of the Falmouth Falcons, to children, at which point Draco lost interest and began to consider evasive manoeuvres.

Rescue came in the form of Henriette, who tugged at Draco’s sleeve to inform that Healer Granger had just Flooed in.

Draco found Granger dusting herself off in the Floo parlour. He had half expected her to arrive in Muggle attire to make a point. However, she had gone to the effort of wearing robes for the occasion. They were a light grey-blue in the French style, accentuating her collar bones and slender neck, and tailored high about the waist.

Granger looked pale but seemed preternaturally calm as she spotted Draco and asked, “Why am I here, again?”

Draco enumerated possibilities on his fingers: “A sudden interest in building bridges. To thank the Malfoys for making the Delacroix ward possible. Because you were personally invited by Narcissa Malfoy and no one says no to her. Because I coerced you. Take your pick.”

“Don’t flatter yourself – you couldn’t coerce me into anything.”

“Don’t challenge me, or I may decide to prove you wrong.”

He and Granger exchanged mutually obstinate looks. However, Draco was more interested in the distinct lack of shaky hands or other trembles that usually marked Granger’s anxious states – which today’s event ought to have triggered, given the location.

“You’ve taken a Calming Draught,” said Draco.

“Whatever gets me through it,” said Granger. “I needn’t remind you of what my last sojourn under this roof was like.”

“It’s hardly the same roof,” said Draco, looking up at the grand white arc above them.

“What do you mean? Oh – you said you had rebuilt.”

Granger, too, looked up at the grand ceiling. She was quiet for a moment, and then said, “A thought experiment: is it still the same Manor if its original components were all replaced?”

“The Ship of Theseus,” said Draco. “Well – Manor of Theseus, I suppose.”

Granger turned her attention from the ceiling to him. Her expression flitted from surprised to impressed, then back to neutral. “Precisely.”

“Tell me when you’ve worked it out.” Draco held his arm towards the door. “Shall we?”

“No,” said Granger, an arm wrapped around her midsection. “I’d rather stay here and discuss the metaphysics of identity.”

“Half the guests here today are brains. You can discuss metaphysics to your little heart’s content. The Patil twin who teaches at Edinburgh is here.”

“Ooh, Padma’s here?”

This news spurred Granger on to follow Draco to the door that led to the entrance hall. She paused at the threshold and took a small, fortifying breath. Then she walked into the Manor proper. Draco, glancing behind him, noticed that she was keeping her head down and not looking about at all. Which was a pity, because substantial changes had been made since her last, unfortunate, visit.

“We wanted to be rid of every reminder of the… darker moments in our lives. Of Voldemort’s stay here.” Draco’s comment drew Granger’s attention beyond her own feet. “It’s changed a bit.”

With an effort, Granger forced her gaze up and about. “Oh – it’s much… much brighter than I remember.”

Encouraged by this success, Draco decided to prattle on about the changes – whatever kept Granger’s chin up. It wouldn’t do for her to walk into the salon looking terrified.

“We put in some new windows. Well – that skylight was a huge bloody hole from some explosion. But we rather liked the sun being let into the foyer, so we had it glassed up instead of roofed.”

They stopped at another large, oddly-shaped window that gave onto the East. “This was a group-cast Bombarda by a bunch of Aurors. Didn’t seem worth bricking back up again, not when it let the sunrise in so nicely.”

Granger tilted her head, studying the decidedly non-traditional architectural feature. “You know – I rather like it.”

“The damage to the serpents and other grotesques led to a rather interesting discovery,” said Draco, gesturing to the arch mouldings above them. “We found that they’d been built over angel iconography. I thought it made the place feel like a cathedral, but my mother liked them. She kept the more intact ones.”

Granger surveyed the half-dozen angels variously perched and soaring, up near the top of the ceiling. “Oh. I would’ve thought they’d always been serpents.”

“So did we. It seems some Malfoy ancestor in the eighteenth century got a bit excited about the family’s ties to Salazar Slytherin and decided to adopt the serpentine imagery whole-heartedly.”

As they moved down the hall to the salon, the glossy planks of wood below their feet gave way suddenly to glass.

“Now, this is interesting,” said Draco. “The dungeons were entirely destroyed in the last battle – and below them–”

“Oh – ruins!”

“We had archaeologists come. They think it was a monastic settlement. Sixth century.”

“Celtic?”

“Yes. They wrote a report – er – it’s somewhere–”

Granger seemed just about ready to drop to her knees and press her face to the glass floor, under which the magically illuminated ruins shimmered. “You must send me a copy. How fascinating.”

Draco promised to do so. He was just going to congratulate himself on his skillful management of Granger’s mood, when the next difficulty presented itself in the form of Henriette.

“Egg and cress sandwich?” piped up a voice somewhere at their waists. “Scone with clotted cream?”

Granger observed the house-elf. Henriette was impeccably dressed in an embroidered pillow-case, smiling and attentive. When Granger didn’t immediately answer, Henriette proffered another tray. “Or perhaps caramel teacakes for Mademoiselle?”

Granger’s internal struggle was evident, but she mastered it. “Yes, I’ll have a teacake. Un grand merci.”

“Cela me fait plaisir, Mademoiselle,” said Henriette with a curtsey, before disappearing.

Granger caught Draco watching her as the house-elf vanished.

“What?” she asked.

“I await your Manifesto,” said Draco.

Granger sniffed. “I’ve come to terms with the fact that there are some parts of wizarding society I shall never understand.”

“But you accept them?”

“No,” said Granger. “I tolerate them.”

“Hm.”

“Don’t worry, I shan’t begin a house-elf revolution within your halls.”

“Too bad,” said Draco. “Henriette is French, you know. A Radical by nature.”

Finally, they made it to the salon. Draco heard a small intake of breath beside him. Granger had gasped. He himself was desensitised to his mother’s decorations, but he supposed that the scene was rather pretty – the sunlight, the terrace, the parasols…

“The flowers,” said Granger.

“I’m delighted that they meet your approval,” came Narcissa’s voice. “Welcome, Healer Granger. So pleased that you could come.”

Draco noted his mother’s use of Granger’s title and wondered how much she would scold him if she heard him refer to Granger as, well, Granger.

Narcissa, superb hostess that she was, eased Granger into the room through a tour of the most extravagant flower arrangements. There was a stiffness between the two of them, moderated by each witch’s best attempt at neutral civility.

Narcissa swept Granger off towards an older Ministry crowd. Draco watched as Granger was introduced with a great deal of attention to her many accomplishments. In these circles, Granger hardly needed introduction, but her presence at Malfoy Manor was – as Narcissa had hoped – noted in quiet whispers.

Confident now that Granger wasn’t about to faint in terror or flee the premises, Draco carried on with his mingling. The rebuilding of the Malfoy name and cachet had taken a decade and a half of work by himself and his mother. They were seeing the fruits of it now: the room was full of people with power, all of whom were glad to be seen at a Malfoy function, and thoroughly enjoying Narcissa’s hospitality. Draco took note of who was in need of money, and who was in need of influence.

Tea was served. Granger had drifted into the Hogwarts crowd and was chatting with Patil and Boot. Draco was pleased to note that she stirred her tea correctly, back and forth, without clinking the spoon against the china. He was certain that his mother would also have noticed.

Yes – Narcissa had just glanced over to Granger and her eyes had flitted to the stirring. Her gaze then slid to those that Granger was speaking with, observing the nature of her interactions.

A few days prior, Narcissa had confessed to Draco her surprise that ‘the Granger girl’ had accepted the invitation to tea. She had paced Draco’s study and enumerated the benefits at length: a Muggle-born, an intimate friend of Potter’s, a Healer with an excellent reputation – and, of course, a witch who had been on the Other Side of the war, who now condescended to join them at the Manor. She should’ve thought of this before, really – but Miss Granger had always been so cold and unsociable. What a stroke of luck that Draco had danced with her.

Narcissa regarded Granger’s attendance as something of a coup. Now she was watching it unfold with evident pleasure. Granger was being cordial, rather than standoffish as she might’ve been, and was behaving in a perfectly ladylike and witchlike manner. She laughed at the feeble jokes of important figures in the Ministry and spoke with authority on a great many subjects. She was effusive in her praise of the food, the rooms, the hosts. Altogether the ideal guest.

When everyone was properly stuffed with smoked salmon and cakes and jam, there was an exodus down the terrace steps and into the gardens. The guests, numbering about forty at Draco’s count, wandered through the hedges and spring flower beds as the sun began to set.

Those with a special interest in botany followed Narcissa into the greenhouses, where she led a tour of her rarer and more delicate specimens. Granger, of course, joined that group. Draco trailed behind, thinking vaguely that this gathering counted as a public event, and that he should therefore be on hand, should a guest lose their head and attack Granger in the presence of one of the Ministry’s most notorious Aurors.

Granger took a special interest in the origin of Narcissa’s hummingbird hyacinth, which his mother informed her had been imported from a wizard in Provence, many years ago.

Narcissa moved to the next row, along with the rest of the group. Granger stood and studied the hyacinth, whose clusters of flowers opened and closed their petals in shivering flitters, like their namesake hummingbirds.

“Are you admiring, or are you plotting something?” asked Draco, popping out from behind a giant fern.

Granger jumped. Then she looked annoyed. “Never you mind.”

“The latter, then.”

“I’m just thinking,” said Granger.

Draco came to stand beside her. “If you need the flower for something, I’m sure my mother wouldn’t mind. She’d probably be overjoyed to contribute to whatever your endeavour is.”

“No.” Granger’s voice was vague and her eyes were unfocused. “No, she’s already helped.”

“How?”

“Nothing; it doesn’t matter,” said Granger, snapping back to the present. Which was a lie, but Draco decided not to press.

She cast about to see where the group had got to. However, something gave her pause. Draco followed her line of sight to the Manor’s roofline, through the greenhouse glass.

Realisation dawned on her. “Malfoy, is this – is this where the drawing room used to be?”

“It is.”

A kind of shudder coursed through Granger. Then came defiance: a straightening of the back, a setting of the jaw. Then an odd reflexive clutching at one of her sleeves.

Now her face looked drawn and her breath was coming shallow. Had the Calming Draught worn off at such a truly unfortunate moment?

“Let’s get out of here,” said Draco. He didn’t give her the option to argue, threading his arm through hers and steering her out of the greenhouse. To any onlookers, he was being a gentleman escorting a lady past mud puddles, but his grip was iron.

He told himself that this solicitousness was because it would devastate his mother if Granger fainted away and caused a scene during one of her teas. It wasn’t because he cared particularly about the witch holding his arm, who somehow vacillated between powerful and utterly fragile at the drop of a hat.

“Malfoy, I’m fine,” said Granger through clenched teeth. She tried to pull her arm away.

“Liar,” said Draco, not relinquishing his grip.

“All right. I’ll be fine in a moment. I didn’t expect to be so…”

“If you say weak, I shall be cross,” said Draco.

“Overcome, then.” Granger dabbed at her forehead. “Eurgh, cold sweats.”

“Should I fetch something? Draught of Peace?” asked Draco. However, just as Granger opened her mouth, he remembered: “No, contraindicated within 24 hours of a Calming Draught. I almost forgot. Sit.”

Granger sat on the stone bench that Draco had steered her towards.

And there, finally, were the trembling hands. She tried to hide them amongst the folds of her robes.

“I’m fine, really,” said Granger.

“Your bravado is irritating to the highest degree,” said Draco.

He called a house-elf to fetch chocolate, which was immediately presented on a silver platter, in the form of one enormous slab, and two chocolate gâteaux.

Granger broke a piece of the slab off and let it melt in her mouth.

“Better?” asked Draco.

“Mm, endorphins,” said Granger. The attempt at levity was belied by her bloodless face.

“If my mother asks what happened, we’ll say we took a detour because you wanted to see the fountain.”

“What fountain?” asked Granger.

“That fountain,” said Draco.

Granger took stock of her surroundings for the first time and found herself looking at the fountain.

“Hippocampuses!” gasped Granger. “Er – Hippocampodes!”

Draco waved his wand at the fountain, activating the gurgle of sprays that truly made it come to life. “Now that I’ve seen them in person, this seems but a pale imitation.”

“Don’t be silly. It’s beautiful. Who is it by?”

“Fremiet,” said Draco.

“Of course.”

Draco regarded the statue critically. “The scale is right, the proportions are perfect, the movement is gorgeous – but it’s hard to capture the majesty.”

“What we really need is a frigid North Sea wind to freeze our bits off, to complete the experience,” said Granger.

“I shall have the groundskeeper add sprays of hail.”

“Do you have a manky old broom to fly about on together?”

“Probably,” said Draco. “Shall I fetch it?”

“No.”

“But imagine what my mother would say?”

“Exactly.”

Draco leaned back onto his palms. “Now I fancy mulled wine.”

They watched the play of the water over the rearing Hippocampuses in silence broken only by the gurgling of the jets. Granger ate another piece of chocolate. Draco had one of the cakes.

Light chit-chat about the fountain aside, Draco was wrestling with some uncomfortable feelings. He had convinced Granger to come to please his mother, but it hadn’t been merely an afternoon outing at the home of a former enemy for her. Seeing her reaction to standing where that cursed drawing room had been helped Draco understand that this had been something greater and far more difficult.

To his mind, the house wasn’t even the same house, and the drawing room didn’t even exist anymore, but to Granger, this had been a visit to a scene of suffering. Her screams had echoed throughout these very grounds over many hours under Bellatrix’s wand. During his more restless nights, he remembered them.

It hadn’t been bravado – it had been real bravery, to come here.

“I shouldn’t have made you come,” said Draco, without looking at Granger, because admitting wrongdoing did not come easily to him. “Do you want to go home? I’ll take you back to the Floo parlour. We can say you were needed by one of your patients.”

Granger glanced at him in a kind of muted surprise. Then she looked down at her hands, which had stopped shaking. “I think I’m all right now.”

The colour had returned to her face and her breathing was back to normal. However, she hadn’t returned to the level of unusual calmness that had marked her arrival here; the Draught had truly worn off.

Granger was looking at the greenhouse that stood in the place where she had been tortured. “I think it’s good to come back. Possibly. It’s closure, isn’t it? It marks the end of a terrible chapter.”

The water danced. As the sun set, the garden’s magical illumination began to take over. The fountain was bathed in light; the Hippocampuses looked as though they breathed. The greenhouse glowed golden.

“Good things grow there, now,” said Granger. “Even your home is… it’s different. And I don’t just mean the building. It’s touched by Light.”

Draco said nothing. They had strayed into a strange new territory beyond quarrels and banter, and he did not have solid footing.

“Sometimes I think fifteen years is so terribly far away,” continued Granger. “Half our lives, really. An age. And then I have moments like – like what I just had, where it feels like it was yesterday. And everything is raw and hurts.”

“I know,” said Draco. He knew exactly.

There was a long silence. The water danced and sang.

At length, Granger spoke again. “At least you’ve changed enough that I no longer see the bullying idiot from my school days.”

“Have I?”

“Yes.” Granger smiled a tiny smile. “You’re just an idiot, now.”

As Granger smiled, Draco felt the détente. They had passed back onto familiar ground.

“Wow,” said Draco.

“You’ve grown into your chin, too,” said Granger.

“Thanks.”

“And your feet – more or less.”

“Continue. This cataloguing is thrilling.”

“What next?”

“You haven’t insulted my hands yet,” said Draco.

“Show me.” She took his hand in her small one and passed it over with a critical eye. “Overlarge. Perhaps you have another growth spurt in you.”

“Maybe.”

“Better not, though,” said Granger, releasing his hand. “You’re already tall. You don’t want to be gawky.”

“Anything else you’d like to critique about my proportions?”

“I think I’ve inventoried the worst offenders.”

“Tch. I’m the golden ratio personified.”

Granger gave him a severe once-over. “Fibonacci must’ve been absolutely marinated in Chianti.”

An unexpected laugh burst out of Draco. Then he collected himself. “Has it occurred to you that your baseline metric is off?”

“How do you mean?”

“You being generally minuscule,” said Draco, gesturing at Granger. “That basis of comparison makes the rest of us look enormous.”

Granger looked provoked. “I’m not minuscule.” She sat up very straight on the bench. “I’m average, thank you. Or a hair below.”

“Several hairs, I think. You might have some Pixie heritage. It would explain the shrillness.”

“I’m not shrill,” said Granger, growing shrill.

Draco held up his forefinger and thumb and looked at Granger through the gap. “Twenty centimetres high – that’s about right. Itsy-bitsy.”

“Itsy-bitsy?!”

“Microscopic, really. You’re the nanoparticle; you should talk to that Danish bloke and ask about your clinical applications.”

Granger opened her mouth. Offence and amusement warred briefly across her features, then she burst into laughter.

As the bright sound of it echoed across the courtyard, Draco decided that making Granger laugh might also be a hobby worthy of pursuit.

Granger’s merriment abated. She took some deep breaths and wiped a tear delicately from under her eye. “Wonderful. Cold sweats and now tears. Are there any other emotions you’d like to wring out of me in your war against my makeup?”

“What emotion haven’t you gone through today?”

“Let’s see. I’ve been stressed, angry, frightened, forgiving (of your flaws), joyful, er…”

“Love, then,” suggested Draco.

“I have felt that.”

“Have you?”

“Yes. There is something between me and this chocolate. I should like to be left alone with it, if you don’t mind.”

“Sorry, you entered into a ménage à trois by default when you accepted chocolate in my home,” said Draco, breaking off a piece for himself.

“This chocolate isn’t monogamous?”

“No.”

“Fine,” sighed Granger. “I suppose there’s enough to share.”

She pulled out her wand and melted some of the chocolate. Then she broke off a piece of the remaining chocolate gateau, and dipped it into the melted chocolate.

“Pure decadence, Granger, but I like your style.”

They finished the gateau.

“I am truly feeling better,” said Granger, afterwards. “Hadn’t we better rejoin the others?”

“I suppose,” said Draco.

Really, though, he didn’t want to. He’d rather sit here and watch the sunset tinge the sky soft pink, and listen to the fountain, and enjoy the feel-good buzz that only wizarding chocolate could give. Perhaps spring an argument or two onto Granger, just for sport.

What topic would provoke her the most? Divination? Oxford outranking Cambridge? Her cat? Quizzing her on her project? Suggesting a group broom ride over the estate? Insulting Potter? House-elves?

Granger had a great deal of buttons.

However, before Draco had the luxury of launching his next missile, a wandering group of partygoers joined them in the courtyard and ruined the atmosphere with exclamations about the prettiness of the fountain.

Draco noticed that Granger had edged away from him on the bench. This amused him – what did she think, that people would see them on a bench together and leap to some kind of conclusion? He was Draco Malfoy and she was Hermione Granger. That was utterly risible.

(Her distancing nevertheless made him feel sulky. He, too, shifted away from her on the bench.)

This made just enough room for a freshly arrived git to invite himself to sit between them.

“Zabini,” said Draco. “I didn’t realise you were invited.”

“Draco,” said Zabini. “Grang – er – Healer Granger? Professor Granger?”

“Hermione is fine,” said Granger, now shielded entirely from Draco’s view by Zabini.

“I disagree,” said Draco, “Do not get on a first name basis with Zabini.”

“Too late,” said Zabini. “I have the lady’s permission.”

“Use it wisely,” said Granger.

“Hermione,” said Zabini, pronouncing the word slowly, and annoying the shite out of Draco. “Shakespearean, isn’t it?”

“It is,” said Granger. She sounded surprised.

Draco was all the more irritated for it. And how the bloody hell did Zabini know that? The absolute twat.

Zabini then gave Draco his back and proceeded to make affable small-talk with Granger. He enquired about her job(s), about her research, and about why she was wasting her time with a great prat like Draco? She should come and sit with him under the cherry trees. Narcissa had taken out the champagne.

“I’m right here,” said Draco.

“Oh,” said Zabini. “I’d forgotten.”

“Malfoy isn’t a great prat,” said Granger.

Zabini grinned. “What size prat is he, then?”

“Smallish, and only when he’s vexed.”

“You don’t know him, clearly,” tutted Zabini.

“I’ve developed a familiarity,” said Granger.

Zabini looked at Draco in wonder. “A familiarity, you say?”

“Work,” said Granger.

“Oh? And in what capacity are you and Draco working together?”

“A dull Ministry affair, which I shan’t bore you with.” Granger rose, straightened out her robes, and left for the group of guests near the fountain. “Excuse me – I need a word with Padma.”

Draco, who had been looking at Granger’s bum as she left, was irked to find that Zabini was doing the same.

“Hmm,” said Zabini.

“What’s got you acting like a massive bellend?” asked Draco.

“Nothing,” said Zabini. “I saw a pretty thing and I wanted to sit next to her. Just like you did – no?”

“I wasn’t sitting next to her because she’s a pretty thing,” said Draco. He didn’t want to explain the hows and whys of it, however. “It just – happened.”

“So I wasn’t interrupting anything?”

“Of course not. She’s Granger. How much drink have you had?”

“None whatsoever. But – this is good. For a moment I thought you were getting a touch possessive, old boy.”

Draco scoffed. “Possessive? It’s Granger.”

“We’ve established that, yes,” said Zabini. “And she’s gone from a precocious kidlet to a rather fiery kind of witch. Authoritative. Competent. That does things for me. But if you prefer to live in the past – by all means, continue. I will happily find my amusement in the present.”

Zabini rose to join Granger and Patil, leaving Draco to stew upon this.

One thing was certain: if Zabini thought that Granger was going to be a mere amusement, he was in for a bit of a shock to the system. The Pure-blood witches who partook in their usual dalliances were Granger’s diametrical opposite on a hundred levels. An amusement? Zabini had no idea what he was getting into.

Draco snatched a glass of champagne from a passing tray.

And the suggestion that he’d been acting possessive? Ludicrous. At worst, Draco told himself as he observed Granger over his glass, he was watchful over her. And that was only because he was, you know, on assignment to protect her. Which Zabini also didn’t know.

Draco concluded that Zabini didn’t know anything at all and that he was an idiot.

Continue this lovely Harry Potter fandom fanfic at Chapter 13-23, here.