NEW: Harry Potter Fanfiction in English: Draco Malfoy and the Mortifying Ordeal of Being in Love – Chapter 20-34

Draco needn’t have worried about Granger fussing. That was the problem with Healers; they had seen too much and a minor issue like a lethal envenoming was of little interest, really, when it was on the mend.

Granger opened the door, observed his neck from a polite distance, pronounced herself pleased that it was healing so nicely, and then asked him what he wanted.

There was no Romance about Granger. No luring her into coy guessing, or eyelash-fluttering suppositions. She was terribly pragmatic.

“Well?” asked Granger. “Is something the matter?”

Draco produced the flowers.

“Oh!” gasped Granger, with that expression of surprised delight that Draco was coming to find rather addictive.

“And no – they did not sprout from McLaggen’s corpse.”

“Of course they didn’t,” said Granger, accepting the bouquet. “They are far too beautiful.”

Draco gave her a small bow. “With my mother’s compliments. She’s attached a letter for you. I am also to convey my exuberant thanks to you, for saving my life. Please tell her I did so, if she asks.”

“Your ebullience quite knocked me off my feet.”

“Perfect.”

“Do I put them in water?” asked Granger, holding the gently fluttering bouquet to her face.

“I believe my mother charmed them to last – but I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”

Granger disappeared into the cottage. “You can come in, if you’d like,” she called, “if you haven’t any other plans?”

“My only other plans involve being smothered by the elves.”

Granger tutted. “Poor darling.”

Which was the second time that a woman had teased Draco for his hardships today and he felt rather put upon.

“I shall offer you a very standard cup of tea,” said Granger. “Will that be refreshing, after all of the coddling you’ve endured?”

“Quite. Make it sub-par, even.”

“I’ll forget to boil the water.”

“Excellent,” said Draco, seating himself on a kitchen chair.

Granger Transfigured a vase out of a glass. The fluttering, glittering bouquet was put in pride of place upon her kitchen worktop. Her cat leapt up beside it and touched at the moving petals with a curious paw.

“Lovely!” said Granger. “I’ll have to work out how to charm it to follow me around, depending on what room I’m in, so that I can look at it all the time.”

“I’ll inform my mother. That will flatter her.”

Granger discovered the envelope. “Shall I read her letter now, or later?”

“Later, please,” said Draco. “I’ve heard quite enough about her relief that her treasured son is still alive.”

Granger duly set the letter aside. “She wants you to quit the Auror business, you know. She is quite disgusted with it.”

“I know. She never loved it to begin with. The Nundu incident is the closest I’ve come to dying on the job. Bit of a shock for her.”

Granger, who had been idly touching the hummingbird hyacinths, turned to him with a grimace of guilt. “I feel terrible about it.”

“You? Why? You saved me.”

“Yes, but if I hadn’t bodged your first attempt to catch Talfryn, none of this would have happened.”

“True,” conceded Draco. Then he added, “I should like an apology from your otter.”

Granger’s look was mingled uncertainty and amusement. Draco held her gaze with a raised eyebrow.

Granger sighed, then took out her wand and cast Expecto Patronum.

Her otter floated to Draco and looked as contrite as an otter could.

“I’m sorry,” said the otter.

“You’re forgiven,” said Draco with great benevolence.

The otter rolled its eyes, if you please, and then disappeared.

“The absolute cheek of that creature,” said Draco. He turned back to Granger. “Mind you, if you hadn’t bungled my first attempt, I would only have caught Talfryn. We ended up cuffing twenty baddies. Perhaps it evens out.”

“Twenty? Tonks must be well pleased.”

“She is. She offered to give me the pick of the litter for my next mission, as a reward – and to take me off this protection assignment.”

The last bit Draco added conversationally, out of a kind of curiosity, to see if Granger would react in any sort of interesting way to the news.

Granger, who had been occupied with tea things, stilled. “Did she?”

“Yes.”

Granger started the kettle. Her back was to Draco but there was a tension in her shoulders. “And? What did you say?”

“I said no.”

Her shoulders released. “Oh, did you?” she said, with studied nonchalance.

“Yes. Are you pleased? I can’t tell.”

Granger turned. Her face was carefully neutral. “I think it’s good news,” she said, addressing a space somewhere above Draco’s head. “I won’t have to get used to someone else popping round at all hours, you know. And besides, you’re – you’re very good. At what you do. Not that I think your colleagues couldn’t do as fine a job.”

They were interrupted by the cat making a leap from the worktop to Draco’s lap.

“Er–” said Draco.

Granger looked bemused. “Crooks, what are you doing, you silly thing? You’re going to get hair all over him.”

As though it had been reminded of this central imperative in its life, the cat took a few steps towards Draco’s chest and rubbed itself against his fine black robes. Its tail swept under his chin.

“Is that – is that purring?” asked Draco, feeling a powerful rumble emanating from the cat.

“Oh – yes. It’s measurable on the Richter scale, when he does it.”

“Can I stroke him, or will he bite my hand off?”

“You can try,” said Granger, though there was doubt in her voice.

The cat permitted a brief scratch under its chin. Then it clambered up Draco’s chest, onto his shoulder, and onto his head, which served as a launching point for a shelf above. It settled, loaf-like, between a jar of flour and some dried herbs, and observed him with its yellow eyes.

Draco fixed his hair, which had never been so ignominiously used.

“I forgot to forget to boil the water,” said Granger, serving the tea in two steaming mugs. “And you – are you pleased? I know the protection assignment wasn’t the preferred outcome for either of us. I’m rather surprised you decided to keep it.”

Draco stirred milk into his tea, which gave him time to think of a nice and neutral response. “I wouldn’t pass my family ring onto another Auror – which is the only way to keep the protection minimally intrusive for you.”

“Oh – yes. That is very appreciated.”

“And… I think I’d like to see the thing through to the end,” said Draco. “Now that I’ve come this far.”

“A completionist.”

“Occasionally.”

“The end might be a long way away.” Granger was observing him over her tea with a kind of veiled anxiousness. “Another six months, if all goes well.”

Draco shrugged. “It’s July. What’s another six?”

“Has it really already been half a year?”

“Yes. I took the assignment in January.”

Granger propped her chin on her hand. She looked thoughtful. “Six entire months. Where did the time go? And we’ve only tried to kill each other two or three times. We’re doing all right.”

“Your latest attempt was the most successful to date,” said Draco with a gesture at his neck.

“If that had been on purpose, you’d be quite dead, I assure you,” said Granger.

“How did you heal it? Mother said you did Muggle things.”

Granger eyed him as though deciding how much dumbing down would be required in her explanation. “Well. As soon as you mentioned that there was a Nundu on English soil, I thought it would be useful to do a bit of research.”

“Of course you did.”

“No magical hospital in the UK, nor the entirety of Europe, is equipped to handle Nundu venom – much less little old St. Mungo’s. I didn’t think anything would go wrong, necessarily, but I knew how terribly unprepared we would be, if something did. So I had a venom sample imported.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Did that sample happen to arrive when I was in your office?”

“Yes.”

“Pet project, my arse.”

“It was a pet project. For all I knew, it was going nowhere. There is no known antivenom, after all.”

Granger, who had been sitting at the table, pushed off from it, and waved her wand, and began to warm up to her lecture. Diagrams, vials, and molecules came to life around her.

“Nundu venom is a potent neurotoxin known as Alorectin – this purple one. When I was reading up on its effects, they sounded nearly identical to a non-magical biotoxin called Phenytoxin – that orange one. It’s a predatory venom. I did a spot of lab work to confirm the synonymity.”

“A spot of lab work?”

“My laboratory happens to be unusually well-equipped to investigate these things. And I was curious. It was remarkably close – they’re almost indistinguishable. These toxins both operate by – to oversimplify terribly – blocking sodium channels in motor nerves. They can cause almost complete motor paralysis and respiratory arrest within minutes of a dose.”

“One of the Magizoologists told us a single milligram of Nundu venom can kill an adult within hours.”

“Correct. You’re lucky your team got you to St. Mungo’s as quickly as they did. Anyway – there are experimental Muggle treatment protocols established for Phenytoxin and, well, given that it was that or your imminent death, I administered them. Neostigmine, Cholinesterase inhibitors, Alpha-adrenergic agonists.”

Granger conjured more diagrams for Draco’s edification. Then, a tiny figure representing him popped into existence, complete with white-blond hair. “Not an antivenom, technically, but your body could antagonise repeated Alorectin challenges until the venom broke down and was excreted from your system.”

Now the tiny Draco was sweating and–

“Is he having a wee?” asked Draco.

“Yes,” said Granger.

A tiny nurse walked by and patted the tiny Draco on the head. He got up and did a tiny dance of joy. Then they both faded from existence.

A slowly spinning Alorectin molecule still glowed in violet next to Granger. Her finger was on her lip as she studied it. “Yet another fascinating bit of intersectionality between Muggle and Magical therapeutic approaches. Those in-betweens are woefully unexplored. But, well, there’s only one me. Still – can you imagine an artificial antigen to combat Nundu venom? An antitoxic serum? It would serve both worlds…”

She drifted off in thought. Then she blinked, seemed to remember that Draco was in the room, and resumed her chair. “I’ve left notes for a treatment protocol at St. Mungo’s. They’re going to share with our colleagues in Tanzania. However – my hope is that Nundu envenoming on English soil will remain a rare occurrence.”

“You really are something else,” said Draco, observing her with his chin propped on his knuckles.

Granger glanced up from her mug and caught his stare. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” said Draco, softening his eyes further and allowing a vague smile to creep upon his features.

“Like you’re all – all dazzled.”

“Why?”

“It unsettles me.”

“Isn’t everyone dazzled by you?

“Yes, but with you, it’s perturbing.”

“But I am dazzled. Mesmerised, even–”

Granger gave him an annoyed glare.

“–Professor.”

With a sound of irritation, Granger rose and went to refill her mug.

Draco thought that she looked flustered. Which was interesting.

“Anyway, you’ll go down in history as the Auror who fought a Nundu and lived,” said Granger over the sound of pouring water.

“I feel I ought to receive a trophy. Or a plaque.” Draco paused, then added, “No – if anyone’s receiving plaques, it should be you. I didn’t really do anything but walk into a stream of venom fresh from the source.”

“I have so many plaques I haven’t any idea what to do with them. A smart-arse once called my collection a mosaic, you know.”

“What a clever and amusing observation,” said Draco.

“He thought so, too.”

Having apparently decided that Draco’s unnerving stare had sufficiently abated, Granger returned to the table.

“I’m to ask you if you have any orphans or other noble causes to support,” said Draco. “My mother and I wish to add our considerable clout to whatever issue is near and dear to your heart.”

“That is entirely unnecessary,” said Granger with a decisiveness that would have offended Narcissa. “I was only doing my job.”

“Wrong answer. Think of something.”

“Host a Kneazle information booth.”

“Be serious.”

Granger looked at him, saw that he was, himself, being serious, and sighed. “I reiterate that I was merely doing my job.”

“Right. But maybe ‘a bit above and beyond,’” said Draco, echoing Granger’s sentiments in a far-away foyer.

“Psh.”

“No? Not at all? With that bit of extracurricular research on the side?”

“Perhaps a little,” said Granger, holding back a smile. “I see that I have to watch my tongue with you, lest my own words be used against me.”

“Likewise,” said Draco, because it was true. “So what will it be? We’d be delighted to contribute to your research fund. I’m told it’s eye-wateringly expensive to run a laboratory.”

“Make it a contribution to St. Mungo’s, rather. If you must.”

“Not to your own research?”

“No. It would do more immediate good at St. Mungo’s, I think.”

“Any ward in particular?”

Granger paused to think. “What kind of sum have the generous Malfoys got in mind?”

“Large,” said Malfoy. “You saved my life.”

“Quantify ‘large.’”

“You’ll find out.”

Granger narrowed her eyes at him. “Then please direct it to the Janus Thickey Ward for the hospital’s long-term residents. It’s terribly tired and dingy.”

“Done.”

“As a general comment, it would be nice if there were more windows.”

“All right.”

“More private suites, too. A studio for exercising. A piano. A small library. A swimming pool?”

The final item was proposed with a kind of questioning hesitation.

Draco raised an eyebrow at her.

Granger held up her hands. “What? You said large and didn’t define it.”

“I promise my definition of large will not disappoint.”

“I’ll withhold judgement until I see something concrete,” said Granger.

“I know – you prefer hard evidence.”

“Exactly.”

They eyed each other.

Then Draco asked, “Are we still talking about money?”

“Obviously,” said Granger, looking prim. For a moment, he thought he saw the ghost of a grin, but if it had been there, she mastered it quickly.

“I’ve noted all of your requests,” said Malfoy. “Except the bloody swimming pool; I think they haven’t the room. What on earth do you want a swimming pool for? Fancy a dip between patients?”

“Not for me,” said Granger. “Hydrotherapy is wonderful for so many ailments – chronic pain, exercising post-surgery, treating nerve damage or spinal injuries. And for the longer-term residents with significant deconditioning, it’s a brilliant way to ease them back into a physical activity, but gently. I know I’m dreaming. But you did say large.”

Now Granger lapsed into a daydream, her thoughts far away, in some unrealised Janus Thickey Ward where joyful patients pranced about in an exercise studio, and played the piano, and did swan dives into pools. She was starry-eyed, her hands clasped under her chin, a smile on her lips.

She hadn’t even taken him up on the offer to fund her own research. Did she have to be so good? So giving? So pure?

In a moment that was as epiphanic as it was startling, Draco realised that it wasn’t him – or any other Pure-blood – who was pure. Granger was purer than them in every way that mattered. Of heart and of mind. Of purpose. No family tree or convoluted intermarriages or tapestries, only purity of intent.

He looked about, half expecting a herd of unicorns to descend upon her cottage to be stroked by her.

“Although, frankly, at this point, even a new coat of paint and a Cheering Charm on Healer Crutchley would be a vast improvement,” said Granger, returning to the present. “I should ambush her and do it myself.”

She noticed Draco’s silent stare. “What?”

“Waiting for the unicorns to arrive,” said Draco.

“The unicorns?”

“Nothing,” said Draco. “Never mind.”

Granger rose to take their empty mugs to the sink, eyeing him over her shoulder with suspicion. Draco also rose, to bring their spoons, even if he could’ve just as easily levitated them over. But she was doing it by hand, and he was in her house, so he did as she did, and it wasn’t an excuse to remain in her vicinity at all.

This fine reasoning concluded, Draco sought a new topic of conversation. “Did the book end up being useful?”

It was an extremely successful choice.

“Yes!” Granger clapped her hands together. “It did!”

“Well I’m glad–”

He had unlocked a floodgate of enthusiasm. Granger dragged him to the front room before he could finish his sentence. The new copy of Revelations was on a plinth, covered by stasis charms and a small inventory of alarm wards.

Now Granger spoke in rapid-fire excitement. “You saw how damaged my own copy was (don’t lie, I know you did) – I had perhaps thirty percent of the text in its integral form. I was able to make certain educated inferences but I would’ve soon hit a dead end.”

She waved away the charms, cast some sort of protective spell on her hand, and opened the book. “In this copy, the second half is almost completely intact. Look. Look! Spectacular. I never dreamed that another copy existed, or that it would be half so well preserved. Having the entire thing at my disposal has been a gift. A gift! I can’t thank you enough! I could just – I could squeeze the life out of you,” she finished, wringing her hands in lieu of.

The words were out of Draco’s mouth before he could stop them. “You can, you know.”

“I can what?”

“Squeeze the life out of me.”

He hadn’t expected the force of her launch. She jumped to reach his neck, locked her arms around him, and squeezed him into a hug of earnest gratitude. He wrapped a single polite arm around her – to keep balance, or something. She smelled like tea and sugar and she felt delightful against him.

“One day,” said Granger, somewhere in his neck, “I’ll explain to you why this matters so much.”

Draco waited for his tongue to supply him with a witty response, but he found himself experiencing an absolute lexical blank. Nothing witty was forthcoming. Nothing unwitty, either. He was as good as Stunned.

He made a tactical error in glancing down, and then he saw her warm eyes, and her smile, and oh no. Now he wanted to wrap his arms around her – truly, not this half-arsed thing he had going – and lift her up. Make it a real hug, a whole body thing, full frontal contact – that’s what he wanted. And maybe deposit her on the back of the sofa; it seemed the right sort of height. And then – other things.

He did not do these things. Because he was not an idiot. And she would run away shrieking. And probably slap him. It was Granger.

Granger, satisfied with her squeeze, released him and returned to the book, utterly unperturbed, while Draco stood wordlessly by like a tongue-tied cretin.

She returned to her enthusiastic guided tour of the tome, pointing to some marks along the edges of the pages. “Even the marginalia is undamaged – that’s a few hundred years’ worth of commentary, you know. Layers and layers of it. Fascinating. Look. Look. Malfoy, you aren’t looking.”

“I’m looking,” said Draco.

He was a liar; he was floating off somewhere in the furthest reaches of the universe in a happy daze.

Granger continued her demonstration. “The illuminations on this page are really sumptuous. D’you think that’s real silver leaf?”

“Er – could be,” said Draco.

His bloodstream was awash with feel-good hormones. He was thirteen years old and a girl had hugged him. There was Time-Turning afoot. That’s what this was about. There was no other explanation for being so stupidly giddy about a single stupid hug.

“Gorgeous!” said Granger, pointing to another illumination, a green dragon. “That’s from the legend of St. George. And there’s his cross – the red and white bit.”

“Right.”

Granger seemed to sense that she had lost her audience’s attention. With a small, happy sigh, she shut the book. “I’ve almost finished digitising the entire thing. Then I’ll have this copy sent to the library at King’s Hall. The head librarian will fall out of her chair. I was going to offer it under your name.”

“Make it a joint gift, rather,” said Draco.

“Done,” said Granger. She waved the stasis charm around the tome back to life. “We’ll give the head librarian another reason to fall out of her chair.”

“How so?”

“Our names? Together? On a gift?”

“She’ll think one of us lost a bet.”

“Let her. Better than the lurid truth about blackmail and reparations for McLaggen’s nurse fantasies.”

Draco grimaced. “At least Malfoy-Granger has a decent ring to it.”

“I beg your pardon? It would be Granger-Malfoy, if it was going to be anything. Alphabetical…”

Granger’s sentence drifted off as she attempted to smother a wide yawn.

Draco took the hint. “I should be off.”

“Sorry,” said Granger, yawning again. She accompanied him to the door. “Positively knackered.”

“You look it.”

“Charming. Thank you.”

Draco could’ve voiced a secret truth about how fatigue somehow became her. How the smudges under her eyes spoke of the tireless work of a brilliant mind. How her haphazard plait looked fetchingly artless and invited the play of fingers amongst escaped tendrils.

He could’ve. He didn’t. He wasn’t stupid.

Granger opened the front door. Draco passed her to get out with a fleeting brush of his arm against her shoulder. He stepped into the moon-bathed July night, sweet with the full scent of summer.

“Has anyone told you that you might be stretching yourself too thin?” asked Draco.

“Mmyes. Not even an hour ago, at the pub.”

“Good.”

“Did Harry and Ron put you up to reinforcing their message? Or Neville? Ginny?”

Draco scoffed. “I wouldn’t serve as their messenger boy. I am happy that they noticed and aren’t abysmally useless friends.”

“O, because you and your friends are the quintessence of selfless love and support,” said Granger, raising a brow at him.

“Absolute paragons, Granger.”

“Tss.”

Granger was framed by the golden glow of the cottage behind her – soft lights and a fire in the hearth. Her shadow flickered across the stoop. Draco’s shadow was darker, cast from behind, a moon-shadow intersecting delicately with hers.

He watched the twine and unwind of their shadow selves as Granger shifted to a lean.

And it was a strange thing, because she was tired, and he was on his way out, and yet, it felt like they were both lingering.

He wanted to linger. It was sweet to linger. To stand under fading wisteria, watching their mingling shadows, and bicker about unimportant things. There was something terribly precious about it. Perhaps because it was unnecessary. It was for the pleasure of it. It was Just Because.

He watched her for a shift, for a sign of impatience, but there was none. Only a hip against the door jamb, an arm held loosely at her waist. She was talking about his mother now, asking him to tell her that she adored the flowers. He said something in return, something that she could respond to, to continue to stretch out the moment.

She laughed at something. Their eyes met. Draco felt woolly-headed and vague. It was the anaesthesia again, the feel of the world in flux, a slow spinning. Granger was idly plucking a few strands of wisteria. He asked if that was the extent of her flower arranging. She said yes, was he impressed? And passed him the droopy bouquet.

He said it was the loveliest thing he had ever seen. He reached to take it. He drew his fingertips against hers.

In his veins, not blood, but lightness.

His touch lingered probably too long. He wondered what to call this thing, this stealing of glances and touches and moments. The headlong giddiness impelled by the most platonic of hugs. The wanting to be near. He wasn’t foolish enough to call it love, and it was too delicate for lust, but it wasn’t nothing, either. It was Something.

Yes. Unless he was very much mistaken, there was Something, between himself and Granger.

And wouldn’t that just be an exquisite catastrophe.

Draco spent a pleasant few days in a state of floaty delight. Nothing could anger him. He was adrift on happy little clouds. He didn’t argue with his mother about whatever functions she strong-armed him into attending. He wholeheartedly hugged Zabini when he next saw him. He charmed a Gringotts goblin into a minor policy breach. At work, he greeted Potter and Weasley so pleasantly that they tackled him to the ground, convinced that he was Imperiused.

It was then – with his face in Potter’s armpit – that Draco began to realise that something dangerous was afoot. Something unbecoming of Draco F*cking Malfoy.

Then the feel-good began to ebb and reason began to flow. Draco, face removed from Potter’s disturbingly moist armpit, devoted a considerable amount of time to wondering what the f*ck was wrong with him. If he was to be honest with himself – unpleasant sensation – it was the Something with Granger. It was a Something which he had been nursing for a few weeks. Perhaps a few months.

When had it begun? He wasn’t certain. There were, now that he was looking back and attempting objectivity, certain pivotal moments. Perhaps when they’d danced. Perhaps in Provence. Perhaps when she’d touched his scarred mess of a Mark. Perhaps when she’d brought herself to magical depletion to rescue him from a nonexistent threat on the Quidditch pitch. Or when she’d called him a strength in her SWOT analysis. It might have been when she’d grown wildly enthusiastic about moss. He didn’t know. It had been gradual and slow and easily ignored.

However. A Something of any kind between himself and Granger was dangerous and unacceptable. The obvious – ghastly – insurmountable – issues of their history and baggage and general antagonism aside, she was his Principal, and Somethings were strictly prohibited between Aurors and their charges. Attraction was one thing, but feelings (if he was to give a term to the Something) were a violation of the Code of Conduct – and of common sense. Draco broke a great many rules, but this one was not one that he was willing to flout. Feelings clouded judgement and endangered Auror and Principal both. It was sloppy. It was negligent.

And, furthermore – furthermore! – Draco detested feelings. They were an irritation and a distraction at the best of times and a hideous vulnerability at the worst. He had successfully dodged feelings in all of his entanglements with the fairer sex, including his engagement to Astoria. It was a good habit to cultivate. It kept things clean and tidy. It kept him unconquered and free.

And now he had them. Lingering at Granger’s door and getting lost in her eyes amongst the wisteria had opened a monstrous Pandora’s box of them. Feelings. Mild ones, but still. Thoughts. Daydreams. They crept up on him when he least expected them, when he was eating breakfast, or arresting a Dark wizard, or dodging a Bludger. They had absolutely no business being in his head, and yet they were.

He sighed wistfully approximately two hundred times a day. He replayed memories of old conversations with Granger, those back and forths that were sometimes easy banter and sometimes the crossing of swords. The smell of roses made him calf-eyed and stupid. He daydreamed about the kisses on his cheeks and the delight of the hug. When he woke up hard, he thought of Granger doing other things – vivid imaginings of which he was not proud, afterwards, but, f*ck it, they were easy to get off to.

He checked his Jotter for missed messages from Granger daily. Pathetic. He sought out stupid reasons to Jot her. Also pathetic. He paid more attention to the ring than usual. Even more pathetic. He resisted the urge to check her schedule and happen to pop along where she was, but the fact that he had the urge in the first place was excruciatingly pathetic.

Patheticness abounded since the night under the wisteria. It needed immediate rectification.

Draco called an Emergency Meeting with Theo.

They met at the Nott estate, a few days after Draco’s doorway dawdle with Granger. Draco cut a dramatic figure as he paced through the salon, black robes streaming behind him. He had, by this point, quite worked himself into a lather.

Meanwhile, Theo, being an idle sort of fellow (unlike Draco, who was a champion of industriousness) was reclined on a chaise, a glass in his hand. Being useless, as always.

“If you told me who she was, I might be able to advise you better,” said Theo.

“I don’t want your advice.”

“Then what are you asking of me?”

“I want – I need – I don’t know – a bucket of cold water to the face.”

Theo flicked his wand. A bucket, brimming with icy water, was conjured. Draco slashed it away. “Not literally, you absolute spanner.”

Theo looked put upon. “You’re giving me terribly mixed messages. I only want to help.”

“I need an anti-love potion.” Draco came to an abrupt halt. “Do those exist? A hate potion.”

“Who do we want to hate?” asked Theo. “Don’t we hate everyone, anyway?”

“We do. Except her. But I need to hate her. Well – perhaps not hate. Dislike. Or – or rather, continue to be annoyed by. Not like, anyway.”

Theo sipped at his wine. “Why?”

“Because I’m Draco F*cking Malfoy, and I don’t do fluffy f*cking little emotional entanglements with – with f*cking–”

“Who?”

“Her.”

“Perhaps you should. You might find them more spiritually enriching than your usual quick f*ck.”

“I don’t need spiritual enrichment.”

“Mm. I disagree.”

Draco scoffed, paced some more, then ran a hand through his hair. “It’s bad.”

“How bad?” asked Theo.

“Bad. Daydreaming. Daydreaming. Me!”

“Ooh,” said Theo with a delighted squirm. “Tell me about the daydreams.”

“No.”

“Are they kissing in the moonlight sorts of daydreams? Or naughty fantasies of her in bed? Or – gasp! – weddings and kidlets?”

“Shut up.”

“All of the above, then,” said Theo. He ate a grape and looked satisfied.

“None of them. F*ck off.” Draco swept into a corner of the room, stood poutily for a moment, and then stalked back towards Theo. “There are a hundred – a thousand – reasons why I shouldn’t be having any of these feelings.”

“Enumerate the reasons.”

“No.”

“But I want to know if they’re valid.”

“You’d narrow down who she is in a moment. No.”

“I’ve already narrowed it down,” said Theo. “Now it’s just a matter of confirming my theory.”

“What’s your theory? Actually, I don’t want to know. Don’t answer.”

“Are you Occluding?” asked Theo.

“Yes.”

“Come off it. I’m not a Legilimens.”

“It makes it easier to think about these idiocies without – eurgh – feelings.”

“Would she make you happy?”

“No. We can hardly stand the sight of each other. We are fundamentally incompatible.”

Theo pressed his hands to his chest. “Oh, this is delicious. Much more interesting than your usual sordid tales. Top three at least.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise that we rank my dalliances.”

“We do.” Theo ate another grape. “Out of pure intellectual curiosity, would she make your mother happy?”

Draco paused and thought for a moment. At length he said, “I haven’t a bloody clue.”

“Hm,” said Theo. “That weakens my theory.”

“Good.”

Draco resumed his agitated striding across the salon. His whirling robes caught Theo’s bottle of wine and it shattered against a wall.

Theo whistled. “You’re lucky I’d drunk most of that. It’s been aging since I was some sort of zygote. And now look at it – meeting its demise because Draco Malfoy has a crush.”

Draco Vanished the shards of glass. “It’s not a crush.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s – fine. Fine. It’s a bloody crush.”

“When do you see her next?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to. I think it’s better that I don’t see her at all. Let this wear off.”

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” said Theo.

“Then what do you suggest? I don’t want to see her again; I’ll just be a moon-eyed fool trying to find excuses to put flowers in her hair.”

“I’d say find someone else to distract you, but I’ve a feeling that was your first line of attack, and a miserable failure.”

It irritated Draco profoundly that Theo was right. “And how would you know that?”

“Word travels. You’ve brushed off quite a number of witches in the past few months, you know. Feelings have been hurt.”

“Ah.”

“Apparently, you’ve become picky. Some are blaming Narcissa for reining you in. Some are speculating that you’ve begun looking for a wife. Luella suggests sudden-onset impotence.”

“Charming witch, that one.”

“What shall I say, the next time I hear your good name being tarnished?”

“My mother does make a convenient excuse.”

“Done.” Theo summoned another wine bottle and placed it away from Draco. “Aren’t you having any? Or is dramatic pacing your libation of choice tonight?”

“I can’t,” said Draco. “G– my Healer said I had to remain off the sauce for a fortnight. I’ve got to wait til Tuesday”

“Poor darling. I shall have one for you, then. And tell me about your Healer – it was Granger, wasn’t it? Apparently it was quite a scientific coup, what she pulled, saving your hide.”

“It was.” Draco endeavoured to look nonchalant. “She attempted to explain it but I can’t pretend I understood a word. Muggle methods, you know. My eyes quite glazed over.”

“You must be grateful to her.”

Draco eyed Theo, but Theo seemed to be pursuing this line of enquiry innocently. “Of course. I’ll be making a contribution to St. Mungo’s in thanks.”

“Are you still working together?”

“Yes,” said Draco. “Where are you going with this?”

“Nowhere,” said Theo. “I’ve merely heard that she’s extraordinary.”

“Right.”

“I should invite her to my next party,” mused Theo. “Introduce everyone to the witch who saved our Draco’s life.”

Draco, quite certain that he was being baited, now, merely sniffed. “If you think a swotty Healer would be an exciting addition to the usual crowd.”

“I think she might be. And just think – we could have a dance, and quite shock Luella with the sight of Granger cosying up to you…”

Draco was deaf to the remainder of the sentence; his cognitive functions were entirely occupied by the lovely notion of holding Granger in his arms. Backless dress again, certainly. Green was fine. Or black? She would probably be a vision in black. And heels that brought her to just the right height for–

No. F*ck.

“Right,” said Draco, sharply, to conceal his imbecilic flight of fancy. “I’ll be off. You’ve proven to be quite useless.”

“I could help you procure some version of a hate potion. But you know that its effects would only be temporary.”

“As I said: useless.”

“I think she’s a lucky witch, personally,” said Theo, settling back into his chaise. “Whoever she is. I’ve never known you to develop anything more romantic for a witch than a desire to spaff all over her tits.”

“And you?”

“I’ve loved and lost,” said Theo with a tragic sigh.

“And spaffed.”

“O, yes.”

Draco pressed his fingers to his eyebrows. “I need to skip forwards to the lost part and carry on with my life.”

“If you two are at odds as much as you say, I’m certain she’ll soon insult you in some unforgivable way and quite put out whatever tentative flame burns in your breast. At this early stage, feelings are delicate.”

“She called me an opportunistic ghoul and I almost kissed her.”

“Goodness.”

“Her eyes were afire; she was moments from strangling me. It was surprisingly arousing.”

“Oh, my,” breathed Theo. “You’re waxing lyrical about eyes. That’s dangerous.”

“Is it?”

“Terribly. You’ll be attempting sonnets next. Then it won’t be a crush anymore, it’ll be love.”

Draco shuddered. “Bloody f*cking hell, no.”

Theo set down his glass with great finality. “I shan’t read your poems, if it happens. I’m telling you now, I refuse. They’ll be soul-shrivellingly horrid.”

“There will be no f*cking poems,” said Draco. “I may have to brute force my way through this. When thoughts arise, simply quash them.”

“Quash them.”

“Yes.”

“That doesn’t strike me as healthy, old boy,” said Theo, peeling a grape. “But what do I know.”

“Nothing, as this conversation has made amply clear. I’m going. I needn’t ask you to keep this to yourself.”

“Obviously.”

“I should Obliviate you, just in case.”

“But I won’t remember how to defend you against Luella’s aspersions.”

“Bah,” said Draco, stalking out of the salon.

“Give my regards to Hermione,” called Theo.

“F*ck you.”

~

Over the next few weeks, Draco grew pleased with himself – the quashing worked. Whenever his mind strayed towards Granger, he redirected his thoughts violently to other things. Work. Investments. Society dinners. Nundu venom. Voldemort. Tonks. He developed a veritable arsenal of subjects to launch at suspect thoughts, including memories of dark eyes, the brush of fingertips, or repartee over rose-strewn tables.

He and Granger spoke little, with only the occasional Jot from her to advise him of her attendance at public events or movements out of town. Of Larsen he heard nothing further. Granger said that the man had grown standoffish and no longer seemed interested in meeting with her. Draco took this as good news, though the Viking and his interest in Granger still weighed on him. He casually added Larsen’s description to the Aurors’ Persons of Interest list, with a note to contact him directly, should this individual be spotted on English soil.

Draco grew confident that the Something had been nothing after all – a momentary lapse in judgement, a forgettable summertime crush.

So confident was he – or, perhaps, eager to prove it to himself – that when Granger advised him of her next asterisk outing, he decided to escort her.

Really? said Granger. It’s Hogwarts.

It’s project business, said Draco.

All right. But don’t blame me if you’re bored out of your skull. Monday Aug 1, 4 p.m., Hogsmeade.

Draco told himself that his anticipation for the meet-up was merely due to it being a nice, easy end to Monday’s schedule, which otherwise consisted of a visit to St. Mungo’s for a tour of the Janus Thickey Ward with the hospital’s top brass, followed by a spot of Necromancer hunting.

So the final days of July drifted by and it was the first of August: Lughnasadh.

It was an offensively Mondayish sort of day. It was Monday, but it didn’t have to be so odious about it. At any rate, it found Draco at St. Mungo’s, preparing to tour the Janus Thickey Ward at the loathsome hour of nine o’clock.

He was accompanied by a horde of St. Mungo’s administrators and Board members, all of whom had heard news of Mr. Draco Malfoy’s site visit in preparation for a Substantial Gift. The crowd bustled and prattled self-importantly about the thrill of visiting the ward as they climbed the stairs to the hospital’s fourth floor.

Draco had been introduced to the more important members of the horde, including Hippocrates Smethwyck (a mild-mannered Healer and recently appointed head of St. Mungo’s) and a few members of the Board.

The excrescence known as McLaggen had even seen fit to grace them with its presence. Draco shook his hand and asked how the old lemon was doing – concussions were serious business, you know. McLaggen was a touch cool, and grew even cooler when he learned, through the general chatter, that Draco’s donation stemmed from Healer Granger’s extraordinary work.

“Yes,” said Smethwyck. “She is rather non-traditional in some of her approaches – and thank goodness for that, eh, Mr. Malfoy? Healer Granger has been nothing but an asset to our hospital.”

“Non-traditional how?” queried a Board member. Draco thought his name might’ve been Penlington.

“She is a doctor as well as a Healer,” said Smethwyck.

“You mean one of those Muggle cutty-uppy types?” asked Penlington, his mustache bristling in alarm.

“Yes,” said Smethwyck. “But she’s also a fully qualified Healer, of course. Her final examination scores broke even Gummidge’s–”

“A doctor, you say? Do we permit those to practise at St. Mungo’s? I had no idea,” said another Board member.

“Do the patients she sees know this about her?” asked someone else. “Oughtn’t they be informed?”

There was a general disconcerted rustle amongst the horde. Draco felt that a few disparaging comments were on the boil – but subtle ones, you know. The ones that would suggest shock; but, of course, if Healer Granger was permitted to continue here, it must be fine. Of course. It wasn’t about her being Muggle-born, or anything, it was merely an expression of concern and surprise about the unwizardliness of having a Muggle doctor on staff. That she was a fully qualified wizarding Healer was a footnote.

Draco knew the subtleties. He used to be quite a master of them, in circles where such things weren’t said, but quietly implied.

“I’m alive today thanks to Healer Granger’s non-traditional approaches,” said Draco, his voice slicing through the mutterings. “If she’d kept to our Healing methods, like the three Healers who saw me before she arrived, the treatment would’ve consisted of shrieking that there was no antidote. And I’d be dead.”

“Quite right, quite right,” nodded Smethwyck.

Draco turned to the Board members. “It was Healer Granger who asked me to direct my gift to St. Mungo’s. I had no intention of doing so; I was going to advance the funds to her research enterprise at Cambridge. I certainly hope you’ll thank her, the next time you see her.”

There was a rumble of assent and much nodding. Some Board members looked abashed, some looked utterly confused at this categorical defence of a Healer with Muggle ties by Draco Malfoy, of all people.

McLaggen was observing Draco thoughtfully.

A dangerous pursuit.

Any further mutterings were quieted. The Board members were all businessmen or politicians; they could smell Draco’s money and would behave accordingly.

At last, they came to the fourth floor. Granger hadn’t exaggerated how dingy the long-term care ward was. As he strode through the door, Draco noticed that the J and T were missing from the sign, which dustily proclaimed:

a n us
hickey
Ward

Draco stared at it gravely.

The Board members looked perturbed.

Smethwyck walked them through the ward, interspersing their advance with details on the number of beds, the Healers per patient, the average length of stay, and other factoids that would have enthralled Granger, probably (not that Draco was thinking about her, because he was Quashing).

There were thirty wire-frame beds, all separated by dingy cloth partitions. There were two tired, but clean, bathrooms, equipped with a toilet and shower. The floor was well-worn tile, through which shallow depressions ran where people passed the most. There was only one window to speak of, at the far end of the ward, under which a few stringy plants valiantly struggled.

The entire floor had a whiff of the forgotten about it; something like a storage area for things that had no further use but that couldn’t quite be thrown out.

The patients were a mixed lot – some very old, some young. About half were victims of the war, struggling with residual ailments that couldn’t be cured. Even Draco was moved by some Do-Gooding thoughts at the sight of the latter: he spotted the Creevey boy (now a small, listless man), Lavender Brown (ravaged almost beyond recognition), Michael Corner (struggling against straps), Mitchell something-or-other from Hufflepuff (speaking to a wall in hushed tones), and others he couldn’t name.

Other beds had curtains drawn around them. A voice floated out from behind one, mellow and sad and familiar, but Draco couldn’t quite place it. A child answered.

A sombre-faced Healer and her aides moved from one bed to the next. A few of the patients had visitors. They stared in surprise at Draco and the unusually large and loud crowd around him. He understood why; he had a feeling that this ward was usually a quiet, abandoned sort of place.

Granger had wanted a piano.

The group finished its tour and congregated at the window, which was easily the least dreary spot.

Smethwyck was looking at Draco with a sort of dread, awaiting his judgement. However, it wasn’t Smethwyck who held the purse strings – it was the Board. It was that collection of mustachioed men who received the brunt of Draco’s censure.

He kept his voice low, but his questions sharp: was there a reason why the Board hadn’t seen fit to inject funding into this ward since, by all appearances, 1903? Why hadn’t funds for maintenance and upkeep been directed here? Had they been diverted elsewhere? Too many Board luncheons and dinners at the Seneca, perhaps? Didn’t the Board conduct regular visits to the hospital? Did they consider this ward acceptable? Why did this appear to be their first time up here? Why were there only sufficient monies for 1.5 Healers in this ward, while the café upstairs offered Porcelana hot chocolate? Why did valiant survivors of the great war have a single window, and no bathtubs? Why, for Merlin’s sake, couldn’t they replace the bloody ‘J’ on the front door?

The group now stood in poses variously humbled and guilty.

“Right,” said Draco. “We can do better.”

He turned to Smethwyck. “I am going to give you a substantial infusion of cash. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Smethwyck.

“It will be the hospital’s first gift of this magnitude.”

“A-all right.”

“It will be transformational.”

“Yes, Mr. Malfoy, thank–”

“There will be strings attached.”

“Strings?”

“Strings. Stipulations. On hiring. On refurbishing. On operations. And there will be–” Draco eyed the Board members darkly “–safeguards in place to protect it from being whittled away.”

“Yes, Mr. Malfoy, of course–”

“Here,” said Draco, pressing a thick envelope into Smethwyck’s hands. “The details and the stipulations. You are to come back to me with a plan.”

“Oh, excellent – wonderful – Mr. Malfoy, I – how can we thank you–”

“You don’t thank me. You thank Granger. It’s for her.”

Draco strode out.

Astonished stares followed him to the door.

He heard Smethwyck open the envelope.

There was a gasp followed by what might’ve been the sound of Smethwyck falling into a dead faint.

~

Monday afternoon consisted chiefly of pursuing shambling corpses raised by a Necromancer in Slough. Draco occasionally had trouble distinguishing the corpses from Slough’s fine citizens, but that is a story for another day.

He arrived in Hogsmeade to meet Granger at four o’clock on the dot. He found the village exceedingly quiet. Most of the shopkeepers were on holiday and the remaining villagers had retreated indoors to avoid the heat.

Draco hurriedly arranged the front of his robes so that they fell just so about his chest, hinting at robust pectorals. He passed a hand through his hair to ensure that it looked ruggedly tousled, as befitted an Auror having done rugged, manly sorts of things.

Then he reclined against a lamppost to wait for Granger, intending to project a cool, casual, uninterested sort of vibe.

It was ruined by Granger almost Apparating into him.

They fell and untangled themselves from one another with gasps.

“You had to choose this precise square inch to Apparate to?” asked Draco tetchily, dusting off his robes.

“You couldn’t find anywhere else to lounge about than the main thoroughfare?! Really?” Granger picked herself up. “I think my foot was in your spleen.”

“I felt it.”

They regained their feet and regarded each other in a kind of mutual assessment. It had been almost a month since they had last seen each other. Granger had that overworked look about her again – the deep smudging under her eyes, the drawn mouth.

She wore a yellow sundress, as though its obnoxious cheerfulness would obfuscate her fatigue.

It did not.

“You look bollocksed,” said Draco.

“Thank you. Might I enquire about the eyeball you’ve got draped over your shoulder?”

Draco looked down. Whatever corpse he had most recently dealt with had left an eye and a long optic nerve curled over the back of his arm, quite ruining his cool and casual vibe.

“Right,” he said, Vanishing it. “Souvenir from this morning’s mission.”

“Won’t its owner miss it?”

“He was dead, so, no.”

Granger’s eyes raked over the rest of him, but there were no more rogue body parts to be found. She gestured down the road. “Shall we? Irma agreed to meet me at 4.15.”

“Irma?”

“Madame Pince.”

“She’s still with us? Merlin, I’d quite forgotten about that old bird…”

They walked. Draco checked in on himself and was pleased that he was feeling none of the fluffy shite that had so terrified him. He merely appreciated the sight of Granger’s legs, which was normal enough. Ish. She did have nice legs.

Draco noted that there was no stream of information directed at him, no Look, Malfoy, no gallivanting through the undergrowth to point at a leaf. Perhaps Granger was tired – this was, at his best reckoning, her first day off since Midsummer. And that holiday had hardly been a relaxing time: too many death nuns.

But there was more than the tiredness – there was also a kind of reserve coming off her. She was keeping her distance. He wondered, wildly, if she, too, had noticed a Something, and whether it had frightened her as much as it had frightened him.

Perhaps she, too, was quashing things.

The idea was stupid and based on nothing but speculation, but there was something comforting about it, nonetheless.

They came to the Hogwarts gates, which swung open at their approach. The old gates and winged boars seemed far less imposing than Draco remembered.

“Have you been back here since our N.E.W.T.s?” asked Granger, observing him out of the corner of her eye.

“No,” said Draco. “You?”

“A few times – mostly to say hello to professors or for the library.”

The walk to the school from Hogsmeade seemed laughably brief. “Did we really take carriages to cover this much ground? That wasn’t even ten minutes.”

“I suppose it’s far for a twelve-year-old’s wee legs,” said Granger.

“Everything seems small.”

“I know.”

As the castle itself came into view around a bend, Draco was pleased to find that it had retained its aura of magic and mystery – even if it, too, looked smaller than he recollected.

“Smells the same,” said Draco as they walked into the Entrance Hall. Wood, old stone, schoolish.

“Better, rather,” said Granger, taking in a breath. “No hordes of grimy children during the summer. When I was here last winter, there was a definite whiff of teenaged boy in the air.”

Now they were in the castle proper. Draco was not particularly prone to nostalgic reminiscing, but he had spent many happy years here (and two horrid ones) and he rather enjoyed the wander through the old corridors. They, too, felt narrower than in his youth. He recalled the suits of armour towering over him; now he looked down at them.

They peeked into the Great Hall, where the four House tables stood, scuffed and bare, awaiting September first. The room had always felt so grand, the tables almost interminable. Now Draco wasn’t certain that he could squeeze his way onto one of the Slytherin benches without kneecapping himself.

The enchanted ceiling was the deep blue of high summer.

They continued past empty classrooms that smelled of chalk and years of spilled ink. Sunlight streamed through dusty windows.

Granger grew visibly excited as they neared the library, though she was doing her best to appear restrained. When she reached the heavy doors, she paused to rub a palm against the well-worn handle.

She pulled open the door and the smell of the library met them: old books, vellum, worn leather and dust.

It was potent. Draco felt fourteen again. “I feel as though I’ve got a Potions essay due,” he said.

A smile broke on Granger’s face. “Mine’s Transfiguration.”

Madame Pince watched their approach from her desk. Draco was quite convinced that she still wore the same hat and pointy shoes that she had when they’d been students. He half expected a telling off from her for talking.

She, too, seemed small.

Granger was greeted by Madame Pince with something approaching warmth – a pinchy, reticent sort of warmth. Draco was observed with surprise, doubly so because he was with Granger.

“Strange sort of bedfellows,” sniffed Madame Pince.

“Work,” said Granger.

Pince passed Granger a record card. “The Ypres Manuscript. I know that you can handle rare books, Miss Granger, but do be especially careful with this one. I’ve taken down the wards for you.”

Granger thanked her and led the way to the Restricted Section, which housed the bulk of Snape’s collection.

The air grew stuffier and pressed at their ears as they progressed deeper and deeper into the library. Whatever rudimentary ventilation cooled the castle did not come to the library’s inner reaches. It was hot. And had the stacks always been this narrow?

“Prime snogging stacks, these,” said Draco in the quiet. “Pince couldn’t hear.”

“I remember,” said Granger.

“Do you?”

Granger gave him a glance. “You needn’t look so surprised.”

“Curious, rather,” said Draco. “He must’ve been a brave lad. Unless it was Weasley. He doesn’t count. Can’t, mostly.”

“Don’t be mean,” tsked Granger. “But, no – Ron wasn’t my first snog. Viktor had that honour.”

“Viktor?”

“Krum.”

Draco gave a low whistle. “Good for Viktor.”

Granger had come to a halt at a shadowy place between stacks. “Just here, if I’m not mistaken. Those shelves made decent hand-holds.”

“The tales these stacks could tell.”

Granger gave him a wry sort of look. “I’m sure they’d have equally bawdy tales about you.”

Draco smirked at her instead of answering.

She looked away.

She was right, of course. Much teenage exploration had happened amongst these shelves. His first blow job, he thought, unless that had been in the common room? He couldn’t remember. But he did remember many romps with girls in short skirts through here, pushing them up against the books, tongues and fingers fumbling about.

And now he was here again, but the only skirt to chase was Granger’s. His eye wandered to her backside and legs as she walked ahead, until he caught himself wondering how she would look pushed up against the books, and then he gave himself a mental box on the ear. No. He was not doing that. He was Quashing.

He was getting sweaty. He cast a cooling charm on himself, and then on Granger, from behind. She squeaked in surprise as goosebumps broke over her arms.

“You’re welcome,” said Draco, in response to her dark look.

The Restricted Section had been enlarged to display the Snape collection, but otherwise looked much the same as it always had. Draco waved his wand out of curiosity, grinning as he illuminated the various nasty wards and jinxes strewn across the shelves.

“Pince has a flair for it, I’ll give her that,” said Draco. “Perhaps she missed her calling as a nun.”

“You ought to suggest that to her. It’d be a laugh.”

“A laugh? She’d kick me in the bollocks with her pointy shoe.”

“I didn’t specify who would be laughing.”

Granger squatted down to search for her book. When she found it, she heaved the large manuscript to a reading table.

She paused to push a strand of dampish hair from her forehead. Instead of settling down to read, as Draco had expected, she merely took out her mobile and began to – if he was understanding it correctly – take photographs of the pages of interest.

The problem with Granger was that she always came with new intrigues. She never bored him. Why couldn’t she bore him? It would be easier for all parties if he wasn’t being perpetually stimulated by her. (Intellectually, obviously.)

“How, pray, is that working in bloody Hogwarts?” asked Draco.

“Hm? Oh,” said Granger, flipping over the mobile.

Attached to its back was one of her anti-magic pucks.

“I’d forgotten about those things.”

“Terribly useful. I can’t go about life without my mobile.”

Granger bent over the reading desk to take the photos. Draco did not look at her. In fact, he turned away from her, and conjured a mirror, and attempted to salvage his hair.

“It’d be far more convenient for me to review this manuscript at home,” said Granger, “but Madame Pince would never let me remove it from the library. So I’m doing the next best thing – digital photos. Don’t tell her. She’ll think I’m stealing the book’s soul or something.”

“Right. I’m rather glad you’re not settling in for a read. I’m sweating my plums off,” said Draco, removing his robes and popping his collar open.

Granger directed another cooling charm at him, and then at herself. She pulled her hair into a coil above her crown and pushed her wand through it.

Draco, having done his best with his own coiffure, came beside her to observe the manuscript. It contained diagrams of medical procedures and medieval patients in various states of distress.

He noted that Granger was staying well away from him, though she was being casual about it. If he approached, she found a reason to shift to the other side of the table. If he joined her there, she went around again to take her photographs from a different angle.

Should he be offended? Should he be glad? He didn’t know. He felt offended, but that was because witches didn’t generally flee his vicinity.

“Do I smell like a cadaver?” asked Draco.

“What?”

“Me. Rotting corpse, whiffs of. Yes or no?”

“No,” said Granger with a quick glance up at him. She returned to her photographs.

“Good,” said Draco.

When he approached her again – ostensibly to examine an illustration – she didn’t move away. So he’d made his point. To what purpose, he wasn’t certain.

Granger snapped a few more photographs, took a moment to examine them on her device, then pronounced herself satisfied. She closed the manuscript with great care and toddled off to replace it.

“That’s it?” asked Draco.

“Yes. I did warn you that it would be boring,” said Granger, leading the way out of the stacks. “You shouldn’t have bothered to come.”

Draco shrugged. “It’s a nice change, you know, the company of the living. You have slightly more vitality than a shambling corpse.”

“You have such a way with words,” came her dry response. “It quite undoes me.”

Draco was unable to pursue this interesting conversational twist because Pince popped out from behind a shelf. “Finished? Already?!”

“Yes,” said Granger. “I’ve just put it away; it’s ready for your wards. Thank you again for coming in during your holiday, just for me. I am terribly grateful.”

“Always a pleasure,” said Pince, but her look was profoundly suspicious. “I rather thought you’d be here for a few hours, at least.”

“Yes, well – I had a specific chapter to review, nothing more.”

“You look… rather sweaty.”

“Yes, it’s hot back there.”

“I see. You made very quick work of it. The manuscript, I mean.”

“Yes. As I said, my approach was quite focused.”

“Hm,” said Pince, narrowing her eyes, and becoming, if possible, even pinchier. Her black gaze moved to the sheen of sweat that covered the two of them to Draco’s state of relative undress, with his unbuttoned collar and his robes slung over his arm. “The library is for reading, you know.”

“Indeed,” said Granger, blinking at her.

“Reading and research. Not other activities.”

Granger looked rather like she suspected that Pince had grown slightly barmy. “Quite right. Er – I suppose we’d best be going.”

“I suppose you ought to,” said Pince. Her gaze now travelled to Draco’s face and his hair, and his collar, and then his fly.

They left the library under the weight of her stare.

“What on earth was that about?” asked Granger, when the doors had safely closed behind them.

“Has she gone a bit potty?” asked Draco. “Did she just eye my bulge?”

“She did.”

“I’m disturbed.”

“Me too. I wonder what–”

In a moment of shared realisation, Granger turned to look at Draco just as he turned to look at her.

“Was she implying that we were doing things?” gasped Granger, appalled.

Draco looked back at the library doors. “I think she thinks we popped in for a f*cking quickie.”

Granger pivoted so rapidly that her skirts swished into a circle around her thighs. “I’m going back there to set things straight with her.”

“And if we’re wrong?”

Granger paused. “Are we wrong?”

“I don’t know? Perhaps she just wanted to look at my bulge?”

Granger held up her hand. “Enough about your bulge. We have bigger things to deal with.”

“Excuse you.”

“What if we’re right, and she… she tells someone?” asked Granger with a horrified intake of breath.

“That would be a laugh.”

“A laugh? No. Imagine if she told McGonagall.”

“I didn’t specify who would be laughing.”

“If you’re going to imitate me, kindly bring it down an octave; that was piercing.” Granger strode back to the library. “And why wasn’t she sweaty?” she called over her shoulder.

Amused at this turn of events, Draco waited for Granger to ‘set things straight.’ He leaned next to a slouching suit of armour, pressing his back into cool stone. A few drying charms got rid of the worst of the dampness at his armpits. Perhaps he hadn’t stunk like cadaver, perhaps it had just been sweat.

Granger was back. There was storminess in her stride as she marched down the corridor. The suit of armour beside Draco straightened up and saluted.

“So?” asked Draco.

“She’s gone,” said Granger. “Couldn’t find her. She must’ve left from the east entrance.”

“Write her a letter,” shrugged Draco.

Granger rounded on him. “A letter?! Really? You want me to put this absurdity in writing? Dear Madam Pince, you looked at Malfoy’s bulge so we weren’t sure if you had jumped to conclusions but please be advised that I did not get off with him in the library? Sincerely, Hermione?”

Draco was unable to hold back a laugh. He walked ahead of her, feeling that it might be safer to be out of swatting distance.

“I’m delighted that one of us is amused,” said Granger, striding up behind him with fire in her eyes.

Draco came to a sudden stop. Granger walked into him.

“Ouch – what–”

“My common room,” said Draco, gesturing to a flight of stone stairs on the right. “That way. Let’s go.”

“No. I came here with explicit permission to use the library, not to take Draco Malfoy on a nostalgic scenic tour of the castle. What if Filch catches us?”

“What if Filch catches us?” repeated Draco, descending the stairs. “O, he’ll send us straight to detention, I expect.”

He glanced up to see that Granger had a hand on her hip. Now she was fourteen again. She looked as though she was hoping for a Prefect to pop by, so that she might tell on him and have house points docked.

Draco continued down the stairs. He heard her ugh of irritation, and then, at length, her footsteps clattering behind him.

It was noticeably cooler in the castle’s lower levels. The inhabitants of familiar portraits started as they passed, then waved, or gasped out a comment. “Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy! Proper grownups now!” cried a medieval sorceress who followed them through several paintings. “Look at them!”

“Did someone say Draco?” said a snide sort of voice. A black-haired, goateed man popped his head over the edge of a frame.

“Hullo, Phineas,” said Draco.

“Why are you here with her?” asked Phineas, jerking his head towards Granger.

“Work,” said Draco.

Now a knight galloped into view along a wide seascape. “Ah! Hermione Granger! Well met, my lady! Well met!”

Granger, who kept glancing over her shoulder as though McGonagall might materialise and give her a scolding, smiled at the sight of the knight. “Sir Cadogan!”

“You’re with this rapscallion, are you?” said the knight, pointing at Draco with his sword. “Are you here under duress?”

Granger glanced at Draco, as though wondering whether to say yes and have him suffer the fury of an 11 inch oil painting. “No, I’m here willingly. It turns out he’s all right.”

“Is he?” asked Sir Cadogan, flipping his visor open and observing Draco. “Stout-hearted?”

“He’s an Auror, you daft bugger,” said Phineas. “Of course he’s stout-hearted. Risking his neck for imbeciles daily, I’d wager.”

“Me? A daft bugger? How dare you? You, Sir, are a curmudgeonly old scroat, and I am going to remove your tongue.” Sir Cadogan lowered his visor and clanged towards Phineas, who exited the painting rather swiftly.

“Farewell, my lady!” echoed Sir Cadogan’s voice as he, too, disappeared.

They came to the Potions classroom. The door was ajar. Draco walked in. Everything looked the same, only smaller – the well-scrubbed worktops, the row of beaten-up sinks, the cauldrons heaped along the back wall.

Draco made his way to what had been his work table for seven years. Granger stood indecisively at the door, then followed him in.

“I wonder who the new Potions professor is,” she said, observing a bookshelf near the door. “They’re quite modern, anyway; they’ve got Buxton’s works, and Keynes’. Snape preferred the 19th Century masters. Bit of a traditionalist.” She turned to look at Draco and found that he had disappeared. “Er – what are you doing?”

Draco had crouched under this old work table and sent a Lumos under it. “Hah!” he said.

Granger’s knees came into view, and then her face as she crouched next to him.

Draco pointed to the crude cock and balls carved under the desk.

“Wow,” said Granger.

“Left my mark,” said Draco.

“An enduring legacy, to be sure,” said Granger. She shuffled under the desk on her knees, examining the rest of Draco’s oeuvre, which consisted chiefly of his own initials.

“What’s this?” she asked, pointing to an oblong sort of blob. “A hedgehog?”

Draco crept closer to study the mysterious hieroglyph.

“A conker?” asked Granger.

Draco shook his head and said, gravely, “I believe that that is what twelve-year-old me thought lady bits looked like.”

Granger burst into laughter.

“A hedgehog,” repeated Draco with exaggerated offence.

“It has an eye,” said Granger, pointing at a speck.

“Conker hunting will now take on an exciting new meaning,” mused Draco.

“Hopefully your knowledge of female anatomy has improved a little.”

“I’ve remedied the gaps in my knowledge since.”

“I’ve a few anatomy texts I can lend you, if you need help. So you know where to poke the hedgehogs.”

“Unnecessary, but thank you for your largesse of spirit.”

Granger was looking at the ‘hedgehog’ and pressing her hands to her mouth to keep from laughing again.

The moment felt surreal. Draco was in the Hogwarts dungeons, crouching under a Potions work table with Hermione Granger. He had spent seven years in this dungeon, staring at the back of her head, hating her. And now, somehow, almost two decades later, they were back, a respected Auror and esteemed Healer, on their knees, giggling about yonic conkers.

He had a strange moment of regret that it had taken this long – that they had spent so much time loathing each other.

And then he had an equally strange moment of hope that it wasn’t too late.

(Too late for what? He didn’t know, exactly.)

Their knees touched.

Granger pulled away. She rose and dusted herself off briskly. “Right. Enough of your conceptual vulvas. Let’s get to your common room.”

Draco extricated himself from under the table and joined her.

Granger attempted to lead the way, but it soon became clear that she had no more than a general sense of where the Slytherin common room was.

“Over here,” called Draco as she took a wrong turn. “Haven’t you ever been?”

Granger turned around and caught up to him. “I didn’t have many Slytherin friends – so, no.”

They stopped at a nondescript wall.

Granger looked about curiously. “Here?”

“Yes. The next question will be the password, of course,” said Draco.

“You want us to stand here and guess?”

“Let’s have a go. For five minutes, Granger. I’m not asking you to blurt out Slytheriny things for the next week.”

Granger looked doubtful. “What sort of Slytheriny things should we blurt out?”

“Famous Slytherins. Ingredients. Ethically questionable spells. Anything you can think of.”

They called out guesses: plants and potions and curses and creatures. Rafflesia. Vermiculus. Banshee. Imperata cylindrica. Flesh-eating slug. Hebridean Black Dragon. Cuscata. Mountain Troll. Locomotor Wibbly. Belladonna. Nargle. Bloody Baron. Thestral. Basilisk.

Not even a quiver from the stone. Granger seemed to take it personally and began to warm up to the exercise.

“Tacca chantirieri,” she said, a hand on her hip. “Entomorphis!”

“Melofors,” tried Draco. “Erkling? Parseltongue. Salazar’s bollocks.”

Granger switched strategies and began to list posh things. “Fox hunting. Tweed. Sabrage.”

Draco tried some Latin for variety. “Oderint dum metuant. Non ducor, duco. Carpe noctem.”

“Gilets,” said Granger. “Regattas! Pimm’s. Mustard trousers. Black market organs.”

“Puffskein? Blood-sucking bugbear!”

“Melon baller!” cried Granger.

“Godric Gryffindor is an absolute muppet,” said Draco with great authority.

A shudder ran through the wall.

Granger gasped. “Godric is a bellend. A tosspot!”

“Godric couldn’t organise a piss-up in a pub. Godric is a useless f*cking wanker.”

“Godric is a right numpty.”

“A pillock!”

“An infantile pillock.”

“Godric has saggy balls.”

“Godric is a slobbering plonker.”

“Godric is a proper duffer.”

“A thicko!”

“Godric the Gormless.”

“Quite.”

A nasally kind of laugh emanated from behind them. Phineas had slipped into a painting of a mountainous landscape. “This is wildly entertaining.”

Granger leapt into the air and looked guilty. Her cheeks were flushed as she addressed the former headmaster. “Er – hello again. Have you – have you still got your tongue?”

“Obviously,” said Phineas.

“O, good. We were just, er–”

“Breaking into the common room,” said Draco.

“To what end, pray?” asked Phineas.

Draco shrugged. “To reminisce about days gone by.”

“You? Want to reminisce? With Hermione Granger?”

Granger held up her finger. “Actually, I–”

“O, yes,” interjected Draco. “We are reliving our terribly fond memories of one another.”

“I was under the apprehension that you hated each other,” said Phineas.

“We do,” said Draco and Granger at the same time.

Draco felt that the assertion would’ve been more credible if Phineas hadn’t just caught them giggling at a wall, shouting about Godric’s balls.

Phineas looked at Granger, who was blushing furiously, and then at Draco, who met his eye with a grin.

“You make even less sense than you did as smelly pubescents. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” said Draco.

“Password is Gurdyroot,” said Phineas, disappearing from view. “Only because you managed to make me laugh. Don’t get bodily fluids on the upholstery.”

While Granger sputtered at the effrontery, Draco turned to the wall. “Gurdyroot.”

The wall opened to reveal the dark, polished door that led to the Slytherin common room. Draco pushed it open.

It looked as though the school had made some efforts to lighten the place up. The greenish, bulbous lights of Draco’s day had been replaced by gas lamps that lent a warm glow to the room. The furnishings looked much the same as they had in Draco’s youth – tufted leather sofas and high-backed chairs, ornately carved tables and cabinets. Gilded mirrors shone in shadows.

The elaborately carved stone fireplace was unlit. On the walls around it, portraits of famous Slytherins were displayed. Merlin was reading something and spared Draco a raised eyebrow. Salazar’s chair was empty. Phineas did not reappear. There were two new additions amongst the portraits: Slughorn and Snape. Slughorn was napping with a bottle of Ogden’s Old held snug in his arms. Snape’s black-robed silhouette lurked at the back of his portrait, brewing something.

Draco ran his hand along the back of a sofa. For seven years, he had plotted and schemed here. He had presided like a little lord over a group of friends, many of whom were now dead. He’d felt terribly important here, terribly savvy and wise and adult.

And now it felt like a children’s playroom. The desks for their homework. The House rules pinned to the noticeboard. The faded banners celebrating past House Cup victories. The bookshelves with their worn textbooks. It was all so small.

Granger sniffed. “They ought to replace the rugs. It smells like feet.”

Granger could always be counted on to rout the sentimentality out of anything.

She wandered to the far edge of the dungeon, which extended partly under the lake. “Now this is interesting,” she said, having come to the windows that gave into the water.

“There’s a better view from the dormitories,” said Draco. “Come on.”

She followed him down a corridor and into the boys’ dormitory that had been his for seven years. A window into the lake took up the entirety of the western wall.

“Fascinating!” said Granger, stepping up to it.

“The Giant Squid passes by now and again. Merfolk, too.”

Draco left her to her observation. He walked into the circle of five green-canopied beds that took up the rest of the room. Goyle, Crabbe, Zabini, Nott. Dead, dead, alive, alive.

Finally, he came to what had been his bed. Surely, surely it hadn’t been this small. It had always felt so vast.

He stretched out on it and chortled. His feet hung over the edge.

Granger drifted over, having heard his laugh. “No Giant Squid, but I see that a Giant Malfoy has taken possession of one of the beds.”

“I can hardly believe this is the same bed.”

“Did you carve any genitalia into it, so we can authenticate it?”

Draco turned to examine a bedpost. “Do you know, I don’t think I ever did.”

Granger perched herself on the edge of what had been Nott’s bed. She passed her hands over her bare arms. “Didn’t you find it dreary in here? I can’t imagine how cold it was in the winter.”

“It wasn’t too different from the Manor,” shrugged Draco. “We had the fire going, and warming charms, and hot toddy and Firewhisky.”

A group of Grindylows was drifting by the window. Granger turned to watch.

Again, Draco was struck by the incongruity of the moment. Hermione Granger, in a bright sundress, with him in his childhood dormitory. He wondered what young Draco would’ve thought of it all. What would he have said if now-Draco told him that Granger would grow up to be pretty and witty and terrifyingly clever? That she’d boss him about a little and that he sometimes enjoyed it? That he’d make her laugh on purpose just to see it?

He’d tell him he was a soppy f*cking wanker.

Difficult to disagree.

“Have you reminisced to your satisfaction?” asked Granger.

“Yes,” said Draco.

Better to move on than continue to think wanky thoughts.

Granger rose. He watched her skirts pass the bed. A whiff of her soap followed.

He quashed a not-quite-formed idea involving Granger and this old bed before it could reach a shape and then – horrors – live on in his mind’s eye.

They retraced their steps out of the dormitory and through the common room.

Draco took a final look around. He mightn’t be back here for another decade. Would it feel even smaller, then? As life pelted relentlessly onwards and his childhood memories shrank and shrank into an ever-smaller pinprick of light behind him?

Granger was smiling at him.

“What?” asked Draco.

“You really did come to reminisce,” said Granger. “You’ve gone all – all wistful.”

Draco shrugged.

“I think it’s rather sweet,” said Granger, looking wistful herself.

She looked as though she caught herself, then, and grew serious, and strode away.

“Do you want to go to your common room?” asked Draco.

She shook her head. “I come here more often than you. Another time.”

Granger made for the corridor they’d come down, from the Potions classroom. Draco caught her by the elbow and showed her a quicker way out, up a narrow staircase that led straight to the Entrance Hall.

Why had he caught her by the elbow? He’d had no reason to catch her by the elbow. He could’ve just said something. That was stupid, and a failure of Quashing.

He let her climb the narrow stair first and, because her bum was right there, he looked at his feet all the way up.

Granger peered into the Great Hall again on the way out, hoping to find Pince. She was not there. Granger muttered some words of irritation.

They exited the castle and descended the steps onto the gravel way that led back to Hogsmeade. The air smelled of sweet grass and the delicate fragrance of the willows that bordered the lake.

It was good to be outside again.

As they came into Hogsmeade, Granger drifted towards the Three Broomsticks. “I’m properly famished. Have you eaten?”

“No,” said Draco. “No lunch, either; the corpses put me off.”

Granger wrinkled her nose. “Well – you’re welcome to join me, but it won’t be quite as recherché as the Manor’s fare.”

She tried the door of the Three Broomsticks, only to find a notice indicating that they were closed until September.

They walked on to Madam Puddifoot’s, which was equally shuttered.

Finally, they reached the Hog’s Head.

Granger hovered indecisively at the door. “Not sure I’m this desperate. I’ve heard it’s gone quite downhill since Aberforth retired.”

“What? Can’t be that bad for a pint and bit of pub grub, can it?”

It could.

Draco and Granger were welcomed (if such a cheerful term could be used) by a man who looked more like a Skrewt than most Skrewts do. He looked irritated that they dared to give him business. That was red flag number one that this was going to be a uniquely terrible experience.

They asked for a pint; they were told that there was no ale left on the premises. That was red flag number two. At this juncture, a wiser pair would have upped and left, but a kind of curiosity had been lit in them, to see how bad this could actually get.

“We’ll take what you’ve got then, mate,” said Draco. “And a bit of whatever’s in the kitchen.”

They sat themselves at a grubby table near what had probably been a window, once, except it was now coated with grime.

The Skrewt dropped two smudged glasses onto the table and poured out something clear into them before stomping off to the kitchen.

A powerful odour of turpentine washed over the table.

Granger sniffed at her glass and her eyes watered. “Oh my – it’s going to be a proper sinus cleanser.”

“Can’t be worse than Affpuddle’s Absinthe, can it?” asked Draco. “Cheers.”

Granger held up her glass to Draco’s with a worried look. She took a generous swallow of hers; he threw back half of his. They both sputtered and coughed.

“Burning,” choked out Granger.

“Th-that’s some first class nectar,” hacked Draco.

“I’ve never felt so alive,” sniffed Granger.

They drank again to confirm that it had been that bad. It had. Granger was a weepy mixture of laughing and coughing. Draco lost most of his voice.

“What the hell is this stuff?” asked Draco hoarsely.

“Was it distilled in a toilet?” enquired Granger.

The Skrewt had placed the bottle on a shelf behind the bar. Draco levitated it to them.

It was Troll vodka.

The label included a warning that it was not to be consumed neat and to please drink responsibly.

Which was red flag number three, but hey-ho; in for a Knut, in for Galleon.

“88 percent ABV,” gasped Granger. “Brilliant. I had just wanted to begin the week with a spot of alcohol poisoning.”

“It’s fine,” said Draco in his broken voice. “We’ll have food soon.”

In retrospect, there was such beautiful positivity in that thought.

The Skrewt emerged from the kitchen with plates.

“Steak,” he grunted as he slapped a plate in front of Draco. “Salad,” he said, dropping that one in front of Granger. “Bangers and mash,” he concluded, throwing the final dish between the two of them, before Skrewting away.

Draco and Granger observed these offerings.

“Was this steak cooked on a radiator?” asked Draco.

Granger examined the grey lump. “It needed at least five more minutes under the hair dryer.”

They turned their attention to Granger’s salad. It consisted of half of a raw onion.

“Shocking,” said Draco.

Granger retained her sang-froid. She pulled the bangers and mash towards them with a kind of grim optimism.

“But why is the sausage so… shrunken?” asked Draco.

“Perhaps it’s cold,” suggested Granger kindly.

“Or nervous,” nodded Draco.

Granger bit her lip. “It looks like a prolapse.”

Draco laughed. It hurt his throat.

“And what’s this?” asked Granger, poking at an indistinct piece of gristly fat.

“Lard Voldemort.”

“My god.”

“The mash looks… all right?”

“It smells like hot cat sick,” said Granger, knocking away Draco’s fork. “Do not try it. Nothing will come of this except cataclysmic diarrhoea.”

Draco, who did not want a runny bum, set aside his fork.

They looked at each other.

“I think this might be a cry for help,” said Granger, sombre. “Should we ask him if he’s all right?”

Draco was less inclined towards sympathy. “I think we’ve just discovered a blatantly obvious front.”

“That too,” said Granger. “Are you going to investigate?”

“I’ll pawn it off to one of the newbies.”

Granger was beginning to look a bit wobbly in her seat. She squinted at her almost empty glass. “Guesses as to our blood alcohol content?”

“Two… two hundred percent, approximately,” said Draco, not stuttering, but close. The booze was starting to hit him, too.

“Let’s totter off to find something actually edible,” said Granger, rising. She swayed on her feet. “Oh, bloody hell. I can’t Apparate.”

“It offends me to pay for this,” said Draco with a gesture to their untouched repast. He nevertheless dropped a Sickle onto the table.

“I can–” said Granger, grasping at a pocket.

“No,” said Draco. “I insisted on trying this place. You get the next.”

“Fine.”

“You were right, after all. It wasn’t quite as recherché as the Manor’s fare.”

They staggered out of the pub and ambled down the street, bumping into each other and various objects as they went. Around the corner was a little grocer’s, just about to close up for the evening. They raided the last of the bread basket and bought a small wheel of cheese to go with it. Granger found some cherries. Draco discovered an enormous, slightly squashed blackberry pie. Granger asked if they ought to buy a slice? Draco said he wanted two, personally. They stared at the pie and then, their wits and willpower drowned by two inches of vodka, bought the entire thing. A cool bottle of cider topped it off, and that was dinner sorted.

They meandered a small way out of the village, looking for a place to sit. Granger said that she fancied a view of the village; Draco said he wanted to look at the castle. They found an adequate compromise up a small path that led to a grassy sort of promontory, from where they could look out onto Hogsmeade and Hogwarts both.

Granger asked Draco for a handkerchief, which she Transfigured into a blanket and spread onto the grass. The blanket was rather more triangular than square, but then again, Granger was rather more sloshed than sober.

Loose limbed and wobbly, Granger decanted herself onto the blanket. Draco flumped down beside her. The bread, slightly chewy, was parted out first, in the hopes of belatedly absorbing some of the Troll vodka.

Granger said, “I am utterly hammered,” around a mouthful of it. There was a kind of serenity to her, a calm sort of acceptance that she was completely bollocksed, and that was how it was going to be.

She had great difficulty putting a piece of cheese on her bread. Draco attempted to help, but her piece of bread kept multiplying into two, then four, until he blinked, and it was one again, swaying gently.

“Hold still,” said Draco, snatching her wrist.

“I am,” said Granger. “You’re the wobbly one.”

Draco, with painstaking focus, managed to place a piece of cheese on the bread.

Granger hiccoughed. The cheese fell, bounced off her knee, and rolled into the grass. She watched it go with a gentle sort of sadness.

Draco gave up on her and focused on his own bread and cheese, which he put together moderately well. His only difficulty was finding his own mouth.

“Faschi… Fassi… Fascinating,” said Granger, watching him mash it into his chin. “You’re usually so elegant.”

“Am I?”

“Yes,” said Granger. “You make everything look ef-effortless, you know?”

“You’re drunk enough to compliment me. This is a trill. Thrill.”

Granger chewed. “It was an observation. You can get cheeky when you can put a sandwich in your mouth, not before.”

Draco managed to do so, then inhaled to say something, then choked on a crumb.

As he coughed, Granger came to the rescue by floating the bottle of cider towards him. This was done with decidedly less finesse and wand control than usual. She had, presumably, been aiming for his hand, but the bottle pressed into his groin instead.

“Steady on,” said Draco.

“S-sorry,” said Granger, flinging the bottle over his shoulder and clipping his temple with it before dropping it onto the blanket next to him.

“Wow,” said Draco.

Granger set aside her wand as though it were a dangerous thing. Then she pressed her fingers to her mouth and looked like she was holding back a shriek of laughter. “I’m so sorry – so sorry – not what I wanted to do–”

“It’s f-fine,” said Draco. “Bit of frottage with a cider bottle – new experience…”

After the Troll vodka, the cider was spectacular – fresh, tart, bubbly on the tongue, and honeyed in the finish. Draco drank and passed Granger the bottle. He had intended to make an eloquent remark on its aroma and notes, but what came out instead was a slurred observation that it didn’t hurt to drink.

Which was all the endorsement Granger needed, anyway. She drank, too, and passed it back.

There was nothing interesting about sharing a bottle with Granger. About tasting where her lips had been a moment before. Nothing whatsoever, and he wouldn’t think about it. And he wouldn’t look at her mouth, either.

“Stop looking at me,” said Granger, holding a hand in front of her mouth, which made Draco aware that he was looking at her mouth. “I can’t even eat a piece of cheese.”

“I’m not looking at you,” said Draco, like the liar he was. “I’m looking at the view.”

“…The view is behind you,” said Granger.

“Oh,” said Draco, turning around. “Right.”

“You weren’t joking about the two hundred percent BAC,” said Granger, edging nearer to him on the blanket to look at the view, too.

Hogsmeade’s quaint streets curved away into the growing dusk below them. Farther away, Hogwarts Castle was a silhouette, its windows reflecting the last of a red sunset.

“You should draw it,” declared Granger.

“What? I don’t draw.”

“Liar. I know you’ve got an artistic streak; I saw your magnificent willy.”

Draco tried to resist, but a giggle escaped him.

Granger looked at him with wide eyes. “I can’t decide if that was adorable or terrifying.”

“Both. Just like me.”

“You are neither,” sniffed Granger. “Calm down.”

“But I am elegant.”

“If you take the rambles of a drunken idiot for fact,” said Granger. She was attempting to look prim.

“The drunk mind speaks the sober heart,” said Draco. He tried to wiggle his eyebrows but he wasn’t sure what he managed to do; Granger merely looked perplexed.

“Shall we have some pie?” she asked.

“Unsubtle change of subject, but yes,” said Draco, waving his wand at the pie, which floated towards them. “Would you like a bit of frottage, too?”

Granger crossed her legs. “That was an accident.”

“Of course. Make us some cutlery, would you?”

“I hardly trust myself to.”

She plucked at a few dandelion leaves for the purpose. She Transfigured them into two very credible spoons, though they were slightly green. The forks were a different matter; a formidable creation, non-Euclidean, unearthly. It hurt their heads to look at them. Draco and Granger grew frightened and threw them off the cliff.

Anyway, they had the spoons. Draco set the pie to floating between them and they ate and got crumbs all over themselves.

The Troll vodka was wearing off. Now they were simply drunk, not Utterly Cabbaged.

Granger, staring at Hogwarts Castle, drifted into introspection. “You know, today has been more interesting than I thought it would be.”

“Mm?”

“I didn’t imagine I’d ever see the Slytherin common room – much less your dormitory.”

“It did feel quite strange, seeing you in there.”

“Against the natural order of things?”

Draco thought about it. “Can we really call it a natural order?”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re rather artificial divisions, aren’t they? The Slytherin and Gryffindor business.”

“Goodness,” said Granger, pulling her knees to her chin. “Are we getting philosophical?”

“Yes,” said Draco. “I’m drunk. Indulge me.”

“Of course – we mustn’t let the opportunity go to waste. And you’re right. Entirely artificial. But schools have to divide and conquer the masses of children somehow.”

“I suppose it keeps them manageable.”

“There might be a better way to do it than a pseudo-horoscopic enterprise involving underdeveloped character traits and a talking hat,” mused Granger. “My primary school assigned our houses at random – but then, it was Muggle, and they hadn’t a talking hat.”

Draco finished the last of the pie and threw bits of crust to some sparrows.

Granger, apparently not trusting herself with her wand, got up to fetch the cherries. “If we’re going to critique the system… After today, I think there might’ve been a downside to all the inter-House secrecy.”

“What do you mean?”

“The hidden common rooms, the isolation between houses. It’s – it’s terribly humanising, to see someone on a bed.”

“Are you saying you mightn’t have thought me such a dreadful creature, if you’d seen the pillow I drooled on at night?”

“Exactly,” laughed Granger. “But, really. I mean it. You were an entity that popped up out of nowhere, said awful things, and then vanished until the next skirmish.”

“I had to adopt guerilla tactics to avoid the slapping,” said Draco.

“That was once,” said Granger. She ate a cherry. “The secrecy fostered fractures above and beyond those created by House divisions. That’s my position. What are you smirking about?”

“Only thinking that a great many witches have formed a great many ideas after seeing me in bed, but a treatise on the House system is an entirely new one.”

“You are terribly full of yourself, you know,” said Granger, looking away to hide her amusement.

“Of course I am. Have you seen me?”

“No, I haven’t. Your feet are always in the way.”

Draco, already close to the rocky edge of the promontory, turned and dangled his legs over the side. “There.”

Granger played along. She moved to sit beside him, ostensibly to observe him. Draco noticed that her reserve from earlier in the day had vanished. Was it the drink? The conversation? Him?

Which made him realise that he himself hadn’t been Quashing. And now that she was next to him, things were beginning to happen again – the beginnings of that sweetness in his veins, the buzz of his pulse.

He ought to move away. He ought to Occlude and separate his rational self from fuzzy thought and feeling.

He ought to.

“Right. Let’s have a look, now that I can see you properly,” said Granger.

She ran her analytical gaze down his face.

“I feel like a textbook,” said Draco.

“Perhaps I shall read you like one, now that my view isn’t obstructed.”

“You don’t read, you devour. I’m frightened.”

“As you should be.”

“Have I got any marginalia?”

Amusement pulled at Granger’s mouth. “You do listen to me sometimes. What’s the human equivalent of marginalia? Perhaps this?” she asked, running the back of a finger along his end-of-day stubble.

It was the lightest, most casual brush of a finger along his jawline.

The thudding answer of his heart was utterly disproportionate.

“In which case, yes,” continued Granger. “But only a day’s worth of marginalia, at my best guess. Not half so fascinating as Revelations, you know.”

Draco was somehow simultaneously rooted to the spot and floating. He was nerveless. He was all nerves. His pulse was up. This was bad. He ought to Occlude and pull away from her and also jump off the cliff.

Instead, like the weak-willed cretin he was, he continued.

“What about illuminations?” he asked. “Have I got those?”

If his voice was husky, it was because of the vodka.

“Oh, that is an interesting question,” said Granger. She grew thoughtful in her study of his face.

She smelled like the notes of honey from the cider.

“I would have to say your eyes,” she said at length. “Is that dreadfully trite?”

“It is,” said Draco. “I forgive you; you haven’t a poetic soul. Are they sumptuous illuminations?”

“O, yes. Splendid. They’re aglitter with silver leaf and everything.”

“I ought to give myself to the head librarian as a gift.”

“She would make good use of you.”

“Although… perhaps I’d rather remain in the Granger private collection.”

Granger gave a theatrical little gasp. “Bold. She curates it fiercely. I wouldn’t be so certain that you’d make the cut.”

“My illuminations, though.”

“Mm. They are tempting.”

Their eyes met. And there again was the pull from her dark gaze – the drawing-towards, the beckoning, the invitation to fall in. It inspired a soft sort of longing in him. A wanting to reach out and a wanting to fall. A strange and gentle vertigo.

He knew that she wasn’t doing it on purpose. He knew that she hadn’t set out to do it. There was no calculation in her. She didn’t even know what she was doing to him.

And yet, here he was, falling, falling…

She blinked and looked away.

He had been staring.

“So – what’s your conclusion, Professor?” he asked, throwing in a Granger Irritant to ensure that he sounded normal. “Have you completed your assessment?”

If there was any irritation on her part, it was diluted by amusement. “Have you got any family in Hogsmeade?” she asked in a casual sort of way.

Draco saw her coming. “If you’re about to suggest that I look like our barkeep from earlier…”

“Mm. A wart, yearning for self-expression.”

“Oi.”

“Thank you for removing your feet from the picture. It brought me a real clarity.” Then, seeing his annoyance, she looked skywards. “Stop fishing about for compliments. You know you’re terribly good looking.”

“I never tire of hearing it.”

“You grew out of being a greasy little ferret. There: a compliment. Are you happy?”

“Yes. I’ll have another, please.”

“No. You’re unbearable.”

“Do my hair next.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

She narrowed her eyes critically. Then her fingers ran through the ends of his hair, only for a moment.

Draco did not permit touching of his hair. Those who were foolish enough to try were hexed into a quivering pile of mince. But Granger…

Her brief touch was far more intoxicating than any of the drink he’d had today.

There went his pulse again, shooting upwards in another disproportionate fit of excitement.

“Middling,” said Granger.

Draco sniffed as though he was letting the remark pass with sublime equanimity.

Really, he was too floaty to give a damn.

Granger pursed her lips and brushed her fingers through his hair again, switching his part to the other side. “Adequate, you know. Decent. One day, you’ll find someone who can look past it.”

She was holding back a smile.

His eyelids felt heavy; his body felt light.

He wanted to reciprocate some kind of teasing compliment but – he oughtn’t. He wanted to tell her that she was like the vodka – intoxicating even in the smallest measures and leading to errors in judgement. He wanted to taunt her about how she ate cherries – who bit cherries in half? It must be because of her tiny mouth. He wanted to tell her that if he’d outgrown his greasy ferret phase, she’d moved well past her startled squirrel days. He wanted to make suppositions about why her wand was pushing things into his groin.

But that would further blur the already indistinct line between teasing and flirting, and he wasn’t meant to be flirting. He was meant to be Quashing. He was meant to be remaining coolly neutral, unaffected, aloof. Professional. She was his Principal.

He stole a glance at her. She had turned away to resume her perennial battle with her hair. She loosened it – he smelled shampoo – and then pulled it into a ponytail. And he wasn’t looking at her nape, where small curls escaped and the skin was most sensitive and kissable. He wasn’t looking at the scalloped edge of her dress where it dipped between her shoulder blades. He wasn’t looking at the zipper.

Right, but what if he just – just moved in behind her and pulled a bit of her dress off her shoulder and pressed his mouth to that spot?

Draco folded his hands into his lap. He could not trust them.

She was his Principal.

He grew dimly aware that he was heading for disaster.

Granger, blithely unconscious of the turmoil caused by the back of her neck, pushed a final hairpin into place.

Then she put the little basket of cherries between herself and Draco and sat next to him on the edge of the promontory, so that her legs dangled next to his.

They talked. He tried not to look at her cherry-reddened mouth. Tried not to think about the wet rim of the cider bottle that they passed back and forth. Their shoulders touched now and again. He felt the occasional brush of her curls when the wind teased them his way. The breeze brought hints of her towards him, cider and shampoo and the salt of skin in summer heat.

Would it truly be so terrible, not to quash, just for now? He had quashed for weeks, after all. He knew he could do it again. He could simply enjoy right now, and go back to quashing afterwards, couldn’t he? It would be fine, wouldn’t it? He had everything under control.

They threw cherry pits into the shrubbery below the promontory. Granger said they’d make a pretty grove of cherry trees, one day. Draco chased the pits with Herbivicus charms. His aim was true; here and there below them, the pits split and pushed forth small, tender leaves. Granger, delighted, cast a few Aguamenti.

The evening light grew delicate and elusive.

Granger leaned back on her hands and sighed. There was contentment in it. Happiness, even.

Draco felt her gaze on him.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” said Granger.

“Tell me.”

“It’s maudlin, vodka-fuelled sentimentality.”

“Even better.”

She chose her words carefully, but, at length, spoke. “I’m glad you kept the protection assignment.”

Now she wasn’t teasing – now she was sincere.

Draco felt a smile, unbidden, flash across his face. A new and unfamiliar joy swelled in his chest.

“Do you know – so am I,” said Draco.

She gave him a sideways glance. There was a blush on her cheeks, or it might’ve been the last of the red sunset. “Maudlin.”

“Frightfully.”

Something danced in the beats of his heart.

They both went for a cherry at the same time. There was a tangling of fingers.

The touch was fleeting, hasty. Anything else would be too sweet.

The evening air was summer caught in a breeze – crushed grass and clover. A curlew sang.

And it was beautiful, sitting next to Granger, with his arm brushing hers, here at the top of the promontory, which, at this moment, felt like the top of the world.

Chapter Text

Draco’s post-Granger afterglow lingered all night. When he returned to the Manor he wandered about, sighing and staring out of windows. He smiled vaguely at nothing. He thought about the back of her neck and where he would most like to put his mouth. He read some of her old notes on the Jotter. He indulged in a delicious daydream of her in the library, pushed up against the stacks.

When he found himself floating towards the rose garden for a midnight stroll – an unprecedented activity, for him – Draco realised he was acting like a besotted imbecile. Again.

His brain, which had been adrift amongst those stupid fluffy clouds, came plummeting back to earth, where it took up residence in his skull once again, but grumpily, as though he’d interrupted it in something important. As though there was anything remotely important about cherries and sundresses and I’m glad you kept the protection assignment.

At the entrance to the rose garden, Draco pivoted on his heel and stormed back into the Manor. He closeted himself in his study, where he strode about, freshly perturbed.

What the f*ck was wrong with him? Seeing her had been a bad idea. He had done very well over the month of July, getting Granger out of his head. The crush had all but been quashed out of existence. But then, in her presence, his quashing had lasted all of an hour. An hour!

This was troubling. Aggravating. F*ck Theo and his nonsense about absence making the heart grow fonder; he did far better when he was away from her. When he couldn’t see her, tease and be teased by her, smell her, steal looks at the back of her neck…

Draco half-lapsed into another daydream before catching himself at it again.

Right. This was fixable. Granger’s next asterisk holiday wasn’t until Mabon – that was late September. That was ample time to let this thing wear off and disappear.

Draco leaned against the unlit fireplace and rapped his fingers against it. She was his f*cking Principal. And – even more importantly – he was Draco Malfoy. Highly eligible, perpetually unattached. He didn’t do besotted imbecile.

His Jotter buzzed. Draco waited an entire ten minutes before checking it, during which he paced in agitation while telling himself that he was playing it cool.

It wasn’t Granger Jotting him, anyway. And he was not disappointed in the least. It was Goggin, scheduling a training session for the next morning. Which would be an excellent outlet for these mad, frustrated energies that he was grappling with.

Draco replied, No wands, to ensure that Goggin would knock a bit of sense into him.

~

The next day, Draco and Goggin knocked so much sense into each other that they both became quite venerable philosophers. This was marred by one minor hiccough: nobody could understand them through their fat lips. The world made do without their unutterable wisdom.

A few days passed, during which Draco did wonderfully from a quashing perspective. Granger became a mere afterthought amongst various emergencies, missions, and brutal training sessions.

Draco grew pleased with himself once more. Everything was going to be fine.

His first contact with Granger was initiated by her, and it began with an insult, which was promising.

You’re mad, was Granger’s opener.

Draco, who was Playing It Cool, waited for two hours before responding with: ?

I’ve just spoken to Hippocrates, said Granger.

Draco answered, Who?

Hippocrates Smethwyck. The head of St. Mungo’s. He showed me your letter. Did you mean to put that many zeroes??

Draco found it challenging to play it cool when there was a grin breaking across his face. Did my definition of large meet your expectations?

E for Exceeds. Am properly gobsmacked.

You wanted a swimming pool, said Draco. That takes another zero.

That was idle daydreaming! answered Granger. Draco could all but hear her voice growing shrill. You didn’t answer me re: madness.

He didn’t respond, because his first impulse was to tell the truth, which was that it brought him a real pleasure to make her idle daydreams come to fruition, but that was – that was too – eurgh. The truth was a saccharine mess.

The Jotter buzzed again. I’m sat at work trying not to cry.

Stiff upper lip, said Draco.

Thank you for doing this, said Granger. It’s going to change so many lives for the better.

That seemed like a strong concluding remark to Draco, who decided not to respond further. He cast an eye over the conversation and was pleased with himself: it had been overwhelmingly neutral. Well, except, perhaps, for the ‘definition of large’ thing, but that was just – just flirting for sport. He hadn’t even made the screamingly obvious joke when she said she’d been gobsmacked by it.

See? This was going fine. Everything was under control. There was no crush here.

Later that night, Granger sent another note, this time, inviting him to dinner to thank him; she knew a good French place, if he’d like to come? Draco read the invitation with a stupid degree of longing. However, an in-person thanks would present challenges to the Quash, and also, no doubt, warrant another one of her hugs. The fewer of those he got, the less of a cretin he was.

He said, I’ve got other plans. You needn’t thank me, the gift was my thanks to you.

Granger responded after a few minutes: All right. Do tell me if you change your mind.

No. He wasn’t going to change his mind about dinner with her.

He was only going to daydream about it all evening, thanks.

Days passed. Smethwyck sent Draco plans for a full-scale renovation of the Janus Thickey Ward, per his instructions. The plans were remarkably detailed and thorough. Architects and consulting engineers had been pre-selected, pending his approval, to reimagine the Ward and create a state-of-the-art retreat for long-term care patients. Consultation processes were outlined, as well as plans for specialist Healer and nurse training. A new structure for interdisciplinary collaborations and research focusing on long term ailments was proposed.

The general whiff of competence that floated off the page was, Draco knew, atypical of St. Mungo’s administration. It smelled like Granger.

It occurred to him that he could ask her, but no – it was safer to keep communications to a minimum. He approved of the plans and made arrangements for the transfer of the funds.

He refused an invitation to attend an announcement-slash-fête at St. Mungo’s in honour of the gift; she would be there. He therefore indicated that he wished to keep a low profile and that the new Ward was the focus, not him. Please get plastered on champagne in his honour.

Granger sent him a Jot, after the event, saying that she had hoped to see him there, why hadn’t he come? Draco said he had been busy – cannibal warlock in Castle Combe eating tourists, you know. Granger said, of course, she understood.

When it came time to recast Granger’s wards, Draco deliberately chose moments when she was elbow-deep in someone’s intestines in A&E.

In the weeks that followed, Draco, with increasing desperation, even went on dates. They were fine, as far as they went – which wasn’t very far. The witches didn’t trigger whatever primitive portion of his brain they used to trigger. This resulted in Draco acting like a perfect gentleman, because he made positively no moves to f*ck, or even snog, anyone, but he did a great deal of pulling out of chairs and opening doors (so that they could leave).

No tits were spaffed upon.

Theo advised him that his virtuous behaviour was read as a Maturing by their acquaintance and that all and sundry were now convinced that Draco Malfoy had earnestly begun his search for a wife.

Which was better than the impotence thing, Draco supposed. He resigned himself to a monk-like existence (avec wank) because, apparently, no witch in the world was good enough for his cock, except for one, maybe, but he wasn’t thinking of her. She did not exist except as a Principal under remote protection, whose heart occasionally called to him through the ring.

But it was all under control. It was fine.

If Granger noticed a withdrawal on his part, she made no comment. Her communications mirrored his – brief and to the point.

So August bled into September in long, Grangerless days.

Autumn came all of a sudden after a particularly cold night, turning the Manor’s leafy gardens into a glorious pageant of colour.

The Auror Office was kept busy. A witch summoned an Eldritch abomination in Northamptonshire. During the three nights of September’s harvest moon, there was a rash of werewolf attacks whose sole objective seemed to be increasing infections amongst the wizarding population. Tonks formed a Werewolf Task Force (the WTF). Potter, who led the Task Force, told Draco that it was aptly named, as their meetings consisted chiefly of saying “What the f*ck” as news of fresh attacks came in.

In brief, it was business as usual.

As the month wore on, Draco began to keep an eye on his Jotter. With September’s end came Mabon, the autumnal equinox.

Granger was punctual. A few days before Mabon, Draco’s Jotter went off. When he saw that it was from her, he was exceedingly collected – bored, even – and his heart rate did not accelerate in the least.

With a detached kind of ennui, he read the missive:

Haven’t done any of the legwork I was meant to do before Mabon. Day will consist of gallivanting across the UK, looking at mushrooms. Leave your attendance to your discretion.

Odds of hags or nuns? asked Draco.

Low to nonexistent, said Granger. Visiting megalithic tombs – exteriors only – to examine fungi.

Given your penchant for attracting danger, I expect a deluge of dark creatures.

The only deluge will be a spot of rain hardly worthy of the name, said Granger.

Fine, said Draco. Won’t go, but do send itinerary when ready.

And, for a little while, that was that.

Until all hell broke loose, of course, and Granger lost all of her Alone Privileges before she could even begin to gallivant.

~

Hell broke loose on a Wednesday night. Draco was on the Manor’s Quidditch pitch, pursuing the Snitch through driving rain, when his wand whistled out the alarm for Granger’s laboratory.

At the same moment, his Jotter buzzed with a note from Granger: Someone is here.

Which informed Draco that not only was someone prying at Granger’s laboratory wards, but also, Granger was at the bloody laboratory. At midnight. By herself.

The ring at his finger echoed fear. Draco didn’t bother with explanations for his befuddled teammates, who were querying him rudely about why the f*ck he was checking his bloody Jotter instead of catching the Snitch?

Just as Draco pulled out his wand to Disapparate, his ring burned. Granger had activated the distress beacon.

Granger had never before activated the distress beacon.

F*ck.

A shock of adrenaline and dread coursed through Draco, matching that he felt through the ring. He Disapparated from the pitch to the Manor and Flooed to Cambridge. King’s Hall was warded against Apparition, so he Apparated again just outside its doors, where he thwacked the bronze plaque with his wand until the magically concealed building appeared.

The ring burned with increased urgency. Granger’s heart was racing.

Draco’s broom was still in his hand and provided a convenient means of whipping up the three storeys to the Granger laboratory. As he rounded the final corner at breakneck speed, dread in his veins, he cast a Disillusionment and a flurry of protective spells on himself.

First he thought he’d missed the intruder again. The impersonal sign on the door – GRANGER. Ring for attention – loomed large in his vision. Then he grew aware of sounds and movement just outside the door. Draco stilled the broom and his breathing and cast nonverbal revelation spells.

Three Disillusioned figures came into view. Two were crouched and working on the wards – which were withstanding the assault without trouble – and one was standing sentinel. The sentinel did not detect Draco’s silent, invisible approach on the broom.

Granger was safe within – that was the main thing. Now Draco’s dread gave way to relief and a desire to systematically dismember each of these men.

King’s Hall did not permit Apparition or Disapparition within its walls. Which was, at this particular moment, ideal. Draco shot a silent Caeli Praesidium over his shoulder, which expanded into a geodesic, cage-like ward, sealing the corridor shut behind him. These men would not be leaving here under their own power.

Three baddies against one Draco. You had to feel a bit sorry for them.

He got a Stunner off on the one who was playing sentinel, then cast a Finite to rid the others of their Disillusion, and then the game began in earnest. Judging by the eruption of spells aimed in his direction, of the two remaining wizards, the tall one was the more seasoned duellist and the bald one was a twitchy, panicky loose cannon.

Draco, still Disillusioned, flattened himself against a wall and sent two more Stunners, deflected by the tall one. He managed enough eye-contact with the bald one for a spot of Legilimency, which informed him that a killing curse was coming his way. He rolled the broom and floated to the ceiling as the curse flashed green where he had been a moment before.

A killing curse so early in the game was unusual – and also, terribly unsporting.

It upped the stakes. No more playing nice. No more Stunners.

Draco severed the bald man’s wand arm for his impudence. Amongst the screams and spurts of blood, he sized up the tall wizard. His attempt at Legilimency there was blocked by novice level Occlusion – just enough to prevent him from gleaning the wizard’s next move at this range.

The tall one sent a Confrigo through the corridor, too large to dodge, forcing Draco to throw a Protego and reveal his approximate location.

“There you are, you bastard,” hissed Tall, and he sent another.

It exploded against Draco’s ward at the end of the corridor. “He’s bloody locked us in,” gasped Tall at this sight.

The bald wizard cradled his bloody stump to his chest, snatched his wand with his other hand and regained his feet. A look into his mind informed Draco of another imminent Avada Kedavra.

Draco’s second cutting curse left Bald a double amputee.

As the screams began again, Draco said, “I would cast a cooling charm on the severed limbs, if I were you, you know – so they can be reattached.”

The tall one grew panicky, but had the presence of mind to Disillusion himself again. Amongst Bald’s screams, he and Draco traded spells of varying nastiness and legality, each looking for a weakness in the other’s shields.

The tall wizard was skilled at defensive spells and deflections. Draco made his way closer to him, hoping to get a spell in from closer range.

Draco got another Finite in, ridding his opponent of his Disillusion while granting himself enough eye contact for another attempt at Legilimency. At this closer range and with a more powerful push of it, he caught a glimpse of an imminent Bombarda.

He levitated the Stunned body of the sentinel in front of himself to catch the brunt of it. Noble duellists were dead duellists – and Draco intended to be neither of these things.

The tall wizard swore as watched himself cremate his colleague. Meanwhile, Bald’s screams of pain were echoing throughout the corridor and, frankly, distracting.

“Shh,” said Draco, standing behind him and sending a silencing spell at point-blank range into his larynx.

The bald one collapsed, clutching at his convulsing throat.

Draco was hit with a Finite. Which was fine – he didn’t mind them knowing who was about to finish them off.

The tall one made a sprint past Draco to the exit. He was repelled by the ward and flung back towards Draco.

Now panicking enough to turn to Unforgivables, he raised his wand, a killing curse in his eyes. Draco spat out an Immobulus, freezing the man’s wand arm into its upward trajectory. The killing curse flashed green against the ceiling.

He gasped, “You f–” but Draco’s choking curse hit him in the neck. He fell to his knees, clutching at his throat.

Draco straightened his robes. The wards were intact and Granger was safe, and this now felt like a long-awaited opportunity to get some f*cking answers.

Draco usually adhered, more or less, to the standard Auror interrogation protocols, but tonight, he had no time for them. He pulled the choking wizard’s head back by the hair, forced open his eyes, and plunged into his mind.

The man’s Occlumency offered meagre resistance in his half-conscious state. Draco pushed through his memories, following the stream of thoughts that had led him to Granger’s door tonight. This man, whoever he was, was a pawn – he had received an order from a shadowy figure in a dark room and knew nothing beyond his instructions. He was to break into the Granger laboratory and “confirm what the girl was doing.” Draco spent a longish moment in that memory, trying to place the rasping voice.

The bald one had received his instructions from the tall one, and so was even more useless.

The sentinel was the most useless of all, being quite dead and giving off whiffs of burned pork.

F*cking useless. Draco Stunned the two survivors with unnecessary vigour, directly in the chest. The bald one’s severed limbs were placed under a stasis charm.

Draco sent a Patronus each to Goggin, Tonks, and the Mediwitch Service. Three aristocratic Borzoi, tall and silvery, streaked out of his wand and sprinted away.

He turned to the laboratory door and slashed away the wards. A few steps took him to the door to Granger’s office, which he pummelled.

“You in there? Answer, or I shall knock down the door.”

Granger’s shaky voice came through: “What kind of cake did you have at Tyntesfield?”

There was reassurance in her being well enough to check that Draco was really Draco. “Poppyseed.”

Granger pulled open the door, wand in hand, the white sparkle of a waiting Protego glowing at its tip. She looked pale, but otherwise unhurt. Her eyes were enormous and darkened by stress.

Draco fought a sudden, wild urge to lift her up and squeeze her.

Adrenaline, obviously.

“There were–” began Draco.

“I know,” said Granger. She held up her mobile. “I watched the entire thing.”

Draco’s debrief was thrown off course. “What?”

“I’ve got a camera in the doorbell,” said Granger. Her mobile screen flashed at him. It showed the now-quiet corridor, an arc of blood splattered across the wall. The burnt corpse was visible, slumped against the skirting boards.

Granger was regarding Draco with wide eyes.

“Ah,” said Draco.

“Are they – are they all dead?”

“Only one. Caught a Bombarda.”

“What did they want from me?” Granger’s voice was small.

She was shaken. She looked fragile in front of her overstacked desk, her arms wrapped around her midsection, her lips pale.

Draco wanted to hug her again.

“They had instructions to confirm what you’re doing,” said Draco.

Granger met his eyes. In hers – alarm, shock, worry. The look in his probably matched.

“Shit,” she breathed.

“Yes,” said Draco. “Whatever Shacklebolt was worried about – it’s finally happening. Let’s go.”

“But how?!” Granger was gathering a few things into her pockets, including bits of the computers. “And where are we going?”

“Out of here. The wards held. But you will never be here alone again. We need to talk.”

“My house?”

“Fine – for tonight. But they know where you live.”

Goggin, Tonks, and the mediwitches arrived within moments of each other. Their footsteps echoed up the three flights of stairs to Granger’s laboratory and they burst into the corridor.

“Hello, hello, hello,” said Tonks, observing the carnage. “A little midnight duelling after Quidditch, was it?” she asked, when she spotted Draco’s ensemble.

“That’s why I smelled bacon,” said Goggin, nudging the sentinel’s body with his boot.

The lead mediwitch grimaced and said that there wasn’t much she could do for that one, but she would take it in for a post-mortem. The other two were floated out on stretchers, to which Goggin added rather nasty straps, should they awaken. He followed them out.

Tonks spotted Granger and flew to her, seized her by the shoulders, and asked if she was all right.

“Yes – I’m fine – Malfoy arrived within a minute –” said Granger as her face and her hands were alternatively grasped and squeezed by Tonks.

“You’re sure? You didn’t get hit? No one got in?”

“No – the wards held beautifully – I’m fine, really, Tonks–”

“Good. Brilliant. Excellent.” Tonks patted Granger’s cheeks a final time and turned to Draco. “Did you have a chance to have a little peek?”

Strictly speaking, Aurors were not to conduct interrogations without following specific procedures on suspects in custody. However, practitioners of Legilimency were allowed to use it during a firefight. If they gleaned anything useful during, that was a fortunate bonus.

“Only a glimpse,” said Draco. “They’d been instructed to confirm what Granger is working on. It’ll be worth doing a deeper dive. The taller one had a conversation with someone – there was something about his voice – it was so bloody familiar, but I can’t place it…”

“I’ll interrogate them personally,” said Tonks, her hair turning into an ominous blood red mohawk. “I’ll tell you two the moment I have anything. Hermione – my god, you look about to drop.”

“Malfoy was about to take me home,” said Granger.

“Home?” Tonks wrinkled her nose. “I don’t love home. We suspect they’d been poking about there already, don’t we?”

“I’ll stay with her overnight,” said Draco. “Then we can make other arrangements.”

“Other arrangements?” asked Granger as he and Tonks swept her down the stairs.

“A safehouse, I’m thinking, until we understand what’s going on, and put away those responsible,” said Tonks.

“But I have–”

“We’ll strive for minimal disruption to work and life,” interrupted Tonks. Her tone, though friendly, brooked no argument.

Granger looked resigned. It was difficult to mount an objection when evidence of baddies seeking to harm her was splattered bloodily across the wall.

Tonks turned to Draco. “Now that they’ve made a move, I want around the clock Auror protection on her, in person. When you’re unavailable, make arrangements. I can spare Weasley when needed. Goggin and Humphreys, too.”

“Understood.”

They emerged from King’s Hall. Trinity’s quad glowed with dew under the waning September moon.

“They’ve finally begun to show their cards,” said Tonks, tapping at her lip. “Let’s see what I can discover from No-Hands and Friend tonight. Hermione – a cup of tea or something stronger, please. Well – I suppose you’re the Healer – you know how to treat shock.”

With that, Tonks raised her wand, spun on her heel, and Disapparated.

Draco stuck his elbow out to Granger. “Let’s go.”

Her eyes were still wide. She hesitated for a moment, then took his arm. They jostled together as he spun into the Disapparation. He fancied that he felt her shudder.

They materialised in Granger’s dark kitchen. She flung an Incendio into the hearth and clicked on some Muggle lights.

Then they stood in the middle of the kitchen and looked at each other. There was something tense about it.

Draco had rather a lot of things bubbling away, wanting to be communicated – that it had been a bloody relief to see her unharmed, that she would never work alone again, that if Tonks’ interrogation yielded nothing, he would personally squeeze the minds the surviving men to eke out any new drop of information…

Granger had one hand clasped in the other, a sure sign that she, too, had things to say.

“Thank y–” began Granger, just as Draco said, “I–”

They both fell into silence and waited for the other to speak.

Granger said, “Did you–” and Draco said, “You–”

Again they interrupted each other into silence. Granger wrung her hands again, but there was exasperation in it. “For god’s sake. Talk!”

“What’s your treatment protocol for shock?”

“Er – well, there are several kinds of shock, of course, so–”

“Psychological.”

“Magical or Muggle subject?”

“Magical.”

Granger rattled off a list, counting on her fingers: “In the immediate: removal of the stimulus that caused the shock. A brew of opimum tranquillitas – excellent for emotional distress, psychomotor agitation, panic disorders. And, of course, reassurance.”

“Right,” said Draco. “Let’s begin with that, then we can talk. Have you any opimum tranquillitas on the premises?”

“For me?”

“Yes,” said Draco, poking about at the overgrown plants on the window sill.

“It’s the broad-leafed one. But I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. You’ve gone Veela cadaver again, minus the hair.”

Granger looked into the side of a shiny pot and breathed out a gasp at the sight of her reflection. “Oh, my. I’ll – I’ll put on the kettle, shall I?”

Her hands were quivering.

“And you?” asked Granger as the water boiled. Her gaze ran down his face “You’re utterly unfazed, I suppose – these kinds of episodes must roll right off you.”

Draco, pulling off his Quidditch gloves, shrugged in feigned indifference. He had no interest in informing her that, actually, his mad rush to her side had been marked by profound dread and something approaching panic. “They didn’t manage to hit me, other than a Finite. I’ve seen worse.”

He passed her a few leaves for her brew. They smelled powerfully of peppermint when they hit the hot water.

“Should I even offer you a cup?” asked Granger.

“Go on, then,” said Draco, as the scent wafted to him.

Granger poured the tisane into two mugs and they sat at the kitchen table.

She was still regarding him with that wide-eyed look.

Of all the things that Draco wanted to blurt out, querying her on that seemed the least risky. “Why are you giving me a queasy side-eye?”

Granger didn’t quite seem to know where to look. “I – er – I suppose I’m just a bit disconcerted, having seen you in action against those men. You were–” she searched for a word for a moment “–quite ruthless.”

“When someone uses an unblockable killing curse as their opener, you don’t mess about with Stunners.”

“Oh yes,” said Granger, straightening and nodding. She began a nervous kind of explanatory babble. “I suppose I mean that – that I’ve never seen you like that. I’ve mostly known you as – as a thorn in my side who shows up when he’s not wanted and makes remarks. I knew, conceptually, that you were an excellent duellist, but it was something else to see it. You know? It – it quite drove the point home. It was impressive. You were terrifying. But I’m – so grateful. I turned the ring and had no idea if you’d even come. And then you were there. And there was blood everywhere. And I was safe. So – thank you. I’m going to stop talking now. Would you like more opimum? I think we need more opimum. I’ll make us another batch, shall I?”

Granger did not wait for his answer and rose to bustle about with the plant and the kettle. She was flustered and discomposed. She knocked over the strainer.

The final step in Granger’s protocol had been reassurance. Draco supposed that he could try.

He came to stand next to her at the worktop and stilled her hands with his own. Granger flinched at the touch and looked up at him in confusion.

“I am now going to attempt Reassurance,” declared Draco.

It was the right thing to say. Granger laughed a small, unexpected laugh.

Terribly trite how he had missed the sound of it.

The awkward tension, the shutters of standoffishness, loosened.

“Go on, then,” said Granger, a bemused smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

“The minds of the baddies we caught tonight are going to be wrung for every iota of information they consciously or unconsciously contain.”

Granger nodded.

“And then we will work out who sent them and we will catch them. And you’ll be able to continue your research unhindered.”

“Thank you.”

“The wards held and you are safe.”

She nodded again.

He could have ended it there. But he had something else to say. His grasp twitched around her hands. “And – I need you to know something.”

“Yes?”

“I will always come to you when you turn that ring.”

His voice betrayed him; it went slightly husky.

Granger hadn’t expected the sincerity – in fact, she looked devastated by it. The smile was gone. Now she looked like she wanted to cry.

She broke his grip and pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. “Sorry, I – just–”

There was silence. Then a large sniff. Granger looked at the ceiling.

Then she turned to him and melted into his arms.

Oh, he’d wanted this. A distant part of his brain said, f*cking finally. There was no awkwardness this time; his arms knew exactly what to do. He caught her up and squeezed her and held her against his chest. He heard and felt her shuddering breaths as she fought away the tears. He muttered some things – that it was all right to cry, that her lab had suffered a violent intrusion and that was distressing and awful, that shock and fear were utterly normal reactions.

Could she hear his heart thudding away in his chest? He was still in his Quidditch kit. He probably stank. Why was she so fragile-feeling? Her breath was warm. Her arms were a sweet pressure around his ribs. The feel of her head pressed against him was unspeakably precious. The feel of her chest, expanding and contracting against arms as she breathed was a thing rare and to be treasured.

It was pleasure and it was misery, holding Granger in that embrace. It broke through whatever fortifications he’d created in the last month with a crystalline shatter. It made him want to say things, blurt out things, tell her that he’d missed her and that he wanted to – to be with her more, whatever that meant. That he was quashing things because he wanted no part of those things, but they existed still, a teeming, roiling, unspeakable mess. That these things tormented him in the small hours of the night, when the world was quiet and he was alone with his thoughts. That he would voice none of it, because he was too afraid of risking the thing they had right now – this dance at the tip of a fulcrum, this equilibrium.

He couldn’t tell her. This was not the time. And besides – he wouldn’t risk it. It would change things. And he loved whatever this was, right now, more than he hated the feeling that it wasn’t enough.

Pleasure and misery. Pleasure and misery. The beats of it alternated with his pulse, one for joy, two for sorrow, one for joy, two for sorrow.

Granger’s breathing slowed. The tension in her dissipated. She sighed against him and her arms loosened from around his ribs and her hands were tucked into his chest, and he suffered, and he wanted to fly.

Draco would have happily stood there for an aeon, holding her. It was Granger, bless and damn her, who ended it.

She hadn’t cried. However, she said, in a tight voice, and without looking at him, “I need a moment,” and left the kitchen.

Draco heard a tap running. He strode about to clear his head, running perturbed hands through his hair.

He downed the now-lukewarm tisane, wishing it were fortified by a few drams of whisky. It did spread a pleasant numbing sensation down his throat and to his limbs. Close enough.

He was composed. This was fine.

Granger returned. A few drops of water lingered on her face from her visit to the bathroom. Her bun had been remade, higher and tighter.

“Right,” said Granger, resuming her seat with a fresh briskness.

She looked as though she had run through her quota of emotions for the day and had no more to give, and besides, things needed to be discussed.

She downed half of her tisane, thumped the mug down, then asked, “How did those men know about me? Why my lab? I’ve said nothing. I’ve published nothing. I am, to all observers, a dreadfully uninteresting academic up my own arse in abstruse research. So how?”

“I haven’t got an answer,” said Draco. “What I want to know is who. Who is the population that Shacklebolt was so worried about? Because that was absolutely them, at the door.”

“It shouldn’t matter,” said Granger. She looked irritated, an excellent indicator that she was feeling more herself. “They shouldn’t know. How do they know?”

“It doesn’t matter how. They know. Pass me your hand.”

“I promise you I don’t need more Reassurance,” said Granger, keeping her hand away.

“Vow of Secrecy,” said Draco.

“But–”

“I told you that if there was another incident, I’d need to know. And this was more than an incident – it was a brazen bloody break-in. This isn’t Shacklebolt overreacting anymore. It’s real.”

Granger’s gaze was a roiling mixture of worry, anger, powerlessness, and frustration.

Draco held out his hand again.

She sighed. “All right. But – but you must promise to do as Tonks said. About minimal disruptions. I won’t be locked up and kept away from my work. It’s too important.”

“I promise.”

“I know you’re going to get all – all –”

“All what?” asked Draco, when she remained stuck at the end of the sentence.

“I don’t know.” Granger looked anxious. “Carried away. Zealous.”

“Nonsense. I am the definition of measured. Give me your hand.”

“…You just burned a man alive.”

“I didn’t burn him.”

Granger gurgled out a frustrated sound.

“Hand,” said Draco.

With trepidation, Granger extended her hand to him. It was the one with the ring on it. He grasped it in his. It was delicate and warm.

Draco pointed his wand to their joined hands and murmured the incantation for the Vow.

Threads of gold emanated from his wand and wound their way around their hands in hypnotic spirals. He felt the magic taking hold, a kind of pressure at his throat and his palms, promising magical suppression if he should try to convey the incoming secret to the world.

He locked eyes with Granger: it was time.

She took a breath. And, to Draco’s surprise, amid the worry in her gaze, he saw a quiet, steady trust.

“Are you ready?” asked Granger.

“Yes.”

Granger took a breath. “I’m going to cure lycanthropy.”

Chapter Text

Granger had, as she always did, enunciated perfectly clearly. And yet, Draco found himself processing her sentence with difficulty.

And she hadn’t finished. “Lycanthropy to begin, that’s where the results have been the most promising. But, eventually, vampirism too. And I may be able to reverse the Dementor’s Kiss, on recent victims.”

Draco felt his mouth hanging open. He closed it.

Granger was eyeing him apprehensively. “So – so not quite a Panacea.”

“Holy f*ck, Granger.”

“Quite,” said Granger.

“Explain.”

Granger looked too tired to take on her usual professorial air. She took a breath and appeared to be gathering her thoughts. “These diseases have been the bête noire of Healers for centuries and centuries. Incurable. Often deadly. Muggle medicine has made incredible advancements in targeted therapies for their own ‘incurable’ diseases in recent decades. They’ve developed something called immunotherapy – using a patient’s own immune system to fight specific conditions. I presented on it at Oxford, do you remember? Well, to oversimplify terribly, I’m applying that concept to magical maladies. My treatment will mimic the action of antibodies, targeting specific magical diseases.”

Granger glanced at the threads of gold still emanating from Draco’s wand, checking that it was still safe to disclose details. “Essentially, I’ll help the patient’s immune system mount its own response to infected cells. It will be a long course of treatment – two or three years of infusions, every fortnight – but, eventually, the patient’s body will learn to combat the disease. And hopefully eradicate it completely. One day, there will be lycanthropy patients in remission. No more Wolfsbane. No more transformations.”

Draco sat back and tried to keep his eyes in his head. Granger was curing a condition that had plagued the wizarding world for centuries upon centuries. She was brilliant. She was outstanding. She was an absolute legend. She was in the lofty company of Merlin and Cerridwen and Circe. She ought to be on a Chocolate Frog Card.

“You ought to be on a Chocolate Frog Card,” said Draco, as that was the least ridiculously effusive of his thoughts.

“I’m already on a Chocolate Frog Card,” said Granger.

“Right.” Draco stared at her. “So what’s all the gallivanting been about, then?”

Granger studied him as though deciding to what degree she needed to oversimplify. “The treatment targets diseased cells and disrupts their functions so they starve off or die. But it needs a serum, of sorts, to deliver it to the cells and bind them. Sanitatem was a perfect base for that serum. It would also help protect patients from some difficult side effects – the treatment is particularly hard on endocrine systems and it can also trigger cytokine storms. But standard Santitatem wasn’t powerful enough by itself. There’s a kind of – a kind of proto-Sanitatem that I’ve been struggling to recreate for the past year. The same ingredient classes, only a thousand times more magically potent. The Green Well’s water at Imbolc instead of holy water. An Elder Dragon’s blood harvested at Ostara, instead of regular dragon blood. An ossified saintly relic taken at the Solstice, instead of mere human bone…”

Granger shifted their still-joined hands so they rested on the table; her arm must’ve been tiring. Which meant that they were now holding hands across a table. Which was fine and meant nothing at all.

Draco turned his concentration back to the magically demanding Vow and Granger’s intellectually demanding words.

“The original text with the proto-Sanitatem formula has been lost to the ages, but references to it exist here and there. Revelations contained the most fragments. But they were horridly vague – it was written by a Herbologist-cum-philosopher who was recording what seems to be a third-hand version from somewhere, and her focus is unerringly on the flora and fungi of the sacred sites, with little other description to help me pinpoint them. Hence my wild goose chases across the country. My Mabon holiday will consist of visiting dolmen that have recorded colonies of Agaricus aureum and Agaricus silvaticus, because that’s what intrigued her the most, bless her.”

Granger finished her now-cold tisane. “The light is at the end of the tunnel, with only Mabon and Samhain left. When I’ve synthesised the first doses of the treatment, I’ll be ready to move to manufacture. That was where Larsen and his lab came in. He produces immunotherapy drugs and has an excellent understanding of the biomechanisms of diseases, and he has the facilities for mass-production. But he’s dropped entirely off the map. I’d have to look into another collaborator with – you know – the veritable heaps of spare time I have. I believe I could attempt smaller scale syntheses in my own laboratory – perhaps enough for clinical trials…”

Granger trailed off, watching the swirl of the golden threads of the Vow between their hands. “I think – I think that’s the most of it,” she said, her hand twitching against Draco’s.

“Right,” said Draco. He stared at Granger in a kind of daze for a moment, then said, “Secretum finitur.”

A final ribbon of golden light emanated from his wand, wrapped around their hands, then travelled up Draco’s arm and across his lips before disappearing. His tongue felt heavy and there was a new feeling of restriction in his hands. It would fade in a few hours, but it was a physical reminder that he was now spell-bound.

He let out a heavy breath and put down his wand.

“You must be properly exhausted,” said Granger, eyeing him. “That spell is challenging to sustain at length.”

“A real bugger.”

“Replenishing potion?”

“All right,” said Draco, setting bravado aside. It seemed wiser not to be magically fatigued when Granger had been an active target today.

She floated a vial into his hands from a repository of bottles tucked against the splashback. Draco drank the bitter mixture in a single swallow.

Now that the first shock of discovering the true nature of Granger’s research enterprise was wearing off, he could turn to more pressing concerns.

He understood, now, something of Shacklebolt’s mingled delight and panic – and, at the time, there hadn’t even been a werewolf resurgence in the works.

All of a sudden, Draco placed the rasping voice he’d heard in the intruder’s memory.

He hadn’t heard it in 15 years.

“Shit,” he said, sitting back and running a hand through his hair. “I know who gave those men their instructions. It was f*cking Fenrir.”

Granger blanched. “Greyback?!”

“Yes.”

“No! No – it can’t’ve been. He’s been dead for a decade.”

“Presumed dead. There have been the occasional reports of sightings… Argentina, Bolivia, Peru… All unsubstantiated. But that’s absolutely who it was, today, in that wizard’s memory. Shit. And there’s more f*ckery about – there’s been an increase in werewolf attacks across the UK. The DMLE’s had us keep it quiet while we investigate.”

“There’s been a what?!” said Granger, jumping forwards in her seat so suddenly that their knees knocked. “How long has this been going on?”

“When was the harvest moon? A week ago? And then there was that rash of infections in infants in the Lake District a few months ago, but we caught the individual responsible. At least, we thought we had.”

Granger’s hands were pressed anxiously to her mouth. “Are you thinking that Greyback has returned, and has somehow heard of my project, and is deliberately infecting more people as – as a kind of countermeasure? Revenge? Warning?”

Draco rose and began to pace. “He’s always taken a sick pleasure in spreading his disease to as many innocents as possible. If that wolfy old wankstain suspects that you’re working on a bona fide cure for lycanthropy, and he’s back on English soil, we have real cause for concern.”

By which he meant that he was genuinely f*cking worried about Granger’s continued well-being.

Granger was pale. “Does Shacklebolt know about the attacks?”

“It’s Potter’s file, but I think not. Robards – he leads the DMLE – wanted to see if it was another one-off, like the baby-biter in the Lake District. Shack’s going to throw a wobbly.”

Granger groaned and pressed her fingers into her forehead. “He is. He was already over-worried about my safety when the treatment was hypothetical and the werewolves were a disorganised, nonexistent threat, who hadn’t a clue what I was doing. Now they know, and Greyback is back? Shacklebolt will be frenetic. He’ll want ridiculous protection measures – he’ll want to lock me away.”

Her voice had gone tight and anxious. Her next glance towards Draco spoke of a long-held fear that he, too, would push to lock her up. He understood, now, her reticence to tell him anything. Because urges stemmed from this new knowledge of what she was doing – urges to force her into hiding, and yes, to lock her up. To sequester her away, miles from here, continents from here, and make sure that Greyback would never have an opportunity to harm her.

Keeping her safe had always been the point, but the vital importance of it now pressed upon him like an ache, like a fear. It was sickening.

The three men at her laboratory had been a mere preview of what was to come. And even then, it had been a near thing – what if they’d managed to break the wards, thinking that the laboratory would be empty at the midnight hour, and encountered Granger therein? With that arsehole using the killing curse at will, and her, boxed into that small office, with nowhere to go? She would’ve been dead in a moment.

Yes. Draco also wanted to lock her away.

She must’ve seen a glint of it in his eye, because she sat up, and the anxiety was replaced by sudden fire. “Locking me away isn’t an option. I must finish my work. You promised minimal disruptions.”

“I know what I said. But your safety comes first. I didn’t know it was f*cking Greyback.”

“If Greyback’s objective is countering my cure with infections, we need to counter that with the treatment. I must continue uninterrupted. I refuse to prioritise my safety to the detriment of potentially thousands of innocents. I refuse.”

“If you die, they’re f*cked anyway.”

Even Granger had to concede this point, which she did with a sigh, dropping her head into her hands.

“How much longer will it take to finish developing your treatment?” asked Draco.

“If everything goes according to my predictive models, I should be ready to begin clinical trials by December.”

“That’s three more bloody full moons,” said Draco.

Granger looked grim. “That’s three months’ worth of organising, for Greyback. You see why I can’t postpone things – I can’t leave off and hide until he’s caught. He could do so much damage…”

“I understand,” said Draco.

Now he, too, wanted to sigh and drop his head into his hands, because it would’ve been so much simpler to whisk Granger away until Fenrir and his acolytes had been arrested. But Granger was right; postponing her project until Greyback was caught could mean potentially dozens of full moons. The man had evaded capture for 15 years.

“We’re going to have to tell Potter,” said Draco. “And Tonks.”

“Agreed,” said Granger, growing even more serious. “I worry a bit about Tonks. This is going to hit rather close to home, for her.”

“Because of Lupin?”

“Yes. Lycanthropes bear a disproportionate risk of premature mortality and he’s been – unwell. But I don’t want to give her false hopes that I can help her husband. Clinical trials are trials for a reason, you know. Failure is par for the course. My data suggests success, but this is a new therapy – no one has ever combined immunotherapy with magical methods or used it to treat a magical disease. This is utterly uncharted territory, clinically speaking.”

“If anyone can do it, it’s you. There hasn’t been a witch or wizard alive with your combination of magical and Muggle knowledge. You’re – you’re–” Draco cut himself off and turned to stare out of the dark window. “Bloody hell. I can’t believe I’ll live to see lycanthropy cured in my lifetime.”

If he hadn’t already been nursing a Something for Granger, Draco would’ve begun a whole-hearted intellectual crush on her, in that moment.

But back to more pressing matters.

“When Greyback’s men don’t come back tonight, he’ll know they were caught,” said Draco. “A laboratory break-in shouldn’t have resulted in all three of them being apprehended – not unless the laboratory was exceptionally well-protected. And why would it be exceptionally well-protected, if not to hide something exceptional? Greyback is probably going to read this as a confirmation that you are doing what he thinks you’re doing. Things are going to get dangerous. His primary objective will be killing you.”

Granger pressed her lips together into an unhappy line. “I suppose I really can’t stay here?”

“Tonight is all right. I don’t think they’ll try anything else. Afterwards? No. Someone’s already sniffed around your wards here once. It was probably them. They must’ve decided that your lab was a worthier target. Not that they’ll find anything there, thanks to your clouds and things. The only real thing of value there at any given point is – you. Tonight was your last night there by yourself. And you’re going to have to curtail your movements in public.”

“But I have so many things to do,” said Granger, pressing her fingers to her cheeks in a kind of despair. “What about Mabon?”

“I’m coming with you.”

“And teaching? And A&E? And – everything else?”

Draco attempted to be as measured as he promised he was and not categorically tell her that she would never be alone again. “Until we catch Greyback and whoever is working with him, you can expect an Auror with you everywhere. I agree that your work has got to go on–” Granger looked relieved as Draco spoke those words “–but Greyback is ruthless. He’ll have an entire network of his old pack here and he’ll whip them into a frenzy. He’d sooner die than see you cure lycanthropy. He probably shat himself when he found out what the great Granger was working on – gods, I would’ve loved to have seen his reaction…”

“How did he find out – that’s what I want to know. You don’t think – Shacklebolt?”

Draco shook his head. “No. Why would he have insisted on Auror protection so early on? And you bound him with a Vow of Secrecy, too.”

“Unless one of my students–? But they’re working on pieces of about twelve projects for me. They don’t know the bigger picture. It can’t have been.”

“Leaks happen. We’ll try to work out how and where – but my immediate concern is how we keep you safe and able to keep working.”

“Should I be worried about the vampires?” asked Granger.

“Blood hell,” said Draco running a hand down his face. “I don’t know. They’ve never been as expansionist as the werewolves. More interested in feeding than Turning. But if they got wind of a cure? I don’t know how they’d react. And you said – Dementors?!”

Granger bit her lip. “Yes. Maybe. If the victim is brought in quickly enough.”

“Come off it.”

“I’m serious.”

“How, pray, is ‘immunotherapy’ meant to restore a soul?”

Granger waved her hand in a swotty gesture of dismissal. “There is no soul-sucking. That’s typical wizarding embellishment. It’s brain death. The Dementor’s Kiss transfers an aggressive necrotising bacteria to the victim. It attacks the brain as well as the body. Highly virulent.”

“…Seriously?”

“Yes,” said Granger. “You ought to read Rasmussen and Vestergaard.”

In the face of Draco’s blank stare, she added, “The Danish Necrologists? No? I suppose you don’t keep up with medical journals. They’ve made impressive inroads in the study of Dementors in the last decade. The condition is a magical disease, like lycanthropy and vampirism. It causes putrefaction within minutes and irreversible loss of brain function within hours. Anyway – we’ve begun high-throughput small molecule screening at the lab and seen good preliminary results. It’s potentially curable, if the victim is brought in quickly.”

Draco stared at her.

Granger shifted in her seat. “But – again, this is medicine at its most experimental. We are on the fringes of the map – proper here there be monsters territory, you know.”

This witch was blowing Draco’s f*cking mind. “What you’re doing – if you succeed – it’ll be – it’ll be an absolute tour de force. Utterly revolutionary.”

“Mm. I will accept that term for this, more than the Jotters.”

“Right. Have you quite finished with these revelations? I’m not sure I can take another.”

“Have I shocked you so terribly?” asked Granger with a half-smile.

“I’ve been reduced to a goggle-eyed, blithering cretin, and don’t pretend you haven’t noticed.”

“Nothing beyond the usual blithering, no.”

“How can you be so cruel to me in my fragile state?”

Granger’s half-smile grew to a full one. “I’ll make us another dose of opimum.”

“Merlin,” muttered Draco, resuming his seat. He did more goggle-eyed staring at Granger’s back.

This witch was something else.

Draco generally thought himself Better than those around him – not that there was anything wrong with them, but he was just Better, you know – cleverer, quicker, handsomer, sharper, richer. With Granger, he had always felt that he was in the presence of an intellect far greater than his own. But now – now he felt himself in the presence of someone Better than him on too many levels – too good for him, really.

He sat and felt the stirrings of an unfamiliar and strange thing, a quelling thing. So unfamiliar was it that it took him a moment to place it.

It was humility.

He hadn’t felt so humbled since – he reached back into his memories – since the summer of 1992, when first year exam results had come out and he’d discovered that a Muggle-born had taken top of the class, above him, in every subject at Hogwarts.

Well, she was at it again. Only now she’d grown into someone F*cking Important.

And he was her Auror. The weight of the responsibility pressed on him in a way he hadn’t yet experienced. She’d gone from an annoying sort of chore to – to this; to changing the world.

The responsibility weighed so heavily on him that he could hardly raise his hand to accept the fresh mug of opimum that Granger passed him.

“There you are,” said Granger. “A cure for the blithering.”

“I should like to take a few doses away with me. There are blitherers I’d like to administer this to.”

“Who?”

Draco gave a vague wave. “Friends, family, colleagues.”

“Are you so surrounded by idiots?”

“Present company excepted.”

Granger bit her lip. “You musn’t do that, you know.”

“Do what?”

“Compliment me. You’re meant to be unerringly vigilant about my ego.”

“Tonight, you’ve earned it. You quite floored me. I shall resume my vigilance tomorrow.”

Granger looked satisfied. And she looked better in general – her cheeks had regained their colour and her hands weren’t shaking as she moved to the pantry. “I haven’t had anything since breakfast – I suppose I ought to get something into my system other than two doses of opimum. Are you hungry?”

“Yes,” said Draco, who generally found Quidditch and mortal duels to be excellent appetite stimulants.

He was pleased to note that the cupboards were chock-a-block with foodstuffs – though whether it was through Granger’s own efforts or lingering effects of the elves’ overzealousness, he wasn’t sure.

“What about a cheeky little onion salad?” asked Granger as she rummaged about.

“Only if it comes with a prolapse like the Skrewt served us.”

“That can be arranged.”

Granger set out cheese, crackers and hummus, and a crinkly brown bag of sausage rolls, which was the closest thing to a prolapse she had on hand (they were delicious).

She refrained from recreating the Skrewt’s onion salad, which was for the best, as Draco was already wafting whiffs of armpit into the room and didn’t fancy competition.

They finished with a delightful Muggle invention called Maltesers.

Tranquil moments with Granger were few and far between, and when she had finished eating, she rose, wand-waved most of the things away, and began to bustle about. “You’re staying the night, then?”

“Yes. I won’t sleep much – but if I do, I can have a kip on your sofa.”

“Right. Let me clear it off.”

Granger moved to the front room, where she surrounded herself with a vortex of books and papers, which settled into neat stacks.

Of course she wouldn’t question his suggestion of the sofa. Of course she wasn’t going to counter-offer with, you know, sharing her bed. Which was absolutely big enough for two.

Not that Draco would have accepted anyway. He was a professional.

It had only been A Thought. He would be that much closer to her, should anything happen.

Setting aside these unproductive musings, Draco began to peel off his Quidditch kit, which reminded him that he stank. “Might I use your shower?”

“Er – of course. It’s upstairs.”

Granger watched him struggle with the knotted leather ties that held his chest-plate in place. “Were you in the middle of a game?”

“Yes. Inches from the Snitch, of course.”

“I’m sorry.”

Draco shrugged like the insouciant hero he was. “Catching baddies is a bit more of a thrill.”

He continued to fight with the awkward tie under his armpit, which resisted him devilishly. Of course, the one time he had an audience was the one time he’d got the thing soaking wet and then let it dry, which resulted in this stiffened, ghastly mess of a knot. Of course, he’d never had an issue divesting himself of his Quidditch kit in his literal life, until this moment, when Granger was there to witness his incompetence.

“Do you need help?” asked Granger.

“I’ve got it.”

Granger observed him as he continued to very much Not Got It.

She sat down, her hands folded on her knees, to watch his exertions.

“Fine,” spat Draco a moment later, all insouciance gone. “Help me. Don’t cut it; it’s wyvern leather.”

“All right,” said Granger. Her face was grave but her lips were pressed together in a way that suggested the suppression of laughter.

In Draco’s defence, she, too, struggled, and eventually went at it with her wand and repeated detangling charms.

Then she helped him pull off his chest-and back-plates, very much like a fair maiden helping her knight after a battle, if fair maidens were nonpareil researchers and knights were useless cretins.

Granger led him to the shower and handed him towels.

“The mirror doesn’t talk,” said Granger as Draco took in his dishevelled reflection.

“Good,” said Draco. “I don’t want its opinion at this precise moment.”

Granger stepped out of the bathroom, partially closed the door, and stuck her arm through the gap. “Pass me your clothes. I’ll chuck them in the wash.”

Stripping naked, with Granger’s hand right there, was an interesting feeling. There were other things he’d have liked to place in her hand but those bits were smelly and unwashed and also, for f*ck’s sake, she had just gone through something traumatic. What was wrong with him?

Next to the sink, he discovered the nesting ground of Granger’s hairpins in the form of a jar full of the things. He cast a tracking spell on the lot.

As he got into the shower, Draco placed his wand within arm’s reach. He was quite prepared to dash out and attack werewolves naked, should one of the cottage’s wards be tripped.

The shower was everything that smelled nice about Granger, distilled into bottles. It took Draco a moment to identify the soap and shampoo amongst the many mysterious feminine products therein – oils and hair masks and body washes and things.

It felt – interesting – alluring – erotic – to use her soap and shampoo.

Then it was time to Quash before his cock decided to awaken. He was not having a wank in Granger’s shower. He was simply not.

All right, so he was, but it was quick and dirty and borne of post-fight adrenaline. It was just to get the job done and get the randiness out of his system.

Knowing that she was somewhere on the other side of the door while he stroked himself was unaccountably arousing. He leaned into it, one hand splayed against the tile and one hand working himself over, and the steam and smells of Granger took him to a favourite fantasy involving Granger and her mouth, and delicate hands stroking up and down, and suckling–

His hand made a fist against the wall as he came with a sharp gasp.

He rested his head on his forearm, breathing heavily, dazed, watching the evidence wash down the drain.

Bloody hell.

But, all right. It was done. It was out of his system.

Everything was under control.

He turned the water to cold in an effort to cool away the flush across his face and chest.

The Muggle plumbing did not mess about – it was glacial. Wanky thoughts were superseded by shudders as Draco regained his breath.

Right. He was fine.

Granger knocked on the door and startled the shite out of him.

“What?” he asked, irritated.

“Have you quite finished?” (Yes, he had, thank you.) “You’ve taken an age.”

“I was positively filthy.” (Also very true.)

“Right. I’ve got your clothes.”

Draco stepped out of the shower and opened the door enough for Granger to stuff in his freshly cleaned clothes. Too bad she was so efficient; he would’ve been quite happy to walk out wrapped in a towel, for showy-offy purposes.

“A sight faster than I’d’ve expected,” said Draco.

“Quick-wash only takes a quarter of an hour on my machine. And drying charms for the rest. I like your pants.”

Draco did not remember what pants he had put on. He apprehensively pulled them out of the pile. They had little dragons on them.

“Gods,” said Draco.

“It’s all right,” said Granger. She closed the door. He could hear the warble of withheld laughter through it. “I’ve got ones with little cats on them.”

“Show me.”

“I’d rather die.”

Draco snickered as he pulled his pants on. Then came the loose black trousers and long-sleeved top that he wore under his Quidditch kit. They also smelled like Granger, now – whatever soap her machine used.

He fixed his hair in the mirror, exceptionally glad that it could not talk and inform Granger of what it had witnessed.

He found himself not quite able to meet her eye as he stepped out of the bathroom, but pretended it was because he was looking out of the windows, for Important Auror Security Purposes. She did not need to know what he had just imagined her doing.

He was not looking at her mouth.

F*ck, that had been hot.

Right.

Downstairs, Draco was presented with his makeshift bed, which was the sofa, Transfigured into a kind of day bed. Beside it was a glass of water and a packet of biscuits.

Granger was growing tired – and with reason, as they were now pushing two o’clock in the morning. She yawned as she summoned pillows and a blanket and threw them onto the bed.

She had even seen fit to provide him with reading material to while away the hours: a copy of Rasmussen and Vestergaard’s newest article. One glance at the hideous decasyllabic scientific jargon made his eyes glaze over.

“Have you got anything more stimulating?” he asked, before the Danes could put him to sleep.

“More stimulating?” repeated Granger, looking offended, as though she had already given him the most stimulating work written in the entirety of human history and he was being precious about it.

“Yes. Porn mags, or something?” asked Draco with a general hand-wave. “A few back issues of Fantastic Teats and Where to Find Them?”

Not that he required porn mags to get off – not when he had twenty scenarios involving her, carefully quashed into the back of his brain. It was, however, amusing to watch Granger look thoughtfully at the stacks of books around the room.

“Hmm. I do have the latest Journal of Sexual and Reproductive Health.” She summoned a volume from one of the piles and flipped through until she found a diagram. “Ooh, here’s a picture.”

Draco looked at it and read the description. “Fig. 11: Luminal calibre of abnormal oviductal wall.”

“Does that do it for you?”

“No. It curdles my jizz.”

Granger took the journal back and flipped to another page. “Try this.”

“Fig. 23,” read Draco. “Fallopian tube – Cross-section of the tubal lumen. Note the subepithelial endometrial stroma.”

“Stimulating?”

“Oh yes. Subepithelial endometrial stromas are a particular fetish of mine.”

“Stromata is the plural.”

Draco gave her a long and patient stare. “Right.”

“That’s your entertainment sorted, then.” Granger placed the volume into his hands. “I’m going to bed – I’ve got a feeling tomorrow is going to be a long day.”

Granger switched off the Muggle lighting, leaving only the fire in the hearth to illuminate the room.

She paused at the foot of the stairs and turned to Draco. “Thank you for everything you did today.”

Draco waved her off. It was awkward to be the recipient of innocent gratitude when he had just been terrible in her shower. “Only doing my job.”

“Right,” said Granger. “Well – you do it well, and I’m grateful. You probably saved my life.”

“Go sleep,” said Draco.

Granger looked annoyed at this cavalier dismissal, but seemed to decide that it was Draco being Draco. “Fine. Good night.”

~

Draco drifted into a doze at some point in the night. He was awoken by a light sound, so quiet that he might’ve dreamed it.

Gripping his wand, a curse at the ready, he turned his head to see that it was the cat. It spotted him on the sofa at the same moment.

Draco had half expected it to hiss at him for daring to be in Granger’s home after hours. Instead, the cat trotted towards him with its tail held high, and, with a cat’s unerring instinct for finding warm places, it jumped on him and settled onto his chest.

Draco moved a hand to attempt to stroke its head, but a large paw met his knuckles and kept his hand down. The claws were sheathed but the message was clear: Draco was a heat source and mustn’t get presumptuous and think he was anything better.

“Noli me tangere, is it?” muttered Draco. “I understand. I don’t like people touching my hair, either. Except her, but I’d wager you know that.”

The cat blinked its yellow eyes at him.

“She’s warned me about your smothering, so don’t even try,” said Draco.

The cat’s stare informed Draco without reserve that, if it had wanted him dead, he would be dead.

“All right,” said Draco.

The cat lowered its head and closed its eyes. There was a tickle of whiskers against Draco’s chin and then a deep rumble.

As he lay there in the dark, under the warmth of the purring cat, his heart still shuddered with aftershocks of the fear he had felt when Granger had activated the distress beacon. He didn’t need a Boggart to tell him what he had dreaded to see.

Draco grasped about for the fragments of his self-control, which had shattered so spectacularly that evening. He Occluded and pulled together his discipline, his professionalism, and his pride, and built the Great Wall of Quashing once again.

It was a useful exercise, in theory.

In practise, the entire thing was overshadowed by a private fear that the whole brittle structure would crumble again, the next time Granger so much as smiled at him.

Draco awoke, groggy and small-eyed, to the sound of a gasp.

Granger was on the stairs, her fingertips on the balustrade, a foot frozen in midair above a step.

She was looking him and his new accessory – the sleeping cat, curled about his neck like a hirsute scarf.

“Er – good morning,” said Granger, when she saw that she was being observed.

The cat stirred at the sound of her voice. It leapt off of Draco, using his face as a launch point, and sauntered towards its mistress.

Granger asked Draco what he would like for breakfast. He requested a cup of coffee to wash away the piquant flavour of cat foot.

Granger made a very decent cup of coffee.

The morning passed in a flurry of meetings. The first was with Tonks, who they met at Auror Headquarters, to hear what she had discovered in the course of her interrogations.

“You will be delighted to learn that No-Hands’ hands were successfully reattached,” said Tonks as they arrived.

“Too bad,” said Draco.

“That’s what I said.” Tonks closed the door to her office and sat at her desk. “Murderous little bastard. Right. Sit yourselves down. Robards cleared the use of Veritaserum on our friends last night, so we had a wee chat. Neither man knows the identity of the person who gave them their instructions. However – I did discover something rather interesting. Both men are werewolves, and both participated in the harvest moon attacks.”

Tonks placed a slip of parchment on the table. “The mediwitch’s post-mortem confirms that the other one was a werewolf, as well.”

Tonks looked from Granger to Draco and back again. “Thoughts? Reactions from the two luminaries before me?”

The luminaries looked at one another.

Granger shifted. “I think it’s time I told you what I’m working on. Malfoy, would you do the honours for the Vow of Secrecy?”

The Vow was cast. Granger summarised her work and findings for Tonks, and Draco added the equally interesting (and distressing) discovery that Fenrir Greyback had returned and appeared to have reassembled something of his old pack. They were probably the ones responsible for the full moon attacks, on top of targeting Granger.

“Bonkers,” gasped Tonks. “The whole jolly lot of them.”

Granger concluded with the same cautionary language that she had used with Draco the night before, about uncharted waters and the uncertain outcome of the clinical trials.

Tonks took the news of Granger’s lycanthropy cure with laudable neutrality, given Lupin’s condition. Only her mohawk betrayed her, turning a few shades paler than its blood red.

She gave Granger a long, adoration-filled look, whispered, “Incredible,” and then she turned brisk. “Bring Potter and Weasley up to speed under the Vow. We’ll also have to inform Robards and Shacklebolt. That would be the extent of it at the moment, I think. We’ll involve others as needed. Take the conference room. I’ll join you in a moment.”

Tonks shooed them out of her office.

As they left, Draco stole a backward glance at her. Tonks was sitting at her desk, her hands clasped before her, her knuckles pressed to her mouth.

Her eyes were unusually bright.

In the conference room, Potter and Weasley were apprised of the situation under the Vow. Their reactions were predictable, but there was something comforting in their clasping of Granger, in their chest-puffing, gung-ho declarations to keep her safe, and in their table-pounding promises to find Greyback if it was the last thing they did. As the lead on the WTF, Potter looked to have found a fresh determination to catch the werewolves. There was a dangerous green light in his eye.

Weasley was quite as goggle-eyed as Draco had been the night before on the potential for a cure for lycanthropy. His reactions consisted chiefly of repetitions of “Blimey!” and “Bloody hell!” and “You’re brilliant, Hermione!”

Granger gave him a quick smile. She and Draco were then quizzed on the break-in attempt.

“I’ve got a recording of it,” said Granger, and she pulled out her mobile.

It seemed that she had been able to preserve the camera footage in a kind of mini film. Curious in spite of himself, Draco rose to join Potter and Weasley in crowding around Granger and watching the small screen.

He quelled a flicker of jealousy at the easy way that Potter propped an elbow on Granger’s armrest and came in close to her, and how Weasley casually threw himself around the back of her chair – all while Draco stood a decorous and stiff arm’s length away.

Granger played the film. Draco, having been Disillusioned for most of the skirmish, was largely invisible until the end, his whereabouts only indicated by bursts of spells and their effects on his opponents – the severed arms, the sentry consumed by the Bombarda. The fight had lasted an age in Draco’s head, but it had taken less than a minute in real time.

Weasley clapped him on the shoulder. “You gave them hell. Well done, mate.”

Potter shook his hand. “Remind me never to duel you.”

“Play it again,” said Weasley.

The replay was accompanied by much commentary by Potter and Weasley. “The killing curse right off the bat – that f*cking wanker – can you imagine if they’d got in? Hermione wouldn’t have stood a chance. Oh! Look at the blood! Ha! Majestic spurt, that! Disarming’s meant to be Harry’s thing, but you’ve put a new spin on it, Malfoy. Dis-arming. Ha ha! That bloke’s face when he realises he’s trapped! Nice Quidditch kit, they’ll have a phobia of Seekers for life… is that the newest Étincelle?”

Draco left them to their several re-watches, resuming his seat on the other side of the table.

He glanced at Granger and found that she wasn’t looking at her mobile, but rather at him. Her expression took him a moment to interpret – it was something serious, something studious, something pensive.

She was puzzle-solving.

Blast.

She turned away when he caught her eye. Draco determined to keep catching her when she observed him, to interrupt her thought process and keep himself safely Unsolved.

Tonks arrived, preceded by the sound of her combat boots stamping along the corridor. She looked as unruffled as ever and entered the room at full tilt. Her elbow collided vigorously with the back of Potter’s head.

“Sorry,” said Tonks. “It didn’t ring hollow – that’s a compliment, Potter. We’ve all been brought up to speed?”

Granger put away her mobile.

“Yes, boss,” said the Aurors.

Tonks sat at the head of the table. “We’ve rather a lot to discuss, but let’s begin with the most important bit: Hermione’s safety.”

Potter and Weasley both leaned forwards, as though ready to seize Granger and carry her off to a distant tower, never to be seen again.

“Right,” said Weasley. “We’ve got to get her out of here. What d’you fancy, Hermione? Madagascar? Greenland? Tibet?”

Draco could not blame the man for the reaction – he had had precisely the same reflex.

Granger was tight about the jaw. “I am positively not going anywhere.”

An explosive argument ensued, of course. Potter and Weasley pushed for Granger’s immediate evacuation, the more remote the location, the better. They were motivated by genuine worry and the same anxieties that Draco suffered at the sound of Greyback’s hated name. Draco, having already attempted that line of argument unsuccessfully, now sided with Granger. There was too much riding on her research – if Greyback continued to be as wily as they knew him to be, they were looking at potentially hundreds, if not thousands of new infections over untold full moons, while work on Granger’s cure stalled.

Tonks, with a look of saintly forbearance upon her face, allowed the argument to roil for four minutes. Then she clapped her hands. “Thank you, boys, for sharing your thoughts. Fortunately, none of your opinions matter.”

Draco, Potter, and Weasley experienced ego death.

Tonks continued as they clutched at the shredded remains of their psyches. “The Auror Office does not have the authority to tell the eminent Professor Granger what she can and cannot do. Our job is to keep her protected as she carries out her project, as requested by the Minister. So. First order of business: scheduling and housing.”

Potter and Weasley’s cadavers twitched out some arguments, but Tonks’ lips were growing more pursed by the minute, and they wisely gave it up. Together, the five of them drew up a draft schedule to ensure that, wherever Granger went, there would be someone with her – either Draco or another Auror.

Granger agreed to cut down on her public appearances. She also agreed, glumly, to suspend her duties in the Muggle world – the shifts at the Muggle surgery and the teaching at Muggle Cambridge – until Greyback had been caught. Non-magical locations were too difficult to protect.

Magical locations were far safer by nature, but an Auror would heretofore accompany her at her lab and at St. Mungo’s A&E.

The discussion turned to housing. Granger agreed to move to a safehouse, as long as it was within Flooing distance of her laboratory. The dozen safehouses managed by the DMLE were discussed, each of which offered pros and cons (location, ease of travel, defensibility). Tonks and Draco shared a certain anxiety about the fact that the safehouses were necessarily known to many Aurors and DMLE staff.

Other options were discussed. Creating a new safehouse? Complex and time-consuming, but an option.

Potter and Weasley each suggested that Granger stay in one of their homes. Draco pointed out that moving Granger to the residence of either of her best mates was a blatantly obvious next move. In any case, Granger rejected the option point-blank: she wouldn’t put their families in danger. She levelled the same objection at Potter’s suggestion of Hogwarts – children were not acceptable as potential collateral damage.

“Chuck her in Malfoy’s bloody Manor,” said Weasley, jerking a thumb towards Draco. “No one will look for her there.”

Granger said, “Hah!”

Potter laughed and then grew thoughtful.

Tonks took the suggestion with a surprising degree of seriousness. She pressed a finger to her chin and said, “Weasley has made a point.”

Granger blinked.

Draco felt a swell of confused anticipation.

“We could set up decoy Hermiones in the safehouses and her cottage,” mused Tonks.

“Traps,” said Draco.

“I like traps,” nodded Potter. “And ambushes.”

“I’m brilliant,” said Weasley.

Tonks nodded. “Ingenious, really.”

“No,” said Granger, shaking her head. “I have the same objection as with Harry and Ron – I won’t put Malfoy’s household in danger. If the Manor were attacked, and something were to happen to his mother, or the house-elves–”

“The Manor is nigh impenetrable,” said Tonks. “As are most of those old estates. It took twenty ward-breakers three days to get in, during that last push in the War. It’s ten times safer than our safest safehouse”

“True,” said Draco. He tried not to sound particularly eager. “Also – my mother is spending the season on the Continent. She isn’t at the Manor.”

Granger, wide-eyed, turned to him. “Are you agreeing with this idea?”

Draco produced the world’s most careless shrug. “I think it’s an option worth considering.”

Which was an understatement. He bloody loved it. It was perfect. She’d be protected by centuries-old magicks, they’d have house-elves as secondary surveillance, and he’d be there every night. He was positively delighted by it.

Weasley, who was looking on smugly, rose an entire inch in Draco’s esteem.

Meanwhile, Potter was eyeing Granger. “The Manor isn’t exactly the site of happy memories, is it? You’d be all right with this, Hermione?”

Granger was still staring at Draco in confusion. “Hm? Oh – no, it’d be all right. I’ve been back since. One of Narcissa Malfoy’s functions.” (Draco noted that she did not mention the dinner.) “It was – fine. Objectively speaking, it’s not an unreasonable suggestion, as a temporary measure. I only hesitate because it feels like a real imposition.”

“An imposition? Pish tosh – there are about fifty rooms in the Manor,” said Tonks, waving any real or imagined reservations away in her cousin’s place. “Malfoy won’t even know you’re there.”

Granger’s glance passed over to Draco. Tonks, too, pinned him with an inquisitive eye.

“Let’s do it,” said Draco, endeavouring for neutrality in his expression. “It’s an easy short term solution. We can always revisit – or we can be creating a proper safehouse in the meantime, off the books.”

Tonks rubbed her hands together. “Brilliant. Weasley is absolutely correct – Malfoy Manor is the last place on earth anyone would expect to find Hermione Granger.”

The remainder of the meeting passed in a tangle of debates on logistics, timetables, and ambushes.

Tonks took point on updating Robards and – with a sigh – Shacklebolt. “He won’t be happy about us keeping the harvest moon attacks under wraps. He’ll have to take that up with Robards. But at least we’ve a plan to keep Hermione safe and well.”

Draco escorted Granger back to her cottage to pack up for what Granger called a “Hopefully extremely brief” stay at the Manor.

The excellent thing about moving Miss Dab Hand at Extension Charms was that it was an almost painless process. Draco hardly had time to send word to the elves to prepare one of the guest suites for Colleague Healer Granger when she announced that she was ready.

Whatever belongings she’d deemed indispensable (including both copies of Revelations) were in a Muggle rolly case thingy, magically Extended.

Her cat was wrestled, hissing and scratching, into a carrier.

“I’m instructing the elves to keep your stay utterly under wraps,” said Draco as they made their way to the cottage’s front door. “My mother won’t even know about it until we decide that it’s safe to say something.”

Granger looked uneasy. “When will she be back?”

“March, I believe. She’s decided to skip the English winter altogether.”

Granger’s unease persisted. “Right. Good. The elves themselves, though – if someone were to try to reach me in the Manor, and one of the elves got hurt? Or killed? The thought makes me sick.”

“Didn’t you hear Tonks? Stop worrying. No one in their right mind would look for you there. And if they did, they’d need two dozen ward breakers bashing away for days – which I can assure you I would notice. This was one of Weasley’s brighter ideas.”

Granger fell silent, but the frown that pulled her brows together told Draco that she had most certainly not stopped worrying.

At the Manor, Henriette greeted them at the great doors and whisked Granger off to a guest suite overlooking the gardens.

Granger’s cat was released into the suite, where it indicated its disapproval of the situation by streaking under the bed and hissing at anyone who approached.

Draco followed at a distance as Henriette gave Granger a tour of the Manor. The old house-elf had understood the gravity of the situation. There were no coy looks in Draco’s direction, nor any mucking about with roses. Henriette was all business. Colleague Healer Granger must be made comfortable and kept safe.

Draco watched the two of them walk ahead of him – Henriette’s small form and Granger’s slender figure, bent attentively towards the elf as she spoke. Henriette pointed to Monsieur’s study on her left and indicated in a whisper that Monsieur should be left alone when he was in there, as he was often grumpy about pestilential levels of incompetence and other things of that nature. Granger nodded gravely, then shot an amused look back at Draco when Henriette proceeded again.

The doors to the library were gestured to, then Henriette moved on to the conservatory. Granger lingered at the closed library doors for a moment before hurrying to catch up, and it was Draco’s turn to be amused.

The accompanying swell of fondness was quashed before it could make him smile.

By the time Granger had been settled and oriented, and Draco and the elves had revisited the Manor’s extensive wards for his own peace of mind, it was early evening.

If Draco had hopes of a quiet dinner for two that night, they were obliterated by Granger. She had a shift at A&E that she positively refused to miss, as she was the only Healer on duty and her backup was suffering from Spattergroit.

Today had felt like a long day, but, as Draco waited for Granger at the foot of the grand staircase, it also felt like it was just beginning. He supposed that he ought to get used to long bloody days. This was, after all, Granger.

She trotted down the stairs, her freshly donned Healer robes fluttering behind her. “I’m ready. I suppose I needn’t ask if you faint at the sight of blood. Are you all right with eviscerations?”

“Yes,” said Draco.

“Good. One never knows what one is going to walk into at St. Mungo’s.”

Draco cast his most powerful Notice-Me-Not and Disillusion on himself to forestall questions about why an Auror was following Healer Granger about.

They Flooed to St. Mungo’s for what was to be the first of many shifts at Granger’s side at A&E.

Draco performed Legilimency on every mind in the waiting room to satisfy himself that no one had fiendish plans, other than bleeding to death.

When that was done, he settled into a corner outside the operating theatre, and proceeded to be moderately disturbed by the evening’s entertainment, which included unpronounceable diseases, a wizard who presented with a Muggle traffic cone protruding straight through his chest, and a truly inspiring amount of patients who had ‘fallen’ onto vaguely phallic objects, which were now stuck in various orifices.

Draco cast silencing charms to muffle his alternating gasps of horror and laughter. Nothing rattled Granger, however. She dealt with his idiotic countrymen with a relentless professionalism that he couldn’t help but admire.

~

If Draco had nursed any thoughts of a long and leisurely breakfast with Granger the next day, they, too, were doomed from the beginning. By the time he got downstairs at the (very respectable, he thought) hour of nine o’clock, Granger had done her yoga thing, showered, dressed, and eaten.

He arrived just in time to see her off in the Floo parlour. She was to spend the day at the lab, where Weasley was on Granger-duty. Draco was scheduled to wring out the minds of No-Hands (now simply Hands) and Friend.

Draco heard a muffled buzz emanate from Granger’s vicinity. It was her Jotter.

She ignored it in favour of twisting her hands together in that anxious gesture of hers. “I doubt that Greyback will be stupid enough to send anyone to the lab again so soon,” she said, sounding as though she was reassuring herself more than speaking to Draco. “The wards held beautifully last time. I needn’t be worried.”

There was another muffled buzz from her Jotter.

“It’ll be perfectly fine,” said Draco. “They’d never be stupid enough to attempt something in broad daylight. And Weasley will be with you. And you’ve got the ring. Don’t even wait to be sure there’s a threat to use it – just use it.”

“Right.”

“No hesitations. I’d rather pop in ready to fight the postie than be too late.”

“Yes. Of course. Thank you.”

Again, Granger’s Jotter buzzed.

Irritated, Draco asked, “Who’s bloody Jotting you at this hour?”

Granger hesitated before pulling out the Jotter to look at it. “Er – everyone.”

“Why?”

“Nothing important,” said Granger, who clearly never learned that the more she dismissed a thing, the more Draco wanted to know about the thing.

“Tell me.”

Granger looked an interesting mixture of annoyed and sheepish. “It’s my birthday.”

“Ah,” said Draco.

There was a longish silence.

“Er – happy birthday, I suppose,” said Draco.

Really? That was the best he could manage? Why was it that his suaveness utterly vacated his body when it was most needed? What was it about Granger? She was a murderer of suave.

“Thank you,” said Granger. “But we’ve got bigger things to worry about than birthdays, haven’t we?”

“Quite.”

Granger threw Floo powder into the fire. “I’ll turn the ring at the slightest provocation, I promise. Cambridge.”

And then she was gone, and Draco was left to mull over the timeless brilliance of Er – happy birthday, I suppose and suffer all by himself.

Before he Flooed into the office, Draco asked Henriette to help him stage a recovery effort that evening, if Granger was back on the premises at a decent hour.

She’d have a stupid bloody birthday cake, even if she was trapped in the Manor with a blundering fool.

Draco spent his day conducting Legilimency on the two apprehended wizards, having received special permission to do so from the powers that be. The only memory of any real worth was the one he had found the night of the break-in. He spent long hours in Friend’s brain in particular, combing through weeks and months’ worth of memories. Greyback had been careful. A few bits of information about potential meeting locations for Greyback’s werewolves were all that Draco gleaned. He passed them to Potter.

That evening, his brain feeling more like a queasy, gurgling mix of porridge than actual brain, Draco left for home.

Draco and Granger seemed to be developing a speciality for collisions when using magical means of transport. Granger Flooed back to the Manor from Cambridge at almost the same time as he did from London. His only warning was a witch-shaped blur coming at him amongst the hearths he was hurtling past, and the blur was whipped into him (with a shriek that confirmed that it was Granger), and they were both spat out onto the ashy flagstones of the Manor’s Floo parlour.

There was a tangle of green robes amongst black robes and much coughing up of soot.

A shrill giggle echoed through the Floo parlour. By the time Draco’s head had escaped Granger’s skirts, Tupey had disappeared and the little voyeur could not be immediately reprimanded.

Draco dropped back down with a groan. The beginnings of a colossal Legilimency headache tingled at the back of his skull.

Granger appeared to have accepted the recurring issue of their collisions philosophically and directed no venom towards Draco.

Instead, she said, “Right,” and attempted to rise.

She trod on her robe and fell over again.

“You properly Tonksed that one,” said Draco.

Granger made an exasperated sound and lay on the floor next to Draco, who had already given up.

They looked at each other. Granger sighed. Draco tasted smoke.

She looked exhausted. He hadn’t even had a moment to ask her how she’d slept during her first night at the Manor – her fault for getting up so bloody early.

“Anything from the Legilimency?” asked Granger.

“Only minor findings. Potential meeting places. Gave them to Potter.”

“Damn it.”

“No trouble at the lab?”

“No. And only one quarrel with Ron.”

“About what?”

“He wanted to wee in a bottle instead of leaving me by myself for five minutes while he went to the toilet.”

Draco snorted. “Dedicated sort of bloke.”

“He’s always been a bit full-on.”

“I can admire that.”

“Should we get up?”

“No,” said Draco, pressing the back of his head into the cool stone. “I quite fancy lying here until death takes me.”

Granger reacted more casually than he would have liked in the face of this dramatic pronouncement. “Mm? What’s the matter?”

“Headache.”

“Went too hard on the Legilimency, did we?”

“I wanted answers.”

“I can help you with the headache. Bath first – I’ve had a sweaty sort of day.”

“Henriette can Apparate us to our chambers.”

“Our chambers,” repeated Granger in an exaggerated drawl. It seemed to give her the courage she needed to push herself up. “I shall make my way to mine under my own power.”

“Go forth and conquer,” said Draco.

And she did.

Dinner was a quiet affair. It began at the formal dining table, then Granger asked Henriette if she would mind terribly if they dined in one of the salons, which offered more scope for stretching out their tired carcasses on sofas.

Henriette was delighted to accommodate. She soon had them set up cosily in the smallest salon at the back of the house, around a low table piled with foodstuffs. (Draco did notice the addition of a single red rose in a small vase, but given that there was only one, he decided that it was purely decorative.)

Granger dragged a mixed pile of Muggle and wizarding books out of somewhere and took advantage of the moment to brief Draco on their autumnal equinox plans, given that Mabon was only two nights away. She had narrowed her search down to twelve potential sacred sites. Their objective was to identify the dolmen written about in Revelations.

“We are getting so close to completing this,” said Granger, who seemed to take fresh vigour from the thought. “Quite exciting, really.”

“We? Piffle. It’s all you.”

Granger looked up. “Yes, we. You’ve been with me on this since the beginning. Don’t be modest – it doesn’t suit you.”

“All right. I’ll take whatever reflected glory comes my way,” said Draco with a languid wave of his hand.

He slid into his sofa until he was lying down and draped his arm over his eyes to block the light that made his head ache. He wanted to go to bed, but it was only eight o’clock. Granger’s hours were rubbing off on him and she’d only been there a day.

Granger observed him. “Right. Your headache. Let’s have a look. Why didn’t you say something, instead of letting me cram more into your brain for half an hour?”

When Draco didn’t answer (machismo seemed a weak response), Granger pulled out her wand and moved from her sofa to his. He budged up enough to give her room to perch herself beside him. She cast a diagnostic spell, studied the resulting pictorial, and tutted.

“That’s going to develop into a great bloody migraine,” she said. “I’ll attempt Solamentum. It’s delicate. Lie still.”

Draco closed his eyes. He felt the tip of her wand against his temple. The sensation would normally initiate a stress response. He wasn’t sure when he had begun to trust Granger this implicitly, but he didn’t even crack open an eye.

She whispered an incantation and a gentle soothing began to pour into his overwrought brain.

“Glorious,” muttered Draco.

“Shh. I’ve got to concentrate.”

“Mm.”

“Hush.”

“Mmm.”

“Can you stop moaning for a bloody minute?”

“Not when it feels this nice – mff.”

The warmth of Granger’s fingertip pressed against his lips.

His eyes flew open in surprise. Above him, Granger was frowning in concentration, and she flashed him a warning look. He closed his eyes again.

Now his other senses grew more sensitive. Against his side he could feel the push of Granger’s thigh and the curve of her bum. Upon his temple, the coolness of the spell. She smelled of something antiseptic, which shouldn’t have been as terribly enticing as it was, but he wanted to bury his face into her and inhale.

He wondered what would happen if he were to flick his tongue against the finger that was pressed upon his lips.

Perhaps something betrayed his thought. Granger removed her finger from his lips and pressed it under his chin instead, tilting his head towards her.

She moved her wand to his other temple and he heard the whisper of the incantation again, “Solamentum.”

The healing spell irradiated the cramping heaviness away.

“How is that?” asked Granger.

Draco did that thing he’d grown to like doing, of giving her answers that actually referred to her.

“Gorgeous,” said Draco.

“Isn’t it?”

“Heavenly.”

“Good.”

“Sublime.”

“Now you’re just trying to provoke me.”

“No. It’s true.”

Granger looked to the ceiling in a gesture of mild exasperation and rose. She resumed her seat on the sofa across from Draco, which left him with a distinct feeling of Lack at his side.

He would’ve been perfectly happy for her to continue next to him and whisper complex Healing spells, in lieu of sweet nothings, into his ear.

Right. The crush that he was meant to be quashing.

He bound and gagged his heart and shoved it into some profound psychic abyss.

Henriette materialised with the meal’s pièce de résistance – a small chocolate mousse cake, topped with a single candle.

“Oh, merci! C’est trop gentil!” exclaimed Granger, a hand pressed to her collarbones.

Draco had had a feeling that Granger would’ve absolutely detested Happy Birthday being sung to her by himself and the elves (as riotous as it would’ve been), so he had instructed Henriette to leave off the singing.

Henriette merely said, “Joyeux anniversaire, Mademoiselle!” and curtseyed out with a crack.

“You really didn’t need to do anything,” said Granger to Draco, looking genuinely touched.

“Rather a rotten birthday otherwise, stuck in the Manor with me, with a horde of werewolves skulking about and trying to kill you.”

Granger tugged the candle out of the cake and blew it out. (“It’s more sanitary,” she said in the face of Draco’s raised eyebrow.)

“What did you wish for?”

“Can’t say.”

Draco passed his hand through his hair. “Nothing, I’d wager. You’ve already got me. What else could you possibly ask for?”

She laughed, as expected (miserable feeling), and pulled the cake towards herself. “Do you want some?”

At his nod, Granger cut them each a gooey slice of the mousse cake. “Ron said he’d check the cottage for parcels for me, on the way home. He’s to drop them off tomorrow.”

“Good of him.”

“Mm.”

There was silence as the cake was savoured.

“What happened between you and Weasley, anyway?” asked Draco.

As a general rule, he and Granger didn’t do personal questions – a healthy habit to cultivate between Auror and Principal. She had let one slip in Provence, about his schooling – and now he permitted himself one, out of not-so-idle curiosity.

Perhaps it was a query that Granger fielded regularly. She merely shrugged. “We wanted different things. We were young when we got engaged – just out of the war. I had a great many plans that didn’t involve building the Burrow II and popping out the next Weasley dynasty. But we split amicably, in the end. I’m lucky. Ron remains my dear friend. He and Luna have been together for a bit, now – they’re a much happier match.”

Draco muttered out a noncommittal response around a spoonful of cake.

“And you?” asked Granger. There was restrained curiosity in her glance. “I’d heard that you and the younger Greengrass sister were engaged.”

It was Draco’s turn to shrug. “Same as you, I suppose. Different plans. She wanted to be the next Mrs Malfoy and do the thing properly, you know – the society thing, the parties, the dinners, four children and two nannies by age 25. I wanted regular beatings by French professors–” (Granger nodded and said, “As one does”) “–and mucky weekends in Barcelona.”

“Your mother must’ve been upset.”

“Devastated. We were perfect on paper.”

“So many things are.”

They were silent for a while. Neither looked at the other.

“Thank you again, for the cake,” said Granger. “It was – an unexpected gesture.”

“Thank Henriette,” said Draco.

He took it that Granger had finished with the cake and snuck his fork towards it for another bite, without bothering to cut himself a piece.

“You’ll ruin the structural integrity,” gasped Granger. “Don’t you dare!”

“Or what?” asked Draco, aiming for the soft mousse centre.

Granger knocked his fork away with hers. “I shall carry out a citizen’s arrest.”

“Ha. Do you know, I’d absolutely love to see you tr–”

A flick of Granger’s wand Transfigured Draco’s silver cufflinks into narrow handcuffs, neatly attached in the middle. The Transfiguration was impossibly quick – shockingly so.

Draco observed this new state of affairs. He pulled his hands apart. The cuffs chinked against each other and held firm.

He whistled.

“Transition metals near your hands can’t be the wisest decision for an Auror,” said Granger.

“Most baddies haven’t a Master’s in Transfiguration.”

“And I suppose you aren’t typically distracted by chocolate mousse, either.”

“Correct.”

“Still,” said Granger. There was merriment in her eyes. “That wasn’t so hard.”

“I say again, you’d have made quite the Auror, sans the shrieking.”

“My brains are better used elsewhere,” said Granger.

Quite rightly, too.

“Are you going to let me go, or are we going to see how long it takes me to develop a new kink?” asked Draco.

“I suppose I’d better. We don’t want you getting too excitable at work.”

Granger waved her wand and the handcuffs became cufflinks once more.

But it was too late – the cuffs were now a Thing that was going to reside in Draco’s head. There was an exhilaration that came with being so quickly overpowered. His wand had been well out of reach, too. She could’ve gone on to do all manner of interesting things – and found him to be a willing participant.

But no. There would be no shagging of her handcuffed Auror upon a sofa. She was Granger. She would never cross the line. She was controlled and professional. Ethical. Correct.

Damn her.

Draco poured himself a generous glass of wine and finished it.

He ought to follow suit and be equally Correct. But it was rather difficult when she was pressing her bum into him and putting fingers on his mouth and cuffing him. And that had only been one evening’s worth of activities. And there would be many more together.

Deep down, in his bound-and-gagged heart, Draco felt stirrings of alarm.

~

As promised, the next day, Weasley Flooed to the Manor to drop off the birthday gifts that had been sent to Granger’s cottage. Granger had already popped off to her laboratory, so it was Draco who had the dubious privilege of receiving him.

Weasley was not a dab hand at Extension Charms, which he demonstrated by arriving with a bulky burlap sack full of parcels, promptly heaved into Draco’s arms.

Weasley panted. “Took me ten minutes to pack up that lot.”

“Popular witch,” said Draco, clutching at the ponderous thing.

“Yeah.” Weasley wiped sweaty hands onto his trousers and looked about. “Hermione sounds like she’s handling it all right, staying here. Funny that this ended up being the safest place for her, after all these years.”

“I suppose.”

“Thanks for doing this for her. You’re really a decent bloke – only a bit of a twat, after all.”

Draco had just opened his mouth to tell Weasley thanks, and to piss off, when Weasley added, “She likes you, you know.”

“…Likes me?”

“Genuinely,” said Weasley. “Thinks you’re enormously competent – eminently respectable – generally marvellous–” he took on a high, Grangery voice “–Rather brilliant, you know, Ron, you mustn’t tease him. Can’t even refer to you as ‘the Ferret’ without being corrected.”

This had an immense cheering effect on Draco, but he kept his face neutral. “She does like to take up unfortunate causes.”

“Yeah. She’ll bung together a Society for the Protection of Eminently Respectable Malfoy soon, I reckon. SPERM. Suits you.”

So buoyed was Draco’s mood that this insolence hardly rankled. He called Weasley a freckly f*cker, but without rancour.

“Has she launched a house-elf rebellion yet?” asked Weasley.

“No, but I expect her to start agitating imminently. It’s only been two nights.”

“Yeah. She has loads of time to do damage.” Weasley waggled his eyebrows as he looked about deviously for elves. “I’d better be off. You’re on at the lab later?”

“It’s Humphreys this morning and Goggin in the PM. I’m with Potter at the safehouses.”

Weasley tossed Floo powder into the hearth. “Right – the traps. Make them evil and borderline illegal, won’t you?”

“Obviously.”

“Bye.”

“Off you f*ck.”

Weasley Flooed out.

The bag in Draco’s arms was heavy with expressions of love from Granger’s friends and admirers. He felt the corners of books and the squishiness of clothing. Something cinnamony wafted through the burlap.

He cast a few detection spells to ensure that there were no cursed or poisoned items within and called Tupey to take the thing to Granger’s suite.

He did not spend a single moment moodily musing upon a gift for Granger to outshine all of these offerings.

The day passed in a series of visits to safehouses, where Draco and Potter hoped to lure any snooping baddies in with false indicators of Granger’s presence. They created decoy Grangers, charmed to move between various rooms, and set lights to turn on and off at night. They concealed a variety of wards and ensnarements around the properties.

And yes, Draco’s were crueller than Potter’s. Potter had all the imagination of a Horklump.

When they had thus baited five safehouses, along with Granger’s cottage, they returned to the Office to meet with Tonks, who had spoken to Shacklebolt.

“Did he throw a full-on tanty?” asked Potter.

Tonks shook her head. “No – you know Kingsley. It was quiet disappointment. He didn’t threaten to sack me or Robards, so that was a positive.”

“Come off it,” said Draco. “He’d never sack you for this.”

“The Greyback resurgence was a bit of a shock,” grimaced Tonks. “He wasn’t happy. Robards caught the worse of the bollocking; he shouldn’t have tried to keep things under wraps after the infant infector. Anyway – I’ve reassured him that Hermione is safe and will be continuing her work. He’s asked to be kept apprised of the WTF’s plans for the next full moon – I’d like to participate in the next meeting, Potter, if you don’t mind…”

A buzz in his pocket caused Draco’s attention to drift. He glanced under the table to see a message from Granger.

Humphreys is very chatty, said Granger.

She is, a bit, said Draco.

Worse than you.

Everyone is worse than me. I am the best.

Have been apprised of the ailments of her entire extended family, said Granger.

And Goggin?

A very nice man.

Good, said Draco, who did not grow jealous at all.

Loud breather, said Granger.

Man’s broken his nose a few times.

Rather whistley on the exhale, isn’t it?

Ask him to toot you a tune.

He already is.

Which song?

There was a delay as Granger, presumably, paused to listen to Goggin. Auld Lang Syne, I think.

Festive, said Draco.

Three more hours of this – I may go mad. Miss you terribly. Will never be mean to you again.

Draco’s heart stopped beating at the sight of Miss you terribly.

Then it resumed with disturbing vigour.

“Malfoy? Would you kindly join us in the present?” came the voice of Tonks.

Draco looked up to find Tonks and Potter looking at him. He grew aware of a vague smile on his face and replaced it with a scowl.

Tonks opened her mouth to launch a barbed query about what was holding his attention so pleasantly, but Draco was spared further explanation by a knock on the door.

“Is Malfoy in here?” came the voice of Brimble, one of the junior Aurors.

“What is it?” asked Draco.

“I’ve got something to show you, if you’ve got a moment?”

Tonks shooed Draco away with a lively gesture, as though glad of an excuse to rid herself of the dreamy-eyed idiot.

Miss you terribly.

Why did that give him such a pleasant fluttery feeling?

It kind of felt too nice to quash.

Right. Brimble.

Brimble was a young Muggle-born witch who generally regarded Draco with a kind of fearful awe. Her specialty was surveillance and espionage. When Draco joined her at her desk, she nervously shuffled through a stack of paper and dropped her quill.

“S-sorry for interrupting,” she said. “I thought it might be important. I’ve been monitoring INTERPOL’s notices and one of your Persons of Interest has just popped up.”

“Which one?”

“Gunnar Larsen. INTERPOL has just linked him to a string of attacks – your man is on some kind of international rampage against researchers. They’ve finally caught him on camera.”

She placed a stack of unmoving Muggle photographs into Draco’s hands. “Here. These were taken at a laboratory in the Netherlands. Larsen strangled the lead scientist.”

Draco examined the sequence of photographs, which were blurry, black and white, and shot from a high angle that made it difficult to discern what was happening. In the first photos, Larsen’s large form hovered over the white coated body, then he held the scientist’s head between his hands for several more frames – conducting Legilimency, no doubt. The scientist appeared to raise an arm to defend himself and then Larsen’s hands were at his throat.

“Is the scientist alive?”

Brimble riffled through more documents. “Alive, but in critical condition. Hospitalised in Rotterdam.”

“Who is he?”

“He’s, er – wait, I’ve got it somewhere – an oncologist. That’s a kind of Muggle Healer who–”

“I know what an oncologist is.”

Brimble looked at him with surprise. “Right. Well, his name is Dr. Johann Driessen.”

F*ck. That had been one of Granger’s co-speakers at that Oxford event.

“The Dutch National Police Corps is investigating, as are the Dutch Aurors. They’ve been informed that we also have an interest in Larsen. I’ve reached out to colleagues in Japan and America about the other attacks – from the reports I’ve seen, it sounds as though he’s been performing Legilimency on them and leaving them for dead.”

Draco took the file from Brimble. “Well done. Tell me immediately if there’s anything else. And I want to know if he comes into the country – eyes on portkeys and international Floos.”

Brimble nodded as Draco swept away.

That evening, Granger was welcomed to the dining table by the stack of photographs and a retelling of Brimble’s findings.

She blanched as she learned of the string of attacks and gasped in horror at the photographs of Dr. Driessen.

Draco didn’t want to say, I bloody told you so, but something of the thought was clearly in his expression, because Granger made a rare admission: “You were right about Larsen.”

It gave Draco no pleasure. Well, perhaps a little pleasure. “I’m always right.”

It was a monumental burden, always being right, but he bore it with his usual grace.

“What the hell is Larsen playing at?” asked Granger. “What is wrong with him?!”

“I’d like to know, too. What is the arsehole looking for?”

Granger’s brows were contracted into a worried line. “If he’s targeting researchers in my field – most of them are Muggles. They’ll be utterly incapable of defending themselves.”

“Give me a list of likely targets. I’ll inform their respective Auror HQs.”

“All right.”

Granger stared at one of the photographs of Driessen being throttled. She looked sick.

Draco plucked it away and put it back in the file. “It’s not your fault.”

They sat in silence.

Tupey materialised to serve dessert (a tarte tatin), which snapped them both out of their broody stupors.

Granger took a long breath, as of one attempting to Move On To Other Matters, but with difficulty.

“Right,” she sighed. “We need to talk about Mabon. It’s tomorrow and we’ve got so many sites to visit, we need to be frightfully organised about it.”

As though Granger knew how to be any other sort of organised. Now it was her turn to plonk a pile of papers in front of Draco. She moved her chair closer and her knee touched his thigh, which felt nice, and she ran through the itinerary with him.

The wild, ancient names of the dolmens they would be visiting rang off of her tongue: Bodowyr, Henblas, Ty Mawr, Pentre Ifan, Hell Stone, Goward, Annadorn…

Draco suppressed a shiver. There was magic in those names.

There were twelve in all. Granger’s itinerary included Floo points and Apparition points, often a little way away from the sites themselves, as they were built on major ley lines too magically potent to Apparate directly onto.

Granger suggested that they use Side-Along Apparition when not Flooing, in order to stay together and avoid magical depletion through so many repeated Apparitions across the UK.

They bickered over who would Apparate whom – Granger wanted Draco to preserve his magic for detecting and duelling if needed; Draco wanted her to save hers to defend herself, and perhaps reattach his limbs in the case of a firefight.

They decided to compromise by alternating, which left neither of them satisfied and both of them glaring at the other as though they had never dealt with such a bloody minded fool in their lives.

Now Granger bit her lip. “We’ll need to leave early tomorrow. I know you’ll be thrilled.”

“I am positively effervescent with joy.”

“Brilliant.”

“Frothing with it.”

Granger proposed the foul hour of seven o’clock.

“What? Bloody hell.”

Granger’s eyeroll was magnificent. “Poor darling. It isn’t that awful.”

“Vile, is what it is.” Draco sighed a dramatic sigh and sat limply in his chair. “I should’ve taken the troll porn.”

“The what?” asked Granger.

“Nothing. Never mind. Eat your tart.”

“Eat your tart.”

“I’d like nothing more.”

“Good.”

Draco ate the tart in front of him but he’d rather have been eating the one beside him.

Yet another wearisome irony in the difficult life of Draco Malfoy.

~

Draco awoke at the monumentally gruesome hour of six o’clock the next day to get ready. He bore the hardship with great fortitude, which he thought he ought to be praised for.

He paid particular attention to his toilette that morning, desiring to achieve a certain Look for the day’s gallivanting: dashing, yet elegant; adventurous, yet bien mis; intrepid, but suave.

His hair he arranged to look roguishly debonair. He wore his favourite boots, which he fancied gave him a swashbuckling kind of air.

As he adjusted his hair in the mirror, Draco reflected that the prospect of spending an entire day with Granger, looking at mushrooms, should have provoked annoyance and true ennui. And yet – despite the hideous hour – Draco found himself rather looking forward to the excursion.

At 6.55 a.m., satisfied with his Look, Draco made his way to the entrance hall to find Granger.

She was at the foot of the stairs, her hair in a high ponytail, her walking boots laced up tight, her eyes bright.

Seeing her waiting for him, all kitted up in her walking things, was – good. It gave Draco a pleasant sense of anticipation for adventure and argument. For treks through forests, and accidental engagements, and fleeing mad nuns, all in good company.

He had missed this.

Draco downed two coffees and four eggs, and they were ready to crack on.

Granger led the way to the Floo parlour. She, too, looked to be anticipating this newest gallivant with pleasure. Her smile was warm.

“Shall we carpe this diem?”

“Let’s.”

Granger threw Floo powder into the flames and spoke the name of their first waypoint. She stepped in, closely followed by Draco, and they were off.

They fell into an enjoyable rhythm as they progressed through Granger’s itinerary. At each stop, Draco’s detection spells confirmed that they were alone (save for cows or sheep) and then Granger set to work, looking for the specific mushrooms and other plant matter her Herbologist-philosopher had decided to elaborate on, instead of something useful, like bloody coordinates.

The dolmens were large structures, still impressive despite their occasional collapsed states. Granger provided her usual historical commentary, explaining that the monuments typically housed burial chambers, and would have been covered entirely by a mound of earth, thousands of years ago.

They experienced every season imaginable as they progressed through Granger’s list. Driving rain at Bodowyr, glorious September sunshine at Ty Mawr, thick fog at Henblas.

The landscapes were breathtaking. In the morning they discovered ancient woodlands of gnarled trees, smelling of wild thyme, wide moorlands covered in millions of purple blossoms, and miles of rolling green turf disappearing into a hazy sky.

In the afternoon, it was endless fells covered in bracken, domesticated pasturelands, and cliffs plunging into the sea at the end of the world.

Draco’s favourite bit was the Disapparitions – the moments when Granger threaded her arm in his and clung to him, and he felt the sweep of her magic over him, or cloaked her in his, and the spin of the Disapparition knocked them into one another and pressed them together.

He couldn’t read whether she felt the same – she hopped cheerily to his side every time, but she was joyously in her element, today, and doing everything cheerily. Her cheeks were quite pink, but then again, the wind was whipping over the Isle of Anglesey and the air was frosty in County Down.

But one thing was for certain: Granger was happy. Draco felt that there could never have been a happier fungi-hunter hop-skipping about these ancient sites. There was a jubilance and a hope about her, fed by the knowledge that this was the penultimate step in her project. The end was in sight and the world-changing would soon commence.

Amongst the gorse and the autumn-sweet air, the pack of lethal werewolves and the murderous Larsen must have seemed far away to her – problems for tomorrow’s Granger, not today’s.

It gave him unaccountable pleasure, to see her so happy.

Now Granger approached him, shaking her head. “Not here. Goward next. Direct Apparition – my turn. Ready?”

“Let’s go.”

The spin, the squeeze, the warmth of her. Draco hoped for an awkward, slippery landing somewhere, so that she could conveniently fall on top of him, but alas – their landing places had been selected by Granger, and were therefore, necessarily, as level as one could ask for.

The next dolmen was in a misty farmer’s field, recently ploughed.

Draco’s detection spells showed nothing but a smallish herd of deer where the field turned to forest. Granger squelched off, shin-deep in mud, towards the massive dolmen.

Draco aimed a series of drying charms at a one metre square patch of mud and stepped onto it to keep the worst of the muck off of his boots. Then he alternated between keeping an eye on Granger and on the horizon.

The herd of deer that Draco had detected drifted through the trees towards them. Their steps were soundless. As they approached, Draco saw that their pelts were the golden-white of Oisín deer – the Magical cousins of the red deer. Rare creatures that only existed in this part of Ireland. Draco had never seen a live one.

The lead stag paused when it saw Draco, its magnificent antlers sweeping upwards and losing themselves amongst the branches. The stag’s assessment must have culminated in a decision that Draco posed no threat – it lowered its head to nose at the ground, as did the hinds behind it.

Draco cast a few detection spells to satisfy himself that these deer weren’t baddies who had developed excruciatingly specific Animagi for the purpose of attacking Granger.

They were not.

He wasn’t paranoid, he was just – careful.

(Maybe a bit paranoid.)

Draco glanced towards Granger to see that she, too, had noticed their company. She stood stock-still, a piece of parchment in one hand and her wand in the other.

Sunshine began to pierce through the mist, turning the muddy field into a glittering expanse of dew bejewelled with golden wheat-stubble and the shining pelts of the deer.

The retreating mist meant that the deer had lost their cover. They turned back towards the safety of the trees and, wraith-like, disappeared into the forest.

One, a smallish, younger hind, was trailing the herd, limping badly.

“Oh!” came Granger’s voice, which told Draco that she, too, had spotted the creature. “What’s the matter with her?”

Her voice startled the herd into flight. The injured hind was left to follow, limping as quickly as she could.

“I suppose she’s hurt,” said Draco.

“We need to help her.”

“Help her? It’s a wild animal. Let nature take its course.”

Granger was, unsurprisingly, unwilling to follow this logical course of action. “I didn’t see any blood. The way she was dangling the leg – I think it’s just a dislocation.”

“So she’ll be fine.”

“No. She won’t be able to put it back herself. She’ll die a slow and fear-filled death or be killed by something horrid.”

To Draco’s enormous irritation, Granger began to squelch towards the trees.

“Granger,” called Draco, in a voice of great authority and menace.

She took no notice, obviously.

“Let’s just Stun her so I can have a look. They’re terribly rare – almost hunted to extinction because of their pelts. We can’t just let her die.”

“We absolutely can,” said Draco. “Have you forgotten the beastly itinerary you’ve put together?”

“Of course not. I built in extra time for contingencies.”

“And this is a contingency, is it?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a bloody deer.”

“Of which there remain less than three hundred living specimens! She’ll die if we don’t do something.”

Hermione Granger, the most irritating witch of her age, continued into the forest.

Draco swore and kicked an innocent mushroom which had led a blameless life and did not deserve it.

“I do not approve,” said Draco, stamping into the wet forest after Granger.

Granger was beginning to sound shirty. “I remember with vivid distinctness not having requested your approval. Haven’t you any empathy?”

“I’m fresh out. Could you stop being such a bloody f*cking Do-Gooder, for one day in your life?”

“Could you find a single ounce of compassion in that fermented porridge you call a soul?”

“I have loads of compassion. For my boots.”

“Your boots?!” came the reply. “This is an act of kindness!”

“It’s a monstrous bother!”

And where was Granger’s compassion for his hair and robes, if you please? Why were they wading in a bog?

In the trees ahead, the golden hind glimmered. The poor creature was doing her best to get away, but her three-legged sprint had exhausted her, and Draco and Granger soon gained ground.

Granger’s Stunners were flying in pursuit. “Stupefy! Stupefy!”

“You would be so easy to lure into a trap,” panted Draco, catching up. “Baddies just need to find a bunny with a hurt footsie–”

“If you’d help me, this would be over faster!”

“Fine. Stupefy!”

Draco’s Stunner hit the hind in the back – to absolutely no effect.

“Right,” said Draco. “Magic-absorbing pelts.”

“Damn it,” said Granger. “I didn’t think they’d be quite so potent.”

Granger changed tactics and transformed the muddy ground into a few metres of literal swamp, which half-swallowed the hind, until she was stuck.

When they were about three metres away, Draco and Granger fired off an Immobulus and a sleeping charm, respectively, neither of which took effect, even at this close range.

“Incredible,” said Granger, as though this was an intriguing scientific phenomenon and not a catastrophic death sentence for Draco’s Look.

With strength borne by panic, the hind pulled herself out of the mud and plunged between the two of them, hoping to make her getaway between the lumbering humans.

In a masterful display of athleticism and idiocy, Draco leapt towards her. He managed to grab one slender hoof – then it slipped out of his grasp. He splashed into the swamp on his knees.

It was in his hair.

His. Hair.

He was going to murder them both. He would have venison for dinner and tart for dessert and life would be simple again.

Granger conjured a rope that snaked after the deer, but it was magically repelled the moment it touched her pelt.

“We just want to help you!” called Granger.

“Stand still, you stupid bloody quadruped!” shouted Draco, less kindly.

The creature did not, judging by her extra burst of speed, speak English.

Granger waved her wand and spoke an incantation, and a wall of earth surrounded the three of them.

“There,” said Granger. “No more running.”

The hind took her new surroundings into view. She was in a circular earthen pen. Draco leapt at her again, hoping to sweep her legs out from under her and lie her down to be examined. The hind dodged. Granger darted at her with her arms flung wide. The hind capered to the side.

At this point, the creature seemed to conclude that they were absolute amateurs. She appeared to be making sport of their pursuit, dangling leg and all. She waited until Draco or Granger got near her and then dashed off again, churning muck into their faces.

“I am going to skin her myself and make a bloody cloak of her,” snarled Draco through mud.

A swish of Granger’s wand brought the earthen walls further inward. Soon, there were only two or three square metres of space to step on – all of it swamp.

They caught her. Draco laid the creature down and held her three good legs in a double-fisted grasp, as all attempts at conjured ropes or chains slid off. Her injured leg stuck out at an unnatural angle behind her.

The hind gave out heart-breaking bleats of fear and trembled, as though anticipating some horrid end at their hands.

“It’s all right, it’s all right,” shushed Granger. Somehow, muddied and dishevelled, she managed to look perfectly angelic. “We aren’t going to hurt you. The mean man was joking. I’d sooner make a cloak of him.”

Draco had no coherent reply to offer, as he was spitting out mud.

Granger felt about the deer’s hind end, muttering about femurs.

The deer kicked a leg free and coated Granger’s hair in a liberal glob of mud.

Granger closed her eyes and breathed.

“What are you doing?” asked Draco. “Repenting? I hope so.”

“It’s fine,” said Granger, throwing her sodden hair over her shoulder. “She’s afraid. It’s not her fault.”

The creature did look pathetic. Draco’s conscience, which was largely absent from his life, prickled at the sight of her fear-filled black eyes. He fell into an ill-considered lapse of kindness and stroked the hind’s dainty head.

Granger gave him a quick look of surprise before casting a diagnostic spell. “It is a dislocation. Brilliant. We’ll need to put her to sleep – she’ll need to be completely relaxed – and then we’ll do a bit of tug of war.”

At the sight of Granger’s wand, the creature sighed, a look of absolute pathos on her face as she prepared for death.

They poked about the deer until they found a patch of skin uncovered by her magical pelt – a velvety smooth spot just under her chin.

Granger Stunned her. She consulted the diagnostic schema and then, under her directions, they began the tug of war. Draco was instructed to lock his arms around the creature’s pelvis and hold it as steady as he could. Granger wrestled with the leg, trying to find the magical angle where the head of the femur would slide back over the edge of the acetabulum.

For a long minute, Granger tugged the leg, folded it, twisted it, pulled it – and then, finally, there was a soft click.

“Yes,” said Granger.

“You did it?”

“I think so.” Granger flexed the hind’s leg, which bent smoothly, now, and no longer lay at that unnatural angle.

Granger cast another diagnostic spell. “Perfect.”

Granger Ennervated the hind, who found her feet, trembling. She backed away from them, putting her weight evenly on all four legs.

She was sound again.

They lowered the earthen walls.

The creature galloped off without a backwards glance, lavishing one final splash of filth at them in lieu of a farewell.

It went into Draco’s mouth and up Granger’s nose.

“There’s some bloody – f*cking – gratitude,” said Draco, spitting with every word.

Granger sneezed.

They looked at each other, wide-eyed, mud-streaked, stinking abominably.

“Your face.”

“Y-your hair! I–”

They collapsed into hysterics and laughed until they couldn’t breathe.

~

Granger was still shaking with giggles as they Apparated to the next site, the Devil’s Den.

And her high spirits endured, because there, amongst long grasses under a soft blue sky, she found the magical combination of fungi and flora that she had been looking for.

“Finally!” said Granger. “Yes!”

She kissed a mushroom (mushrooms got more action than Draco; it was fine), and launched into a flurry of activity. She pulled mysterious paraphernalia out of her pocket and began to set something up between the dolmen’s great stones.

As for Draco, well. Once lost, one’s dignity is difficult to find again, but Draco did his utmost to recover his.

He had to concede that his Look was ruined. He cast Scourgify and Aguamenti until he was, at the very least, no longer a walking poo.

Then he cast a few Aguamenti at Granger as she bustled about, just for sport, and also because she had kissed a mushroom instead of him.

He stopped after her squeals got shrieky and she snarled, “Malfoy!”, because he did not want her to turn him into an actual poo out of pique.

“What are we collecting here?” asked Draco, sauntering towards the instruments that Granger was setting out.

“Light,” said Granger, holding a kind of sextant up to the sky.

“Light?”

“Yes. Standard Sanitatem requires exposure to sunlight in a churchyard. For the proto-Sanitatem, we need autumnal equinox light collected at a tomb far more ancient, captured just as the sun passes the celestial equator.”

A shallow, mirrored bowl gleamed amongst the instruments. Runes were carved down its sides. Granger played with the sextant and a bronze compass and tilted the bowl further, so that it was aimed upwards, but towards the west.

In her hand was a clicky tube thing.

“What’s the clicky tube thing?”

“A Deluminator,” said Granger. “Ron lent it to me, bless him.”

Granger lay herself down on the ground next to the silver bowl and used the sextant again, making minute adjustments to the bowl’s direction.

Then she rose and clambered upon one of the dolmen’s massive stones, and perched herself there.

“Now what?” asked Draco.

“Now we wait,” said Granger. “This year, the autumnal equinox takes place at 6.20 p.m.”

“Oh. We’ve got loads of time.”

“We do. We struck lucky, really, finding it on the sixth try.”

They had a picnic on the rock – thick egg and cress sandwiches prepared by Henriette.

“The Devil’s Den,” said Draco, looking upwards at the massive capstone above them. “What’s so devilish about it?”

“Local tradition has it that a demon could be summoned here by pouring water into these.” Granger pointed at dish-shaped recesses in the rock. “It would appear at midnight to have a drink.”

“Only water? Nice sort of demon. I would’ve expected the blood of infants, at the very least.”

“Perhaps we can leave him some. Water, I mean. Not infant blood – I haven’t any.”

When they finished their picnic, Granger rubbed at her face. In spite of Draco’s sporadic efforts, she was still plastered with muck. Grime streaked across her cheeks like war paint.

“I think I prefer human medicine,” she said with a bit of primness as she aimed Scourgify and Evanesco at herself. “There’s less chasing about of patients. It was fun, though.”

“Fun. O, yes. I positively adore going arse over tit in swamps.”

Granger tutted, then leaned over to fix his collar. “A bit of dirt makes you look dashing.”

Draco was nonplussed.

Amusement made its way onto Granger’s face and it was – affectionate.

Draco did not know what to do with it.

“But your hair – an absolute lost cause, today,” said Granger.

“Speak for your bloody self.”

They whiled away the rest of the evening with talk. They insulted each other a few times, and snarled at each other a few times, but it was all right, because his insults made her laugh, and the warmth in her eyes softened the edges of hers, and were they arguing or were they flirting, really?

As the equinox drew nearer, Granger began to get fidgety. She leapt from the rock, checked the position of her silver bowl again, took out the Deluminator, put the Deluminator back, calibrated the bowl again, and began to pace.

“Sorry,” she said, when she noticed that Draco was watching her. “I’ve practised this so many times, you know, but this is real, and if I bodge it, the entire project is set back by a year – but I won’t bodge it – but if I did–”

“You won’t,” said Draco.

“I won’t.”

She flung up a spell to tell the time.

6.15 p.m.

Granger knelt next to the silver bowl. The breeze danced amongst the long grasses. A charm of goldfinches took flight.

6.18 p.m.

The smell of autumn drifted deliciously around the dolmen, heavy with fresh-cut hay.

6.19 p.m.

The air grew thick with magic.

6.20 p.m.

The equinox struck.

The sun’s rays hit the mirrored bowl, reflected upon themselves thousands upon thousands of luminous times, and formed a sphere of pure light.

Granger, kneeling next to the bowl, clicked the Deluminator. The ball of light was sucked into the instrument.

The sun set.

And just like that, it was done.

Granger carefully slipped the Deluminator into her pocket.

Then she stood, tilted her head up, spread out her arms, and said, “Yes!”

She spun in a circle, a small figure under a big sky, laughing her happiness to the heavens.

Her spin swung her into Draco, and she turned the collision into an embrace into which, on tip-toe, she pressed all of her joy and relief.

He indulged. He held her just as tightly, this favourite old enemy, this brilliant do-gooder, this stupid crush.

She looked up just as he looked down.

Their cheeks met in a wet, muddy press.

And then, so did their lips.

It was the most innocent, naive kiss that Draco had ever stumbled into.

It dumped an entire litre of endorphins into his system

They broke away and gasped apologies to each other, because, obviously, it had been an accident.

They carried on as though nothing had happened. Because he was her Auror and she was his Principal and they were both consummate professionals.

But something had happened.

And Granger hadn’t leapt away screaming, you know. She hadn’t wiped her mouth, she hadn’t spat. She had just – felt warm, and breathed once, and now she blushed and busied herself with packing.

Draco’s brain revelled in the attainment of a new memory, of lips chapped by the wind and the taste of salt and earth.

Granger assembled her instruments.

“That’s Mabon sorted,” she said, relief in her voice. “I can hardly believe it.”

“A triumph,” said Draco, and he meant it.

“A small triumph.”

“You’re working towards a bloody big one.”

“Yes.”

The last of the Mabon sun caressed the tops of distant trees, exultant in a scarlet and gold blaze. Far above the trembling grasses and the rolling hills, the moon rose.

Granger finished packing and fell onto her bum between the dolmen’s colossal stones.

She sat there for a long time, her hands in the earth behind her, her face to the sky, breathing relief.

Then she caught his eye and smiled at him.

The Great Wall of Quashing was obliterated.

Something vast and nameless swelled in his heart.

This witch was – this witch was – he hadn’t the words for it, but he was struck by it. It wanted to engulf him.

The sphere of light glowed, still. But it wasn’t in the Deluminator.

It was in him.

So. The quashing. It was, objectively, not going well.

As Draco preferred to fault anyone but himself for his problems, he laid the blame squarely upon Granger, who had no business smiling at him. Frankly, how dare she. Obnoxious behaviour. Thoughtless. Rude, really.

Granger carried on in cheerful ignorance of her culpability. As the days went by, she settled into life in the Manor with surprising ease – perhaps because she was rarely actually there. She arrived in time to inhale a late dinner, most nights, and was awake early again the next day, dragging a bleary-eyed Draco behind her as she frolicked off to save the world.

Potter and Weasley visited Granger often. The three of them shared long late-night conversations, piled upon each other in some salon or other. Draco joined only when specifically invited in by Granger – he spent enough time with those two duffers at the office and didn’t relish more of their company. He also found them rather too watchful – Potter in particular. Not that there was anything to see here.

Even in his wildest lapses into truth, Draco would never admit how much he enjoyed Granger’s – admittedly sporadic – company at the Manor. The way her presence filled the great rooms with warmth. The pleasure of dinnertime repartee. Walking through a corridor and knowing that she’d just passed there, because of the lingering smell of soap.

Even her cat was a decent addition to the house. Late one night, a “Mraa?” at the foot of Draco’s bed informed him that the creature had somehow entered his rooms and was calling plaintively for him. Then it had looked at him in a self-pitying kind of way and Draco realised that it was lost. He had walked it back to Granger’s suite, knocked, and told her, “I believe this is yours,” as the cat bounded into familiar territory. Granger had been doing yoga, and was wearing those clothes, and was sweaty and breathless and shining, and smelled like salt and candle-smoke. She had gasped “Oh! Crooks, my darling, you mustn’t go too far,” and a trickle of perspiration had run down between her breasts, which Draco did not look at.

Anyway, the cat was all right.

Draco never explicitly admitted it him to himself, but behind the quashing, in a secret, stupid, soppy part of his soul, he wished that they could share more quiet moments together, uninterrupted by screams of pain at A&E or swotty graduate students at her laboratory. But perhaps it was better this way – perhaps anything else would be too much.

He had often wondered what pushed so many of his friends to marriage and the smallness of domestic bliss. But sometimes, when Granger came home, and smiled a hello, and sat next to him at the table, sometimes, for a brief moment, he understood. Those moments were a glimpse of something he didn’t know he could want, but they were fleeting, and the feeling vanished when she went to bed, and left him with a sense of loss of something he had never had in the first place.

He had one such moment on a rainy October day. It was a Sunday, and, miracle of miracles, both he and Granger were off. By the time Draco made it to the dining room, Granger was having lunch, but she kindly called it brunch as she waved him to a chair.

Draco asked for porridge (unfermented) from the kitchens. Granger sat cross-legged in her chair, one hand occupied with her fork, the other with her foldy computer, surrounded by silver pucks.

Draco had just settled in to enjoy the quiet and the company when the moment was interrupted by Theo’s owl, who dropped two identical envelopes over the table – one in Granger’s lap, and one directly into Draco’s porridge.

Granger opened hers to discover an invitation from Theo. She showed it to Draco, who saw that Theo had taken great pains with it: the script was beautiful, the parchment was of the highest grade, the ink shimmered luxuriously.

Dear Healer/Professor/Doctor Granger,

I understand that you are to be thanked/blamed (?) for our dear Draco’s continued presence on this earth. A few friends of Draco’s and I would relish the opportunity to celebrate your medical tour de force in person. (I know it may come as a surprise, but he does have some friends. That being said, it will necessarily be an intimate gathering, as he only has six.)

If you would be amenable to joining us, we would request the pleasure of your company at Nott House, this Saturday, at seven o’clock.

In the bottom corner of the invitation was a note: Dress – Black tie.

Draco’s soggy envelope enclosed a note that made for rather a sharp contrast, scrawled in Theo’s usual illegible hand and written in Biro.

Dear f*cko,

Lost my Jotter, hence missive through ancient means. Drinks and delights at mine, this Saturday, 7. I invited Granger.

Come or I will kill you.

Kisses,

Theo

P.S. Invitation list encl. for your edification

A crumpled napkin had been shoved into the envelope, with the following information:

Granger
Pansy + Longbott
Blaise
Davies + wife
Luella (abroad)
Flint
Draco I suppose

Draco tossed the note and napkin to Granger, who read Theo’s illegible missive with her eyebrows raised. “Goodness. We’d almost have to send this to Bletchley Park to have it deciphered. Does your correspondence with your friends typically involve death threats?”

“Yes, and we attempt murders once or twice a year; it’s a kind of tradition.”

Granger nodded as though this was entirely unsurprising and turned to examine the guest list. “Any dodgy histories here?”

“Only the last one.”

“Mm. I know all about him. What about secret werewolves, any of those?”

“I bloody well hope not. I’d go first and have a poke about their heads, if you decided to go.”

“You’d let me go?” asked Granger.

“I’m not your gaoler,” said Draco. “Nott House is quite as well protected as the Manor. And I’d be with you the entire time.”

And also, Theo had promised dancing and snuggling.

And there it was: a textbook example of why Somethings between Aurors and Principals were prohibited. His entire security analysis had been predicated on the potential for f*cking snuggling.

Draco opened his mouth to say that, on second thoughts, Granger probably oughtn’t go, but Granger was now tapping at her lip. “Black tie. I’ll have a think about a dress.”

Draco closed his mouth.

~

Draco and Granger arranged to Floo to Nott House separately, to keep up the pretence that they were each in their own homes. Draco was to go first to scope the place out and confirm that there were no rogue werewolves on the premises. This ended up being a good idea, as Henriette got wind of the party and cloistered herself with Granger all afternoon and into the evening.

By the time Draco was ready to leave, neither the witch nor the elf had emerged from the guest suite. There was only Tupey to see Draco off in all of his black-tied resplendence.

Draco Flooed to Nott House at half seven. As he shook off the soot, Theo appeared to greet his esteemed guest. “Thank you for coming, Draco. I know it’s not something you’ve been doing very much of.”

Draco and Theo entered the salon, where the small group of guests was already deep in conversation. Draco did a spot of unobtrusive Legilimency as he greeted them. No one had any naughty intentions, except for Longbottom and Pansy, who intended to find a secluded bathroom for a quick shag.

“Gods,” muttered Draco, instead of “Hello.”

“Sorry?” said Longbottom.

Pansy raised an eyebrow.

“Nothing. How are you?”

After brief small talk, Draco moved to Davies and his wife, Audrielle. Davies was thinking about where to hide his newest broom from his wife; his wife was missing the baby they had left all of twenty minutes ago and wondering how early they could politely escape to home.

Zabini, in excellent fettle, had his mind upon a brainy brunette. However, before Draco could disembowel the man where he sat, he noticed Zabini’s plus-one: Padma Patil, radiant in a turquoise gown.

Zabini gave Draco one of his insufferably smug smiles.

Patil’s surface-level thoughts were of Zabini – mostly that he was a bit twattish, but she would endure him because he was also funny and decent in bed.

“You’re too good for Zabini,” said Draco to Patil.

“Oh – I know,” said Patil with a wide smile.

Zabini laughed.

Flint was at the bar. His thoughts were bent on cajoling the house-elves into bringing out Theo’s most prized bottles.

That completed Draco’s survey of the guests. He was satisfied that Granger could join the gathering safely and sent her a Jot to that effect.

Granger’s answer came a moment later: There in 10. Henriette is a bully.

Draco began to find himself buzzing with anticipation, half nervous (why?!), half pleasant.

Flint waved Draco towards him. “What are you drinking?”

“A G&T, and make it stiff.”

The house-elf behind the bar squeaked, “Yes, sir!”

“Give him Theo’s best stuff,” said Flint, clapping Draco on the shoulder. “We are celebrating Draco’s survival tonight.”

Theo strode over and attempted to elbow Flint out of the way, with limited success. “Pipsy, do not let this man berate, persuade, or otherwise impel you to open the vault.”

“Of course not, sir,” said the elf, with a distrustful look at Flint.

“He took abominable liberties with my collection, last time,” said Theo to Draco. “Horrible man.”

Flint, unabashed, took his drink and blew Theo a kiss before joining Davies.

Pipsy the house-elf presented Draco with his G&T – very stiff. He approved.

“Any idea when we might expect your guardian angel?” asked Theo, glancing towards the alcove outside the salon, where the Floo hearth flickered. “She did say she was coming.”

“I haven’t a clue,” shrugged Draco.

They joined the others at the sofas. Draco kept up a passable stream of conversation, but his attention kept drifting to the Floo.

He was nervous. Why was he nervous?

Finally, the flames turned green, and Granger’s form spun into existence within, and she was deposited upon the hearth stones.

“Ah!” said Theo, who had apparently been watching the fire with equal attention. “Our guest of honour!”

He leapt to his feet to usher Granger into the salon. She was besieged by Longbottom (hugs), Padma (more hugs), Pansy (cheek kiss), and Zabini (firm handshake).

Draco, being the cool and self-possessed sort, whose heart rate had certainly not accelerated, merely raised his glass to her from the sofa. She gave him a small smile.

Draco turned his gaze back to Flint without hearing anything that the man was saying, because oh no, Granger was wearing a black gown, and it was low in the back, and there was a slit in it up to her thigh, and her hair was swept to the side and showed off that part of her neck that looked the most delicious, and Flint had just asked him a question and he had no idea what was going on.

She had a rose in her hair.

“What?” said Draco. “Sorry – couldn’t hear you over the sound of the – ice. In my glass.”

“Bollocks,” said Flint. He inclined his head towards Granger. “You’re distracted.”

Draco flicked a V at him and sipped his drink.

“Don’t get shirty with me,” said Flint. “I’m not the one who went all daft and dewy-eyed in the middle of a conversation.”

“Me? Dewy-eyed? Absolute rot. I’m just – preoccupied.”

“Give your head a wobble and give her a proper hello, then, Mr. Preoccupied.”

“f*ck off.” Draco rose and strode to the bar. “I need a refill.”

After opening greetings and chit-chat, Granger, Longbottom and Patil formed a small group and got to talking about – plants. A thrill. Pansy perched herself upon the arm of Longbottom’s chair and looked on with an affectionate sort of ennui, twirling a finger in her husband’s hair.

Draco wanted someone to twirl his hair, but her hands were occupied with a spirited description of some sort of fungus.

He listened with one ear as Davies asked his immediate audience if they had seen the Cannons get battered by Puddlemere on Thursday?

“No Quidditch talk,” called Pansy across the room. “It stifles me.”

Granger looked amused.

“You just keep fingering your husband,” retorted Flint with a brusque wave. “We’ll keep it to a whisper.”

Always the height of class, was Flint.

Pansy smiled and began a more vigorous massage of Longbottom’s head, who, for his part, had gone rather red.

Pipsy the house-elf served hors d’oeuvres and refilled everyone’s drinks. Flint and Zabini got to arm-wrestling over something (Flint won). Davies shared a few Ministry scandals, including a new one about what really went on in the Love Room at the Department of Mysteries. Theo flirted outrageously with anyone unmarried including Granger, Patil, Flint and Zabini. (He had long ago determined that Draco was a lost cause, but nevertheless made the occasional sporting overture.)

When there was a lull in the conversation, Theo rose and tapped his glass.

“I would like to propose a toast,” he said, catching Draco’s eye with a naughty grin.

There was a stir as everyone rose, variously gathered up their skirts or drinks, and came to stand around Theo and Draco in a circle. Granger was nudged forwards by Longbottom on one side and Patil on the other.

Incidentally, Longbottom’s hair was now a disaster, and Draco almost reconsidered his wishes for the twirl of feminine fingers.

“As you know,” said Theo, looking solemn, “our Draco is afflicted by a chronic form of stupidity–”

There were grave mutters of “Tragic,” “Heartbreaking,” and “Poor wretch.”

“–A chronic form of stupidity for which there is no known cure. His most recent relapse involved a spot of mano a mano combat with a Nundu, followed by a casual jaunt straight into a jet of its venom.”

Everyone shook their heads at the poignant tale. Draco contemplated Theo’s murder.

“Enter Hermione Granger,” said Theo, holding his glass towards the witch in question, who looked a pretty combination of flustered and pleased. “Saviour of idiots and champion of morons since, I believe, age eleven (that’s when you met Potter, right?). Thanks to her quick thinking and knowledge and, er – rather complicated Muggle sciencey things that I shan’t attempt to explain, not because I don’t understand them, but because you lot won’t – Draco is still with us, free to continue being recklessly stupid for the remainder of his life (however short; not too short, we hope). And so I propose a toast – to the triumph of modern medicine, to old enemies and new friends, to Draco Malfoy for being alive, and to Hermione Granger for saving his life.”

There was a resounding, laugh-filled, “Cheers!”

Draco found himself being jostled and slapped on the shoulder and punched in the ribs, and some oaf from the deepest circles of cretinhood mussed his hair. Meanwhile, Granger was surrounded by a delicate crowd of people gently tapping their glasses to hers.

“And when you’ve discovered a cure for stupidity, do let us know,” said Pansy.

“I will,” grinned Granger.

“Tell us, what do you think of Draco, now that you’ve got to know him a bit?” asked Theo. “Was he a good patient?”

“He does grow on you,” said Granger, with a latent kind of affection, as though Draco was a sort of parasite that had taken up residence on her person and begun to endear itself to her.

“Show us the scar, mate,” said Flint.

Draco, hero that he was, condescended to do so. He undid his bow tie and opened his collar, and there was a gratifying chorus of “Oooh!” at the sight.

“Could the good Professor explain what we’re looking at?” asked Zabini, observing Draco’s neck.

Granger, who had been half-watching over her shoulder, straightened, and got Professory. She stood next to Draco (her heels put her face at a very interesting distance to his, by the way), and began. “Of course. This is developing into a lovely example of scar contracture. You see here along the sides, the pulling together of the tissues? That’s a typical presentation – the edges of the wound contract around the damaged skin and it draws nearby tissues inwards. Malfoy is lucky – this one is small and won’t affect his mobility, bigger ones come with those sorts of challenges…”

The rest was lost on Draco, who was presently enjoying some interstellar travel because Granger’s fingers kept brushing at his neck.

Theo shook his head at Draco. “You absolute maniac. You’re lucky to be alive, much less poncing about, drinking all of my best booze.”

Longbottom queried Granger on the characteristics of the venom, Patil on the treatment, Zabini on where one might obtain Nundu venom, for purposes that he couldn’t disclose.

Granger’s lecture ended and there was general mingling and drink-refilling and eating.

Draco did not bother to do his tie back up. An untied bow tie, a scar, and an open collar gave one a devil-may-care sort of look that he thought quite suited him.

A gathering was beginning to form at the far end of the salon. Draco sauntered over, scotch in hand (Flint had either bullied or seduced Theo into opening a bottle of Laphroaig 25), to see what the fuss was about.

There was an ornate gilded frame on the wall. And within the frame?

The splatter of wine from Draco’s frothy whingefest a month ago.

Theo had added a small inscription beside the frame:

“The Turbulence of the Soul”
21st century
Mixed media
Artist unknown

Theo looked upon it fondly. “Do you like it?”

“There’s an elegance to it,” said Patil, tilting her head to the side.

“Very modern,” said Pansy. “I therefore don’t understand it.”

“What do you make of it, Hermione?” asked Theo.

Granger considered the oeuvre. “It’s very – er – expressionist.”

“Kandinsky, but drunk?” proposed Patil.

“Can you feel the restrained passion?” Theo gripped at his breast. “The confusion? The frustration?”

“There’s something I like about it,” said Granger. “A kind of – botheration.”

“A kind of self-denial, I think,” said Theo, his fingers on his chin. “And you, Draco? Thoughts on my newest acquisition?”

Draco glared at Theo, the cheekiest twat who had ever twatted. “I didn’t realise that you were such a patron of the arts.”

“I like to encourage genius when I see it. So many of these young artists don’t know their own potential.”

Theo amused himself for a few minutes more, probing the ladies on their interpretations of the work and their opinions on the artist’s choice of materials (he was given to understand that the paint had been rather expensive, and aged 30 years before application).

An irritated Draco retreated to the safety of Davies, Flint and Quidditch.

“What’s got you looking like someone shit in your kettle?” asked Flint.

“Help me with this,” said Draco, passing him a bottle.

“Gladly.”

With Flint and Davies’ assistance, Draco emptied Theo’s cherished bottle of Laphroaig 25, in revenge.

When Theo had exhausted his fount of amusement with the ladies, he called to the room at large: “Shall we dance?”

There was clapping and a chorus of yeses. Wands were raised to clear a space, and music filled the room, and Zabini charmed the chandelier above to spin as Theo dimmed the lights.

The dance did not go as planned in Draco’s head.

To begin with, by some twist of fate – or unspoken mutual agreement, he didn’t know – he and Granger danced with everyone except each other.

Patil, Audrielle and Pansy each took a spin with Draco. Meanwhile, seeing Granger in Flint’s arms made Draco wish to garotte the man with his own bow tie. Seeing her in Zabini’s clutches invited thoughts of suffocation with one of the sofa cushions. And Theo – Draco had half a mind to smash his glass into a shiv and stab him.

Longbottom was fine, however.

There was spinning, there was dipping, there was some ill-advised lifting of ladies by half-drunk men, and once of a man (Theo) by a very drunk woman (Pansy), there was laughter.

Then Theo, who seemed far more sober than he was letting on, drew attention to the fact that Draco hadn’t even had a proper dance with his saviour, which was unacceptable. To Draco’s annoyance, he and Granger were pushed together, and everyone gathered about and danced with them and around them, and it was not at all the intimate vision that Draco had daydreamed about to excess.

He and Granger held each other stiffly. Granger looked annoyed under her smile. He trod on her foot and she trod on his. They snarled at each other. Draco said that her feet were so small that if he was treading on them, it must be because she was wedging hers under his on purpose. Granger said that if she was treading on his, it was because one couldn’t help stepping on Draco’s feet if one was in the same room as him, given their surface area.

“And why isn’t your tie done up?” asked Granger in a tetchy whisper.

“Because you were using me as a specimen for your demonstration,” muttered Draco.

“Fix it.”

Draco took this insinuation that Granger did not approve of his devil-may-care suave look as a personal affront.

“You fix it,” said Draco, equally tetchy.

“I don’t know how to tie bow ties.”

“I’ll show you when we’ve been released from this tyranny. Perhaps you can learn something, for once.”

“Me? Learn something? For once?”

The remainder of their dance went on just as harmoniously.

After two or three songs, they were freed from the circle, and able to stand a little apart from the group and sip drinks and pretend not to be aggravated by – well, everything.

Granger bit a samosa as though it had personally wronged her. Draco had a spirited battle with a cocktail shrimp.

“Right,” said Draco, reaching for his tie. “Since you care so much.”

Granger observed him as he demonstrated the knot, with a sort of annoyed focus.

“Have you got it?” asked Draco.

“Yes.”

Draco pulled it undone again. “Show me.”

Granger sputtered into her glass. “What? You didn’t tell me there was going to be a test.”

“Marked out of ten.”

“A test?” A specific disaster named Theo popped into being next to Draco. “Ooh. Let’s see how you do, Hermione.”

“But I wasn’t watching – I mean, I was watching, but not – anyway, all right, I’ll have a go.”

Granger tottered closer and made an attempt. Draco couldn’t even enjoy a bit of it, because two more idiots came by in the form of Zabini and Longbottom.

“What’s going on over here?” asked Zabini.

“She’s tying the knot,” said Theo.

“With who?”

“Draco.”

“Ooh.”

“What’s happening?” asked Pansy.

“They’re tying the knot,” said Zabini.

Patil arrived. “What are we doing?”

“Draco and Hermione are tying the knot,” said Theo.

“I am tying a knot, Nott,” said Granger.

Patil looked confused. “A Nott Nott?”

“A bow tie,” said Granger with great patience. That kind of knot. Not Nott.”

Flint arrived. “Who’s tying the knot?”

“Hermione is. With Draco.”

“I am not,” said Granger.

“No, I’m Nott,” said Theo.

Draco informed them that he hated them all.

Granger stepped back and looked cynically at her handiwork. “I’m not quite certain that’s a pass.”

Draco examined the bow tie in a nearby mirror. “Six out of ten.”

“How can you be so cruel to Hermione?” asked Theo. “She tried so.”

Granger made a substantial positive contribution to Draco’s mood by saying, “I suppose I’ll have to practise more on him.”

Draco knotted his bow tie to his usual standards and made a note to ensure that Granger was provided with opportunities for self-improvement.

There was a migration from the dance floor to the bar for more drinks. Everyone grew pleasantly sloshed on their tipple of choice. The expensive scotch in Draco’s veins made him relaxed and languorous. Pansy and Longbottom disappeared for a longish time and returned looking only slightly dishevelled. Davies and wife made their exit through the Floo.

At the bar, Theo began to mess about with cocktails. He was swirling his wand over a bowl of something white and frothy. “Right. Which of you wants to try my newest creation?”

Pipsy the house-elf set out crystal champagne flutes, looking excited. She poured a generous measure of rosé champagne into every one.

“What kind of cocktail?” asked Pansy, observing the proceedings.

“I call it champagne di amore,” said Theo. “There’s nothing Italian about it – I just thought it sounded sexy.”

Pansy propped her elbows onto the bar to watch and was joined there by Patil.

Granger looked a combination of curious and cynical, and kept her distance.

Theo pulled out a small vial and held it up. “The secret ingredient. Let’s see how well you lot remember your potions.”

He poured the vial into the bowl of white mousse. Steam sizzled upwards in graceful spirals.

“That’s Amortentia!” gasped Patil.

“Messing about with controlled substances, are we?” asked Draco.

“You’re a cheeky little thing, Theo,” said Flint.

“Mm. Amortentia gives it a certain–” Theo’s mouth squeezed into the pucker of a Brit about to speak French “–Je ne sais quoi. Well below the threshold for an actual dose of Amortentia, of course – just enough to taste positively delicious.”

“We’re microdosing on Amortentia?” asked Granger with a raised eyebrow.

“Only if you’d like to,” said Theo. He added a dollop of the white foam to each champagne flute. “Don’t worry, Doctor – in these minute concentrations, you won’t fall in love with me. It’s merely a flavour enhancer.”

“Foolish of you to assume we aren’t already in love with you,” said Zabini.

Theo blew him a kiss.

The row of champagne flutes sparkled pink and white. Theo, his tongue poking out between his teeth as he concentrated, added a curl of some kind of citrus garnish to each. “Voilà!”

“Ooh,” said Pansy, taking hers, and passing the other to Longbottom.

Zabini wiggled his eyebrows and he and Patil took theirs. They touched glasses.

Flint downed his in a single swallow. “Mmm. Let’s have another.”

“They’re meant to be savoured, you great lout,” said Theo.

“What? Are we rationing champagne?” asked Flint.

“Why are we rationing champagne?” gasped Pansy. “Is there a war?”

Flint leaned over the bar and said, in a loud whisper, “Make me another and I’ll tell you what mine tasted like.”

Theo grew flustered. Pipsy passed out the remaining flutes of champagne.

Draco’s scotch-induced languor gave way to apprehension mingled with a paralysing fatalism. Apprehension for what was to come, and fatalism because he knew, deep down in his quashed heart of hearts, what was to come.

Pipsy gave Draco his flute of champagne di amore. He stepped away from the bar and concealed himself behind the convenient land mass that was Flint.

He stared at the gently bubbling concoction. Ridiculously, his heart was racing.

He did not need to smell it to discover what was going to greet him. The fatalism grew heavy; the inevitability of it was a slow horror.

He held the delicate flute to his face, feeling the fizz of champagne on the tip of his nose.

He took a breath. And there it was: coffee, brine-filled air, antiseptic. And now there were more complex undercurrents to it – of shampoo, adventure dust, Sauternes. The smell of a candle just burnt.

Granger in a glass.

F*ck.

Draco cleared his throat, glanced about, and tried to look Unconcerned.

Granger was now stepping forwards to take hers from the house-elf. On her face was a look of noble dread, as of a queen walking to the guillotine.

After taking the flute, she held it at waist height, well away from her face, and turned to chat with Patil.

Patil was distracted by a squabble between Flint and Theo. Granger visibly steeled herself.

Draco watched as she lifted the glass to her face.

She breathed in and looked stricken – as though some ghastly thing had just been confirmed.

She hardly had time to collect herself when Pansy turned to her. “Have you tried yours?”

Granger, tight about the jaw, gave Pansy a restricted sort of smile and took a sip.

“And?” asked Theo.

“Delicious,” said Granger in a strangled voice.

When the group’s focus had moved elsewhere, Granger stared at the flute as though she was pondering spilling its contents onto the floor.

She did not look at Draco.

Longbottom held his champagne under his nose and sighed. “My wife after a shower.”

Zabini sniffed his. “I’m getting – mm. Ginger.”

“Emotional stability,” said Patil, inhaling hers with a laugh. “And bergamot.”

“Damp grass,” said Pansy.

“A fire in late winter,” mused Theo.

“Leather,” said Flint.

“Oooh,” said everyone.

“Sloe gin,” said Granger, but she was lying.

“Fresh-picked lavender.”

“Mint. And – crushed basil.”

“Orange peel,” lied Draco.

“Masala chai.”

“Nougat.”

Theo topped them up with more champagne and the crowd dispersed. The ladies lingered at the bar. Pipsy snapped her fingers and started a fire in the salon’s fireplace, which the men gathered around. They pulled a few chairs in close for some cosy philosophising.

Draco threw himself upon a chair in an attitude suggestive of careless elegance and manly athleticism, in case Granger looked his way.

They talked of travel.

Draco sipped his drink.

“Draco is doing it right,” said Theo with an approving look.

“Doing what right?” asked Draco.

“Savouring.”

It was true; he was. The champagne was bliss in a glass. The Amortentia was so lightly dosed that it felt like memories on his tongue, rather than tastes. It lured feelings out from behind the quashing and made him want to revel in them.

There was a leisurely sort of misery accompanying the bliss. It made him aware that he wanted things. Not just obvious Granger things – but deeper things.

The conversation moved back to travel plans and Draco was left to savour.

He looked at Longbottom and found himself, for the first time in his life, envious of the man. He wanted what this plonker had. He wanted to be wanted. Not for his name or his money or his looks, but for being a decent, occasionally stupid, man. He wanted someone to twirl his hair and do his bow ties. He wanted someone to grasp his hand and pull him onto dance floors, and into bathrooms for quickies, and along the path of life.

It was a yearning, as delicious as it was painful.

He Occluded before he could fall too far into besotted, self-pitying despair. (He didn’t need the Carthusians and their devious torments; armed with a glass of Amortentia champagne, he could amply torture himself.)

Talk now turned to Theo’s plans for a vineyard.

“Draco hasn’t given us his usual grain of salt,” said Zabini. “I think it’s going to be an utter failure.”

“Draco is Preoccupied tonight,” said Flint.

“I’m savouring,” said Draco.

“Let him savour,” said Theo, flinging a protective arm across Draco’s chest.

Ideal locations for Theo’s vineyard were batted about; some favoured France, some, Italy, some argued for exotic locales like distant California. Draco released his barrier of Occlusion as his emotional turbulence subsided.

The three witches wandered towards the fire in a tiddly meander, arms hooked into one another’s.

Patil was passing a finger through Granger’s curls. “May I form a parasocial relationship with your hair? It’s got so long.”

“Only if I can with yours,” said Granger, looping Patil’s plait around her palm. “I positively love it.”

“Ladies, join us,” said Zabini.

“Shh,” said Flint, leaning forwards with interest. “Don’t interrupt. I want to see where this goes.”

But it was too late. Granger and Patil disentangled themselves from one another and where it was going would remain a tragic mystery.

Pansy observed the gathered wizards with crossed arms and a cocked hip. “Join you? You’ve pulled up precisely enough chairs for your five shapely arses.”

“I’ll conjure–” began Longbottom.

“No,” said Theo. He gestured towards the laps of the various gentlemen around the fire. “There’s loads of space.”

Pansy strode towards Longbottom with an exaggerated sway in her hips, and collapsed onto him with an ease that spoke of years of familiarity.

The small, jealous barb prickled at Draco’s heart.

Patil slipped onto Zabini’s knee.

And Granger? Granger was going for her wand, and was a moment away from conjuring a chair, when Theo called her courage into question by saying, “You mustn’t be afraid of Draco, you know. He is quite domesticated. I’m sure he won’t bite.”

The look that Granger levelled at Theo was combustive in nature. “Afraid? Of him?”

And then, drunk and bursting with bravado, she strode towards Draco, dropped herself into his lap, and made him hold her champagne while she arranged her skirts.

Granger was in his lap. Granger was in his lap.

Draco wanted to die.

Also, he resolved to kill Theo for the third time that evening. He would ask Zabini for Nundu venom, when he acquired it.

Granger had seated herself across his legs, her bum on his thighs, her feet crossed at the ankles off to the side. This offered Draco an excellent view of her profile, including the side of a breast, clad in clingy black fabric, precisely at eye level. Draco averted his eyes to find something safer to look at. His gaze landed lower, where the slit of her dress exposed her thigh, right there, near his crotch.

Unsafe. He looked at Longbottom’s shoes instead.

Granger was – warm. Hot, even.

“Do you bite?” asked Granger.

“On request,” said Draco, with a slow smile.

Nothing wrong with a bit of recreational flirting. His friends would think it odd if he didn’t, really.

It threw her. Draco filed this away as a new method of Bothering Granger, though its exploration seemed fraught with danger for the Botherer as well as the Botheree.

Granger plucked her drink out of Draco’s hand. Theo, satisfied with the arrangements, turned away to continue to be a nuisance elsewhere.

“Does Theo know about your anaesthesia-induced flights of fancy, or was this coincidence?” asked Granger.

“Sheer coincidence – I can assure you I did not share those thoughts with the class.”

“Dreams really do come true.”

“In the most unexpected ways,” said Draco, before retreating to safer territory. “Was Henriette a terrible bully?”

“Yes. Very insistent on the black.”

She would be, the meddlesome little scamp.

Draco could smell Granger’s shampoo, but he didn’t know if it was coming off her, or the flutes of Amortentia champagne fizzling in their hands.

This was fine.

He was not going to get hard just because a woman was on his knee.

He was an Adult.

Theo was now insulting Zabini’s taste in wine. Patil joined in with glee; apparently, this had been a source of previous argument, and she had an arsenal of witticisms at the ready.

Granger was studying Theo with a perilous sort of glint in her eye.

“Turn him into a cockroach,” suggested Draco.

“I may.”

“What’s this about cocks?” asked Flint.

“Cockroaches,” said Draco.

“Who is talking about cocks?” asked Pansy.

“Draco,” said Flint.

“Typical,” said Pansy.

“Granger is going to turn Theo into a cockroach,” said Draco.

“You can do that?” asked Zabini.

“Obviously,” said Granger.

Theo raised his glass with a wary look at Granger. “Cheers – just what I wanted: a new phobia.”

“Very Kafkaesque,” said Patil. “You’ll have to write a book about your experience.”

“These philistines won’t grasp that reference,” sniffed Theo. “Excuse me; I’ve got to go refill my drink and incidentally flee Hermione’s vicinity.”

“She can do it at range,” called Draco to Theo’s retreating back.

He felt the shake of Granger’s withheld laugh as Theo’s strides accelerated away.

The talk turned back to wine. Zabini mounted a fairly sound defence of Vermentino.

Granger was on his lap.

Draco tried not to think about it.

He gave an opinion on tannins.

He felt warm under the collar. He loosened his bow tie.

From the bar across the room, Theo shouted: “Right! The practise!”

Which wasn’t at all what Draco had been going for, but all right.

Granger started. “Oh! I think I’ve already forgotten everything.”

She drew closer to Draco with a tipsy sort of focus. She had done a smoky thing around her eyes that made them even more fally-inny. Draco therefore did not look at her. He admired the ceiling. He felt a slight tug here and there at his neck as Granger mucked about with his bow tie.

“Wait,” muttered Granger, “that’s – no – wrong way.”

Granger’s fingers were careful around his scar as she undid whatever she had just done. Draco indulged in a brief daydream wherein she continued to undo things, starting with the rest of his buttons, and then, him.

His cock began to take an interest in the proceedings and twitched at him.

Brilliant.

Granger stared at the bow tie tangle and sighed. “Bugger. I’ve got no idea where I am.”

Draco didn’t either, so that was fine.

Granger hiccoughed, shuffled deeper into his lap, and started over. He waited for his brain to suggest a droll remark, but all it proposed was: glurkk.

Draco was much obliged.

If she shuffled closer and did much more wriggling, he would soon be providing Granger with the Hard Evidence she so craved.

Distantly, he registered words of encouragement from Longbottom to Granger.

“Done!” said Granger.

Longbottom inspected it and said it was a proper bow tie, this time.

Granger conjured a mirror for Draco to give his judgement.

All he really took in was his own reflection, dark-eyed, with a flush of pink across the top of his cheekbones. Also, he had a hair out of place.

“Eight out of ten,” said Draco. “Hold that there for me, darling, I’ve got to fix this.”

Granger was not a darling. She gave him a look that was cutting. He fixed his hair just in time; she transformed the mirror into a concave monstrosity that made him look like the Skrewt.

Zabini sauntered off to find Theo, followed by Patil.

“I suppose I’ve improved, at least,” said Granger, but it was clear that it rankled in her swotty soul that she had not achieved top marks.

“It’s rather fun to teach you something, for a change.”

“There’s loads I’d like you to teach me.”

“Oh?”

“That magic detection spell,” said Granger in a low voice. “The one you used at my cottage.”

Draco said, in an equally low voice, “Only if you teach me that runic command – the one you used on the arrows.”

Granger thought about it, a finger on her lip. Then she came in closer, smelling delicious, and whispered: “Fine. But you’ve got to teach me the geodesic warding spell, in exchange.”

There was nothing titillating about geodesic warding spell, and yet, Draco found himself clenching his jaw to suppress a shiver as the words ran across his ear and went straight to his groin. He was half-hard.

Draco had one final request, so private that he gestured Granger in even closer. One of her curls brushed across his mouth as she leaned in.

“Then you’ve got to teach me The Computer,” said Draco.

Granger gasped. “You extortionist.”

“I know.”

“You’ll have to produce a better bargaining chip; The Computer’s secrets are too powerful.”

“Oh? I’ll have a think about something else to offer.”

Granger ran a hand down her arm. She had goosebumps.

Which was wickedly satisfying, but also, potentially, A Problem.

These paedagogical matters having been negotiated and settled, each took a sip of their champagne.

Draco glanced about and was pleased to discover that no one was paying attention to them. Flint was explaining to Longbottom that he was banned from Fortescue’s. Draco hadn’t caught the rest of the tale, which might ordinarily have interested him, but these were not ordinary times. Pansy was dozing on Longbottom’s shoulder.

Flint muttered that he was desperate for a slash and rose.

Longbottom carried Pansy to one of the sofas.

Granger swirled the remainder of her champagne and watched the pink liquid fizz.

“Orange peel,” she said, looking pensive.

“What about it?” asked Draco.

“What happened to your toffee and coffee?”

“What happened to your expensive cologne?”

“You were lying.”

“So were you.”

“Why?”

“Why were you?”

“I suppose it’s – quite private.”

“Yes.”

Granger, swaying a little in Draco’s lap, downed the rest of her champagne. She swallowed. A drop lingered on her lip, which she wiped away with the tip of a finger.

Glurkk.

Draco looked away until it was safe, and then back again.

Now her face was close to his. Her gaze was soft, tipsy, dreamy.

“I hate that this tastes so good,” said Granger. She looked devastated by it. Sexily devastated. She pressed her fingertip between her lips.

Draco finished his own champagne to distract himself. Granger’s gaze flitted to his mouth and back up again.

“I positively loathe mine. If that is – any comfort,” said Draco.

“Strangely, it is.”

Draco shifted under the pretence of – getting more comfortable, or something. Granger slid in closer as a result.

He could feel the swell of her breast against his chest. The mass of her hair was trapped between them and tickled at his neck.

And there was the Granger gravitational force – the falling-towards, the drawing-in. Her mouth was two inches from his. Her eyes were warm. He could slip a hand behind her neck and – gods, from the way she was leaning, he wouldn’t even have to pull her in, she would just fall into him, and it would be – it would be –

Granger blinked and breathed out and drew back.

It would be a bad idea. Yes.

“I have had too much to drink and am not thinking clearly,” said Granger, but it sounded like she was declaring it to herself, rather than to Draco.

“I have never thought less clearly in my life,” said Draco.

Granger sat up straighter. The warmth in her eyes was extinguished. She was Occluding.

Draco followed suit. It was probably the right thing to do. Righter than a full on snog in the middle of Theo’s party, anyway.

They looked about to find that they were alone. All of the chairs were empty. Granger had been sitting on his lap under the weakest of pretences, but now, there was absolutely no reason for it.

There were voices from the Floo hearth just outside the salon. People were getting ready to leave.

With a sudden panicky vigour, Granger sprung off of Draco’s lap. She strode to the bar, where she asked Pipsy for an ice water, which she promptly downed. Then she dropped the glass onto the bar and, stiff-backed, stared at nothing. Pipsy asked if everything was all right, Miss? Granger, in a tight voice, said that everything was fine.

Draco waited for long enough to ensure the dissipation of any hard evidence and then walked to the group at the Floo. The Occlusion helped with the general air of insouciance he wished to convey as he joined in with the goodbyes.

Granger joined them, looking relatively composed, and also gave her thanks and farewells. Longbottom, carrying Pansy, disappeared into the Floo, followed by Zabini and Patil, then Flint.

Draco lured Theo back into the salon under some pretext, so that Granger could Floo to the Manor without being heard.

“You were less of a miserable bastard than usual tonight,” said Theo.

“You’re a meddlesome little twat,” said Draco.

“I’m glad you had a good time.”

“I hated every moment.”

Theo grinned. “F*ck off home, Draco.”

Draco gave him a wave and strode to the Floo.

He hoped that Granger hadn’t run off straight to bed during his chat with Theo. They had unfinished business.

He was going to get his bloody dance.

~

Draco stepped out of the Floo to find Henriette assisting Granger with a delicate dusting off of her gown.

Henriette cleaned Draco off, too, then bid them both goodnight, an annoying sort of twinkle in her eye.

“Right,” said Draco, straightening his bow tie. “Good that you’re still here.”

Granger looked guarded. “Why…?”

Draco took her arm and strode out of the Floo parlour.

“Where are we–” gasped Granger.

“The ballroom.”

“But wh–”

“I want a proper dance.”

“But we–”

“No. That was rubbish.”

Granger mounted no further objections but allowed her drunken self to be pulled along, looking politely confused.

Draco pushed open the ballroom’s enormous double doors. The elves kept every room in the Manor ready for use at a moment’s notice and the regal ballroom was no exception. In the penumbra, the white marble floor shone and the multitude of mirrors that covered the walls sparkled. At the south end, floor to ceiling windows stretched upwards until they disappeared into shadow.

Draco waved his wand at the vaulted ceilings. Eight enormous crystal chandeliers glowed into life, lowered, and began a slow rotation across the ceiling. Their lights reflected brilliantly off the glossy marble and the mirrors.

Another wand-wave and the sounds of an orchestra resonated through the ballroom.

Granger gasped in that delighted, breathy, lips-parted-just-so way of hers, that gave Draco so much pleasure.

He felt a grin make its way onto his face. “It is quite splendid, isn’t it?”

“It is!”

Draco took one of Granger’s hands in his, put the other at her waist, and began to lead her through a waltz before she could get Grangery and pose too many questions, such as whether he had gone mad.

They danced a few cautious steps. He glanced at her to see whether she was planning on bolting from the lunatic – but she was following his lead, looking wary, but curious. She had looked at him this way once before, when he had charmed an entire cohort of Muggle doctors at that Oxford pub. It was pleasant surprise and who the bloody hell are you, all in one.

As it had been in Provence, her waist was warm under his palm. Her hand in his was gentle. She was light as they moved, and, this time, there was no treading on one another’s feet.

Draco watched their dance in the mirrors – how her figure nestled so snugly against his, how her gown whisked in time with their movements, brushing at his legs when they turned. He indulged unrepentantly in this kaleidoscope of angles through which to delight in her. If he looked ahead, it was the dip between her bare shoulder blades in the mirror there, to the left, it was the curve of her backside, if he looked down, it was dark eyelashes, flushed cheeks, and pink lips.

She came in closer as they turned, and pressed against him, and it felt gorgeous. He didn’t let her pull away again; his hand slipped to her lower back and kept her there. She looked up at him in dark wonder, then looked down, her lip between her teeth.

The music swelled. Around them the ballroom spun, the stars in the windows glowed, the chandeliers danced their own soft-tinkling dance and scattered splendor through the room.

It was a moment of enchantment, of harmony, of gleaming reverie. Their eyes were filled with lights and their ears with the crescendo of violins and their hearts with each other.

This – this was what he had wanted.

He raised his arm and she spun away from him, and they were joined only at the fingers, and then she twirled back into him, so close that he felt her take her next breath.

The light was in his veins again – the Mabon sun, incandescent, glorious, swelling about his heart and squeezing the very air out of him.

Again she spun away, and this time came in with her back to him, pressed against his chest, her bum against his groin. Their eyes locked in one of the mirrors, but it was too intense to sustain and they looked away again.

Now it was his turn to partake in some ill-advised lifting, which he did, with his hands around her waist, sweeping her up and into the air. He spun her while she was aloft, taking pleasure in her gasp, in her grip on his shoulders. She flew above him with a squeal of surprised laughter.

When he brought her down, she clung to him, laughing, the brightness of real joy in her eyes. He felt a matching joy whose like he had never felt before. The lightness in him was sublime.

Her arms were around his neck. She was so close to him that he wanted to explode.

The feeling was rare – precious – heart-rending. She was radiant. She took his breath away. She was everything he wanted.

The lights dimmed. The music quieted.

They stopped moving and stood in this lover’s embrace, breathing, dark-eyed, high on one another, waiting.

“Granger, I–”

She looked up.

He said nothing more. He was falling.

He didn’t need the ring to tell him that her heart was racing. He could feel the pulse of it against his chest. His thudded a matching beat, too fast, so fast it hurt.

He was drunk on endorphins and too much good booze and too little good sense. Her lips were parted. She was looking at him like she could kiss him. It was – impossible. It couldn’t happen.

Now her fingers were on his jaw.

He bent towards her; the pull was too sweet.

Her kiss was a soft question.

His answer was to squeeze her up and into him. She gasped against his lips as he kissed her back.

Finally. F*cking finally.

Their mouths met with the press of yearning, of too much champagne, of I hate that this tastes so good.

Only now it wasn’t Amortentia that he tasted; it wasn’t those fragrant, fabricated whiffs – it was her. It was real. And the champagne was a poor imitation, now that he had the real thing against him, breathing staccato breaths against his mouth, winding fingers into his shirt. The Amortentia didn’t speak of the softness of her lips, of quivering, of fingers hooked into his collar, of a witch delicious, flush-cheeked, unsteady, pressing her smiling mouth to his.

She shook slightly, as did he, with a euphoric mess of adrenaline and nerves and restraint.

She pulled away and pressed her face into his neck. The intimacy of it sent his heart into a fresh frenzy. His arms wrapped around her. She was fine-boned and delicate and trembling deliciously.

“I’m still not thinking clearly,” she said, her voice low and dusky, her words brushing across his scar.

“Shall we – shall we say it’s the drink?” asked Draco in a half-whisper.

“Yes,” breathed Granger with relief. “Let’s. We had – a lot.”

“And that’s certainly to blame for any – any unwise behaviours.”

There was the golden sound of her laughter. “Obviously.”

They looked at each other.

He thought he could die happy if her lips wet his again.

And then they did.

The dance, the lights, the music, the woman in his arms – it was a moment of scintillating joy that would become one of Draco’s fondest memories and produce astoundingly powerful Patronuses for years to come.

They broke apart with a breathy, clinging regret. Granger pulled away first, then Draco kissed her again; he felt the imminent knell of reality and wanted just one more.

Then he tried to pull back, but she rose to the tips of her toes and pressed her mouth to the edge of his jaw. His hand slipped to the nape of her neck, rose petals brushed against his knuckles, she sighed against his cheek.

The dream of the moment began to fade. Draco ran his fingers down her side to memorise the feel of her and kissed her one last time to seal away the memory of her sweet mouth.

They stared at each other, wet lipped, bewildered, their drunken faculties finally catching up to what they had done.

Reality was cold and unyielding and it hit hard. Draco’s brain, which had been, by all accounts, absent all evening, returned. It asked, with violence, what the f*ck he thought he was doing? An Auror did not snog his Principal.

Granger looked equally confounded. She took a step back. There was self-reproach, regret, and dread in the movement.

They regarded each other with mounting alarm and a desperation to assert that it had been nothing at all.

Granger, stricken, found her tongue first. “We shouldn’t have done that.”

“No – we shouldn’t have,” said Draco, hating how breathless he sounded.

Granger looked at the floor, at the mirrors, at anywhere but him. “I know that we’re not – erm – I know that – obviously, you know–”

“Yes, obviously–”

“And also – we aren’t–”

“Yes.”

“We have a working relationship,” said Granger. “And there are strict rules about this sort of thing. For very good reasons.”

“There are. Yes. Rules. And a Code of Conduct that is unequivocal on – on things of this nature.”

“Right. Of course.”

“It was a lapse in judgement,” said Draco.

“Yes. We were both – both under the influence. It won’t happen again. I wouldn’t want to contravene anything and jeopardise – this. You as my Auror and – and everything.”

“Right.”

“Right,” repeated Granger.

Draco attempted to find his insouciance. “It was the drinks. Just the drinks.”

“Obviously, yes. Nothing more.”

“Nothing more,” repeated Draco.

“Good,” said Granger.

“Shall we – go to bed?” asked Draco.

“Yes.”

“I mean separately, of course. Go to – beds. Plural. I mean we can leave together but go to separate beds.”

“Right,” said Granger, nodding vigorously in the face of this critical clarification. “Yes.”

“Because we would never go to the same bed, obviously–”

“Of course not.”

“–That would be mad.”

“Yes.”

“We aren’t mad.”

“No. We are – perfectly sane.”

Having established their vexing soundness of mind, they turned to the door.

The things that had drawn them together were still at it; they brushed elbows, then leapt away from each other as though burnt, with more apologising.

Leaving the ballroom was an awkward jig of who would open the door and who would go first, without touching the other.

Draco walked Granger to the grand staircase but did not follow her up.

“Aren’t you–?” asked Granger.

“No,” said Draco. “Upon reflection, I’ve decided to throw myself into the lake.”

Granger looked as though this was truly an excellent next step. “I’m going to go scream into a pillow.”

“Good. Brilliant. Er – do enjoy.”

“Thank you.”

Granger hurried up the stairs without looking behind her.

Draco waited until he heard her door close.

Then he said, quietly, but with all of the turbulence in his soul: “F*ck.”

~

The full moon was imminent.

The Ministry of Magic, attempting to balance public safety with public hysteria, published an advisory asking the wizarding community to stay indoors during the three nights of the hunter’s moon, due to suspected werewolf activity.

Potter, the WTF, and every available Auror spent the hunter’s moon on the hunt themselves, and caught thirty werewolves who had positioned themselves to transform where they could infect the most people. Seven werewolves were not caught on time, fifteen people were infected, five succumbed to their injuries.

Granger’s work took on a new urgency. Draco’s Legilimency had never been so in demand.

But Fenrir Greyback was careful. There was nothing of use in the minds of the captives.

The traps at the safe-houses and Granger’s cottage yielded four captures: one witch, three wizards, all working under Greyback’s orders, and all infuriatingly unaware of his whereabouts.

Security at King’s Hall was tightened. Bemused scholars and students found themselves made to present credentials at the entrance, now guarded by DMLE operatives. Access to the third floor, which housed Granger’s laboratory, was blocked off. The other Fellows were relocated elsewhere. Granger briefed her laboratory staff on the threat and gave them the option to discontinue their work, with pay, until the situation was resolved. None took it.

Days passed in a tense, anxious blur. When he wasn’t with Granger, Draco’s attention was obsessively on the ring, waiting to feel the panicked rise of her heart or the shrill call of her distress beacon.

So, of course, at the next incident, he felt neither.

It was Goggin’s burly ram Patronus who alerted him that there was a problem.

Draco had been interrogating a werewolf caught at Granger’s cottage when the silvery ram bounded into the holding cell.

“King’s Hall,” it grunted in Goggin’s voice. “Quickly!”

Draco Apparated to Cambridge to find panicky wizards and Muggles running about along Trinity’s quad. He fought his way to the entrance of King’s Hall, where Goggin lay, sliced open from the sternum downwards, bleeding out.

Beside him were the limp figures of the DMLE operatives who had been on guard and the bodies of five unknown wizards. Further on, a scattered pile of books. No sign of Granger.

Feeling a horrid, inverted sense of dejà-vu, Draco sent three Borzoi streaking to the Auror Office and the Mediwitch Service.

He Disillusioned himself and Apparated to the ring. Why the f*ck hadn’t she activated the distress beacon? What had they done to her?

He cracked into existence in near darkness, in the living room of a boarded-up house. The silhouettes of a half-dozen men jumped in surprise as the crack of his Apparition gave his arrival away.

He couldn’t see Granger and therefore dared not plough through them with something explosive. He managed to Petrify three of them as he gathered his bearings, deflected two curses – then he was in the crossfire of too many spells to deflect, and was hit by a Finite Incantatem, something concussive at his knee, and a Stupefy.

The Stunner was a glancing blow, striking him in the shoulder. His wand fell out of his nerveless hand.

Draco, seeing his wand clatter away to his opponents’ feet, feigned a collapse, as though the Stunner had hit true.

There were four men left. From where he now lay on the floor, Draco could see Granger, slumped against a cracked wall. She, too, looked Stunned. No obvious bleeding. It was a minor relief.

Draco’s wand was picked up by the largest figure amongst the men, who now held three – Draco’s, Granger’s, and his own.

“Is that a bloody Auror? How the f*ck is this arsehole here?” asked one of the men. He shone a Lumos at the insignia on Draco’s cloak.

“This one must have a tracker on her,” said another in a nasally whinge, kicking at Granger. He cast a basic revelation spell, too rudimentary to reveal the ring. “Let’s strip her.”

He pulled Granger off the floor with unnecessary violence, snapping her lolling head backwards. He began to tear at the front of her jumper and stuffed one hand under it to undo her jeans.

He was going to die today.

“I will search her,” said the biggest figure.

That slightly accented rumble. The red-blond glint of the beard.

It was Larsen.

“You always do the fun bits,” said the nasally one, his groping hand at Granger’s fly. “I want to have a go–”

Larsen grabbed the man by the back of the neck. “Moore. I said I will do it.”

“Get your f*cking hands off me,” said Moore, dropping Granger to squirm against Larsen’s grip.

They had a scuffle. Draco watched and waited for a moment when one of the men would stumble too close to him and he could steal a wand.

One of the other kidnappers attempted peacekeeping, shoving his way between the two of them. “Oi oi oi. Could you two stop f*cking about? Who knows how many other Aurors are on their way?

“Aye,” said the lanky fourth man. “Let’s get what we need from her and go.”

Moore took advantage of the distraction to land a blow to Larsen’s face. “Let me go, you f*cking–”

Larsen did not react well to the hit. He backhanded Moore into a wall. Moore pushed himself off it and launched himself at Larsen with a rageful yell. The other two tried to intervene, wands up, threatening to Stun both combatants.

Draco waited for his opening – he would only have one. They were closer to Granger than to him, now, and too far for him to seize one of the wands from Larsen’s fist.

The failed Stunner was wearing off of Draco’s arm. He slid his hand to his thigh holster, where his favourite knife was strapped.

A smattering of an elevated heart rate came through the ring – and then a flutter of fear.

Granger was waking up.

As her abductors grappled with each other, one of her hands shifted towards her pocket. She kept her head hanging as though she was still unconscious.

Now, amongst the stomping boots of the arguing men, Draco could see something shining in her palm. It was a stack of her anti-magic pucks.

Oh. Oh.

Granger was about to even out the playing field.

Draco waited.

With snaps of her wrist, Granger sent pucks skidding into the corners of the room, under rotted furniture and into dark nooks.

One of the men noticed the movement. “What the f*ck did she just do?”

“What d’you mean?”

“I just saw her – I dunno – twitch – I think she threw something.”

They crowded around Granger.

Larsen snatched her by the chin and pressed his wand to her temple. “Legilimens!”

But it was too late. Draco had felt the change the moment the perimeter was complete – there was a kind of extinguishing, deep within him. A sudden lack.

There would be no Legilimency in this room.

“The f*ck is happening?” asked Moore.

The lanky one pressed his hand against his chest, as though the breath had been stolen from him. “What the–?”

Draco did not give them time to work it out.

He sprang to his feet, took three strides towards the group, and plunged his knife into the side of the first available neck.

Then, being happily unencumbered by a sense of honour, he stabbed the next man in the back.

The lanky one and the peacekeeper were down.

Larsen and Moore whipped around and backed against the wall, wands raised.

“Expulsis visceribus!” spat Larsen, slicing his wand towards Draco.

“Confrigo!” shouted Moore, jabbing his towards him, too. “Crucio!”

Nothing happened.

Looking bewildered, Larsen switched to Draco’s wand – “Decapio!” – then to Granger’s – “Stupefy!” – to no effect.

“What the f*ck is wrong–” said Moore, pointing his useless wand at Draco.

Draco plucked the wand from Moore’s hand, as he was conveniently offering it to him.

He plunged it into Moore’s eye to the hilt.

There was some spurting of vitreous gel. Moore pitched forwards with a strangled scream. Draco stepped onto the back of his head and did not remove his weight until he felt the tip of the wand pierce the man’s skull and press against the bottom of his boot.

That was for Granger.

He stepped over him and turned to Larsen.

He and the Viking sized each other up.

The biggest man that Draco had sparred with was Goggin. This man made Goggin look like a pubescent boy. Draco was wise enough to know that he was physically outmatched. In any other situation, he would have retreated. The right move here was to flee, if only for long enough to call for reinforcements. The logical move. The obvious move.

But he would not be fleeing. He would leave Granger alone with this man over his literal dead body.

That was the problem with Somethings between Aurors and their Principals.

Draco had a knife. Larsen had all of the advantages of superior height and weight.

This was going to be interesting.

Larsen blinked at Draco in the penumbra. “The pilot…?”

Right. Driessen’s memories.

“Do not fight me,” said Larsen, raising his hands. “I will let you go. I only need her. She is not worth what I am going to do to you.”

“She is definitely worth what I’m going to do to you.”

Larsen dropped the useless wands and rushed in. They began a dangerous dance, with Draco doing his best to avoid being grappled, while Larsen wanted nothing more than to bring him into close quarters and beat him out with superior mass.

Draco positioned himself between Larsen and Granger, who was huddled into a corner, her heart racing through the ring.

Larsen came in too close. Draco sliced a pretty line across his face. A punch intended for Draco’s throat hit him in the chest. He felt something crack.

He lashed out with the knife. Larsen ducked away at the last moment and lost an ear instead of his life.

They separated. Draco found it difficult to catch his breath – something was not sitting correctly in his ribcage. Larsen touched at the side of his head and looked at his bloody hand in wonder. The flap of flesh that had been his ear was on the floor.

They stared at each other. Draco sorely missed his Legilimency.

Larsen snarled and launched himself at Draco again. Draco landed a kick at his solar plexus that should have put him on his knees.

It did not. It slowed him for a moment, then he switched tactics, focusing on seizing the knife from Draco’s hand. Draco saw an opening for a clean hook and seized it, his fist smashing into the man’s eye. He felt the precise outline of Larsen’s eye socket against his knuckles, felt a kind of grinding.

That punch would’ve thrown any other man on his arse, but not the Viking. He shook it off and lunged again for the knife. Draco welcomed his groping hand with the point of the knife and pushed it through his palm.

Larsen snatched his hand away and swung in with an uppercut with the other, only partially dodged by Draco.

It clipped Draco on the jaw. He saw stars.

If Larsen landed a single solid punch, this fight was over. The Viking was a beast.

They broke apart. Larsen held his punctured palm to the side. Draco shook his head to knock his brain back into place. Black spots swam in his vision.

Hand to hand combat was exhausting. After these long sixty seconds of fighting, Larsen should’ve been like Draco, panting, shaking with exertion. He was hardly winded.

They came together again. Draco crunched a fist into Larsen’s mouth. The Viking was thrown off course and spun away.

Now he was angry. He spat out teeth. He lunged – outrageously quickly, for such a large man – and managed to kick the knife out of Draco’s hand.

They both dove for it.

Draco realised, as Larsen wrestled him into the ground, that the man hadn’t wanted the knife. He had wanted Draco within reach of his monstrous bulk.

Draco was pinned. Larsen was on him, a hand at his neck, pressing every pound of his hideous weight into it.

Draco’s vision began to swim.

Larsen raised his fist.

Draco was dead.

In a kind of slow motion, he saw a small hand appear beside Larsen’s thigh.

In the small hand glinted a scalpel.

Larsen’s fist began its downward trajectory. Time slowed to a crawl. With loving precision, the scalpel was pressed deep into the upper part of Larsen’s thigh and dragged down the length of his femoral artery.

The descending fist paused. Larsen’s trousers split along the cut.

There was a gorgeous gush of blood.

Time accelerated again. Larsen turned with a snarl and knocked Granger to the floor. She tumbled away.

The damage was done. Larsen staggered to his feet – a mistake. The long wound disgorged what looked like a pint of blood.

Draco’s vision cleared. Granger was on her knees, two of the wands clutched to her chest. She was reaching for the third.

Larsen kicked her away and snatched up the remaining wand. Then he took her by the arm and heaved her up. Draco’s heart stopped – she looked so fragile, so breakable as she dangled before finding her feet.

The Viking staggered for the door, bleeding profusely, dragging Granger along, evidently planning on making an escape.

Draco disagreed with Larsen’s plan, which he indicated by throwing himself towards him, knife in hand, and severing his stupidly thick Achilles tendons, first his left, then his right.

Granger pulled her arm from Larsen’s grip as the man fell to his knees.

The Viking looked over his shoulder, at the knife and the scalpel, and at the long smear of his own blood, red-black on the grimy floor.

He half crawled, half fell out of the door. He did not know it, but it put him just outside of Granger’s perimeter.

Draco, still on his hands and knees, threw the knife.

Clutching at his wand with his bloodied hand, Larsen opened his mouth to Disapparate.

The knife hit him in the shoulder. He grunted, raised the wand again weakly – and then his jaw went slack. He – finally – fell unconscious, in a pool of his blood.

Draco and Granger both scrambled to their feet and joined him outside the perimeter. Draco pulled Larsen’s wand out of his hand; Granger passed him his own.

“He mustn’t die,” cried Granger, kneeling next to Larsen, Healing spells aglow at the tip of her wand. “I need to know why.”

Draco flung cuffs on the man and tightened them without mercy.

They sent a small menagerie of Patronuses out, summoning mediwitches, Potter and Weasley, whoever was at Auror HQ, and Tonks.

While Granger stabilised the man, Draco snatched him by the beard and snapped his head back, swiped his wand at him to open his eyes, and spat, “Legilimens.”

In his half-dead state, the Viking’s Occlumency softened. Draco gasped out his findings to Granger as he went.

“Right – what does this arsehole want from you – two things – first he wanted to scour your brain for information on anyone else who might be working on magical immunotherapy, or even Muggles who might be able to help magical researchers. And secondly–”

Draco encountered a denser Occlusive barrier. He struggled against it, then decided to take a shortcut by squeezing at Larsen’s throat until it faded away. “Secondly, when he heard that you were developing a treatment for lycanthropy, he – first he didn’t believe it – it was impossible – and then he wanted to understand how you’d isolated the virus to target it in the first place – he hasn’t been able to it isolate it, himself–”

“How did he hear about it?” asked Granger. “And why is he trying to isolate it?”

“Give us a minute,” said Draco, working through disjointed threads of memories to find answers. “He wanted to gain enough of your trust to meet you somewhere alone to read you and understand how you’d done it. You were too careful – too guarded, so he – offered to work with you so he could get in behind the scenes. He felt me read him in the café – didn’t want a confrontation – decided to prune off other researchers before coming back to you. Discovered that your protection measures had been ramped up – has been watching King’s Hall for weeks – gathered today’s group to kidnap you – was going to use Legilimency to learn how you’d isolated the virus, or torture it out of you – and then – f*cking arsehole – then kill you.”

“But why?”

“I’m getting there.” Draco plunged deeper into Larsen’s mind, where involuntary Occlusion lingered the thickest, in spite of the man’s near-unconsciousness. “He wants to kill anyone working in this field because he – doesn’t want a cure. For lycanthropy.”

He shattered another barrier, in the deepest part of Larsen’s brain, where all of his most precious secrets were kept. “Bloody hell, he’s a – he’s a f*cking werewolf. f*ck! He’s working with Greyback – Greyback told him about you.”

“What?!”

“He needs to understand how you targeted the virus because – they are trying to develop – some kind of countermeasure to you – Larsen’s lab is trying to produce – a strain of lycanthropy that can be used to infect others at any time, not only at the full moon. That’s why he needed to understand how you’d done it. They’re – they’re trying to weaponise it.”

Draco pulled out of Larsen’s mind.

He and Granger stared at one another.

The cracks of Apparitions resonated around them.

“I don’t think so,” came the voice of Tonks.

One of the Petrified men, still half-paralyzed, was dragging himself out of the house, one hand clutching his wand. Tonks’ combat boot crushed his fist into the floor.

“Get her out of here,” said Tonks.

Granger insisted upon collecting her pucks. Then, arm in bloody arm, they Apparated to the Manor.

~

At the Manor, Draco and Granger wiped the blood from their faces and held a summit meeting with Tonks, Shacklebolt, Potter, and Weasley. There was much hugging of Granger and clapping of Draco’s shoulders (he dodged the hugs).

After the expected expostulating and fussing, the six of them settled in around a pot of opimum to debrief on the incident.

Larsen and Greyback’s plans were a shock to all. There was Greyback’s usual vindictive form of madness, then there was this – a concerted effort to spread a cruel disease on a massive scale and kill any of the researchers remotely able to work out a cure. It was well beyond the scope of what any of them had thought him capable of.

“Buy me time until December,” said Granger, pale-faced.

Draco learned that Granger had been Stunned immediately upon exiting King’s Hall, which explained why he hadn’t had the slightest hint from the ring on her predicament. Goggin and the DMLE operatives had taken five men down before they were overwhelmed by their opponents’ numbers. Goggin was at St. Mungo’s, recovering from the same nasty evisceration curse that Larsen had attempted on Draco.

In attacking Granger as she left King’s Hall, her kidnappers had made use of her only real vulnerability – the sole moment when she wasn’t surrounded by wards, stepping out of the Hall to Disapparate. Shacklebolt said that he would have a word with Magical Transport to have a Floo hearth installed in Granger’s laboratory, so that she would never have to leave King’s Hall’s protective walls again.

Greyback was playing an entirely new game, now. Under the weight of Shacklebolt and Tonks’ wild-eyed stares, Granger agreed, with obvious pain, to drop her shifts at St. Mungo’s A&E. If Larsen had been bold enough for a daytime kidnapping at Trinity, there was now a real possibility that Greyback would be bold enough to stage something at A&E.

Tonks said she would advise the Danish Auror Office of Larsen’s attack, laboratory, and repugnant plans. She, Potter, and Weasley left to pump Larsen full of Veritaserum and extract whatever information he might have on Greyback’s most recent location.

Draco rose to join them, but Tonks categorically forbade it, snapped at him to sit down, and told him not to be a martyr – he’d bloody well done enough for one day.

“If you’re going anywhere, it’ll be St. Mungo’s,” she said, eyeing Draco’s various injuries.

“I’ll take care of him,” said Granger.

The summit meeting dissolved.

~

Draco and Granger showered and reconvened in one of the smaller salons, both a bit worse for the wear. Draco was limping (“That collossal f*cker was so heavy, I think I’ve ruptured a bollock”).

Henriette and Tupey hovered anxiously, offering tea, more opimum, and chocolate, until they were gently shooed out.

Granger and Draco took stock of their injuries. Mostly contusions for Granger, where she’d been thrown about and grabbed at and kicked. Wrists, arms, jaw.

The sight of the marks made Draco vacillate at the edge of a sudden descent into rage.

Something of it must have shown in his face. Granger gave him a kind of disconcerted look and healed herself with a few quick passes of her wand.

The contusions were gone. The rage remained. Draco bound it up tightly and tucked it away.

Now he found himself surrounded by the green glow of diagnostic spells as Granger began to examine him.

He looked about at the pictographs teeming with cryptic meanings.

“You’re a useful witch to have around,” said Draco.

“You’re a decent sort of wizard yourself,” said Granger. “Thank you. For today. Again.”

“Absolutely brilliant move, pulling those pucks of yours out.”

“Exceptionally glad you had a knife. Was going to throw you the scalpel.”

Granger fell quiet for a bit as she studied the diagnostics. Then she said, “I’m not very fond of being a damsel in distress.”

“You aren’t very good at it, either. I’ve never seen one open a femoral artery with such sublime exactitude.”

“He was beautifully positioned for it.”

There was a silence. Her hands were steady as she flicked her way through a few more diagnostic spells.

“You’re feeling all right?” asked Draco.

“About what? Slicing a man open?”

“Yes. And – everything.”

“At the moment, I am more angry than anything else. The opimum is palliating the rest. You?”

“Fine. Eager for revenge. Plotting Larsen’s accidental death when I interrogate him. Fantasising about Greyback’s violent murder at my hands. You know. Fine.”

Granger gave him a sidelong look. “Doesn’t fantasising about murder weaken one’s moral fibre?”

“I haven’t a single moral fibre to speak of.”

“Haven’t you?”

“No. I gave them all to the orphans.”

Granger paused. She turned away, laughed into her hands, then breathed and faced him again. “Stop being silly. We have work to do.”

No. He would not stop being silly. He liked to see her laugh. It gave him a fluttery feeling. Also, that post-adrenaline randiness was awakening, and the Granger-induced fluttery feeling kept wanting to descend to his groin.

Steady on, old boy.

Granger, happily unaware of Draco and his fluttering crotch, dismissed a few of the schemata and made an inventory of his ailments.

These consisted of a black eye, two broken ribs, a sprained knee (the bad one – of course), and a fractured jaw.

She was pleased to inform Draco that he hadn’t ruptured a bollock.

She went off to wash her hands. Then she came back and got Healery – serious and focused, with a certain authority in her bearing. “Right. Let’s get you properly fixed up. We’ll begin with those ribs. Take off your shirt.”

Draco tried not to look too delighted at the opportunity.

He was instructed to lie down on the sofa, which he did, happily. He put his hands behind his head (because it was comfortable, but also because it made his pecs pop, as a bonus for Granger). (Also, he had a rippling six pack. She was free to notice that, too.)

Granger was less interested in revelling over the Apollonian perfection before her than in muttering about Lars the Arse between incantations. Draco felt the pressure of her wand at his side and his cracked ribs became whole again, one after the other, with a muffled snap.

Granger passed him his shirt.

Her professionalism and efficiency were, frankly, abominable.

Draco put his shirt back on because Granger, dangling it between two fingers, was now wiggling it at him impatiently.

Next was his injured knee. Draco offered to take off his trousers. No, said Granger, he could just roll up his trouser leg.

Beastly.

Draco rolled up his trouser leg. She healed his knee.

Next was his black eye, which took all of a moment.

Draco cogitated. Perhaps he ought to have allowed himself to be beaten to a pulp to give Granger more trouble and more reasons to strip him down.

In a further foray into madness, he thought that perhaps he should have ruptured a bollock.

Finally, Granger came to his fractured jaw.

A glowing rendition of Draco’s skull floated in the air between them. It was very handsome and shapely, with cheekbones quite as nice as the Magdalene’s.

Along the mandible, a crack glowed in red.

Granger took in a little breath.

“It’s bigger than I thought,” said Granger.

“I’ll be gentle,” said Draco.

Granger laughed, then regained control of herself and gave him a look that was deeply unimpressed.

After studying the schema from several angles, she said that she wanted to be particularly careful healing this one, to make sure it was realigned properly and didn’t affect his bite.

Good. Finally. Be careful. Be slow. Be close.

Granger cleared off one of the side tables for Draco to sit upon.

“Pretty,” she commented as she moved an ornate hourglass out of the way.

“Do you think so? It’s my great great Uncle Snodsbury.”

“I’m sorry?”

Draco flipped over the hourglass to demonstrate. “He wanted to be cremated and still be of use.”

“…Charming.”

Draco sat on the side table. Granger stood between his knees and took his face in her hands.

This was good, thought Draco as he looked up at her. Very good.

Granger said that she knew it was going to be horribly difficult, but she needed Draco to keep his mouth closed for an entire six minutes.

This was fine by Draco. He was going to luxuriate, instead.

Granger enlarged the diagnostic image and got to work with wand movements slow and precise. Both her fingers and her wand were warm on his jaw. Draco closed his eyes and sighed, as though he were only sighing and not, you know, breathing in Granger just out of the shower. Soap, squeaky clean skin. What a pity that he couldn’t lean forwards and press his face between her breasts and inhale.

Draco’s conscience twinkled irritatingly into existence to point out that Granger had just undergone a traumatic kidnapping and was now healing him, and all he could think of was her tits? He was beastly. He was a disgrace.

Draco weighed the allurements of Granger against the burden of good behaviour.

He decided that he was indeed beastly, and a disgrace, and f*ck good behaviour, he would think about tits all he liked.

Granger shifted her weight from one foot to the other. He felt a brush of movement on the inside of his knee.

A slow-moving pleasure flowed through him.

She drew her wand tip along his jaw in deliberate lines, muttering an incantation that made things feel tighter throughout his mandible.

Also, things were feeling tighter in his trousers.

He should probably do something about that. Think about maths, or something.

Granger cast another imaging spell. “Sorry it’s so slow. I’m going to great lengths to prevent any dental misalignment.”

Draco made a “Mm” of understanding in the back of his throat.

He, too, was going to great lengths.

An Auror did not shag his Principal. He was being hideously inappropriate. He needed to calm down.

Hearing Granger mutter incantations near his ear was – stirring. Her mouth pressed into a concentrated moue, right there, was terribly enticing. The push of her wand angled under his jaw triggered some fantastically arousing hormonal combination of threat and sexy. Her focused, serious gaze gave him a thrill right down to his balls.

Everything was sexy. These were six of the sexiest minutes of Draco’s life. He wanted to snatch her up and–

“Stop smirking,” snapped Granger.

Oops.

“If this heals crooked, half of your teeth will only chew empty air,” scolded Granger. “I don’t think you’d fancy a liquid diet.”

Draco would have suggested that he could give her a few spurts of a liquid diet, if she was amenable, but alas, he couldn’t talk.

“Almost done,” said Granger, with far less tetchiness in her voice now that he was behaving himself (as far as she was concerned, anyway).

She waved a final diagnostic into existence and brushed her fingertips along his cheek as she studied it, tilting his head left, then right.

“Perfect,” she said, with evident satisfaction. “Quite as good as new. You may resume talking.”

She gave him a gentle sort of pat along the jaw.

It was the kindest touch he’d felt in years.

He was completely hard.

He was an absolute disgrace.

Granger toddled off to wash her hands.

Unlike Madam Pince, she did not make it a habit to observe his bulge. Which was excellent, because right now, it was… rather bulgy.

Draco glanced down to find that his untucked shirt camouflaged the worst of it. He disengorged himself with a wand wave and proceeded to sit there, on the side table, feeling like the world’s most reprehensible man.

Which normally wouldn’t bother him.

But Granger was so f*cking – pure-souled – and – and, just, f*ck.

Granger came back to the salon with a brisk determination in her stride.

“Right,” she said. “Since an assortment of criminals is obsessed with interrupting my work, I’d best get on with preparations for Samhain, sharpish, before I’m waylaid again. Have you a moment to look at something with me?”

Draco followed Granger up the stairs (yes, he looked at her bum) and into the guest suite. The suite’s front room had been taken over, as her cottage’s had been, by books. Her foldy computer glowed on a table.

Her cat had found a favourite perch on a high shelf, from whence it watched Draco with a kind of imperious benevolence, as of a grand vizier permitting a peasant to enter the inner sanctum for an audience with the queen.

Revelations was back on its plinth. Floating around it were stacks of Anglo-Norman dictionaries and reference texts, bristling with yellow squares of paper upon which Granger had scrawled notes.

Granger opened the ancient tome with her usual degree of care and flipped to one of the latter portions.

“Right,” said Granger, frowning at the page. “I’ve got a question about that friend of a friend who helped you find this copy of Revelations.”

“Lady Saira. What about her?”

“Do you think she would be au fait with details on other rare, alleged-to-have-disappeared-forever, items or artifacts?”

“Er – possibly,” said Draco. “She’s exceptionally well-connected.”

Granger turned to him. Her hands were clasped in front of her. She had that anxious look about her, the one she’d worn when first asking him to join her to steal Mary Magdalene’s skull.

“I mean – I could do without it. I could. But if I want to do the thing properly…”

“What is it?” asked Draco.

“Might you enquire about any rumours surrounding the location of another rare item, meant to be lost to the ages, if it ever existed at all?”

“What item?”

Granger bit her lip.

“Tell me,” said Draco.

“You’re going to think I’ve gone quite mad.”

Draco scoffed. “We’ve already established your aggravating soundness of mind. Tell me.”

Granger took a breath.

“We are looking for Pandora’s box.”

~

The small hours of the morning found Draco in his study. He sent a missive to Lady Saira, enquiring – while feeling slightly like a lunatic – about any rumours she might have heard pertaining to Pandora’s box.

This task accomplished, he brought some semblance of order to his desk and floated a bottle of Macpherson’s Rare Oak towards himself, along with a tumbler.

Then he leaned upon the chimneypiece in shirtsleeves and braces, Firewhisky in hand, and stared into the dancing flames.

The shock of the day’s events was catching up to him, now that the opimum was no longer in his system to dull it.

Granger was safe. It had been close, but she was safe.

He felt none of the feelings that typically followed close calls with Principals. Sometimes it was cockiness for having boldly pulled someone out of an impossible situation. Sometimes, if the close call had been preventable, it was a guilty stirring to do better next time. Mostly, it was simply relief.

None of that, tonight. Images repeated themselves in his mind and all he felt was nausea. Her slumped form against the wall. Moore grabbing at her. Her face, squeezed by Larsen’s massive hand. Her helpless dangle from Larsen’s arm, when he pulled her to the door.

No relief. Only this – this kind of heartsickness.

Why?

Draco stared at the fire and refused, for a long time, to put the why into words. When he did, it was with dread.

It was because, gods help him, this Principal was precious to him. And it went beyond Amortentia attractions. She mattered to him. He cared for her.

All of the things an Auror ought not feel. Worse, it was all of the vulnerabilities that Draco hated, in one tidy package.

He told himself that it wasn’t love – that was one comfort. Love was meant to be a nice thing. Butterflies and faffing about with poems and that sort of rot. This thing? This thing holding him by the throat? It was a horrid thing. He ached with it.

She shouldn’t be precious to him. She should just be – a Principal. They weren’t meant to be anything. They were meant to be colleagues at best.

He had f*cked up magnificently on that front. Gorgeously. A f*ck-up for the ages.

She should not be precious to him. And yet, she was. Being with her was divine. It appalled him. He was wretched. He was obsessed. He was mortified. Maddened. Repelled. Addicted.

He hated it. He didn’t want any part of it. He hadn’t asked for this. Other than in moments of Granger- or Amortentia-induced weakness, he knew what he wanted. He wanted to remain unattached, unconquered and free. His own man.

(It was a kind of cowardice, by the way. It was being too afraid to lose something and therefore not trying in the first place. It was pride. It was an aversion to opening up and being hurt. To giving her some part of him that she could break. Far better to remain alone and call it freedom.)

There was an out. He knew the protocols. He should speak to Tonks and resign from this assignment. Let this fade away or blow itself out.

Perhaps there would be peace on the other side.

Even as he thought it, he knew that he wouldn’t do it. Operationally, the timing of such a resignation would be simply appalling. But beyond that – f*ck the protocols. f*ck anything that might put her further away from him. He didn’t want to lose this thing. He was too selfish. He was too addicted. He wanted to continue this ongoing, endlessly careful, farouche sort of dance. Flirting that pretended not to be. Lapses that were quickly blamed on alcohol and swept under the rug.

An equilibrium, he had told Tonks.

It was true. A strained status quo. That was what he wanted to maintain. It was an approximation of happiness.

But it wasn’t quite enough, was it?

Draco pushed away from the fireplace with fresh frustration. He extinguished the fire with a slash of his wand and left his study with no real purpose to direct his restless strides.

The Manor’s stately corridors were dark. A chill October wind beat itself against the windows and rattled branches against the house.

Draco spotted movement in the shadows, coming towards him.

A white silhouette was at the end of the corridor. Her Lumos illuminated the floor in front of her as she walked.

There was a high-tailed orange blur at her ankles. Granger was letting her cat out.

She was wearing one of those negligées she had mentioned in Provence.

Draco froze where he stood. Part of him wished to pivot and flee and not subject himself to what was sure to be another torturous encounter. Two hours of brooding had not made his cock forget that afternoon’s travails. At this rate, she could probably just brush a fingertip on his cheek and he’d be hard.

Part of him very much wanted to inspect this negligée in person and proceed with his journey of education in, and appreciation of, Muggle fashion.

Look at him. He had just spent hours browbeating himself, and here he was, vacillating, instead of doing the obvious right thing.

He was a hopeless wretch.

Granger jumped, a hand upon her breast, when she noticed him.

“Oh – it’s you. Did I disturb you?” she asked in a whisper. “Sorry – Crooks needs a wee.”

“I was just finishing up,” said Draco in an equally low voice. If they woke the elves, there would be a fuss and offers of midnight snacks and other botheration.

“How is the pestilence of incompetence treating you?” asked Granger.

“Abysmally. Where do you let the cat out?”

“Just through here,” said Granger.

She yawned into the back of her hand, looking half asleep as she led him to one of the salons. He drifted in her wake. Her legs were a pale flash in the darkness. Her hair was a mess of partially unwound plait, draped over a shoulder.

The silky negligée clung to her hips, her bum, her breasts. She was barefoot.

It was – gorgeous. Tempting. Everything.

An Auror did not shag his Principal.

But bloody hell, would he be admiring from behind.

He watched the sway of her hips, the matching sway of the fabric, the shape of her calves. The delicacy of her ankles, felt under his fingers so long ago, now – and yet he still remembered the feeling, the detail of every edge and dip.

He smelled antiseptic and a struck match.

He should have pivoted and fled.

Granger reached one of the terrace doors, lifted sheer curtains aside, and slid the pane open. The cat trotted out.

“I’ll have a cat flap put in here,” said Draco. “If he knows this way.”

“Oh, that’s really not necessary.”

“I’d prefer not to have you roving about at night, alone.”

“Tsk. The Manor is perfectly safe, or so I’ve been told. You’re the greatest threat I’ve encountered in all of my nighttime rovings.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. You looked fearsomely irascible, just then.”

“You caught me on a bad night.”

“Oh? Are you generally quite cheerful at half three in the morning?”

“Relentlessly.”

“Mm,” said Granger, sleepy amusement upon her lips.

She yawned into her hands again, then opened the door to see where the cat had got to.

There was a witchery in the trees, stripped of their leaves, stretching bare arms to the black sky.

The wind gusted the curtains about in a ghostly dance. With it came the melancholy smell of autumn at night – wet, heavy with something uncanny.

Samhain was near. The veil between worlds was growing thin.

Granger shuddered and slid the door shut.

Draco did not look down. He was one hundred percent certain that there would be nipples visible through the negligée’s fine silk and he did not wish to know a single sodding thing about Granger’s breasts, other than the information he had already gleaned here and there.

He did not want to know. At all. No more details, thanks.

Draco stood, fixed in a limbo, torn between bidding her good night – that would be the safest thing, the wise thing, the right thing – and wanting to stay. That would be masochistic and reckless and stupid.

The latter won out, of course. Flagellant that he was, Draco remained.

He needed to maintain the equilibrium – that was all.

He cast about for something to say. No ideas were forthcoming, except for comments about her tits. Brilliant.

Draco shook his brain about until something usable fell out, and, finally, he said: “The negligée is superior to the picnic rug.”

He heard Granger’s breath of amusement. “The picnic rug is being washed.” She looked down at the negligée. “I’m pleased you approve – it’s terribly Muggle.”

Draco made eye contact with her – a normal amount of eye contact, and no looking down – and then looked away again. “I’ve rather begun to appreciate Muggle fashions.”

“A moment of genuine personal development,” said Granger with solemn approval.

“One mustn’t lie idle, you know – one must continue to grow.”

“Onwards and upwards.”

“Expansion.”

“Transformation.”

Now Draco was concentrating so hard on the appropriate ratio of looking away to eye contact (sans tits) that he was finding the conversation difficult to follow.

He also felt like they might be talking about p*nises. Again.

There was a smile playing at the corner of Granger’s mouth.

Kidnap attempts notwithstanding, her time with him in the Manor was serving her well. She was fuller in the face, rosier about the cheeks. Her dimple was back.

“The picnic rug would make excellent donation fodder for the orphans,” said Draco.

“You always have the orphans’ best interests at heart, haven’t you?”

“What heart?” asked Draco.

“You have one – it might be a little, black, shrivelled up thing, but it’s there.”

“I suppose. And yes – I am selfless that way.”

“Draco Malfoy, the salt of the earth.”

(His name on her lips gave him a little frisson. He wanted to make her say it, again and again and again, sigh it, groan it, kiss it out on his mouth.)

Draco peered out into the darkness. “How long does it take for a cat to have a wee?”

“He’ll be back soon. He’s getting old – it takes him a bit, sometimes.”

“How old is he?”

“I’m not sure. He was probably a few years old when I got him in third year.”

“Third year? My word. You’ve had the bugger for a long time.”

“I have. Kneazles can live up to fifty years in captivity and he’s half one – I’d like to hope he’s got a few good years left.”

Granger drifted to a window that gave onto the other side of the terrace and looked out. “Oh – he’s hunting. Well, attempting to. My poor darling.”

Granger propped her elbows upon the window ledge to watch.

And Draco, World Champion Idiot, decided to crowd in behind her to look out, too.

Because, obviously, that was an excellent idea. Getting close to her never led to complications.

The cat’s bandy-legged form was low in the grass outside, making repeated failed pounces at some creature or other.

“A mouse, do you think?” asked Granger.

“Or a shrew, or a gnome. You ought to charge me for pest control services, if he catches anything.”

“Only if you charge me for my stay here.”

“Certainly not.”

“Occasional life saving services and bed and board.” Granger sighed. Her breath made a mist upon the cold window pane. “I am a nauseating imposition.”

Actually, she was a cherished presence who added a vast pleasure to life in the Manor.

Disgustingly saccharine, that.

“Those things fall under the heading of keeping Granger safe,” said Draco. “Which is my job, while you work to cure the incurable.”

“Right. But I don’t like feeling indebted to y–” Granger interrupted herself to gasp “–Oh! I think he caught it – look!”

Draco could have looked out of the window just next to her. But no – his idiot brain desired to look out of that one. The one she stood at. Obviously.

Sickening, how little resistance he had when he was near her.

He pushed aside the curtain and leaned over her shoulder to look out. He felt the brush of her hair against his chin.

The cat had something in its mouth.

“…That’s a leaf,” said Draco.

Granger laughed. The cat strode proudly across the lawn with its prize held high. Then it was distracted by another leaf, and dropped the first, and crouched into a prowl.

“Oh – he’s trying again. You needn’t stay – this may take a bit.”

“I don’t mind. This is entertaining.”

Granger looked over her shoulder at him. “Really? All right.”

The wind whipped around the house in fitful groans. The waxing moon glowed above the black line of the trees, a fine silver crescent.

Granger’s smooth shoulder was – so close. Draco found himself staring at it, at the fine strap that held up her negligée, at the wind-blown shadows that played upon her skin.

“You aren’t in my debt in any capacity,” said Draco, to return to the subject.

“Kind of you to say so, though it doesn’t make it true,” said Granger.

“Would you like us to make a list to tally things?”

“Do you think I haven’t already conducted that exercise?”

“Of course you have.”

“I know – I’m exasperating,” said Granger.

“Thank you, yes, you are. What was the outcome?”

“Until today, close, but in your favour; I only gave myself half a point for the Talfryn lead. But you’ve pulled ahead significantly with today’s life-saving.”

“Have I? Excellent. I like winning.”

“Mm. Would you mind toddling off to do something moderately life-threatening?” asked Granger with a vague wave of her hand. “Choke on a Cheesy Wotsit, or something?”

Draco laughed. His next breath carried the scent of her shampoo to his nose.

He crept in closer, to look at the cat (obviously), who was murdering the leaf with extreme feline violence.

“When I was at St. Mungo’s and having those hallucinations, I saw him fighting the Nundu,” said Draco.

He was close enough to feel the warmth coming off her, now, through that fine silk, and through his shirt, and against his chest.

Granger had gone rather still. “Did you?”

“Yes. Over and over, in circles. He was fierce. He won, in the end.”

The cat scampered off around the corner.

Granger pressed her wand to the glass and sent out a Lumos, illuminating the lawn.

They both leaned forward to observe the next hunt. Now he could feel the silk of her negligée sliding against the fabric of his shirt. Now he could feel the brush of her backside against the front of his trousers. The button at his fly caught at the small of her back.

Maintain the equilibrium. Maintain the f*cking equilibrium.

He put a hand on the window ledge.

Granger’s breath was coming a bit faster – the faint patches that misted against the window gave her away.

The feel of her was so – pleasurable – tempting – ambrosial.

What was it about this witch?

Why were the forbidden things the sweetest?

“That–” began Draco, then he cleared his throat, because his voice had gone husky. “That neurotransmission cocktail you had me on, at St. Mungo’s.”

“What about it?” asked Granger, a kind of breathiness in her voice.

“It lowers inhibitions?”

“Yes.”

“So – people speak the truth, when they’re on it?”

“Of a sort. It affects certain inhibitory interneurons in the cerebral cortex.” This breathless professory voice was a new one – Draco liked it. “It removes the usual filters. Most people enter a state of feel-good disinhibition.”

“So when I said I wanted to kiss you, you knew that it was true. It wasn’t just – delirium.”

Granger glanced up over her shoulder at him. Her eyes were dark.

Since when was a look between them so heavy?

She nodded.

“It’s a similar effect to alcohol, I suppose,” said Draco.

“A different mechanism, but yes.”

“I’ve had three Firewhiskies,” said Draco.

He hadn’t a sodding clue where he was going with this.

She did.

“And,” said Granger, “do you still want to kiss me?”

The world stopped spinning.

He took a moment to answer – as though there would be any other answer than a longing-filled affirmative.

He brushed a fingertip at the place where her shoulder and neck met. “Yes. Just here.”

“Do.”

The world resumed its spinning. Too fast. His brain was a blur.

What equilibrium? He had never heard of that word in his life.

He lifted her unfurling plait out of the way. He permitted himself the caress of a finger from the side of her neck down to her shoulder, where the strap of the negligée lay delicately upon her skin. His fingertip went over the strap, though the real urge was to slip it underneath, and pull it off her shoulder.

The light of her Lumos faltered, then went out.

He lowered his face to her, felt the warmth of skin, breathed her in – sleepiness and the scent of a candle just burnt.

He brushed his mouth against the spot, much looked at, much longed-after. He felt her shudder against him, saw her silent, gasped-out breath dissipate against the cold window.

He pressed a kiss to the side of her neck. Under his lips, a memory of the night in the garden – the softness of rose petals.

His other hand found the window ledge. Now she was deliciously trapped between his arms. Now she would not be going anywhere.

Not that she wanted to escape. She was pressing herself against him, her head against his shoulder, her bum – oft imagined, never yet felt – against his groin. He splayed a hand against it and squeezed and felt her surprised jump.

He kissed the side of her neck again, then moved – delicious, delicious – up to just under her ear. From there he could look down and see her clavicle, and the swell of breasts – the exact shape of them, and, yes, the push of nipples under silk, and the fine line of shadow where her breasts pressed together, and the beat of her pulse at the dip between her collarbones. Not fast enough, yet, to echo through his ring-finger, but there, fluttering under skin, and if he were to turn her towards him, he could feel it under his lips.

He didn’t know where to go from here – he knew exactly where to go from here – he didn’t know if he should – he knew he shouldn’t – he was drenched in endorphins, skin-addicted, pounding-hearted, mind-obliviated–

She sighed and backed herself into him further, there was the press of her arse against him, and he was hard, obviously, and he pushed against her, and she made a pleased sound in the back of her throat, but they shouldn’t – they shouldn’t.

She reached up and slid her fingers under the strap of the brace at his shoulder. He slipped an arm around her waist and snatched her against him, and kissed hard kisses at the nape of her neck, and kisses that were more bite than kiss into her shoulder, and her shudder and gasp were the sweetest thing. She lifted her other hand over her head and dug her fingers into his hair, and rubbed herself against his erection, and it was his turn to hold back a gasp.

“I’m f*cking fourteen again and I’m going to finish in my pants, if you keep that up,” he muttered into her neck.

Granger breathed out a breathy kind of whine and she swept her bum against his cock again. “I – god – but we – we really–”

“–Shouldn’t?” ground out Draco between teeth.

“No. We shouldn’t.”

“We shouldn’t,” repeated Draco, hating himself. “I think that would be – wise.”

“I don’t want to be wise. I want to be stupid.”

“You’re Granger. That’s a – contradiction in terms.”

She removed her hand from his hair – tragic. “You’re right. I – I don’t know what’s come over me–”

(Not Draco, anyway, and more was the pity.)

“We are in the midst of a bloody werewolf resurgence,” said Granger.

“Yes.”

“They are actively trying to kill me.”

“Yes.”

“I was literally kidnapped, today.”

“Yes.”

“I am working on the most intellectually demanding project I have ever worked on – possibly the most challenging I shall ever work on in my lifetime.”

“Yes.”

“I haven’t a brain cell to spare – I haven’t any additional mental capacity to dedicate to anything else–”

“Yes. Of course. We mustn’t add further complications to an – an already fraught situation.”

“Yes,” said Granger. “It could make things – so much more difficult.”

“Yes.”

“So – we shouldn’t.”

“We shouldn’t.”

Granger groaned into her palms. “What is wrong with me…”

“Tell me when you’ve worked it out,” said Draco. “I suffer from the same – ailment.”

“Unbridled idiocy is my tentative diagnosis.” Granger was still breathless. “Right. Okay. All right. This was a dream and it did not happen.”

“Fine. I’ve never felt more awake in my life, but fine.”

“You’re asleep, and so am I.”

“Fine. This didn’t happen.”

There was a muffled meow.

The bloody cat had finally seen fit to come back to the house. It sat outside the terrace door, staring at them.

Draco wondered how much it had seen.

He and Granger stepped away from each other. The new distance seemed cruel and cold.

Draco’s cock was weeping, in all senses of the word.

Granger let the cat in. Her face was flushed, her eyes wide and dark.

She left the room and did not look back.

Draco turned to leave, then he froze. There, amongst the usual burnt-candle waft that trailed Granger, was the unmistakable scent of female arousal.

Draco went off to sin.

~

He closed his bedroom door and leaned against it, opened his fly, and freed his dripping cock. They had been closer than they had ever been, and the Granger-induced endorphins in his blood made the fantasy so easy, so within reach – he had smelled her, he knew what she smelled like, when she was wet.

The fantasy was an easy continuation of the scene downstairs – he imagined turning her to him, and lifting her so that she sat on the window ledge, and pulling down the straps of the negligée so that her lovely tits were, finally, exposed to him. His mouth would be all over those, from the soft undersides to the nipples that had teased him through silk, which he would tease in turn through tongue and the press of fingertips. And she would edge forward on the window ledge and hold up the silky skirts of the negligée, and offer herself to him, wet, and he would take the offering, with kisses and tongue and fingers in a rhythm slow at first, and then faster. He wanted to taste the place where that arousal had come from, he wanted it all over his chin. And then he’d find the angle she liked best, and she would gasp out some instruction – don’t stop, or yes, and he would feel the twitch and spasm of her against his fingers and against his mouth.

The image put him over the edge. He gasped and pulled back on his cock with one final squeeze and his orgasm was on him in one, two, three, four spurts.

Several million Malfoy heirs were splattered onto the floor.

Oops.

His heart thundered. He fought to regain control of his breathing.

There was an echo of a heartbeat in the ring.

It was hers.

He was not the only sinner that night.

 

In spite of his Occlumency, Larsen had been so marinated in Veritaserum by Tonks that he produced an excellent series of leads. The next day, the hunter became the hunted. Potter and the WTF came close twice, cornering Greyback in a cabin in the Lake District and then again in a hideaway in the Shetland Islands. He only just slipped out of their grasp both times. Potter raged. The silver lining was that Greyback was running out of secure boltholes, as Larsen had compromised a half-dozen locations. That silver lining was tempered by a worry amongst the Aurors that he was going to become increasingly desperate and escalate.

Draco was given leave to scour the Viking’s brain in a day-long interrogation session while the WTF hunted, to see what else he could find.

Tonks joined him in the interrogation room, along with Brimble.

Larsen, bound hand and foot to a chair, glared balefully at them.

“Good morning,” said Tonks to Larsen with a frightening kind of brightness. “Lovely chat yesterday, thank you again. Have you had a think about any other bits and bobs you’d like to share with us? Locations? Plans? Any machinations against Healer Granger that we ought to know about?”

Larsen stared at her in stony silence.

“Otherwise,” continued Tonks, “we’ve received Ministerial permission to proceed with a spot of Legilimency. If you haven’t any more information to offer willingly, Auror Malfoy will be fetching it directly from the source.”

“Fetch it, then,” said Larsen.

“Brimble, make a note that Larsen has declined to cooperate,” said Tonks.

Larsen turned his stare to Draco and spat at his feet.

The defiance delighted Draco: Larsen was going to put up a fight.

“Do that again and I shall cast a Dessicatus directly into your throat,” said Draco, drawing a stool towards Larsen.

He held his wand to the centre of Larsen’s forehead and said, “Legilimens.”

Larsen was arrogant. Legilimens were rare and good ones were even rarer. Now that he was no longer bleeding out, his sophisticated Occlumency barriers were firmly back in place, except where the residual effects of yesterday’s Veritaserum softened them at the edges.

He had good reason to be arrogant. As Draco pushed into his mind, he had to admit that Larsen’s defences were impressive – a vast, nigh-impenetrable wall.

The resistance gave Draco an excuse to be rough and cruel, and rough and cruel he was. He cracked. He tore. He smashed. He had every advantage – the magical push of his wand, Larsen’s lingering Veritaserum, the pent-up rage fuelling his assault – and he used them.

The more Larsen resisted, the more Draco hurt him. Before long, Draco had given the Viking contusions throughout his mind to match those that he had left on Granger’s body.

In the silence of the interrogation room, the battle of wills raged. Draco could feel Larsen reeling in surprise at the violence of the battering. He had underestimated both Draco’s Legilimency and his sheer force of will when it came to this particular subject. He paid for it.

Larsen’s nose began to bleed. Brimble twitched. Tonks said nothing.

Larsen, feeling his barriers fade, began to offer Draco images – distractions, fabrications. Draco did not want those. He swept them away and hammered at the wall.

He found a fissure. He pried it open and broke through.

Larsen pulled his memories into darker recesses. Draco dragged them back out.

Draco riffled through the memories, pausing occasionally when Larsen scrambled to put up a barrier, with increasingly diminishing returns for his effort.

It had been Larsen who had wandered too close to Granger’s cottage, many months ago, for a spot of reconnaissance.

Draco found conversations between Greyback and Larsen. Larsen considered Greyback a hot tempered old fool, but useful for the sheer man-power that he and his pack offered.

He found arguments about Granger. Greyback, when he had learned of the rumours surrounding her treatment, had simply wanted to kill her. Larsen was the one who had devised the grander plans.

The notion of creating a variant of the lycanthropy virus had made Greyback wild with delight. He had been so eager to confirm that Granger had actually isolated the virus that he had ordered the cack-handed break-in attempt. It had infuriated Larsen, who asked furiously what Greyback thought his brainless louts would discover in a scientific laboratory run by Britain’s foremost magical researcher. Now they’d ramp up the security measures – now everything would be more difficult. They almost had a permanent falling-out, then – almost duelled each other – but each needed the other more than he wanted to kill him.

Draco pressed and searched, but Larsen did not know who had informed Greyback of Granger’s project. Greyback had been careful enough, there. And, by design and mutual agreement, Larsen only knew of a handful of Greyback’s hideouts, most of which had already been discovered by Tonks the day before. A pity. Draco dictated a few additional locations to Brimble as he found them.

Then Draco found memories of himself – first as the pilot at the pub, doting on Granger, and then as the Auror putting his life on the line for her, during the knife fight. He saw the wildness in own eyes when he told Larsen, “She’s definitely worth what I’m going to do to you,” saw how it fed every subsequent blow and stab.

Larsen had concluded that Draco was some kind of mad-eyed lover of Granger’s. Linked to that thought were more memories, shrouded by fear of discovery, that Larsen wished to hide from Draco in particular. As Draco approached them, Larsen grew panicky.

“Don’t,” said Larsen, throwing up a final, desperate barrier.

Draco did.

He found memories of conversations between Larsen and Greyback, drunkenly discussing what they would do with Granger when they’d got what they needed out of her. They were graphic. They were vile.

“You bloody swine,” spat Draco.

Then came Larsen’s imaginings themselves, beyond the memories of the conversations.

Draco came close to losing control.

Blood oozed from Larsen’s tear-ducts.

Tonks put her hand on Draco’s shoulder.

The Larsen who was escorted out of the interrogation room did not have the mental acuity of the one who had entered it.

He never fully recovered.

In the days that followed, the Viking was extradited to Denmark. The Danish Aurors, having learned of Larsen’s plans, did not muck about. Their Head Auror, himself a lycanthrope, took a deep personal offence to Larsen’s revolting project. Larsen’s laboratory was raided, evidence removed, contents documented – then the Danes proceeded with a bold renovation project in the form of blowing the entire place up.

~

Lady Saira reported that, by and large, her queries about Pandora’s box were greeted by tittering – until, one day in late October, she sent a note with a wisp of a rumour about a reclusive collector, a Frenchman living in Spain called le Marquis d’Artois.

With a bit of jauntiness in his step, Draco went off in search of Granger to convey the good news.

Granger had taken to long walks through the Manor’s grounds to stave off lab-induced cabin fever. Draco found her near the Hippocampus fountain, casting a warming charm upon herself to ward off the chill.

She smiled when she saw him. He said glurkk to himself.

Draco fell into step beside her and only half-listened as she spoke. The other half of his brain was occupied by the shape of her mouth and the play of the sun in her hair.

Today, the Floo hearth had been installed at her laboratory, open only to bilateral travel between the Manor and the lab. The Floo technician had not recognised Granger – he thought the nice young lady was a graduate student – and he had been so impressed by her incisive questions on the Floo creation process that he offered her a job as a trainee on the spot.

“I had to decline,” Granger sighed wistfully. “But it was tempting. I wonder what it’d be like to have a proper nine to five, you know – a normal job.”

“Too bad,” said Draco. “You can’t leave off saving the world halfway through. It simply wouldn’t be sporting.”

He gave her Lady Saira’s note. “We’ve got a lead on Pandora’s box.”

Granger skimmed through the missive.

“A few details worthy of note,” said Draco as Granger read. “The Marquis never sells anything, never loans anything to museums, and never offers viewings of his collection. Only buys things on occasion – and when he does, nothing less than the rarest magical artefacts interest him.”

“He never sells things? Of course he doesn’t. Why would this be simple?”

“He’s known for it – rather disliked for it, actually – in collector circles. He has one of the greatest collections of arcane objects on the planet and not a single one has left his possession after acquisition. No sales, no bartering for other relics. Greedy sort of bugger, by all accounts.”

Granger walked pensively along the leaf-strewn path. “That doesn’t leave us many options, then, does it? We may once again have to do evil, so that good may follow.”

“Ooh. I believe that you’re about to suggest something naughty.”

“You sound titillated,” said Granger, holding back a smile.

“I am.”

“May I safely assume that your moral stance on thievery hasn’t shifted since Provence?”

“That did nothing but whet my appetite for it.”

Granger’s look was a mixture of relief and reproof. “You’re an Auror. Hadn’t you better think twice?”

“Darling, I don’t even think once.” Draco flipped his hair. “I’m an absolute maverick, you know. I’ve half a mind to quit the Auror business and become a gentleman thief. Let’s steal the box – that would be quite a feather in my cap.”

“I don’t really want Pandora’s box, though. I want what’s in it.”

“What’s in it?”

“Hope.”

“…Are we taking Hesiod’s myth quite so literally?” asked Draco with his eyebrows raised.

Granger nodded. “Revelations hasn’t misled me yet. Do you remember the final step, when brewing Sanitatem?”

“No. I’ve never brewed it.”

“It’s a ten minute stir, accompanied by a kind of meditation over the cauldron by the potioneer. Speramus is the incantation – ‘we hope.’ The strongest Sanitatem is made with the strongest infusion of hope in that final stage. Pandora’s box would contain it in its purest form. As with every other element, the same ingredient class, but the magical potencies would be stronger by hundreds of orders of magnitude.”

“Right. So what’s the plan?”

Granger grew pensive. “This Marquis d’Artois likes exceedingly rare things?”

“He does. A pity we returned the Magdalene’s skull – that would have tempted the man, I’m sure. We could have got an audience, at least – and had a poke about his hacienda.”

Granger shook her head. “If we hadn’t returned her, I expect we’d be dead by now. Those nuns would have been out for blood. Have you any sort of ancient family possession that might intrigue the Marquis enough to grant us an interview? The rings?”

“Versions of those exist amongst many old families. They’re rare enough, but not so unique that they’d interest someone like the Marquis.”

“I don’t suppose your Uncle Snodsbury’s hourglass has any magical properties?”

“Er – sometimes, it gets flatulent.”

Granger gasped out a cackle, then attempted to find her dignity again. “Really.”

“It’s true.”

“Right. Well, unless the Marquis has a specific interest in borborygmus, I don’t think that will be of much use.”

Granger grew silent and thoughtful as they weaved through tree trunks and heaps of red-gold leaves.

Draco ran through his mental inventory of the Malfoy family heirlooms, of which there were many – jewels and weapons and diverse thingummies – but none were quite in the league of items that would impress a collector as discerning as the Marquis.

Granger cut into his reverie with an explosion of a revelation: “I know where the Elder Wand is.”

Draco walked into a tree, tripped on a forgotten rake, and fell into an enormous pile of leaves.

“What?” he said, popping his head out of the leaves, while also making a note to sack the groundskeeper.

Granger leaned contemplatively against a tree and took stock of the situation. “What you’ve done there, Malfoy, is gone arse over tit.”

Then, with the smugness of one who has been waiting to exert her revenge for months, she explained various laws of physics that he hadn’t quite applied correctly, including the importance of not wedging one’s overlarge feet under gardening implements.

She had made a critical error, however: unlike Granger in a pit in Provence, Draco had his wand.

He waved it at her and dragged her into the leaves with him.

Her indignant shriek made everything that followed worthwhile – her landing on top of him and elbowing him in the solar plexus (he was ninety percent certain that it was accidental), the handful of leaves she shoved into his face, the dirt and twigs in his hair.

Draco defended himself from her leaves with his own fistfuls of them, which caught in her hair as she struggled to get away from him.

“How dare you – I just washed my hair–!” shrieked Granger.

She attempted to roll off of Draco and kneed him in the balls instead.

“Grkqp,” said Draco, curling his legs in.

He fell into a silent, ball-cupping paroxysm.

Granger froze with a gasp. “Oh my god – Malfoy, I’m so sorry – I didn’t mean to–”

She fluttered above him anxiously.

“M’fine,” said Draco.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Granger was looking at him with wide-eyed compassion.

“You can – explain to my mother – why she will never have grandchildren–”

Perhaps he shouldn’t have splattered them upon the floor so liberally.

He felt better after a few more breaths. The pain receded. The bollock was unruptured. Probably. Perhaps he ought to make Granger check, to be safe.

Also, by the way, Granger, poised above him, her hands planted in leaves on either side of his head? She was a nymph, crowned in wine-red oak. She was the loveliness of autumn, the warmth of a hearth-fire against chill evenings, the elusiveness of summer’s last goodbye, lined with golden sun.

Enchanting. The want – to pull her down on top of him, to kiss her – was searing. But one dallied with nymphs at one’s peril. Draco merely drank in the loveliness.

The want fractured his soul.

It was fine.

The nymph almost hit him in the balls again as she rose.

They found their feet.

“The bloody Elder Wand?” prompted Draco, casting Evanesco upon the remains of a squashed worm on his arse.

Granger plucked leaves from her hair. “Yes. It’s irreparably broken, of course – Harry snapped it in half – but would something like that interest the Marquis?”

“One of the Deathly Hallows? Obviously. Broken or not, that is an Artefact.”

“I’d have to ask for Harry’s permission to use it as our bargaining chip. If he says yes, it shouldn’t be too complicated to obtain. It’s unguarded, as far as I know.”

“The Elder Wand? Unguarded? Are you serious?”

“Yes.” Granger glanced at him. “D’you fancy nipping out to raid a tomb, as a – a cheeky little warm-up for a larger heist?”

“Let’s,” said Draco, wildly intrigued.

At the Manor, Granger Flooed Potter, who gave his blessing for the use of the remains of the Elder Wand, indicating that he, frankly, did not care what they did with it, just get Granger’s bloody project done, for god’s sake, before they were all turned into werewolves.

That night, Draco and Granger popped into Hogsmeade, from whence they wandered into the Hogwarts grounds and, Disillusioned, contemplated life and death piously over Dumbledore’s tomb.

Draco, being a clumsy sort of wizard, accidentally dismantled all of the tomb’s wards, and tripped over, and pushed off the enormous marble slab that covered the grave. Then the Elder Wand fell, quite by chance, into Granger’s hand, and she, out of sheer ineptitude, created a perfect duplicate of it, and, by absolute happenstance, dropped the duplicate into the tomb, and they left with the Elder Wand in her pocket without noticing that it had fallen in.

After some deliberation, they decided that Draco should request an introduction to the Marquis via Lady Saira. Their hope was that the Malfoy name, along with his offer of the remains of the Elder Wand, might carry sufficient cachet and credibility to intrigue the Marquis.

It worked. The Marquis wrote a brief missive to Draco, delivered by a gorgeous lyrebird, inviting him to Málaga. The Marquis proposed a hotel on the waterfront for the meet. Draco countered with worries about his personal safety, given the value of the object he would be carrying with him, and invited the Marquis to the Manor instead. As they had hoped, the Marquis declined the trip to England, but offered his own villa as a meeting place, if Mr. Malfoy would be more inclined to meet there? His only request would be that Mr. Malfoy comply with his security measures and come alone.

Granger pursed her lips while reading the last bit, bent over Draco’s shoulder. “Reply in the positive. We’ll find a way to circumvent that particular bit of buggery. You certainly can’t do this alone, absolute maverick or no.”

“Can’t I?”

“No.”

“What an abhorrent lack of faith. What are you thinking, then?”

“I’ve got a few ideas,” said Granger.

Now she was eyeing Draco speculatively, twirling her wand between her fingers.

Draco did not like the feeling.

They packed the Elder Wand, with a silken ribbon around its snapped middle, into a gorgeous case of satin and Grenadil wood.

The wand was inert in Draco’s hand as he nestled it into the case. “Kindling, really. Not even a spark left.”

“It might still have the power to do one last bit of good,” said Granger.

~

The International Floo to Málaga took six minutes. Granger emerged from it with the tender green tint of a young asparagus.

A bored immigration wizard observed her, then gave Draco forms to fill out for him and his esposa, as well as a sick bag.

For his profession, Draco put, “Ne’er-do-well / Absolute Maverick,” and for Granger’s, “Arsonist.”

She was too bilious to notice.

The Marquis lived just outside of one of the Pueblos Blancos along Spain’s southern coast. Draco and Granger took a room in a village a few kilometres away to finalise their preparations for the heist.

The designated time found Draco and Granger striding up the drive to the d’Artois villa.

Well, Granger strode. Draco trotted along next to her, a long feathery tail swishing elegantly behind him.

Because, yes. Draco had been Transfigured into a Borzoi.

And Granger was Draco.

Draco, observing Granger-Draco from his new height just at her waist, told himself that there was no way he walked with quite so much hip.

Really made his bum pop, though.

He had such a perfect arse.

They came to the end of the drive. The Marquis’ house wasn’t a villa at all – the thing was, frankly, another Alhambra, nestled into the Andalusian hills.

Enormous gates swung open as they approached. Pairs of guards, armed with wands and ceremonial swords, flanked the drive at regular intervals and observed them wordlessly as they passed.

“Cheery lot,” muttered Granger-Draco to Draco.

They walked through splendid gardens rich with almond trees, lemon groves, cascading fountains, and dazzling flowers of every colour. Exotic fowl strutted about – peacocks, pheasants, demoiselle cranes.

They came to the villa’s front doors. A black-robed butler greeted Granger-Draco – a tall, well-built sort of butler, whose gait and breadth of shoulders suggested something more of the bodyguard than the manservant. His wand was holstered at his forearm and the strategic once-over he gave Granger-Draco told Draco that he knew what he was about.

They followed the butler through a series of courtyards, crossing over ponds glittering with golden koi.

Granger-Draco, holding the Elder Wand’s box under her arm as she strode, was doing an excellent job of looking Malfoyishly unimpressed by any of it. Draco heard her sniff.

They arrived at an anteroom, at the end of which glittered a translucent sort of wall – a magical shield of some kind.

A small figure, slightly distorted by the wall, appeared. It spoke with an aristocratic, accented voice: “Mr. Malfoy, welcome. I do hope that your travels did not fatigue you. Can François proceed with the usual checks, for my peace of mind?”

Granger-Draco inclined her head and replied in French. “Monsieur le Marquis. A pleasure. Please proceed. I am eager to begin our discussion.”

The butler cast a series of weapon revelation spells on Granger-Draco, exposing her wand and the knife that Draco typically had strapped to his thigh.

The butler proffered a tray, upon which Granger-Draco placed these items.

Draco’s wand was subject to an identification spell, which glowingly confirmed that Mr. Draco Lucius Malfoy was its owner.

The butler asked Granger-Draco what was in the flask at her hip.

“Only water,” said Granger-Draco, proffering it to him for inspection.

The flask was subjected to five spells before the butler was satisfied that its contents were innocuous.

The Elder Wand’s box was opened and similarly subjected to detection spells, to no effect.

“I presume you have no objections to François keeping hold of your wand and knife? Only for the duration of our chat, of course,” said the Marquis from behind his shield.

After Granger-Draco’s gesture of agreement, François slipped the wand and knife into his robes.

“I do appreciate your patience with my foibles,” said the Marquis. “May I enquire about the dog?”

“My familiar,” said Granger-Draco, stroking Draco’s sleek head. “He can wait here, if that is your wish.”

“Oh, no. I understand the urge to keep one’s precious things by one’s side, you know – more than anyone. Is the creature good tempered? I shall have François run a few spells on it, and then we can proceed.”

François cast a few spells at Draco, including Finite Incantatem and an Animagus detection charm.

Nothing happened.

Draco wagged his tail and let his tongue loll out of his mouth.

“Excellent,” said the Marquis. “The dog is a dog. Let them through, François.”

Draco breathed a doggy sigh of relief. Inspired by the pelt of the Oisín hind, Granger had rigged what she called ‘a kind of Faraday cage’ out of her anti-magic pucks and some wiring. The rig was now strapped to his body, covered by his thick fur. They had tested it at length. It wouldn’t deflect serious curses, but lighter spells at a distance seemed to fizzle out within the perimeter.

The butler lowered the shimmering wall, revealing the Marquis. Draco trotted at Granger-Draco’s side and took stock of the man. He was slight of build and garbed in a violet suit that was tastefully tailored, though the cut of it seemed almost antique. A pair of bright blue eyes sparkled with intelligence in a face that seemed, strangely, both old and young.

To Draco’s doggishly overzealous nose, he reeked of fine cigars – and gold.

“A Borzoi, is it?” said the Marquis, looking at Draco. “Noble animal. Unusual breed. What’s his name?”

Granger-Draco glanced down at Draco with her eyebrows raised. “His name? It’s – Crotch.”

“Krrotche?” repeated the Marquis in a strong French accent.

“Yes. It means clever, in – er, Mermish. I didn’t name him. ”

“How came you by him?”

“Friends in St. Petersburg.”

“Oh? What friends? I’ve got some connections there.”

“The – Mikhailovs.”

“Mm. I haven’t the pleasure of their acquaintance.”

Draco bounded forwards and put his head under the Marquis’ hand, in an attempt to distract the man from further prying.

The Marquis looked pleased and gave him a few pats. “Quite a happy chappy, eh? Yes. You are a good boy.”

Draco trotted ahead, sniffing about, wondering if he should piss on something for added authenticity.

They came to a new courtyard, pierced at regular intervals by thin wooden columns. At the centre of it all was an elegant arrangement of furniture.

The Marquis raised his hand and François, who had been lurking unseen, advanced with drinks.

“Would Krotche like a biscuit?” asked the Marquis.

“No, that’s quite all right. He’s on a special diet.”

“Oh?”

“He’s – constipated.”

“Ah. Poor fellow.”

Draco wagged his tail as though nothing gave him more joy than constipation.

Granger-Draco took a glass of wine from François and swirled it with a haughty gesture.

Draco was not that haughty.

“How do you find it?” asked the Marquis when Draco had tasted it.

“I tend to prefer my wines more – full-bodied,” said Granger-Draco with a sniff. “But this is excellent.”

One of the Marquis’ eyebrows twitched at this faint praise. “I see.” He examined his own glass. “I am afraid I cannot linger too long. I am rather busy this evening.”

Granger-Draco produced an excellent insincere smile. “I would be delighted to dispense with further small talk. Shall I show you what I’ve come with?”

She settled herself upon a sofa. Draco laid himself at her feet.

She opened the Elder Wand’s glossy box and held it towards the Marquis. “Snapped in half by Harry Potter, on the second of May, 1998.”

The Marquis eyes were bright as he leaned over to look. “This seems fortuitous – you have brought me a Hallow on All Hallow’s Eve.”

“Indeed.”

“How came you by it?”

“Potter owed me a rather large favour.”

“A favour?”

“I can’t provide further details.”

The Marquis nodded. “Of course. I did not mean to pry. Do you mind if I–?”

Granger-Draco nodded yes, and held the box to the Marquis. He picked up the wand and inspected it, first with the naked eye, and then with a silver loupe, then with a golden one.

“Lovely. Lovely. Might I cast a few spells upon it?”

Granger-Draco waved an indifferent hand in acquiescence.

She captured Draco’s mannerisms with an almost offensive accuracy – only a bit too affected for Draco himself to be convinced. He wasn’t this pretentious, surely.

“Fifteen inches, elder wood, Thestral tail-hair,” said the Marquis, flicking through various spells as he confirmed the Elder Wand’s authenticity. “Fascinating. This is quite a piece of history you have here, Mr. Malfoy. I am a veritable fiend for storied magical items and the Elder Wand is – well, quite one of the holy grails, you know. Such a pity that it was broken. I am certain that Mr. Potter had only the wizarding world’s best interests at heart, but…”

Draco rose and shook himself, leaving a mist of white fur on Granger-Draco, and began to wander about the courtyard, looking as bored as possible.

He drifted about, sniffing here and there, until he found François’ lurking place. He could find no other trace of domestic staff or guards nearby. His doggishly enhanced hearing did catch what sounded like the kitchens, possibly, off to the right – the high voices of house-elves. Further beyond, he could hear cackling screeching – monkeys?!

He returned to Granger-Draco and laid himself, sphinx-like, at her feet. This was the signal for her to make a move – to request a viewing of the Marquis’ collection, and, if the response was no, then things were about to get messy.

“Let us proceed to the part I despise the most. How much are you asking for, for this thing without price?” asked the Marquis.

“What can you offer me that I can’t buy for myself?”

The Marquis’ eyebrow rose. “I had understood from our exchanges that you were interested in selling. I do not barter pieces from my collection, if that is what you are suggesting.”

Granger-Draco shrugged. “Frankly, I’m more interested in finding a worthy home for this piece of history than anything else. I will tell you what you can offer me that I can’t buy: a little tour of your legendary collection.”

The Marquis’ face closed. “Absolutely not.”

Granger-Draco sighed. “Right. I had hoped for a bit of flexibility on your part. Thought that this was a rather generous offer, in fact – the Elder Wand for a few moments of your time. I respect your decision, of course.”

Granger-Draco packed the Elder Wand back into its box and closed the lid with a snap. “Thank you, nevertheless, for–”

“Wait.”

The Marquis was looking at the box with a greedy yearning.

“You simply want a tour of my collection?” he asked. “In exchange for the wand?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because that, too, would be a thing without price,” said Granger-Draco. “I don’t believe you’ve ever permitted a viewing.”

“Indeed, I haven’t,” said the Marquis, looking grave.

He glanced towards François, who looked distinctly unhappy. Then he looked at the box again.

He turned back to Granger-Draco. “We will do a tour. A quarter of an hour. You are to follow my instructions – and, of course, touch nothing.”

“Of course.”

“And at the end of the tour, the Elder Wand will be mine.”

“That is correct.”

The Marquis looked serious. “What an unusual turn of events.”

“Monsieur le Marquis, are you – are you quite certain?” queried François.

The Marquis’ eyes were riveted on the Grenadil wood box. There was a muscle going in his cheek as he worked his way through an internal struggle.

At length, he said, “You have Mr. Malfoy’s wand, François – I don’t think that he would be able to do very much damage. Not that I would cast any such aspersions upon your character, Mr. Malfoy. François is simply being careful.”

“I understand. If there is anything else I can do for added peace of mind – shall I leave the dog behind?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Krotche can come,” said the Marquis, bending towards Draco and clicking his tongue at him. “He is a good lad.”

Draco did a spot of gambolling around the Marquis’ legs, to demonstrate what a good lad he was.

“Yes, that’s right, you are a good boy. Yes, you are. Yes. Does he give kisses?”

It was difficult to gambol when you were transfixed by sudden horror. Draco did not want to give kisses.

Granger-Draco’s mouth twitched. “Er – no. I trained that out of him.”

“Oh?”

“He has horrid breath.”

Draco gave Granger-Draco a look that distinctly said, I beg your pardon?

The Marquis was scratching his ears. “Naughty! We must brush your teeth more often, mustn’t we? Yes. You are a clever boy, you look almost as though you understand. A crotchy boy, I should say, rather, eh, in Mermish? François, lead the way, if you please.”

They crossed into a vast room with tall arches and an ornately carved ceiling.

They came to a door, heavily warded, with two expressionless wizards standing guard on either side.

The Marquis turned Granger-Draco’s attention to the ceiling deliberately. “Take a moment to admire this craftsmanship: a representation of the seven Islamic heavens through which the soul must ascend, after death.”

“Beautiful.”

Meanwhile, François waved away layer after layer of wards. Draco sat a little ways away, like the good boy he was, and observed carefully. The dog hearing was useful: he could even hear the man’s incantations.

The heavily warded door was opened.

Now the tour began.

The Marquis was rather twitchy and stiff-backed, at first. However, Granger-Draco offered the precise amount of gasping and ooh-ing (probably genuine) to flatter him, and he warmed up to the tour. François followed at a distance, frowning, his wand aimed at Granger-Draco’s back.

They passed through room after room of breathtaking Artefacts. The Marquis offered a running commentary on the items: “Those are feathers from Huginn and Muninn – Odin’s ravens. The very first bonsai – Han dynasty. The frankincense offered to the Christ Child by the biblical Magi. Moctezuma’s staff – very temperamental, I’ve only played with it once, transformed my valet into a tortilla. A lock of Samson’s hair. Lakshmi’s lotus, acquired that in Kolhapur. Archangel Sandalphon’s harp…”

They passed into another room and the Marquis continued. “Ah, a few rarities from your part of the world. That is a pelt from one of the Hounds of Annwn – don’t look too closely at it, Krotche, it looks rather a lot like yours, doesn’t it, poor boy. The beautiful Excalibur – you are familiar with that one, of course. Cost me a pretty Knut. And here, Cerridwen’s cauldron, if you know her legend…”

“I have heard – something of it,” said Granger-Draco in a strangled voice.

They came to a door leading into a room full of books, books on shelves, books upon plinths, books in display cases.

The Marquis strode past the door with a wave. “We shan’t go in there; we would spend far too long and we mustn’t tarry. My most recent addition to the library is Nostradamus’ original manuscript for Les Prophéties. Quite a coup, I was ever so pleased. Good man, Nostradamus, actually quite funny in person. Er – so they say, anyway.”

Granger-Draco looked longingly into the room and made a sound suggestive of great suffering, holding her heart.

“Are you all right, Mr. Malfoy?”

“Er – yes. A spot of – indigestion. Heartburn.”

They carried on down another corridor, which branched off to a cage-filled courtyard to the left. The Marquis had a menagerie. That explained the monkeys.

He waved his hand in that direction. “A few interesting specimens from abroad. There is an aviary behind, and a butterfly garden. But let us proceed apace.”

The archway broke off into three more directions. At the end of one, Draco saw the glow of a violet flame in a dark room.

The Marquis shut that door as they passed with a casual wave of his wand, drawing Granger-Draco’s attention instead to a Petrified chimaera.

At last, they came to the collection of objects from the ancient world. It was housed in a room styled as a Grecian temple, with Doric columns supporting an enormous central dome. The walls were marble and rippled with moving carvings of mythological scenes.

“Let me see, now, what are the most interesting pieces,” said the Marquis, standing in the centre of it all, before whisking Granger-Draco to a glass display case. “That is the Anemoi – the original compass. And this – what do you make of it?”

Granger-Draco studied the small object under a glass dome. “Er – it looks like a dried fruit?”

“It is: the remains of the original pomegranate eaten by Persephone.”

“Incredible.”

The Marquis pointed to a vast beam that reached the ceiling, strung with ancient rigging aglow with stasis charms. “The mast of the Argonaut. I am pursuing the Golden Fleece – have been for many years – I think they ought to be reunited, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes. Of course.”

“Mm. Here is Pandora’s box – rather less of a box than a jar, as you see. A pithos would be the correct term. And here, the omphalos, from the Oracle at Delphi. Hephaestus’ anvil – absurdly heavy, I can’t even tell you what a fuss it was to have that brought in…”

Draco came to lean on Granger-Draco’s legs, as a slightly bored dog who wanted attention might. They had located the box – it was time to proceed to the next step.

The Marquis, observing Draco’s lean, said, “I hope you won’t take offence – I know that he is your familiar – but you must tell me if you would ever consider parting with the dog. He is such a well behaved specimen. He would add a nice dash of imperial sophistication to my menagerie.”

“Er – no – he is, unfortunately, rather dear to me.” Granger-Draco stroked Draco’s head. “I am really too fond of him to let him go.”

“Of course. Worth the ask – it always is. Now, this was a find: the skull of Typhoeus…”

Draco and Granger had made several plans for different scenarios. Granger now scratched at Draco’s left ear, signalling – the fun one.

François was hovering broodily at the door, wand out, though it was pointed at the floor.

Feigning a sudden playfulness, Draco bounded towards the man and put his arse in the air (gods) and wagged his tail.

“What does Krotche want?” asked the Marquis. Then, seeing Draco’s bow, he gasped. “Oh, François, he thinks you have a stick! Silly boy, that’s a wand.”

Draco leapt and plucked the ‘stick’ out of François’ hand. He gambolled away – he was becoming quite an expert at gambolling – and then darted back towards François, the wand in his mouth.

François lunged at him. Draco darted away, then darted towards him again.

“He’s playing keep-away with you, François!” chortled the Marquis.

Draco and Granger had practised this particular bit over many hours. The key was to make it look unintentional and harmless.

Draco shook his head and a shower of sparks flew out of the wand, quite at random. Then he tossed the wand to himself and bounded away to catch it, at which point a small flock of birds jetted out of it.

François gave chase in earnest. Draco whipped the wand about and hit him with an Aguamenti, his tail a whirl of doggy delight.

The Marquis was laughing. François was terribly unamused. Granger-Draco made futile attempts to call Krotche to heel.

Draco waited for François to lunge and hit him with a Locomotor Wibbly – in a playful, gambolling sort of way.

François careened head-first into a wall.

The Marquis was hit by a Stunner.

Granger-Draco leapt to action, kneeling next to François to retrieve Draco’s wand, carefully removing the Faraday rig from Draco, and Transfiguring him back into himself.

“Finally,” breathed Draco, delighted to be on two legs again.

Granger Stunned François for good measure and cast silencing charms around them.

They sprinted to Pandora’s box (odd feeling, sprinting next to oneself). Draco took his wand from Granger and got to work on the protective warding that surrounded the pithos.

“Seventeen minutes left on my Polyjuice dose,” said Granger.

Draco, sweating, peeled away the layers of wards surrounding the jar. “Right. These aren’t too bad – I think the worst of them were at that first door – give me two more minutes…”

Granger conducted her own preparations, pulling out the flask of water and dumping its contents where Draco’s Aguamenti had left puddles.

“Ready,” said Draco.

Granger-Draco’s hand hesitated over the pithos. “My god.”

“What? Don’t tell me you’ve suddenly developed a scruple.”

“Are we really going to open Pandora’s box?”

“She already did it once; the worst is out, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

They stared at one another.

“Let’s do it,” said Granger.

Together, they lifted the heavy lid. It came off with a grinding sort of creakiness.

They both stepped back, half expecting the remainder of the world’s plagues to be unleashed into their faces.

But, no: the jar was brimming with Hope.

In its pure physical form, Hope was a nebulous, luminous substance, simultaneously curling in upon itself and expanding in quivers of trust, conviction, and faith.

“How beautiful,” sighed Granger-Draco.

“Take it and let’s get on,” prodded Draco, passing her his wand again.

Granger-Draco delicately pressed the wand into the substance and syphoned it into her flask.

This left a significant divot in the Hope in Pandora’s box – but only for a moment, and then it reshaped itself, and the jar brimmed again.

“Right,” breathed Granger-Draco. “Hope isn’t finite. It’s – infinite.”

There was no time for breathy philosophising on the nature of hope. Draco elbowed Granger-Draco out of the way, slid the lid of Pandora’s pithos back on, and recast the wards.

The flask was secreted into Granger-Draco’s cloak.

“Ready?” asked Granger-Draco, pointing the wand at Draco.

“Bloody hell. Here we go. Yes. If you call me constipated again, I shall bite you.”

Grinning, Granger-Draco Transfigured him back into a dog. She slipped the rig of anti-magic pucks back onto him, lashing them into deep fur. She shoved Draco’s wand back into François’ pocket.

Then she ran to the Marquis’ side and used his wand to Ennervate him and François.

“Oh! Monsieur le Marquis – are you all right? I am so sorry – Krotche hit you with something, the silly dog. Just a Stunner, I think. I have put him in the corner. He is punished.”

The Marquis rose with a look of dazed annoyance.

François, however, regained his feet with deep suspicion in his eyes. He snatched up his wand and aimed it at Draco.

Draco sat in a corner, looked downtrod, and wagged his tail pathetically.

“That’s not a bloody dog,” said François. “Finite Incantatem!”

He aimed the spell squarely at Draco’s fluffy chest.

Nothing happened.

“Frankly, François, you’ve already cast that once on the poor creature – now he’s flinching.” The Marquis was dusting himself off. “Kindly stop terrorising the animal.”

“Thank you,” said Granger-Draco, giving François a severe look. “It was an unfortunate accident. Let us call that an end to the tour – I mustn’t impose upon your time any further.”

François, his mouth pulled down in a bitter grimace, cast revelation spells about the room. All of the wards were perfectly intact.

“I do agree with you there, Mr. Malfoy,” said the Marquis. “Let me show you out.”

They followed the Marquis. François muttered behind them and stared blackly at Draco, who regarded him with panting friendliness and did a spot of additional frolicking.

Finally, they came to the very first anteroom.

“I must leave you here,” said the Marquis.

He looked with significance at the box in Granger-Draco’s hands.

“It is my very great pleasure to give you this, as agreed,” said Granger-Draco, passing him the box.

The Marquis took it and opened it again, as though to reassure himself that the wand hadn’t vanished from it through some sleight of hand.

“Some things in life haven’t got a price,” said Granger-Draco. “This evening’s tour has been a revelation. One of the most magical moments of my life, I daresay. You should be proud of this collector’s chef-d’oeuvre. Truly unsurpassed.”

The Marquis inclined his head. “My labour of love, over a great many years. Farewell, Mr. Malfoy. And do tell me if you change your mind about parting with Krotche.”

“I shan’t, but I will tell you if I hear anything on the whereabouts of the Golden Fleece,” said Granger-Draco.

The Marquis sighed. “Do.”

He waved his wand and the translucent wall shimmered back into existence.

François returned Draco’s wand and knife to Granger-Draco.

Then, with a look of absolute hatred towards Draco, he escorted them back to the gates, through the gardens, past the long line of stone-faced guards, and muttered out a goodnight.

The gates clanged shut behind them and shuddered with a fresh series of wards cast by the angry butler.

Granger-Draco, grinning, put her arm around Draco, and Disapparated.

~

At the hotel, Draco and Granger-Draco cast silencing spells around their room and proceeded to bounce about frenetically, unable to believe what they had just pulled off.

Granger-Draco was clutching at her face, pacing, and hyperventilating.

Draco spun about and landed on the bed, laughing. “We f*cking did it.”

“I can’t believe it,” said Granger-Draco.

“Gods, what a rush,” said Draco.

“We must stop stealing things before we trigger some latent kleptomania in you.”

“I am truly considering a career change.”

Granger-Draco paused in her circular pacing and grimaced. “Right – I desperately need a wee.”

“So go,” said Draco, waving towards the toilet.

“But I’m you for – nine more minutes,” said Granger-Draco, consulting the clock.

“Oh.” Draco felt a grin make its way upon his face. “What’s the matter? You don’t want to hold my willy?”

“I mean–”

“I can go in there and hold it for you, if you’d like, so you can piss with your eyes closed?”

“Absolutely not,” said Granger-Draco.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’ll just – make it quick. Do I sit or do I stand? I’ll sit – I don’t want to splash everywhere–”

“Don’t be ridiculous. The entire point of being a man is to stand.”

Granger-Draco disappeared into the loo with a rather stiff back.

Draco got to experience the intriguing and annoying sensation of Granger touching his p*nis without him being there to enjoy it.

The expression on her face when she returned to the room was – interesting.

“Well,” said Granger-Draco, emerging from the toilet. “That explains your feet.”

“About that definition of lar–”

Granger-Draco pointed a violent index finger at him. “Don’t.”

Draco cackled.

When the final few minutes of the Polyjuice dose had elapsed, there was a kind of melting about Granger-Draco, and Granger appeared, positively swimming in his clothes.

Draco turned around on the bed so that she could change. “You were rather good at being me – though some of your mannerisms were a touch exaggerated.”

“You make an extraordinarily convincing Borzoi.”

“I do not flip my hair like that – that was your own invention.”

“Did you see François’ face, at the end?”

“He suspected something, I know.”

“The pucks worked – thank goodness he was only hitting you at range and didn’t try anything nastier…”

Granger, now in a lovely little summer dress, joined him on the bed. Draco noted that she hadn’t glamoured her scar.

“Did you see the Marquis’ collections?” asked Draco.

“Yes! Outrageous. I’ve never seen anything like that in my life – nor will I ever again. Any one of those items was worth the entire GDP of some countries.”

“Greedy bastard, isn’t he?”

“The book room,” sighed Granger, clutching at her breast.

“He has Excalibur!”

“The mast of the Argonaut!”

“Persephone’s bloody pomegranate!”

“Cerridwen’s cauldron! How?! Who is he?”

“I think I know,” said Draco. “And if I’m right–”

“Who?”

“Did you see the flame? The purple one?”

“Er – I don’t think I did.”

“He closed the door as we passed it – a violet fire in a dark room. I think – I think it was the Violet Flame.”

Granger gasped. “The Violet Flame?”

“Yes. That one. The one that was only ever mastered by one alchemist.”

“No.”

“Yes.” Draco laughed in disbelief.

“No.”

“Granger.”

“No – it can’t have been.”

“Yes. It must have been. I think we just met one of the greatest alchemists who ever lived. I think we just met the Comte de St. Germain.”

Granger sputtered. “No! No. How?”

“How else do you explain that collection? That must have been assembled over centuries and centuries? The money involved?”

“His face was peculiarly ageless.”

Draco’s palms pressed at his temples. “We just robbed St. Germain.”

“Oh my god,” said Granger, hyperventilating anew.

“I Stunned St. Germain.”

“I insulted his wine!”

“St. Germain wanted kisses from me!”

“At least he thinks you’re a good boy.”

“A crotchy boy–”

“With bad breath–” Granger gasped for air between giggles “–He thinks you’re – constipated!”

Draco couldn’t breathe. “You – the man is a legend! And you–! Bloody hell, couldn’t you have thought of something other than constipation?”

“Stop – I’m going to piss myself–”

Granger fell onto her back next to Draco on the bed and they laughed in exhilaration until they could laugh no longer.

~

Draco and Granger had made vague plans to return to the UK that very night, if they could – though they had both brought overnight bags, just in case.

The ‘just in case’ materialised. The International Floos closed at seven o’clock in the evening, but, as it happened, they lost track of time, lingering too long over tapas and full-bodied wines.

“I suppose a night in Spain won’t be the greatest hardship,” said Granger as they left the tapas bar.

They wandered through the Muggle part of the village, enjoying the Andalusian atmosphere – the ubiquitous geraniums in their terra cotta pots, the impossibly narrow streets, the white homes piled atop one another all higgledy-piggledy.

They came to a night market, where Draco was easily distracted and had to be talked out of buying a variety of Muggle objects, including a trombone, a thing called a lava lamp, and an inflatable boat.

“You do not need a boat,” said Granger, pulling Draco along and looking exasperated.

“Don’t look so exasperated; I know you’re fond of me.”

“Am I? Are you sure?”

“You said so today.”

Granger waved dismissively, but she was biting back a smile. “Slip of the tongue.”

“I rather like your slips of the tongue.”

“You would.”

They climbed a winding cobblestoned street to a mirador at the east end of the village, a lookout from which they could see the dark Andalusian countryside, undulating gently away, and distant Málaga, and beyond that, the ink-black sea.

To Draco, it seemed a good place for a bit of looking about and, perhaps, an accidental rapprochement along the railings. However, Granger decided to give an unsexy accounting of some of the horrors inflicted upon heretics during the Spanish Inquisition, and the moment passed.

Granger led the way to the village’s wizarding quarter to continue their exploration. It consisted of a single, narrow street, accessed by touching one’s wand to a whitewashed wall that grew into an archway.

The village’s magical inhabitants were holding a veritable party within. The street was aglow with carved turnips, pumpkins, and what looked like real human skulls.

“I didn’t realise the Spanish celebrate Samhain,” said Draco.

Granger looked about with keen interest. “No – listen to them – that’s not Spanish. It’s Gallego. There must be a group of them from Galicia.”

In the face of Draco’s blank look, she added, “Northern Spain. That part of the Iberian peninsula was once dominated by Celtic tribes. They still celebrate Samhain. Yes – look! They’ve got Queimada!”

What was Queimada? At first, Draco was convinced that it was made of the same stuff as the lava lamp thingie. It was a flaming punch of some sort, aromatised by citrus peels and coffee beans.

As they walked along the street, they saw versions of the drink being prepared variously in emptied-out pumpkins, or pots, or cauldrons. White-clad Galician druids were chanting over the Queimada and setting fire to the drink, creating gorgeous blue flames. People were counting to three as they tipped their glasses back.

Some of the druids chanted in Gallego, some in Spanish. Of the latter, Draco could catch snippets of phrases – incantations about black magic, freedom from evil, and purification.

A friendly druid spotted them and waved the bemused-looking foreigners over. She handed Draco and Granger a small, espresso-sized cup each, waving away their offer of payment.

She held up three fingers. “You must finish it in three!”

Draco and Granger each took a first sip. It was a heady drink – hot brandy, caramelised sugars, a rich aftertaste of coffee.

The druid nodded. “The first banishes evil. Drink again.”

They drank again.

“The second removes prejudice from the mind,” said the druid, tapping at the side of her head. “One more.”

They finished their cups.

“The last awakens the passion in the soul,” said the druid, pressing her hands to her chest. Then she said, “Blessed Samhain!” and turned away to set her cauldron on fire again.

Music began to play and the party turned raucous.

“Have your passions been awakened?” asked Draco over the music.

“O, yes – this is paving the way for all sorts of debaucheries,” said Granger.

Draco smirked at her.

She laughed and, flushed about the cheeks, looked away.

They meandered back to their hotel room. Draco said he wished he’d asked for the recipe for the drink – the addition of the coffee beans was brilliant. Granger was more interested in the bits of the incantation they had heard, its provenance and history, and whether it, too, could be traced back to the ancient Celts?

At the hotel, they each had a shower (Draco thought he still smelled of dog; Granger said she still reeked of Draco’s cologne and it was unbearable; Draco took offence and flung a pillow at her).

As midnight approached, and amongst much yawning from Granger, they changed into their sleeping things.

Draco got into bed.

Also, by the way, there was only one bed. Because, obviously.

Granger was wearing a negligée.

This was going to be fine.

Granger stood at the foot of the bed, wand in hand. She looked terribly focused, as though she was calculating long division.

Then, Draco, being the first class, grade A, 24-carat, right royal berk that he was, said, “I don’t mind sharing the bed.”

Granger looked conflicted. “I’m not convinced that that would be sensible.”

“It’s far too small in here to Transfigure another.”

“I could make it work.”

“I promise I shan’t steal the blankets.”

“That is hardly what’s giving me pause.”

“What is giving you pause, then?”

Granger took a moment to answer. “The Queimada.”

“Oh? What debaucheries are you afraid of?”

Her bravado was always a safe bet. It paid off. Granger narrowed her eyes at him, then climbed into the bed beside him and slid between white sheets.

Draco did not look down, because her negligée rode up as she did so, and it was better not to.

He looked at her instead.

“What?” asked Granger.

“It is terribly humanising, to see someone in a bed,” said Draco, his chin propped upon his hand. “I had become convinced that you were something else.”

“Something else?”

“A nymph, if you must know.”

Granger looked amused. “Oh?”

“A vindictive one. One who might Transfigure an errant man into a mushroom, or something.”

Granger scoffed and waved her wand to turn off the lights. “I can aim for bigger and better things than transforming naughty men, now.”

“Oh?”

“Mm. I know exactly where Cerridwen’s cauldron is.”

“Dangerous.”

“Yes. Likewise with you and the Violet Flame.”

“You’ll tell me when you’re ready for the next heist.”

“Perhaps, when all this is over, we ought to go hunting for the Fleece.”

“I am entirely at your disposal,” said Draco.

There was a smile in Granger’s voice in the dark. “Brilliant.”

Silence fell.

Draco was a good boy, even when he was not a dog. He stayed well on his side of the bed. He did not allow his mind nor his hands to drift towards the soft warmth near him. He behaved like the perfect monk he was, lying unmoving and staring at the ceiling and not thinking about Granger.

~

It had been a long day and the excitement and alcohol gave way to fatigue. They slept an hour or two, only to awaken to the sound of the shutters banging open and closed. A chill wind played about the window.

A rustle beside Draco told him that Granger was awake, too. She sat up and turned to the window, half-asleep, wonder-eyed.

The wind blew witch-whispers through the cobblestoned streets. The night sky was heavy with the press of clouds. The sea beyond the village foamed, cresting in high waves that hung in the air for silent seconds in a host of white, unearthly things.

It was Samhain night. The dead awakened. Souls wandered. Portents glimmered.

The veil between worlds grew thin. Boundaries grew porous. Thresholds disappeared.

Things could span gaps. Things could be between.

Granger settled onto her side and looked at Draco. One of the straps of her negligée had slipped down in her sleep. He reached out with a single finger and pulled it back up.

He let his fingertip drag into a long touch.

Her eyes were clear. They could blame the Queimada all they liked, but they were both perfectly sober.

Her delicate hand made its way to his face and pushed a strand of his hair back into place.

It was Samhain night. The veil between worlds grew thin. Tonight, terrible incompatibilities mattered less. Violent polarities softened. Universes could collide and pass through one another, the stars of one lingering lovingly in the light of the other.

Perhaps there was a place for them to meet in the in-between.

He caught her hand before she could pull it away. She watched him, curious, wondering. He pressed a kiss to her knuckles, then to her open palm, then to the inside of her forearm, where a desecration was carved.

Through the thin skin there he felt her heartbeat, too slow, still, for his ring to echo, but enough for his lips to feel. He kissed unvoiced things into her scar – regrets, sorrows, confessions.

Her eyes were dark and soft. Her fingers found the rough flesh that delineated the remains of his Mark. She pushed her cheek to it with her eyes closed. His heart was full. He felt her breath against it, then the press of warm lips.

She came closer, or he did, he didn’t know. All he knew was that her mouth was now there, inches from his. There was the pull, there was the wanting to fall. He propped himself onto an elbow and lifted her chin to him.

They hung there in that place of equilibrium, between the known and the unknown, between the never and the not yet.

Now, the air grew rare. Now, the only breath worth breathing was the other’s.

He brushed his lips against hers. He would have let the matter lie there, if that had been her wish.

Then she pressed her own kiss to his mouth. They met again, together, this time, and their breaths came faster. Her hand slipped up to the nape of his neck. He pulled her towards him, bodily, to close the in-between.

They did not speak. Speaking would make it real and this was not real.

It was Samhain night. They were wandering souls amongst many wandering souls, seeking solace or a moment of bliss.

The warmth of her leg was flung over his hip. His hand caressed the skin of her thigh, unable to distinguish the silk of skin beneath his palm from the silk of the negligée across his knuckles. She was all softness, all give. His hand grabbed at the arse that had taunted him too many times. He dug possessive fingers into it.

Slow, in that in-between, slow, in that uncanny night, they pressed out their want onto the other’s lips.

Things that had burned low kindled into life. They heaped kisses upon kisses, hot, open-mouthed, touching tongues and teeth. He pulled her on top of him – long-dreamt dream. She kissed her way down his neck. He left the world altogether, then, in a sweet euphoria. When he returned, his pyjamas were being unbuttoned in a deft sequence, from his throat down, down, down.

Draco felt the brush of her hand against his erection, but he did not want that yet – he wanted her. He pulled her back up towards him and loosened the straps at her shoulders. The negligée fell about her hips in a silken puddle.

He adored. He kissed the smooth underside of one breast, then the other, then wet her nipples with tongue and the heat of his mouth. As he went, and her breath came faster, he felt a matching dampness where she sat against his stomach, and another, where his cock strained in his pyjamas.

Draco’s fingers were under the negligée now. He tugged her knickers off. The negligée followed – and then, there she was, the nymph, naked and on top of him, and he didn’t need anything beyond this, except to see her finish above him.

He propped his head up with a pillow against the wall and moved her closer to his face with insistent hands against her arse. She clambered forwards, one hand against the wall and the other on his shoulder, and pressed herself, gorgeous and wet and tender, against his mouth. The scent of her would have been enough for him to pull himself off in three strokes, if he’d wanted to. He tasted her, slid a finger into her, felt her clench. A second finger joined the first. They fell into a rhythm of him suckling and kissing and her rocking her hips against fingers and tongue, one hand pressed against the wall, the other in his hair.

Her breaths came heavy – and then, so did she, with a gasped-out groan and a long shudder that pinched Draco’s knuckles together.

The ring on his hand came into life, echoing the pitch of her racing pulse.

She held herself up, one hand against the wall, one squeezing his shoulder, for a quivering moment, before falling on top of him to catch her breath. He slipped his hand into his pyjamas and stroked himself as she lay on him, his fingers wet and sticky and smelling of her. Her eyes were bliss-filled and dark.

She tugged at his pyjamas. He kicked them off. She put a knee on either side of his hips. As he pushed himself up and into her, she pushed her mouth against his. He slid into her halfway. The heat and snugness wanted to undo him. He trembled – restraint, want.

She spread her knees wider. He watched their joining, the way he opened her, the way she inched him in with these unhurried ups and downs, the way she left him glistening.

Again they found a rhythm, an in-and-out strewn with wet kisses and gasping breaths. Above him, the gorgeous sight of her arching upwards, her breasts, her parted lips. Every roll of her hips pulled him closer, and closer, and closer, until he was at the edge, panting.

She came down, clenched around him, and he went over, and emptied himself into her in jerky spurts, his hands clutching at her thighs.

He reeled into some in-between for a long moment, afterwards, neither here nor there, a place of pleasure and twitching aftershocks and joined pulses racing through rings.

She laid herself next to him, her head against his shoulder. From there, he could observe the rise and fall of her breasts and the path down to her stomach that he wished to follow with his mouth.

None of it had happened and it was not real.

A sleepy hand caressed his hair. He ran his fingers along her hip.

They fell into a light doze.

Draco woke up hard again, perhaps an hour later, and nudged her, and found her receptive, and made his way down that path between her breasts with his mouth.

It was Samhain night. The dead were living and the living went, again and again, to their little deaths.

Dawn rose grey the next morning. Rain pitter-pattered against the window.

In that damp silence, Draco “the Quash” Malfoy and Hermione “No Capacity for Complications” Granger stared at the ceiling and reflected upon what they had done.

It was difficult to deny what had happened, given that each had the other’s bodily fluids in various stages of evaporation upon their person.

The pillow-talk was brief and to-the-point. What happened in Spain would stay in Spain. They were professionals. They were professionals who respected each other’s professionalism and would never act in any way other than professionally with their assigned professional. They repeated the word to the point of semantic satiation, grew confused, and left for home.

Draco’s wank bank benefited from some new additions, so not all was lost.

If Granger hadn’t a single brain cell to spare before, now, with the acquisition of the Hope from Pandora’s box, the entirety of her being was consumed by her project. In the days that followed, she reached the final brewing stage for the proto-Sanitatem and spent every waking hour at the laboratory, preparing to synthesise her miracle and launch clinical trials.

November’s full moon crept towards them. Greyback and Granger were in a fraught arms race, now – infection versus cure.

Watching Granger’s feverish work at the lab, Draco knew that illicit activities with her Auror – including a night in Spain that hadn’t happened – were the last thing on her mind. As the full moon approached, her drive to complete the treatment bordered on the manic. Her pace was frenetic. She ate only when reminded to and often had to be bullied into going home to bed.

There was a blankness in her eyes when she looked at Draco, sometimes, but it wasn’t Occlusion. Her mind was obsessively, fervidly, Elsewhere.

The fire in her was a dangerous thing – it made her so bright, but it also threatened to consume her.

He missed her so very much.

When he wasn’t with Granger at King’s Hall, Draco joined Potter, Weasley, and their team in the search for Greyback. Potter’s chase was as mad-eyed and frenetic as Granger’s lab work. They pursued every lead that Draco had dragged out of Larsen. Those yielded some captures, but not bloody Greyback.

Shacklebolt received an emissary from the largest vampire clan in the UK. The cadaverous fellow, a Mr. Dragavei, informed the Minister that several clans had been approached by Greyback to join his cause, as the rumour was now that Granger’s treatment could eventually cure vampirism. Dragavei was adamant that, by and large, vampires had no quarrel with Granger or her treatment. Those stupid enough to want to give up the “exquisite delights” of vampirism were free to do so – the clans would be staging no actions against Granger and wished to remain well out of the conflict. If Shacklebolt would kindly do not send Aurors after them, “It vould be much appreciated, thank you, Minister.”

Shacklebolt relayed the story with a shudder. Dragavei had concluded with an offer of drinks and told Shacklebolt that, by the by, he smelled delicious.

~

With November came the completion of the Janus Thickey renovation project. St. Mungo’s, bolstered by the Malfoy gift, had not mucked about. They employed the finest magical architects and engineers to accelerate the demolition and build process, resulting in a fully renovated facility within three months.

St. Mungo’s arranged a celebration to commemorate the completion of the new ward. Both Draco and Granger were, of course, invited as guests of honour. Granger agreed to step out of her laboratory for one (1) hour, to attend. Draco gave Smethwyck a list of stringent security measures that would have to be adhered to, if he wanted Healer Granger there in person.

The celebration took place in the ward itself. Those patients who did not wish to participate retreated into their private suites – because, yes, they now had private suites.

Upon his arrival at the ward, Draco ensured that the Aurors and DMLE operatives on duty were at their posts and did a Legilimency survey of the attendees.

Granger arrived shortly after having received his Jot that all was clear. Draco was just able to ascertain that she was looking lovely in a set of soft pink robes when she was surrounded by a crowd and disappeared from view.

“Mr. Malfoy, welcome,” said Smethwyck, appearing at Draco’s elbow with a G&T for him. “May I offer you a tour? Let us begin with the medical facilities. Here on the main floor: a consulting room, three treatment rooms, and – my favourite – an operating theatre…”

Draco was pleased by what he saw as they went. The new facility was impressive, but, more importantly, he was certain that Granger would be overjoyed.

The ward had been magically expanded and divided into two floors. A large entrance foyer opened above into an enchanted ceiling à la Hogwarts, reflecting the day’s weather (today, a grey November sky). On the upper level were thirty suites and a lounge. The lower level now featured an exercise studio, a small library, and a cafeteria, currently serving drinks and finger food to the guests.

At the far end of the ward, where a few scraggly plants had once struggled for existence, there was a vast windowed wall, looking out over London. An indoor garden had been built there. A small group was stepping through it with sounds of delight – Longbottom and his parents. Pansy brought up the rear, a steadying hand on Frank Longbottom’s back.

A corridor led to a hydrotherapy pool, jutting out of the main building in a feat of magical architecture. It was encircled by windows on all sides and surrounded by tropical plants. A man ponced about in a disturbingly small bathing suit with a long-suffering nurse at his heels. Draco recognised the luscious, if greying, flop of hair: Lockhart.

Near the garden was a piano. One of the patients was playing something gentle on it. Her family clustered about her with smiles upon their faces. It was Lavender Brown.

It jarred Draco, seeing her. It reminded him that Greyback had been victimising innocents for years, and was still doing it. He wondered if Granger’s treatment might do anything about her scars.

He turned away to find himself looking at yet another Greyback victim – Remus Lupin.

Lupin, looking frail, was leaning on Tonks’ arm, a cane in his hand. Tonks wore a tailored men’s suit for the celebration, and, frankly, pulled it off better than most men.

Tonks was fiercely protective of her private life. She had never mentioned that Lupin had become a patient here. His was the mellow voice that Draco had heard upon his first visit to the ward.

They were speaking with Granger. All three of them were pointing up at the enchanted ceiling and smiling.

Lupin spotted Draco and waved him over.

Draco had spoken with Lupin a few times over the years – at the occasional Auror Christmas party and other events here and there. He did not like speaking with Lupin. Lupin always looked at him with a sad sort of kindness – the kindness of a teacher who watched you make poor choices, and almost destroy your life, but still remembers the child you were. It made Draco feel squeamish, that undeserved, unspoken caring.

Today, however, there was a frank joy in the smile that split Lupin’s gaunt face. “The man of the hour.”

“Don’t flatter him too much,” sniffed Tonks. “He’s already unmanageable.”

“Unmanageable? Draco? I don’t believe it,” said Lupin, shaking Draco’s hand.

Granger was holding back a smile. Draco was certain that she had a few opinions of her own on his manageability.

Exclamations followed on the pool, the piano, the suites, the garden. Granger was delighted by everything and rather looked as though she wished to pounce on Draco. He positioned himself within an appropriate radius, but she did not proceed.

Tonks and Lupin were drawn away by their children, who wanted to play on the piano.

“This came together beautifully,” said Granger, positively vibrating. “I’d squeeze the life out of you, but – too many witnesses.”

“Pity. It’d be a good way to go.”

“They’ve finally fixed that bloody sign.”

“Have they?” Draco observed the new sign. “I’ll miss the anus hickey Ward.”

“It did have a certain cachet.”

“What’s this about anus hickeys?” came a voice.

It was Theo.

“We think you look like one,” said Draco.

Granger laughed. It was good to see – she was still there, somewhere, under the work-fever.

“f*ck off, Draco. Hermione, hello – you look ravishing.” Theo bent over Granger’s hand and brushed a kiss onto it.

Which was true, she did, but it was not Theo’s place to say so. Draco, tight-jawed, conveyed this to Theo by impaling him with his eyes.

“How go the sonnets, Draco?” asked Theo.

Draco glared. “Shall I recite one for you?”

“No.”

“Coward.”

Granger looked politely confused.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” asked Draco.

“Auntie Maud.” Theo gestured over his shoulder, where a patient in a long gown was looking seductively at one of the waiters.

“You’re related to Maud?” asked Granger. “That explains so much.”

“Does it?”

“She’s an insatiable flirt.”

“Runs in the family. I wanted to say, well done, you two – this place is brilliant. Did you see the pool? I’ve half a mind to order the same thing done at Nott House.”

Theo helped himself to a spring roll from Draco’s plate. Then he stole a stuffed mushroom. Then he plucked Draco’s napkin from his hand, used it, and returned it.

“Piss off, you bloody seagull,” said Draco, waving his hand at him. “Go see to your aunt.”

Theo turned around. “Oh no – what’s she doing?”

Auntie Maud was eating a cocktail sausage, but indecently.

“I must away,” said Theo. “Well done, again. How wonderful to see you doing some good in the world, Draco. I always knew you had it in you.” He turned to Granger and pressed his hands to hers. “He is a good man, you know, under all the dickheadery.”

Theo left and pretended not to hear Draco inform him that he was a bellend.

Now that they were alone again, Draco was formulating a compliment for Granger, because he refused to be shown up by Theo. However, something plucked at his trouser leg and interrupted.

A toddler was holding a damp cocktail sausage, of dubious, Maud-ish provenance, up to him, for his inspection.

“Hello?” called Draco to the room at large. “There is an unsupervised foetus here?”

“That’s Mr. Belford’s grandchild,” said Granger, looking about. “Oh – the family is in the garden.”

Granger put her hands on her knees and complimented the sausage. (She hadn’t complimented Draco’s sausage, by the way – simply a note upon the injustice. Perhaps he, too, ought to parade it about, slightly moist.)

Granger swept up the child to return it to its parents, leaving Draco with an empty plate, a dirty napkin, and an unspoken compliment.

His mood was not improved by his next visitor – the absolute throbber that was McLaggen.

There were far too many malformed sausages at this party.

McLaggen was looking quite handsome in a suit and tie. Draco noted that he had chosen a Muggle suit. It annoyed him.

“Well done, mate,” said McLaggen, shaking Draco’s hand. “Incredible gift.”

Draco was on a ‘mate’ basis with very few people and McLaggen was not one of them. He gave the man a smile that hardly merited the name. It was a mere tightening of the lips – a sm at best.

McLaggen prattled on about the ward for a bit, before reaching the real reason for his visit.

“Can I ask you something rather – er – personal?” he asked.

“What?”

“Are you and Hermione…?”

“Are we what?”

“Seeing each other? Together?”

Seeing each other? Daily. Together? All the time. Together together? Absurd. They merely maintained a complicated Equilibrium out of mutual paranoia and Reasons, and shagged during Pagan holidays, and pretended it didn’t happen, and he said nothing because he didn’t do feelings, but he suffered in anguish because he had them anyway, and the more he tried to quash her out of his heart, the more she lived there, a bright thing in dark places, but it was fine and all under control.

“No,” said Draco, to sum it up succinctly.

“Ah. Is she seeing anyone? Do you know?”

“I don’t know and, frankly, don’t care,” said Draco, while caring deeply.

“Right. I only thought to ask because you two seem – friendly.”

“Friendly.”

McLaggen gestured to the ward around them. “You just did all of this and said it was for her, mate.”

“It was. She saved my life.”

“Right.”

They took a sip of their respective drinks, eyeing each other with thinly veiled dislike.

“May I now ask you something personal?” asked Draco.

“All right.”

“What makes you think you’re good enough for her?”

McLaggen stared at him. The offence came upon him slowly. He stood to face Draco, shoulders square, face reddening. “What do you mean by that, exactly?”

“Which word didn’t you understand? Never mind – let me rephrase. You’re not good enough for her.”

McLaggen had finished processing the insult, and, since he hadn’t the brains for a verbal resolution, he appeared to be moving to the next stage – they were either about to exchange hexes or fisticuffs.

“You needn’t be so offended,” said Draco with a careless shrug. “I’m not sure anyone is good enough for her.”

This gave McLaggen pause. His fist, which had been balled at his side, relaxed. “She can decide who’s good enough for her.”

“I agree.”

“But she likes to play hard to get. Has done since Hogwarts. She just needs a little nudge.”

“A nudge?”

“I’ve got – leverage.”

“Have you?” asked Draco. “What sort of leverage?”

“Strategic seats on strategic boards.”

“A real knicker-dropper of a move, that.”

McLaggen shrugged. “The usual enticements don’t work on her – money, looks. As you might’ve discovered.”

“I haven’t.”

“Hm.”

Draco’s next question was eminently casual. “Have you spoken to Smethwyck today?”

“Hippocrates? No. Why?”

“I believe he’s got a bit of news for you.”

“What news?”

“I suppose there’s no harm in telling you now,” mused Draco. “You’re no longer a member of the St. Mungo’s Board of Directors.”

“What?”

Draco looked apologetic. “I had you removed. Sorry, mate.”

McLaggen sputtered. “You – what? Who the bloody hell do you think you are? You don’t decide whether or not I–”

“I do. It was one of my stipulations. For a gift of this magnitude, they were happy to comply. You’ve apparently been considered a reputational risk for a few years – something to do with your behaviour around women, particularly Granger. They’ve also brought this concern to the MNHS. I believe you’re one of the Trustees there. I’m not certain how long you’ll keep that seat, either. Consider this a friendly head’s up – perhaps you can resign and avoid losing face.”

In the centre of the foyer, Smethwyck was tapping a glass and calling for everyone’s attention.

“That’s for me,” said Draco. He placed his plate and dirty napkin in McLaggen’s hands. “Hold these – there’s a good lad. I’ve got to go.”

Smethwyck, representatives from the MNHS, and Healer Crutchley, all made speeches. Crutchley’s was by far the most touching; she had seen decades of neglect turned around in a matter of months and seemed half convinced that this was all a dream. Draco and Granger were variously pulled to the front of the crowd, made to say a few words, pulled back into the crowd, pushed forwards again, toasted, photographed, and toasted again.

In the mingling that followed, Draco saw Granger being approached by members of the Board. Most were treating her with a cautious respect. Some approached with apprehension, as though she might get cutty-uppy and launch herself at them with a scalpel. (They needn’t have worried on that front; she only did that when her Auror’s brains were about to be splattered onto the floor by a Viking.)

Narcissa had indicated to Draco that she would suffer the English damp for a few hours and look in on the celebration. She arrived in time for the speeches, tanned and still smelling like whatever terrace in Seville she had been lingering upon.

When she spotted Granger, Narcissa greeted her with far more warmth than Draco would have expected – perhaps the heat of Seville lingered in her, too.

Draco was in the clutches of the Belford family, which had gathered about him to thank him and explain Mr. Belford’s long standing Bubotuber haemorrhoids, which had been cured, and have their toddler hold the cocktail sausage in his face.

Draco lured them towards Granger to hear what was being said between her and his mother

Granger was gesturing towards the ward at large and expressing gratitude in that passionate way of hers.

Narcissa seemed quite taken with Granger. She pressed Granger’s hands into hers. “Please do not speak to me of gratitude. You returned my son to the world of the living. This is but a gesture. You must tell me if there is anything else my family can do for you. How are your larders?”

“Erm – they’re fine – and you’ve done more than enough, really gone above and beyond–”

“It’s only money,” said Narcissa, with a hand wave and lack of concern that only the truly wealthy can indulge in. She peered at the enchanted ceiling. “Draco normally has little time or patience for charity work – his mind is bent on the investment side of things, you know, and I manage the philanthropic activities – but in this case, he did remarkably well.”

“He did.”

“You managed to hone a new sort of focus in him.”

“Oh, yes, a focus.” Granger gave Narcissa one of her stiff smiles.

“He seems happy. I really do just want him to be happy, you know?”

“Of course.”

“I want him to find something – someone – to make him happy.”

Narcissa looked significantly at Granger. Granger, blushing, stared at her gin fizz as though her entire being was held in its thrall. Draco considered launching himself at Narcissa and tackling her into the ground.

“Forgive me for my motherly witterings-on,” said Narcissa. “At any rate, he has impressed me. Perhaps he will be able to take on the mantle, after all. I always wished he would be more concerned with these things, you know. Did you see the little garden? I wouldn’t have put the chrysanthemums quite so close to the lily grass, they get a bit lost in it, but otherwise…”

The toddler escaped again and came to show Granger the cocktail sausage.

“Oh!” said Narcissa. “Is it an orphan?”

“Er – no – he belongs to the Belfords,” said Granger, lifting the child up again and looking about the room. “He’s going to get trod on.”

“Are you sure? He looks like an orphan. He’s so dirty. Perhaps he is a street urchin. Why is he holding a sausage? Did he pickpocket it? Where are the nannies?”

The flock of Belfords swooped by to pick up their errant child. Granger was buffeted about between family members in a whirl of thanks and congratulations and haemorrhoid updates, until Narcissa’s thin hand hooked her round the elbow and fished her out of the vortex to resume their conversation.

Draco joined them.

“Ah, Draco, there you are. I was just telling Healer Granger that you’ve impressed me with your management of a philanthropic exercise at this scale.”

“All I did was sign off on the transfer of the funds. The planning was all – all someone else at the hospital.”

“Oh? Well. Someone rather brilliant, I imagine,” said Narcissa. “It is very well thought out. Only the chrysanthemums.”

Draco looked at Granger. She gave her head the most minute shake. Very well. He wouldn’t point out that the brilliant Someone was right here.

“You did well in your speeches, Draco,” continued Narcissa. “Not too verbose. Do try to smile a little, next time. We don’t want to look haughty. We are men of the people, etcetera.”

“Of course.”

Narcissa gave a little shiver and pulled her shawl more closely around her thin shoulders. “Is there a draught? I believe there’s a draught. Did someone open a window? I suppose it’s just me – I was just in Seville, Healer Granger, and I shall be returning there directly. I cannot abide the English damp anymore. I suppose it’s age…”

Granger was called away to speak with reporters from the Prophet.

Narcissa beckoned Draco closer with a crook of her finger.

“Draco,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper.

There was Rebujito on her breath – sherry and lemon. It wasn’t the heat of Seville that was lingering in her – his mother was nicely tipsy and having a grand time of it. It explained the volubility.

“What?”

“I’ve been thinking,” said Narcissa.

“Oh no.”

“Yes. Do we know if Healer Granger is single?”

“Mother.”

“I am merely curious. I’ve been pondering – possibilities. Don’t be so defensive. You look as though you’ve just licked a nettle. Do you like her? I think you ought to like her. She is not milquetoast. You still haven’t told me in what capacity you are working together.”

“I literally cannot tell you that. I’ve taken a Vow of Secrecy.”

“Have you? Hm. It must be important, then. Find out if she’s single. Be proactive, Draco.”

“Mother.”

“I am merely making a suggestion. Passivity breeds only pain, dear. I learned this over a long life of it. Don’t be like me. Oh – watch out behind you – that orphan is back again – mind your pockets – no, child, I do not want the sausage–”

Narcissa drifted off to continue her rounds and vaguely promised to send Draco a Jot when she returned to Seville.

It was Draco’s turn to be interviewed by the Prophet. He said various nice things about the importance of long-term care and Giving, all while reeling at his mother’s new infatuation with Granger.

The rogue toddler continued its rampage. It tugged at Longbottom’s trousers with vigour. Draco looked over at precisely the wrong moment. The trousers slid down and opened before him a magnificent panorama of Longbottom’s long bottom.

Healer Crutchley gave Draco and Granger enormous hugs, suffocating each of them in turn in her ample chest.

Granger came back up for air looking mildly disturbed. Draco, more accustomed to tits in his face, merely fixed his hair.

When they were free of Crutchley’s abundant bosoms, Granger pulled Draco to the side.

“Smethwyck’s just told me about McLaggen’s seat on the Board. Was that your doing?” she asked.

“Me? No. I don’t meddle with affairs of hospital governance.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You’re right not to. Did Smethwyck tell you who the vacant seat would be going to?”

“No…?”

“Me,” said Draco.

Granger’s eyebrows rose. “Congratulations. A whole new pestilence of incompetence awaits you.”

“No. It awaits you.”

“What?”

“I’ve named you my delegate for the seat. I hope that’s all right.”

The smile, gods, the smile.

“That is – very all right,” said Granger.

The brightness in her eyes, the lip bite, the glance down.

“Whip them into shape, Granger.”

“It will be my absolute pleasure to.”

They sipped their drinks. Now she was giving him a long and wondering look.

“What?” asked Draco.

“Nothing. Well – something. I agree with Ernie.”

“Oh?”

“They’re all right after all, these Malfoys.”

Draco touched his glass to hers with his most Malfoyish smirk.

The celebration drew to a close. After goodbyes, Draco accompanied a Disillusioned Granger to the St. Mungo’s foyer, where a line of Floo hearths flickered.

They found the place unusually crowded. There was a crush of people milling about and sounds of confusion. Pieces of parchment were fluttering everywhere, stuck to the ceiling, fixed upon windows, blowing about.

Montjoy, one of the Aurors on duty, shoved his way to Draco and Granger.

“Get her out of here,” he muttered when he got close.

“What’s going on?”

Montjoy used a low-level Depulso to push people out of the way as Draco pulled Granger’s invisible self towards the fires.

“Hundreds – thousands of these, all over the foyer,” said Montjoy, snatching up a piece of parchment. “Humphreys just Jotted me – says they’re all over the Ministry, too.”

There was a Gemino Curse on the parchment – even as Montjoy held it, duplicates sprang into existence and spilled onto the floor.

Upon the parchment was a photograph of Granger. And below it, the following lines, in a rough, uneven hand:

Give me Granger and the attacks stop

~

They had expected an escalation from Greyback, and there it was.

It happened not in the form of another direct attack on her, but something far more insidious. Something that turned the eyes of the entire wizarding population on her and offered a hideous incentive to help Greyback reach her. Key magical locations in the UK had received the same treatment as St. Mungo’s.

In collaboration with Granger, the Ministry released a statement on the nature of her breakthrough. With the announcement that a cure for lycanthropy was proceeding to clinical trials, Greyback’s self-interested cowardice was exposed.

But, as November’s full moon drew nearer, there were whispers, too. Two terror-filled full moons had passed and another loomed. The population was on edge. Some had already lost. Some were terrified of losing.

The damage was done. Granger could no longer go out in public. She was, for all intents and purposes, confined to the Manor and the lab.

She took the hardship as well as Draco could have hoped. If Greyback had intended to isolate her, he failed. Her Jotter buzzed endlessly with messages of support. Her cottage was half buried in letters. Requests to participate in the clinical trials flooded her postbox at Cambridge from all over the world. The Prophet’s front page was plastered with editorial outrage and letters from the populace expressing their disgust at Greyback’s attempt at coercion.

Narcissa sent Draco an alarmed Jot to make sure he kept Healer Granger safe from that lunatic; should they offer the Manor to her? When Draco showed her the note, Granger smiled the first smile he’d seen in days.

During November’s full moon, the Danish Auror HQ sent a detachment of thirty of their own Aurors to assist with the next round of attacks. Between that and a population that was now taking the threat seriously, only eight were infected, none killed.

November faded into December. There were good moments with the bad. Granger’s fire, far from being quenched by Greyback, flared even more impressively.

In a moment of triumph at the lab that Draco felt honoured to witness, she completed the synthesis of the first batch of doses of the cure for lycanthropy. The laboratory was rocked by shrieks, jumps, and applause, as the entirety of Granger’s team heaped themselves upon her. Then they all sat or laid down on the floor, and someone opened champagne, and they passed the bottle around because they were too exhausted to conjure glasses. Granger attempted to make a speech, but her voice failed, and she put her face in her hands, and was wracked with silent sobs. This began a chain reaction of crying throughout her team, which only ceased when three or four more bottles of champagne had been consumed.

Many hours later, Draco found himself standing in a silent laboratory at midnight, with everyone asleep on the floor at his feet.

He carried Granger home through the Floo.

Granger finished passing submissions through a hideous maze of Codes, Authorities, Standards, and research and ethics review boards, and began her clinical trials.

Lupin was amongst the first group of patients to receive a dose. Draco escorted a Disillusioned Granger to St. Mungo’s to administer it. Lupin’s family was all around him. Tonks held one hand, his teenage son the other. His daughter was upon his knees.

Granger was all gentle professionalism as she administered the infusion. There was a smile on Lupin’s thin face and hope in his eyes that matched the Hope that was pushed into his veins.

Draco saw Tonks cry for the first time.

~

When Draco and Granger returned to the Manor that afternoon, Granger, her own eyes rather bright, said that she fancied a walk, would he like to come?

He would. Of course.

They cast warming charms upon themselves, then crunched along a frosty path bordered by ferns of ice and creaking birches, silver on white. Their breath streamed behind them.

For a time, they said nothing. Granger was thoughtful as she picked her way past frozen puddles. Draco kept pace with her small steps, sometimes just behind her, sometimes next to her.

They came to the end of the path. It gave out onto a mirror-still lake whose edges glittered with new frost.

The air smelled cold and clear, so pure that it was dizzying to take in too deep a breath.

Granger stood upon the embankment and clasped her mittened hands together. Draco came to stand next to her.

They stood in silence.

He nudged her with an elbow.

She looked up at him.

“You did it,” said Draco.

Granger pressed her mittens to her mouth, smiling, incredulous.

“I – yes. We need to see how the numbers come back, after the first few infusions. But – yes.”

She looked up at the sky winnowed by the wind. It was one of those December days when the firmament is a pure blue brilliance. The white puff of her sigh was carried up by a gust and disappeared into it.

There was a lovely, trembling sort of joy about her – the exhausted, can’t-believe-it joy of one who has achieved something after much effort and is slowly coming to revel in the elation of it.

There were tears in her eyes.

She took in a shaky breath.

Draco gave her a handkerchief instead of the bone-crushing hug he wanted to give her.

“I should like to point out that these are happy tears,” said Granger with a sniff.

“Obviously.”

Granger dabbed her eyes, then held the handkerchief to her chest. She cleared her throat. “I’ll be writing an article on this project, now that my work is public. Perhaps even a book. And I shall have a long list of dedications and thanks. This has been the work of many hands and many minds. Everyone at the lab, of course, and so many colleagues whose work I incorporated, and the researchers that came before me, and…”

“And?”

“I’d like to add you,” said Granger.

An unexpected spark of happiness was lit in Draco. “Would you?”

“Yes.”

“I’d be – honoured,” said Draco, unable to stop a delighted grin from making its way across his face.

“I haven’t decided how to phrase it yet. Would you prefer anonymity? I could use some sort of epithet – I would like to thank the thorn in my side?”

“The Nuisance Auror?” suggested Draco.

“The opportunistic ghoul?”

“The real pestilence of incompetence?”

“Crotch?”

“Then you must sign off as Hormone.”

“That may be difficult to explain to the editor.”

“Do you think ‘Partner in Unspecified Crimes’ would constitute an admission of guilt?”

“I don’t know – you’re the Auror.”

“Mm. Better not.”

“Perhaps I shall simply say, my heartfelt thanks to Draco Malfoy–”

“I like it.”

“–whose hair was sacrificed many times for the cause.”

“That adds the required gravitas.”

“That’s settled, then. Thank you.”

“We ought to celebrate. Do you want to invite anyone to the Manor tonight? I’ve a bottle of 1972 Beaujeu-Saint-Vallier?”

“1972?! Goodness, no. Save it for a special occasion.”

“You are the special occasion.”

Granger laughed, then grew pensive. At length, she said, “Quite frankly, tonight, I’d rather do nothing at all.”

She looked out at the still lake. Under her coat, her shoulders relaxed. With the first infusions completed, a tremendous pressure had been lifted from her.

The mania of the fire had abated. She was back in her own head again.

Draco felt the change when their eyes met. Now he wasn’t being repelled by fever-heat and a mind too burdened to spare a thought to anything but the work. Now he was drawn in again by the usual warmth. The quiet attraction. The pull.

He held out his elbow to her. “Let’s go do nothing at all. I don’t believe anyone has ever deserved it more.”

They hadn’t really touched each other since Spain.

She looked up at him with a swift smile. He felt her grasp upon his elbow and the press of warm fingers through his cloak.

She was back.

His heart soared with the wind and went to meet the sky.

At the Manor, a briskly snapping fire awaited them in the smallest salon. The curtains had been drawn against the darkening sky. Henriette laid out a small goûter of cheese squares, tapenade, and tiny quiches lorraines.

They divested themselves of their winter things. Draco installed himself in an armchair in shirtsleeves and braces. Granger flung herself onto one of the sofas, folded her hands upon her chest, and smiled at the ceiling.

Her elation was catching. Draco, too, felt a deep gladness – for the wizarding world at large, but also for her, for having achieved something so meaningful after so much effort. The months had been long, the dangers had been many, the occasions for giving up, innumerable.

And she hadn’t given up. She had pushed through. She had gone forth and conquered.

He brimmed with admiration.

To communicate this powerful emotion, Draco floated a cube of cheese above Granger’s face.

“Can I help you?” said Granger to the cheese.

“You haven’t eaten. Henriette will be vexed.”

Now he tried to float the cheese into her mouth. It bumped her nose and chin. Granger swatted away the cheese. Draco wished to indicate that he was better at aiming for mouths with other things.

Granger sat up and summoned a few crackers towards herself. It was the first time they’d eaten together in a long time. Draco watched her partake in one of the quiches lorraines in small bites.

“What?” asked Granger.

“You eat like a pygmy puff.”

Granger looked provoked. Then she sniffed. “I should like to compare you to some creature or other – but I must be fair. Poor table manners don’t number amongst your many flaws.”

Draco was simultaneously flattered and offended. “My many flaws?”

Now Granger looked prim.

“What did I do?” asked Draco. “What didn’t I do?”

“Just another broken promise,” said Granger, lightly, as one would, if one’s trust in men had been obliterated, yet again, by Draco Malfoy.

“Oh, we’re doing this again, are we?”

“Yes.”

“Which promise?”

“You never taught me Caeli Praesidium.”

Draco was piqued. “You never taught me the things you were meant to, either.”

Granger was holding back a smile. “I suppose we’ve both been a bit busy.”

“A bit.”

“Are you busy tonight?” asked Granger.

“You’re meant to be doing nothing.”

“I know.”

“Learning my most complex ward is not nothing.”

“Permit me this extravagance.”

“Fine. But you’re going to teach me the runic command.”

Granger hopped to her feet and looked eager. “All right.”

She had managed to do nothing for all of ten minutes.

“Let’s go to my study,” said Draco. “I shall have to draw some things out. It gets a bit – theoretical.”

“Ooh,” said Granger, following him out of the salon. “I like theory.”

Draco opened the door to his study and stepped aside to let her in. She looked about, taking in the furnishings, the heavy curtains, the candles floating in glowing clusters. The fire sputtered and purred.

One wall was dominated by a painting of some of his grandfather’s prized Abraxans. The winged horses’ ears pricked at the sight of Granger. One gave her a curious little whicker.

Draco sat himself behind his desk. He had expected that Granger would take one of the two seats for guests across from it. However, when she saw him drawing parchment and an inkpot towards himself, she joined him on his side of the desk, and perched herself upon one of his chair’s wide armrests.

Draco did not mind this invasion of personal space in the least.

It felt wonderful to have her back.

“So. Caeli Praesidium.” Draco inked his quill and drew out a few lines. “I suppose you know what a geodesic polyhedron is?”

“I do. Some viruses have capsids shaped like geodesic polyhedra, actually.”

“Capsids?”

“A sort of shell, made of protein.” Granger waved her hand at him. “Continue.”

“Right. My intent with this ward was to distribute any incoming magical forces throughout the structure. Most traditional wards have a point of weakness that can be brute forced through concussive or compressive magicks – especially the parabolic wards that we typically see used over dwellings. No ward is unbreakable, of course, but Caeli Praesidium requires far more magical pressure over a longer period to crack.”

Draco drew a few more polyhedra. “In essence, the more vertices cross the sphere – like this – the stronger it is. After you’ve established the ward’s desired scale and strength, you need a bit of arithmancy to divide its face and calculate its potency. So in this dodecahedron, for example–” he sketched it out “–I could divide those pentagons up into triangles, and from there into even smaller triangles. This gives us a great many more vertices. That’s called augmentation.”

He looked up to see if he had lost his audience yet, but no; Granger, her hands folded upon her lap, was the very picture of rapt attention.

He could still smell winter on his own clothes, but she smelled of the fire from the salon.

“Now for the arithmancy. This formula–” he wrote it out “–gives us the number of vertices the polyhedron will have and its potential magical force. Of course, the more complex it is, the more exhausting to cast – but the longer it will last.”

“Ooh,” said Granger, eyeing the formula. “That’s multiplex arithmancy. I haven’t done that since uni. Can I have a go?”

Draco jotted out an example for her to work on and passed her the quill. She leaned upon an elbow. There was a quiet delight in her as she worked – in the press of the quill on the parchment, in the thinking.

She solved it in half a minute, which was, frankly, f*cking sexy. A little tingle of pleasure coursed through Draco.

He produced a more challenging example and gave her the quill again. He sat back to observe her.

She brushed the tip of the feather against her lip as she pondered the new problem.

Over his many years as an eligible bachelor and general libertine, Draco had been on the receiving end of a great many seduction tactics. Granger’s inattentive lip-brushing ranked amongst the most tantalising.

After a longer bit of working out, she solved the second example, too.

Draco was – titillated.

He wished that she would slide off the arm rest and fall into his lap. That would be the pinnacle of whatever this was – this sapiophile’s wet dream. Granger in his lap, solving obscure bits of arithmantic exponentiation.

His next challenge was unfair. Granger attempted it, stopped in confusion, then gave him an accusatory look, before breaking the arithmancy down in reverse.

“Tss. Your starting point was pentagons. This one has square facets.”

“Well spotted.” Draco held his hand out for her to return the quill.

“What happens if we augment it?” asked Granger, withholding the quill.

“We would rend the fabric of the universe, I expect.”

“Let’s see.”

She worked through the calculation. “Oh. A geodesic subdivision resulting in right angle triangles, not equilateral ones. Not as strong, I suppose.”

Draco looked at Granger’s interesting creation. “That would be my assumption, too.”

“There’s a beauty to it, isn’t there?”

“There is,” said Draco, not talking about geometry, obviously. “Are you game for one more?”

Granger looked suspicious. “All right.”

“No tricks, this time, I promise – only complexities.”

He produced a final example, a rather nasty one, to ensure that she would be occupied for longer than a moment, so that he could indulge in this experience, in the push of her hip against his arm, in the brush of her heel against his shin.

“Hm,” said Granger. “I need to use Köhler’s law.”

“You know Köhler’s?”

“I do.”

“My word. This has become stimulating.”

Granger pressed her lips together. “Whether I can remember it all, however…”

She planted two elbows on the desk and muttered vague recollections of Köhler’s.

Yes. Stimulating. His cock twitched out a hello against his inner thigh.

Granger had taken off her bulky jumper and was wearing a thin Muggle top. Draco stared at the flare of her hips – very holdable, you know, very nicely shaped for a man’s hands, if a man were having filthy thoughts while a woman calculated primary vertices.

He decided to avert his eyes before he developed a full-on erection. The window across from his desk provided an unhelpful distraction. It was dark outside and all he could see was a reflection of the candle-lit study. Granger was leaning over, providing a lovely view of cleavage and the top edge of her bra.

Brilliant. Should he just have a wank over his Principal right here? She was distracted and it would probably take him a minute? Gods.

Granger made some breakthrough or other and began to scribble away.

“Done!” she said, and flung down the quill.

Draco leaned forwards to study the parchment and her elegant solution.

Yes. She had done it.

And it was f*cking erotic.

The inkpot on his desk exploded.

Granger jumped. “What the–?!”

An uncontrolled magical spurt. Wonderful. A step above coming in his pants.

“Sorry,” said Draco, Vanishing away the evidence of his premature inkjaculation.

“Are you all right?”

“I was – overstimulated.”

“Overstimulated?” repeated Granger, looking far more mystified than she had at any point during his explanation.

Draco cleared his throat. “Shall we carry on? You’ll be doing these calcs in your head after the first few times. The wand movement is similar to Salvio Hexia, only we want the upward cuts to equal c3. Which can take a long time, as you might imagine. The casting intent isn’t protection, it’s fortification. Do take note of that, the nuance matters. The incantation is Caeli Praesidium, once, at the beginning. That’s all.”

“Right,” said Granger. “Let me give it a go.”

“Ward the door.”

Draco took advantage of her shifted attention to pull at a trouser leg, discreetly, so that the bulge looked like an innocuous fold in the material. More or less.

Granger cast the spell a few times, interspersed with a few more scribbles of arithmancy. Her casting was slow and her ward was small, but it was clear that she had understood the gist of it. On her fifth attempt, a fairly credible silvery net splayed itself across the door, shimmered, and disappeared.

“Well done,” said Draco, instead of ‘I am wildly turned on at the moment.’

“I shall have to practise. What an interesting ward – I’ve not seen arithmancy applied to spellwork this way, I don’t think.”

“It’s useful. I’ve tried to teach it to other Aurors but most of them haven’t any interest as soon as they see the arithmantic notations.”

Granger tutted. “Their loss.”

She made as though to get up, but Draco touched his fingers to her arm.

“What?”

“Our quid pro quo, Professor. The runic command.”

“Right.” Granger shifted in her seat to face him. One of her legs was tucked under her where she perched on the armrest, the other rested lightly between his.

Very good.

Granger held up her wand and drew out four golden runes. “Hverfðar viþ inn laguz.”

The candles went out and the fire in the hearth reduced to a glow of embers.

“Oops,” said Granger in the sudden darkness.

She waved her wand and the candles lit themselves again. “It’s an apotropaic syntax. The runes are from the Meginrunar syllabary, but I interpolated prosodics from the Rúnatal. It translates – broadly – to ‘extinguish.’ Try the incantation first – the intonation is a bit tricky.”

Draco tried. Granger shook her head and repeated the ancient syllables slowly.

He tried again. Granger tutted. “You’re tripping up on the palatal ejectives.”

“The whats?”

“Stop sounding so posh. You’re speaking ancient runic, not ordering foie gras at the Seneca.”

Draco tried again, infusing a bit of Nordic harshness to his speech.

“Better. If only you spoke German instead of French.” Granger sighed and looked wistful. “Their fricatives are to die for. Now, the runes.”

Granger plucked up the quill and dipped it into the fragmented remains of the ink pot. She drew four runes on the parchment.

Draco copied them. The focus was good for him – he was, apparently, unable to concentrate on runes and sustain an erection at the same time.

Granger took a vast, teasing pleasure in critiquing his calligraphy. “Oh, no – you’ve made laguz too squishy. Straighten that up. Good. A bit more confidence in the downwards stroke. Right. Try again. What’s happening over here? The roof collapsed over Hverfðar? How does one draw such perfect polyhedra and then do that to a rune? It’s got four lines. As for this exhibit – is it a Cheesy Wotsit? And that one – another of your hedgehogs? And this? A spot of hyperbolic geometry? You’re going to rend the fabric of the universe, at this rate.”

Draco did not rend the fabric of the universe, but he did laugh too hard and poke a hole through the parchment.

Granger studied it with a held-back smile, but offered no censure: “Runes are meant to be carved, after all.”

After a few more practice runs, Granger pronounced herself pleased.

They progressed to the wand movements. To prevent any universe-rending or other botheration, Granger put her hand over his as he drew out the runes into the air.

Her hand was gentle over his, her palm soft over his knuckles.

Draco’s first few attempts, paired with his horrid pronunciation, were botched aberrations. Then Granger spoke the runic command with him, and that, along with her guiding hand, resulted in the glow of golden runes, suspended, only for a moment, in the air.

The candles flickered.

Granger removed her hand from his so that he could crack on by himself. Draco pondered whether he ought to feign incompetence – but he also did not wish to look stupid in front of her.

A dilemma for the ages. Pride won out. He tried again and the runes glowed for a longer moment, and half the candles in the study were extinguished.

The fire, however, crackled on merrily. Impertinent thing.

“That was a very fair attempt,” said Granger. “Well done.”

She was looking at him with a mixture of satisfaction and admiration, which pleased Draco very much and sent lovely little flutterings to both his ego and his groin.

Granger – sadly – decided to end her perching upon his chair. She rose with a groan and pressed a hand to her arse. “My bum’s gone numb.”

“Shall I massage it?” asked Draco.

“That’s quite all right,” said Granger with a laugh.

He hadn’t been joking, but fine.

Granger stretched, yawned, and eyed the door.

Draco was not ready to let her go yet – he felt as though he had only just got her back. “Are you off to do nothing?”

Granger observed him with a raised eyebrow. “You look as though you’ve a compelling alternative in mind.”

“I’ve thought of a new bargaining chip, for The Computer. But it can wait.”

“Now you’ve intrigued me.”

“Have I? Oh no.”

“What is it?”

“Come with me.”

They left the study. Granger fell into step beside Draco, with a few extra hops forwards here and there, given the relative lengths of their strides. “Where are we going?”

“First it was meant to be a birthday present, as I didn’t know what to get you, because you’re a mogul and you can buy yourself whatever you like, and I hadn’t any ideas besides appalling pyjamas and other less appropriate – er – anyway – Mabon came and went and I lost the moment. Then I wanted to use it to cheer you up when Greyback put his vile posters all over London, but you were consumed by your work and hardly had time to sleep.”

They arrived at a set of double doors. “Now, since I’ve missed all of my windows of opportunity, I’ve decided that I might as well be a proper scoundrel about it and use it as leverage for The Computer.”

Granger breathed out a soft oh when she recognised the doors. She turned to Draco, the beginnings of a smile upon her lips. “Strategic. I approve.”

“Wand,” said Draco, holding out his hand.

Granger placed it in his palm. Draco held it to the doors and, with a few waves of his own wand, added Granger to a very short list of individuals permitted to enter the Malfoy library.

He pushed open one of the doors. Granger took an excited step forwards, but found the way barred by his arm.

She looked up at him. “Yes?”

“The Computer?”

“I will be your personal tutor until you’ve learned everything your little black heart desires.”

Draco smirked. They shook hands. And, to his delight, Granger did not let go, afterwards – she pulled him into the library behind her and drew him along as she discovered the place.

It was gratifying to be with her as she explored the library, which took up an entire wing of the Manor. It was part enormous reading room, part traditional stacks, part personal museum. Tall windows gave out onto the forest and the lake along the estate’s western edge. A fire crackled. Reading desks and oversized armchairs were placed in thoughtful arrangements here and there, lit by magical lanterns.

Granger’s gasps continued to be an enormous source of pleasure. She requested a tour. Draco provided. They wandered through the stacks and display cases. Granger queried Draco upon the classification system, on the Malfoys’ acquisition philosophy, on their weeding plan.

There was a soft light in her eyes.

Draco was expounding, very interestingly and intelligently, he thought, on the principles that guided his acquisitions and weeding, when he noticed that her gaze was unfocused.

“Are you still with me?” asked Draco.

“Yes,” said Granger, blinking.

Draco continued.

She drifted off again.

“Hello?” said Draco, vexed.

“Sorry. Yes. I’m here.”

Draco decided to reschedule the lecture, as he was clearly not as fascinating as he thought he was.

Granger had a vague smile on her face.

They walked past books and tomes and periodicals and a small collection of prints and drawings. He showed her the cartography collection. A scrawled Here there be monsters was inscribed upon a 17th century map. Draco pointed at a tiny speck amongst seamonsters and said that it was Granger.

They passed through the rare books collection, displayed under glass. Granger sighed as she observed the ancient grimoires and manuscripts there.

“Who decided to put The Book of Din Eidyn under nonfiction?” she gasped, coming to a sudden halt as she passed a shelf.

“Me,” said Draco.

“Tsk,” said Granger.

“The battle happened.”

“That is open to interpretation,” said Granger, with no small degree of swot. “That bard’s very existence is unsubstantiated. You’d be better off putting it under poetry, I think.”

“Kind of you to share your opinion, but in this library, l’État, c’est moi,” said Draco.

Granger looked to be fomenting thoughts of revolution.

They finished their tour. Granger found the sofa nearest the fire and curled up on it, and looked at the library as one might admire a prospective view over a beautiful landscape. “This may be my favourite spot on this entire estate.”

“May be? What others would compete for your affections?”

Granger enumerated upon her fingers. “I like the small salon near the back of the house – the one we were in today – it’s ever so cosy when Henriette has the fire going. The terrace where we ate over the summer – that was just lovely. The rose garden is an absolute dream, of course…”

She trailed off as Draco seated himself next to her.

“What about a certain window ledge?” asked Draco.

It took her a moment, but Granger gathered his meaning, and went pink across the cheeks. “I’m not sure I remember that one.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Right. I think you were dreaming.”

A rather tense silence descended upon the library.

Granger was the first to crack. She leapt to her feet. “Shall I teach you the computer? I’ll go fetch it.”

“But we had just got round to doing nothing,” said Draco.

Granger looked as though she had decided that doing nothing was a hazardous pursuit. “We may as well, you know. It’s essentially nothing – for me, anyway. It’s very easy.”

She did not wait for his acquiescence and disappeared to fetch the device.

She returned with the computer in her arms and a stack of her pucks.

“You look excited,” she said as she sat herself next to him.

“I have been pondering this item’s mysteries for ages.”

“You could’ve asked any Muggle-born, you know.”

“No. I wanted you.”

Granger gave him an interrogative look as she pushed at a few of the buttons on the machine.

It was lovely to learn The Computer, because Granger slid herself closer to him until their legs touched, and balanced the device between them, and then she put her hand over his to demonstrate how the ‘touchpad’ worked. All very nice. She showed him the computer’s functions – to write, to research, to communicate with others, to ‘browse the internet.’

The internet was a thing that Draco was not quite certain he understood, but Granger could write things like ‘cat’ or ‘house’ or ‘oncology’ in a box, and information about the things came up, and pictures, too. It seemed extraordinarily useful. An instant encyclopaedia. Granger said that the entire contents of libraries were on it.

She pushed the computer to him so that he could try the internet. The first thing he searched for, with much belaboured typing, was “tits.”

Granger shrieked out a giggle as she watched the word appear. “Malfoy!”

Draco gave a low whistle as he observed the results of his endeavour.

“Now tell me what the cloud is, and Hackers,” said Draco, passing the computer back to her, with five rather nice pairs of tits upon the screen.

Granger got rid of the tits (a pity) and explained the cloud and Hackers. The cloud was interesting, conceptually. The Hackers’ lack of axes or other violent weaponry disappointed him. Granger confirmed that there was usually no bloodshed involved. Anticlimactic, overall.

When Draco had finished poking about on the computer (“bums” and “Draco” completed his tour of the internet), he passed it back to Granger, who rose and began to put things away.

“That was informative,” said Draco. “Now I know all of your secrets.”

“Mm. I may have overplayed my hand – I don’t know all of yours.”

“Oh?”

Granger moved towards the door. “But this has been an illuminating evening, regardless. Thank you for giving me access to the library, it’s–”

Draco had risen, too, and blocked her before she could reach the door handle. “Which secret of mine is intriguing you?”

Granger shook her head. “It’s stupid. I won’t tell you.”

“Now I need to know.”

“You don’t need to know,” said Granger, stepping away from him. There was a smile making its way upon her face.

“I do. You live in my house. You’ve seen me stark bollock naked. You have literally been me. What mystery persists?”

Granger laughed. “A minor one.” She took another step away. “It’s silly.”

He followed her into the stacks that she was backing into. “Tell me.”

“No.”

“I shall back you into a corner and hex it out of you,” said Draco.

He made good on the first part of the threat. After a few more steps backwards, Granger was cornered.

She gasped in faux outrage. “You wouldn’t dare.”

The little chase into the stacks filled him with an unexpected rush of endorphins. His breathing picked up.

“I would,” said Draco.

He came closer.

“I’d teach you what a real ruptured bollock feels like,” said Granger.

“You can do whatever you’d like with my bollocks.”

He took another step towards her.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” said Granger.

She was against the stacks, now, and had nowhere to go. He smelled fire.

He looked down at her. She looked up at him.

He felt that much of his future happiness lay in those bright eyes.

“What secret?” he prompted again, because if he didn’t occupy his mouth with queries, it might do something idiotic, such as declare undying devotion to her.

She looked off to the side, as though calculating an escape route. Draco threw an arm up to bar the way.

She looked to the other side. Draco put a single finger under her chin and turned her back towards him.

“You’re terribly insistent,” said Granger.

“I get what I want,” said Draco.

Granger gave him a magnificent eye roll. Then, relenting at last, she relaxed against the shelves and beckoned him closer.

He crowded in with delight. A bit of her hair caught in his end-of-day stubble as he leaned in.

“The whipped cream,” whispered Granger into his ear.

“Ah,” said Draco. It was his turn to grin. More than grin. He leaned his forehead into her shoulder and laughed.

“I await your answer,” said Granger, her breath brushing at the side of his neck.

Draco lifted his head and said, “I think it would require a practical demonstration.”

“Demonstration is one of the more effective paedagogical methods,” nodded Granger.

“Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be – gentlemanly. Or appropriate. Or wise.”

Granger looked unsurprised. “What a pity.”

“The tragedy of it rends my very being,” said Draco, hardly exaggerating.

Granger ran a hand down his arm and tutted. “Still wearing the silver cufflinks. We haven’t learned our lesson on the dangers of transition metals?”

“Perhaps we’ve been hoping for a reprise.”

“Repetition is also an excellent paedagogical method,” nodded Granger.

“I await instruction,” said Draco, an absurd amount of hope in his voice.

“Oh, no. That, too, would require a practical demonstration.”

“Oh?”

“Unladylike. Inappropriate. Unwise.”

“All the best things are.”

Granger gave him the most adorable, dangerous little grin. “Perhaps I’ll show you when you show me the whipped cream.”

“You are devious and cruel.”

“Thank you. May I enquire about another minor secret, while I have you?”

“Yes.” (She had him in so many senses of the term, it was a bit ridiculous.)

“What was the other thing you thought of buying for me, other than the appalling pyjamas? The inappropriate thing?”

Draco teetered on the edge of the fulcrum.

“That was – nothing,” he said, instead of indicating that he had visited a lingerie shop in Muggle London and daydreamed about it for days.

“Nothing? I ought to push you into the stacks and tyrannise you into an answer.”

Yes. She had him. His heart, that stupid and useless organ, was full.

“Please do,” said Draco.

She put a single finger to his chest and backed him up. He hadn’t far to go before he hit the stacks behind him, half a step at best.

A shelf dug into his back. Her fingertip pushed lightly into his front. Could she feel his heart? Probably.

“Tell me,” said Granger.

“Mm – no.”

Granger hooked a finger into his collar and rose to her toes. “Tell me,” she whispered against his jaw. “Or else.”

Just a few sweet nothings and sweet threatenings and barely-there touchings, and he was back in the spin of the vertigo. The gentle euphoria was upon him.

He was a love-struck, Granger-addled fool.

“Shan’t,” said Draco.

What were they even talking about?

It was her turn to put her fingers on his chin. She drew his face to her.

“Give us the barest of hints, then,” she said, fluttering, as she did, the barest of hints of her breath against his mouth.

“You’re terribly insistent.”

“I, too, get what I want.”

“Is it still want, when the thing you want is so willing to give itself to you?” asked Draco.

“Deep philosophies amongst the stacks,” said Granger. “Stop trying to distract me.”

“You’re the one distracting me,” said Draco. Their noses touched. “I haven’t any idea what we’re on about.”

“Inappropriate presents.”

“Right.”

“What must I threaten you with, to disclose this information?” asked Granger, searching his eyes, a smile in her voice.

Draco put his forehead against hers. “Withholding whatever you’re teasing me with at the moment.”

“A conundrum.” She drew a finger along his jaw. “Difficult to withhold, when I so want to give.”

“More philosophies to delight and intrigue.”

She breathed against his mouth for a moment longer. It was an exquisite exercise in self-control to not slide his hand around the back of her neck and pull her to him.

Granger drew away by an inch or two. “I am withholding. Talk.”

“Heartless,” said Draco.

“Satisfy my curiosity and I’ll satisfy these–”

“These what?”

“Philosophical enquiries.”

“What a charming bit of bribery.”

“Will it work? Aurors are trained against, aren’t they?”

“En principe. But my professional integrity crumbles before you, yet again.”

“Oh, no,” said Granger.

“You needn’t look so smug.”

“Tell me.”

“I simply wanted to buy you – less appalling nightwear.”

“Thoughtful. Nothing too inappropriate about that.”

“It was a Muggle lingerie shop.”

“…Oh.”

“Muggles are very imaginative with their nightwear, you know. Far more than our wizarding equivalents. So many strappy thingies – lace garters – camisoles – lovely matching sets – naughty little ensembles – all of which occupied my thoughts for far too long, afterwards.”

There was a blush on Granger’s cheeks.

“I told you it was inappropriate,” said Draco.

“Dreadfully,” said Granger. “Come here so I can give you your bribe.”

Draco leaned down.

She pressed a kiss to his lips, but pulled away before he could respond in kind.

It wasn’t enough. None of this was enough.

He wanted to kiss her slowly. He wanted to back her up into those stacks and lift her and squeeze all of his want into it.

“I should’ve negotiated parameters for this bribe’s duration and intensity,” mused Draco.

“It’s probably – wiser, this way,” said Granger.

Her gaze flitted back to his mouth. Then, with an effort, she looked away. She twisted idly at one of his cufflinks. Delicate fingertips brushed at his wrist.

“You didn’t ask me where my favourite spot on the estate is,” said Draco.

“Oh…? Well – where is it?”

“Here.”

“It is a beautiful library.”

“No. Here – with you.”

He caught her hand where she played with his cufflinks and entwined his fingers with hers.

She smiled that smile that made him soar. She was a light amongst the shadows, doe-eyed, blush-cheeked, golden-souled.

His heart was full of her. Her mind, her wit, her magic, her ambition, her beauty, her chaos. He felt himself at the edge of the fall.

He could love her. Gods, he could love her.

He ran a finger along her cheek.

He might love her already, in secret heartbeats and stolen touches and slow looks.

There was a tearing and a dissonance – a pleasurable pain as his mind stretched to accept what his heart already knew.

He loved her already.

It tore. He suffered in silence. She, unaware of his ordeal, turned her face into his hand. Against his palm, the softness of her cheek, the press of her smile. He was so full of longing it hurt. He was wretched, wretched.

“I’ve missed you,” said Draco. His voice caught at the edges.

The horrible, heart-on-sleeve sincerity of it appalled him.

She, bless her, responded in kind. “I’ve missed you, too.” There was a breathiness to the words, the unsteadiness of suppressed emotion. “Je reviens de loin. I feel as though I’m back in the world of the living.”

He still held her hand. He ran his thumb over her ring. “You must tell me when you’ve recovered your capacity for – complications.”

She looked up at him with lips parted and eyes the colour of curiosity.

He felt her returning touch against his knuckles.

“After today, I – I may have a spot of wiggle room.”

“What if we were – just a bit stupid, then?”

“…Let’s be a bit stupid.”

She slipped her fingers under his braces, where they lay against his shoulders, and pulled him towards her.

He backed her into the books.

He kissed her slowly, as he had wanted to, and lifted her against the stacks, as he had wanted to, and squeezed all of his want into it.

Her lips smiled against his.

Her kiss was sweet, and, gods, it felt like love.

They snogged like idiot teenagers amongst the shadowy stacks. She was as beautiful as he imagined she would be, pressed against the books.

Her hair came loose. He breathed her in by the lungful, by the heartful. Small fingers sought something to hold, slipped at his bicep, went to his shoulder, then found his collar.

There was such a loveliness in all of it – her mouth keeping pace with his slow kisses, the lightness of her in his arms, her gasps. It was a rapture, a magic. He wanted to tell her that she had him, that he was hers. He wanted her for his own.

He loved her. He kissed this realisation into her neck. He was light-headed with it, sick with it, afloat with it.

The dinner gong rang.

After the stupidities – gorgeous, bright, shining stupidities – Draco found that there was love in everything he did. It was in the door he held open for her as they left the library, in the brush of his shoulder against hers in the corridor, in his walking her to the dining room.

There was desperate love when he stood still for her to fix his collar. There was tender love when he pulled out her chair. There was aching love in pouring her a glass of wine. When he, like a fool, reached to push a curl of her hair behind her ear, it was wrecked with love.

He teased her for her small bites because he loved her. He threatened to steal her last profiterole because he loved her. It was why he followed her into crypts – why he wrestled hinds in swamps – why he kissed her scar.

And that pull – that gravitational force – l’appel du vide – was falling into love, over and over again.

At the foot of the stairs, after dinner, there was frightened love in his “Good night,” pulling back on itself, trying to keep itself secret.

His “Sleep well” sounded like “Come here and kiss me again.”

As she went up the stairs, and he watched her ascend, her every step away from him was a heartache.

He ran his hand through his hair and stared at the empty stairs.

He loved her. It was in every embrace, in flights under stars, in the crossing of swords, in secret ballroom dances, in the giving of things, in the life-savings, in the passing of handkerchiefs, the accidental touchings, the arguing about hyphenated surnames, the drunken picnics, the shared cups of tea. He loved her.

She made him understand the word.

Notorious Auror Draco Malfoy was in love with his Principal.

Everything was not under control and everything was not fine.

Draco’s harrowing realisation made things untenable on two fronts. He therefore got out of bed the next morning with two objectives, both of which filled him with different kinds of dread.

First, given that this was no longer Quashable, Equilibriumable, or remotely under control, he needed to speak to Tonks and resign formally from the Granger assignment.

Second, having rid himself of the fetters of their professional relationship, he was going to go to Granger, and bare his anguished soul to her.

And, if that went well, he formed a vague tertiary objective involving snogging her to within an inch of her life.

(Also shagging her to within an inch of her life. But first, the snogging. He was a gentleman.)

Draco arrived at the office that morning – well, morning-ish – to find Potter preparing to hold a WTF update. He asked Tonks if he might have a word with her after the meeting. She fixed him with an inquisitive look, nodded, then gestured at him to sit down – Potter was about to begin.

As Potter enumerated a few of the WTF’s limited successes that week, Draco rehearsed his speech to Tonks. He would say that he was taking her up on her prior offer to drop the Granger job. He would insist that Granger keep the ring, but remove himself from the assignment in any official capacity. He would suggest that Granger stay at the Manor after he resigned, as it remained the safest place for her.

Tonks would be well within her rights to press him on the wisdom of stepping aside at this rather critical juncture – and if she did, he would play it cool. It was nothing, really. Just a minor issue, hardly worth mentioning. What issue? Oh, only that he was, you know, in love with Hermione Granger. Probably had been for a few months. Currently writhing in superb agonies about it. Did Tonks have a bin in her office? He might be sick.

Potter and Weasley were now presenting mugshots of suspected pack members. Draco’s knee jiggled. If they could get on with it, it would be wonderful, so that he might accelerate this hideous confession and crawl away somewhere dark and lonely to die like an animal.

Suddenly, the ring flared to life on his finger. Granger’s heart rate hit a new peak – there was a wave of echoed panic – then there was the burn of the distress beacon.

Everyone was staring at Draco, who had leapt to his feet, wand in hand.

“Granger,” he gasped.

Now all rose – Tonks, Potter, Weasley, Humphreys, Buckley, Brimble. “What is it? Where is she? What’s happened?”

But now, through the ring, Draco felt only emptiness. His attempt to Apparate resulted in nothing – there was no answer from Granger’s ring; he didn’t know where to go.

He stared at his hand with slow comprehension. “They’ve got her. They’ve done something to the ring – disabled it or destroyed it–”

Swearing, Draco cast his tracking charm. A map appeared before him, upon which Granger’s hairpins glowed. He ran through the locations as the worried Aurors clustered around him. St. Mungo’s, Trinity, the cottage, the Manor–

“There,” said Brimble, pointing at a cluster of pin-pricks off of Scotland. “The Outer Hebrides.”

Draco raised his wand to Disapparate to the point, but Tonks pulled his arm down.

“Hold the heroics, Malfoy. You’re going to Apparate to bloody Scotland? Don’t be stupid. Give us one second to strategise before we all leap to our gory deaths.”

Draco did not care about any gory death at the moment but Granger’s, and preventing it with his own, if need be. Potter and Weasley jostled for their wands, looking as wild-eyed as he felt.

Tonks stuck her head out of the conference room and called for Montjoy and Goggin. “Kit up and get your arses over here.”

As Montjoy and Goggin scrambled over, she asked, “Who was on duty with Hermione at the lab?”

“Fernsby,” said Weasley.

“Humphreys – with Montjoy, to the lab – see what happened to Fernsby. Brimble – call in all available Aurors and DMLE agents. All of you join us as soon as you are able. I’ve a feeling we are about to walk into the werewolf lair.”

“Right.”

“Nearest Floo is Leverburgh,” said Brimble, pointing to the map.

They piled into the corridor towards the Auror Office’s Floo hearth. Draco’s heart thundered in his throat, in his mouth.

As they ran past Tonks’ office, a hulking figure loomed in her Foe Glass. Tonks flicked a V at Greyback.

“Disillusions on,” said Tonks, tapping her head with her wand. Everyone followed suit and stepped into the Floo.

A confused innkeeper in Leverburgh heard a gaggle of Disillusioned individuals drop out of his hearth. Before he could so much as offer them a pint, they’d rattled his glassware with the cracks of their Disapparations and left.

The Aurors Apparated to the tiny island amongst the Outer Hebrides that had glowed on Draco’s map. They materialised onto a flat, green piece of coastline. There was no one to be seen. Draco was unsurprised – he had felt his Apparition get forced off course by an Anti-Apparition Ward.

In his head, a screaming chorus: where is she? Where is she? Where is she?

Nothing whatsoever from the ring.

He cast detection spells towards the centre of the island as the Aurors girded themselves with protection and deflection charms.

Things took an unfortunate turn. “Looks like three hundred of them, if not more,” said Draco as figures lit up beyond.

“Bloody hell,” said Weasley, at the same time as Potter said, “Shit,” and Tonks said, “f*ck.”

Draco cast his tracking spell again. At this proximity, the spell was able to produce a more detailed map, which showed Granger in the centre of a kind of bowl-shaped depression in the terrain, bound around the periphery by a high ridge.

“Wards?” asked Tonks.

“The usual,” said Draco. “Anti-Apparition and alarms, all along the ridge around this hollow. Tonks, she’s in the middle of everything – we’re going to need a distraction.”

“Take care of the wards. Buckley, Goggin – you’re the distraction. Draw fire from the western edge.”

Tonks focused on a morph. Through the Disillusion, Draco saw her features grow smaller and her broad shoulders grow narrower. He was now looking at a Disillusioned Granger.

“That’s a dangerous game,” said Goggin, shaking his head.

“Brilliant,” said Potter.

“Potter, Malfoy, Weasley – with me,” said Tonks. “Tambling’s infiltration protocol. We are going to Hermione. If we can get her out together, we do. If we can’t, I’ll take her place. You’re to extract her before they notice the swap. Send sparks when she’s safe – then we can have a spot of fun.”

Draco set himself upon the wards at the top of the ridge. He disarmed a patch large enough for the Aurors to squeeze through.

The Disillusioned forms of Goggin and Buckley sprinted off to the left.

From his new vantage within the wards, Draco could see the mess that awaited them – easily three hundred werewolves. Probably the entirety of Greyback’s remaining pack – the fanatics, the true believers. They variously stood or squatted, watching something at the centre of the crowd.

In the middle of them all, strapped against an enormous boulder, was Granger. She still wore her white lab coat.

Draco was seized by a desire to sprint in and begin cursing. His Disillusioned wand hand jerked.

Tonks caught sight of the movement. She pinched his arm just above the elbow. “What’s the matter with you?” she whispered. “You’ll get her killed. Get me to her.”

Granger looked barely conscious. Her head hung. Weasley swore under his breath.

How the hell had they got to Granger? She’d been at the lab. Draco desperately wanted to tell her that he was here. Something like five minutes had passed since she had turned the ring.

The four Aurors crept their way through the crowd, Disillusioned, their heavy Notice-Me-Nots suppressing the werewolves’ ability to perceive them. If someone did notice something – a double-take, a sniffing of the air – they were hit by a silent Confundus or Obliviate.

As they neared the centre of the group, they could hear Greyback’s hoarse voice spitting out some gloating speech at Granger. Thank the gods – thank the gods he was stupid enough, arrogant enough, to gloat.

“Should’ve chosen something else to cure, shouldn’t you?” came the sound of his voice, even raspier now than it had been during the war. “Do I look like I need curing? Look at me, girl. Is there something wrong with me? Aren’t you going to say anything?”

Draco hadn’t cast an Unforgivable since the war. At the moment, the killing curse felt like a reasonable option. What cared he for his soul, when Greyback’s filthy hand was under Granger’s chin?

Draco was going to kill him.

They had at least another ten metres to go before he would be within range. The crowd grew thicker. Draco lost sight of Potter and Weasley’s Disillusioned shapes. Tonks was at his side.

How long was Greyback going to gloat? He could snap her neck at any point between now and the swap.

Greyback began to move away from Granger – it was a blessing and a curse. Every step took him further from her, but also out of Draco’s range.

He walked through his pack, revelling in his victory, asking his men whether they felt that they needed curing? He had a little Healer just here for their pleasure?

Carefully, carefully, the Aurors broke through the front line, and crept nearer to the boulder where Granger was tied.

The distraction came.

Tonks hadn’t asked for subtle. An earthquake rumbled under Draco’s feet, then there was the sound of an explosion. Draco felt the heat of it, a searing wind across his face. It sounded as though Goggin and Buckley had invented an entirely new, volcano-scaled Bombarda, and decided to take out as many werewolves as they could in the process.

As the werewolves scattered in confusion, the Disillusioned Aurors flanked Granger.

Greyback, unaware of the company, pointed to a group of men. “You lot – watch the girl.” He sprinted towards the explosion with a snarl. “How the f*ck did they know where we are? I destroyed that bloody ring. How many are there?”

Potter and Weasley’s figures advanced towards the watchmen to head them off if needed while Draco and Tonks completed the swap.

Draco knelt next to Granger, in what looked like the wet ashes of an extinguished fire. He disarmed a few hastily cast alarm wards.

Granger stared at their approximate locations with half-open eyes. She had a split lip and marks across her face that spoke of blows. Something was wrong with one of her hands – broken or dislocated fingers, Draco thought. From someone violently tearing off the ring.

His rage was heady.

He controlled it.

Tonks sat herself next to Granger. Her Disillusion shuddered as she matched Granger’s clothing.

The watchmen were distracted, only occasionally looking towards their charge as they strained to see what was causing the eruptions at the other side of the field.

Draco severed Granger’s bonds and replaced them with illusory lookalikes strapped across Tonks’ chest. He Disillusioned Granger just as Tonks cancelled her own Disillusion.

Granger was pulled away from the boulder. Tonks slid into her place, her wand tucked against her leg.

Just in time – two of the watchmen had turned around to check on the woman that looked like Granger.

The real Granger, invisible, was limp in Draco’s arms. Draco whispered Gravitas Penna. He slung her almost weightless body over his shoulder like a Grangery sack of potatoes to keep his wand arm free.

Two watchmen got too close to the boulder for Potter and Weasley. Draco saw their eyes grow unfocused as they were hit by a Confundus each.

Another watchman said something to them and received no answer but gurgling.

“Oi,” he called to another. “What the f*ck is wrong with–?”

He was Stunned.

“Go,” came Tonks’ sharp whisper.

The remaining watchmen shouted in alarm.

As instructed by Tonks, Potter and Weasley flanked Draco to accompany Granger out of the fray, drawing as little attention to themselves as possible. Draco felt Potter refresh his Notice-Me-Not charm.

They all cast a backwards glance at Tonks, hating to leave her so exposed.

The switch had worked. The remaining watchmen took positions next to Tonks-Granger, wands raised, but did not for a moment ponder whether this woman was anything other than the real Healer Granger.

Another explosion rocked the field. Spells were now whizzing into the sky in the direction of Goggin and Buckley.

“Are we sure none of us should stay with Tonks?” asked Weasley as they walked, slowly, carefully, amongst running werewolves.

“She’s still got her wand – she’ll Confrigo our arses if we don’t do as she says,” said Potter.

Draco would certainly not be staying. He had the most precious burden in the world on his shoulder, and his sole objective, now, was making it out of here undetected. Greyback’s sudden death could wait.

They were almost run into by a group of werewolves jogging towards the watchmen. Potter and Weasley cast a Depulso, knocking them out of the way, then Petrified the lot of them.

They heard the watchmen shouting orders to look for whoever had Stunned and Confunded their colleagues at the boulder.

“Shit,” breathed Potter, sending another Confundus over his shoulder towards a witch who attempted to investigate her fallen comrades.

“Almost there,” said Weasley.

Draco flicked a Flipendo at another runner who got too close.

They were halfway up the ridge. From there, they could see Goggin and Buckley – and, thank the gods, the newly arrived Humphreys, Montjoy, and Fernsby, and a dozen other Aurors and DMLE operatives with them, who joined the clash on the western side of the hollow.

However, the three Aurors’ trail of Petrifications and Stuns had been noticed. They could no longer advance freely amongst the chaos. They were being looked for. Bursts of Finite Incantatem and Homenum Revelio criss-crossed around them, which were deflected whenever it was impossible to dodge.

Weasley was hit, Disillusioned himself again, and entered into a scrum with four werewolves.

Blast. Draco did not like this one bloody bit.

“Keep going,” said Potter. “He can take care of himself – we’ve got to get her out.”

At the top of the ridge, a line of men now stood.

Behind them, a witch was patching the tear in the wards that Draco had made. Something about her sour face was familiar.

Potter’s hand found Draco’s shoulder. Draco stopped moving. Potter was right: they were too badly outnumbered and Draco bore too precious a burden to attempt a direct confrontation here.

Another Goggin-Buckley explosion detonated.

Draco and Potter turned and backed down the ridge, hoping to find a spot further on to open the wards again.

They made the mistake of looking back towards Tonks. Greyback was beside her, surrounded by a dozen men, and looked to be preparing to rip her off the boulder and – gods only knew what.

A Finite Incantatem flew in their direction.

Potter was hit.

Draco cast a Depulso at Potter, flinging him out of the way of a sizzling curse. He scrambled down the ridge away from the werewolves that were now converging on Potter.

The only advantage to their being so seriously outmanned in this fight was that the werewolves couldn’t Disillusion themselves without risking hitting each other as they circled their enemy.

Potter Disillusioned himself again, vanished from sight, and got serious. His Reducto flung Greyback’s men away, with or without all of their limbs.

Draco decided that Potter, too, could take care of himself and continued his desperate search for a quiet place at the perimeter of the Anti-Apparition Ward, where he could put Granger down and cut his way through.

He sent a Patronus towards Goggin and the newly arrived reinforcements, asking for aid at this end of the field. The Borzoi sprinted away in a silver streak.

Granger stirred against his shoulder.

“You’re all right,” said Draco. “I’ve got you – we’re almost out.”

“Wand,” said Granger.

Draco was loath to part with his. He spotted a Petrified wizard and muttered, “Accio wand.”

A stout wand flew into Draco’s hand.

“Put me down,” said Granger. “I can walk.”

“Are you sure?”

“Y-yes.”

From what Draco could see under the Disillusion, Granger was dazed. She looked towards the boulder where she had been tied. “Oh – they’ve put it out… Of course they have, that would have been too – too easy, wouldn’t it?”

“Put it out? Put what out?”

Granger fell silent. She was healing herself. Draco saw her Disillusioned hand cast spells towards her head, her hand, one of her ankles.

“How many are there?” asked Granger in a weak voice.

“Three hundred. We have reinforcements coming – we’re too few. I’m looking for a spot to get you out of the Anti-Apparition Ward. They’ve wised up – they’ve put up a perimeter of men along the wards, now. We’re going to have to fight before we can get you through to safety.”

“There are too many of them,” said Granger, looking about with a hopelessness that matched the one in Draco’s heart that he hadn’t dared acknowledge.

Potter and Weasley had teamed up and were causing some rather strong turbulence amongst the werewolves, further down the ridge. A curse streaked towards Draco and Granger. He threw a Protego to deflect it.

The Protego was spotted. The line of wizards at the top of the ridge began a slow walk towards Draco and Granger, criss-crossing the ground before them with hexes.

Below them, a full-scale battle raged, as the Aurors and the DMLE agents attempted to make inroads towards them.

They were trapped.

“f*ck,” hissed Draco.

“I need to make a fire,” said Granger.

“No. You need to get out of here, not make bloody fires–”

“Get out how? We’re surrounded.” Granger’s Disillusioned form kneeled on the ground. “Buy me three minutes and I’ll make them regret they were born.”

The wizards approaching from above were now far too close, and too numerous, for comfort.

“Bloody f*cking hell,” said Draco. “Three minutes.”

Also, he was going to make them regret they were born first.

He cast a dense Caeli Praesidium over Granger, cancelled his Disillusion to draw enemy fire towards himself, then got to work.

Under the silvery ward, Granger lit her fire.

The first three werewolves who approached Draco had their throats torn out. A vortex of conjured knives impaled the next two, and Arcanist’s Arrows thudded into the chests of the next. Every wand-arm raised towards Granger was met with an Immobulus and, if Draco had time, the burst of a detonation to rid the wizard of his troublesome limb.

Potter and Weasley were attempting to come towards him, but they were hemmed in by a crowd of werewolves.

Curses were hurtled towards Draco, parried, and countered with choking, rupturing, or dismemberment.

The first Unforgivable was cast, a killing curse just at his feet.

The man responsible was decapitated.

Draco was beginning to draw attention to himself. There were too many opponents and more were coming. He couldn’t use his Legilimency – couldn’t cast lengthy Turncoat Jinxes – couldn’t strategise. He only had time to react. A curse reached the silvery ward and bounced harmlessly off it. It should never have reached the ward. Draco should have deflected it.

He felt the beginnings of panic – not for himself, but for her. His casting grew rushed, reckless.

This was why Somethings were forbidden between Aurors and their Principals.

Another killing curse flashed towards him. Draco summoned a werewolf to take the hit instead, then flung his attacker off the ridge.

Potter and Weasley managed to crash their way through their circle of enemies with a joint Reducto and came to Draco’s aid.

“She’s doing something with the fire – Laceratio! Suffocatus! – she needs three minutes–”

“We’ll give her three minutes,” gasped Potter. “Depulso!”

A pair of werewolves was sent flying. They were replaced by three more.

“Suffocatus! Scindo!” said Draco, whipping a choking curse and a throat-slicing towards two of them.

Weasley hit the third with a ball of orange flame. “What’s she going to do with the fire?”

“No idea – Expulsis visceribus! – I trust it’ll be spectacular–”

A dozen werewolves broke off from a scuffle below and began to climb the ridge towards them.

“Too many of them,” said Potter, spotting the group

“Shave down their numbers before they get too close,” panted Weasley to Draco.

Weasley and Potter positioned themselves defensively on either side of Granger’s silvery ward. Draco hated to trust them, but, with that crowd coming their way, he hadn’t a choice. He Disillusioned himself and clambered down the ridge.

He cast two Bombardas to soften the group up, and then, wand in one hand and knife in the other, he was amongst them. His wand met throats, his knife pressed into eyes and the soft spots under chins. He was a Disillusioned whirl whose passage was marked only by entrails and spurts of blood.

Not a single one made it up the ridge.

He clambered back to Potter and Weasley. The beginnings of the shakes were on him from imminent magic depletion.

“One minute,” said Potter.

Around Potter and Weasley, a small rampart of werewolf bodies had begun to form while Draco had been occupied with his butchery.

Below them, Tonks, still disguised as Granger, was holding the attention of Greyback and his retinue. She was dancing about, wreaking havoc with explosions, casting Depulso at the ground to push herself away from them, and leading them on a merry chase around the battlefield. Draco watched her trip backwards and fall, saw, with a thrill of fear, Greyback loom over her – then she planted a combat boot into his groin and scampered away again, dodging spells and cackling, and Draco remembered that she was a Black as well as a Tonks.

Buckley had rejoined Tonks and was acting as her rearguard, putting up a defence of the alleged Granger for all he was worth.

Greyback looked up at the ridge. He saw the silvery ward. He pushed his wand to his throat and, in a magically amplified voice, ordered his men to destroy “whatever the f*ck they’re doing under that thing.”

A fresh wave of attackers came upon the three Aurors at the top of the ridge.

They were in a storm of spells, now. The ward was hit repeatedly, but deflected every spell with a metallic ping. Underneath it, Draco could hear Granger gasping out a long incantation. The fire flickered between the polyhedra.

The new wave of attackers was fresh and numbered about two dozen. The Aurors shifted to desperate, back-to-the-wall defence, forming a triangle around Granger, unable to do more than deflect. They used the bodies of werewolves to absorb the killing curses that came their way.

Potter was hit by something concussive that threw him into a group of werewolves. He cast a Bombarda as he landed. The air reeked of burnt flesh.

Draco felt a cutting curse split his neck. He fell to his knees next to the ward, clutching at his throat – then felt the cut seal as quickly as it had opened up.

Granger.

Five approaching werewolves vanished from existence before his eyes.

There were five worms on the ground where they had stood.

Draco stamped on them.

He felt the shakiness of magical exhaustion threaten his casting as he flung a Depulso at another werewolf.

A large, glowing rune emerged from within the ward and floated towards a line of werewolves approaching from above. Draco heard a word of command. The rune dissolved into a fine golden mist.

Greyback’s men blinked at each other amongst the mist – then rushed to Potter’s aid.

Inverted ethics.

Tonks-Granger was doing too well against Greyback below them. He was a brutal duellist that few could go toe to toe with – certainly not a Healer who had last seen active combat fifteen years ago.

Greyback, parrying spells, his face a bloody mess, looked up towards the silver ward, at Draco and Potter and Weasley positioned around it, and finally came to realise that the Granger he was chasing, who was meeting every one of his curses with her own, was not Granger.

He whipped a killing curse towards Tonks, who dodged it. “That’s not the f*cking Healer. Finish her.”

Then, with a rage-filled yell, he scrambled up the ridge towards them.

The silver ward around Granger was beginning to flicker. Draco told Weasley to cover him and, panting, prepared to cast the exhausting thing again.

Weasley was assailed by three curses at once. He deflected two. The third hit. He went down.

There were too many of them.

Granger’s Disillusioned figure was now bent over Weasley. Draco heard a Healing incantation. He turned to shout at her to return to the safety of the ward – but the ward had blinked out its last.

Now, where the ward had stood, there was a fire. What was special about this damned fire? Draco could not say. A circle of runes glowed at its base – Draco knew just enough runic to read the protection magicks there – Inextinguishable.

He needed to cast the ward over Granger again – it was the only reason she hadn’t yet got hit by a Finite and been discovered.

There were too many of them. He needed time.

Potter said, “Look out!” and threw a Protego towards Draco. It deflected a curse, but another followed it.

Potter was hit.

There were too many of them.

A hex flung Draco’s wand from his hand.

Another curse flew straight towards Granger where she knelt over Weasley.

Draco was too far to knock her out of the way. He had no wand.

He had no choice – there was no choice to make. He stepped directly into it.

He heard her gasped “No!”

Now he lay, a paralysing curse upon his limbs, blood dripping from his mouth, in a living nightmare, as Greyback, limping and bleeding, ascended the ridge.

The handful of werewolves still under the influence of the inverted ethics rune launched themselves at Greyback. He pulled back in surprise, then fought them off with the help of the men behind him.

“Keep the ones down there busy,” he barked, gesturing towards the field. “I’m going to finish this. Where is the bloody girl – I know she’s up here with these arseholes–”

Draco, Potter and Weasley might ordinarily have merited a curse while they were down, but they held no interest for Greyback in light of Granger. An explosion of Finite Incantatem churned the ground around them.

Granger was revealed, clutching at a wand with a shaking hand.

She had just finished casting something directly at Greyback. The side sweep of her arm looked like she had activated a tracking spell.

She, too, was spent. She collapsed onto her knees. The wand fell out of her hand.

Stillness fell as everyone waited for something to happen.

It was going to be good. Draco, paralysed, powerless, knew it was going to be good. It would be – an enormous explosion. A mass Transfiguration. Summon bloody Voldemort. Open the gates of hell. Anything. Anything.

The fire behind Granger crackled merrily, innocuously, as though it was the byproduct of a random Confrigo on the battlefield and not the most dearly bought fire that had ever been lit.

The werewolves looked at one another.

Nothing happened.

One by one, the werewolves began to laugh.

“That’s… it?” asked Greyback, his long yellow teeth bared in delight. “That’s what the great Granger did? So brainy she – made a fire?”

There was more laughter.

Greyback slashed his wand at the fire to extinguish it. Someone else cast Aguamenti. The fire crackled on.

Below Greyback, the sounds of a skirmish made their way up the hill. Draco heard Tonks’ voice, and Goggin’s, and Buckley’s. Faster, Tonks, for the love of the gods.

More of Greyback’s men attempted to douse the fire, to no effect. Greyback spat at it. “Leave it.” He turned to Granger. “When this is all over, girl, and I’ve taken care of your friends down there, I’m going to roast what remains of you on your little fire and eat you.”

More shouts floated up from below.

Greyback looked over his shoulder, then began to circle Granger. “We’ll have less time together than I wanted, but I’m going to enjoy every one of your screams.”

He levelled his wand at her. Draco knew that stance. There was a Crucio coming.

Granger, blood-smeared, shaking from her magical depletion, stared him down. She was not afraid. Her scorn was magnificent.

Before Greyback could cast anything, there was a shudder of magic.

The fire behind Granger turned green. A specific kind of green. A Floo kind of green.

Granger smiled.

Now there was a swishing sound. The werewolves scrambled anew to put out the fire, but it was being fed at the other end, now, and it doubled, then tripled, then quintupled in size.

Figure after black-clad figure whipped out of the fire and spun upwards. Dozens and dozens of them on brooms, cackling shrilly.

Granger’s smile grew dangerous, self-satisfied – the kind a Nundu might smile, just before it decimated an entire village.

Shrieks of wild laughter filled the air.

The nuns had arrived.

The sky turned dark with the whirl of black robes.

“What the fck?” asked a werewolf.

“Who is that?” asked another.

“…Nuns?” said the first.

“Are you bloody joking?” said Greyback.

The werewolves looked up in confusion.

Then they began to laugh again.

The nuns moved through the air together with a collaborative fluidity that could have been a warning to Greyback, if he hadn’t been so busy howling with laughter.

A few werewolves sent up spells. They were met with ruthless counter-curses that left the casters disfigured upon the ground, missing the majority of their faces.

There was a bit of shock, a bit of cognitive dissonance to wrestle with. Some of the werewolves began to shout and regroup. Greyback was still gasping with mockery.

The nuns lined themselves above them and, wands pointed down, group-cast some sort of area-effect Petrificus Totalus that froze everyone where they stood.

Draco felt his limbs stiffen beyond the curse. Granger grew unnaturally still. Greyback’s laugh was frozen upon his bloodied face.

Silence fell.

A small, white-haired nun, who flew above the rest, cast a detection spell at the field.

Greyback was illuminated in red.

The nun tutted in the silence. With a swish of her wand, Greyback’s rigid body was floated into the centre of the field and dropped with a crunch into the blood and muck near the boulder.

“Clear the innocents,” she said in French, waving her hand.

There was imperiousness in the gesture – she was used to command. She was the Prioress.

A contingent of nuns flew down and levitated figures out of the battlefield. From the insignia upon their cloaks, it was the Aurors and the DMLE operatives. Draco saw Tonks-Granger, Buckley, and Goggin’s stiff forms lifted out.

Then he was, himself, levitated, jostling against Granger, Potter, and Weasley. They were deposited at the very top of the ridge.

When the innocents had been cleared and only Greyback’s men remained on the field, the Prioress flew higher.

“Shall we have a Summoning?” she asked.

The nuns, cackling anew, whirled over the battlefield upon their brooms. Threads of violet magic glowed between them until they formed a floating pentagram.

The Prioress raised her wand, as did her sisters. They began a low chant in Latin. Shocks of occult magic coursed through the air – Dark, forbidden, dangerous.

A shape ossified into existence where the currents of magic concentrated at the centre of the field. It was a grinning goat’s skull, silent and inert.

“Who will be the sacrificial lamb?” asked the Prioress.

A nun floated a bloody-faced wizard up – one of the ones who had begun the attack on the nuns. “I have a sinner.”

The sinner was levitated towards the goat’s skull.

His screams, muffled by his Petrified tongue and clamped jaw, echoed across the silent field.

The nun flew above him and brought him in close, until his forehead pressed into the back of the skull.

There was a flash of red light. The man slackened. Now he looked grotesque, a hanging puppet with an oversized, horned head.

The nun resumed her place in the airborne pentagram.

The skull trembled, then shuddered, then shook.

Its eye sockets, which had been shrouded in shadow, were lit by two red flames.

The man’s body elongated and ripped. From within him, a form twisted and birthed itself into existence – a being of Fiendfyre and darkness, rending the fabric between worlds.

Granger had opened the gates of hell.

As it tore its way into existence, the thing vomited a sound out of the goat’s skull that was half unholy laughter, half pain. It was suffering, but there was a hideous anticipation in it.

Limbs took shape. The thing was tall. The skull hung at the end of a long neck. Stringy wings, black, and dripping with abominable afterbirth, unfurled.

Two cloven hooves reached the earth and made unhallowed ground of that place.

There was no light of conscience in the thing’s flaming eyes. Only a terrible thirst for death.

The nuns, breaking into shrieking laughter, released their paralysis spell within the confines of the pentagram.

It was not to give the werewolves a chance.

It was for sport.

The demon’s soul-blighting laughter joined that of the nuns. Hell in its eyes, it launched itself at the werewolves.

Half of them tried to run, half launched spells. A curling talon swiped at five of them and left corpses in its wake. Liquid fire was disgorged and burnt a dozen where they stood. The searing blow of a wing left a group of men standing without their fronts – no faces, no skin, only guts and bone. They fell with a wet sound.

Those trying to run found themselves hemmed in by the pentagram, repelled, and cast back towards the demon’s cloven hooves.

There was the crunch of skulls being crushed and a hoarse, unearthly cackle from the creature.

Ten killing curses flashed green and hit the demon at the same time. They did nothing. The thing wasn’t alive – it was the prince of some underworld, and they were merely stoking its fire.

The spellcasters were gutted.

The nuns held their pentagram. The demon dared not or could not go beyond, but it did not matter – it found its pleasure within those ungodly confines.

Its rampage was sickening, hideous, perfect. The screams and its laughter mingled in a ghastly chorus. The shrieks lessened and lessened as the demon made its way through its feast. Now there was only the sound of its terrible pleasure and the shatter of bone.

It saved Greyback for last.

Greyback fled from one end of the pentagram to the other, desperately hammering at it with curses. The nuns laughed. He aimed killing curses towards them. They dodged and laughed even more.

The demon caught sight of its final victim. The goat skull tilted. A plume of flame emerged from black nostrils.

Greyback was panicking, scrambling. He pushed his way into the pentagram and was repelled backwards.

He landed at the demon’s feet. It planted one cloven hoof into the centre of Greyback’s chest.

Draco had the vast pleasure of watching Greyback torn, limb from limb, and eaten.

The massacre was complete.

There had been two hundred of Greyback’s men in that pentagram. Now, nothing within it moved, save the demon. The air was fetid with brimstone and sulphur and heat-curdled blood.

The nuns began another chant in voices high and pure – the Lord’s Prayer.

Pater noster, qui es in caelis,
Sanctificetur Nomen Tuum;
Adveniat Regnum Tuum;
Fiat voluntas Tua,
Sicut in caelo, et in terra.

As the prayer went on, the nuns drew forwards on their brooms. The pentagram shrank.

A heavenly halo glowed now above each nun’s head. Their crucifixes floated off of their necks and shone with a pious light.

The demon hissed and spat plumes of hellfire as the bounds of the pentagram came in towards it. The field shook with its discordant, infernal screams as it was forced inwards, and inwards again, until it had curled itself into a shadowy ball.

… but deliver us from evil.
For thine is the kingdom,
and the power, and the glory,
Forever and ever,
Amen.

All that remained of the demon was the goat’s skull, then it, too, disappeared in a flash of red.

The holy auras surrounding the nuns faded. They broke the pentagram and began a leisurely flyover of the battlefield, cursing any member of Greypack’s pack that still twitched.

The Prioress flew over Draco and Granger, her wand raised. She eyed his Auror insignia and Granger’s lab coat and moved on.

Draco, petrified of her in both the physical and metaphorical sense, had never been happier to be irrelevant.

The nuns were satisfied with their absolute victory. They conjured a driving rain – something of holy water, something of the Genesis flood – that quenched the fires left behind by the demon and washed that unhallowed ground clean.

They released their paralysis over the remainder of the battlefield.

As witches and wizards began to sit up with gasps and groans, one of the nuns threw an entire tin of Floo powder into Granger’s fire.

It flared green. The nuns flew into the flames and were gone.

~

The aftermath of the battle was a mess of muck and blood and confusion. The Anti-Apparition Ward fell. Someone summoned mediwitches, who Apparated across the field and distributed potions and Healings to those who needed it the most.

A pair of them worked on Draco and Granger until they were satisfied that they were stable. They moved on to Potter and Weasley, both of whom were groaning enough to confirm that they were alive and well.

Draco and Granger looked at each other – filthy, cut-up, bruised, and battered. Across Granger’s face was a wide spray of blood. Droplets of it decorated her cheeks in a fine mist, running down in rivulets, now, as the rain washed it away. Draco felt the wet on his face and knew that he was similarly adorned; some his, some that of others.

They sat up and reached for each other’s hands, face, shoulders, blurting out a flurry of questions – are you hurt, bloody hell, did they get you, are you all right, can you stand, are you sure you’re all right, I saw you get hit, can you walk, oh, thank god, you’re all right, you’re okay, you almost got killed, you stupid, bloody idiot–

They found their feet. He held her dear bruised-up face in his hands and she held his in hers.

He kissed her, softly, under the downpour, softly, against her split lip, softly, amongst tears and rain and blood.

She slid her arms around his neck and rose upon her tip-toes and kissed him back. Draco knew happiness, then. Happiness was her, alive, her tear-filled eyes spilling over, her heartbeat thudding against his chest. It was knowing that her greatest threat was dead and gone, it was the beauty of days ahead that he hardly dared imagine, it was the feel of fingers in his hair, it was the shudder of her half-crying, half-laughing, it was her whisper of you absolute idiot against his mouth.

She pushed her face into his chest and gasped out sobs of relief and joy.

There was movement around them. Potter and Weasley were on their feet. Tonks, looking like herself again, limped towards them, as did Goggin and Buckley.

As he held Granger to his heart, Draco, frankly, did not give a single solitary f*ck about the opinions of his colleagues. He only cared about her – about this – this exquisite catastrophe, this beautiful, stupid disaster.

There were gasps, then grins, then Weasley chortled and said, “Steady on, mate,” and Potter burst into wild laughter and said, “I told you, I bloody told you.”

Granger hid her face in Draco’s cloak, shaking with something that verged on hysterical giggling.

Tonks, one eye swelled shut, put a fist on her hip and observed them with pursed lips. “I suppose this is what the word was going to be about?”

“Yes,” said Draco. “I’m – er – no longer able to be objective–”

“Funnily, I had worked that out just now, when I watched you walk into a curse for her,” said Tonks. “You’re off the Granger assignment, Malfoy.”

“Brilliant,” said Draco, a wide smile upon his face.

Tonks shook her head, but there was a smile on her face, too.

“Sorry to interrupt the love-making, but can someone explain the f*cking nuns?” asked Goggin with a gesture to the sky.

All eyes were now on Granger.

“They – erm – they owed me a favour,” said Granger.

“A favour?” said Potter, looking at her in wonder. “You properly called in the cavalry, Hermione.”

“I’m inspired,” said Tonks. “I think that demon would make a fine Auror.”

The group wandered the muddy battlefield, variously looking for colleagues or wands or – in the case of Draco – bits of family jewellery.

Draco’s wand was located near Granger’s fire. Granger’s was in a gooey pile of what looked suspiciously like demon-chewed human flesh near the boulder.

She plucked it out with a grimace. “I believe that is all that remains of Fenrir Greyback.”

Draco pointed his wand at the pile of charred mince and said, “Accio Malfoy ring.”

A deformed piece of silver whizzed towards him – not from the pile, but from a spot a few metres away.

Granger winced. “Oh, no – he ripped it off me and smashed it to bits, as soon as he saw me turn it–”

“It’s fixable,” said Draco, pocketing the damaged ring. “Everything is.”

She looked at him with a swift smile. “Everything is.”

“Shall we go home?”

“Yes, please – let’s.”

~

At the Manor, they showered and found one another in the small salon at the back of the house.

Granger came down in her most appalling pyjamas.

Henriette and Tupey were given a redacted version of the day’s events, so that they would not grow hysterical. Opimum was brewed to palliate the shock and soften the day’s emotional toll.

Granger explained her kidnap – such as it was. “Someone tampered with the Floo at the lab.”

“What?!”

“Yes. I know. It was meant to only have two connections – the lab and the Manor. I stepped into it to come here – and I promise you I said Malfoy Manor – and the next thing I knew, I was spinning out onto a field, and that monster was in front of me. They Disarmed me the moment I landed. Greyback saw me twist the ring and tore it off me – I thought he was going to rip my fingers off, he was so rough. He knocked me about for trying to call for help. Absolute ulcer of a man. And, of course, Fernsby hadn’t followed me into the Floo – I was coming straight here, he had no reason to…”

Draco paced. “Who tampered with the f*cking Floo? I’m going to – I’m not even going to use my wand, I shall strangle them with my bare hands. And the bloody nuns?”

Granger, who was curled on a sofa with her arms wrapped around her legs, tucked her face into her knees and laughed. “I still can’t believe that worked.”

“How?”

“After having seen a bit of what they were capable of at the monastery, when I returned the skull, I thought it might be useful to – erm – harness the nuns for our benefit, if I could.”

“Of course you did.”

“When I sent the skull back, I pretended to be a collector who had bought it off a gang of thieves. I told the good Sisters that I was returning it to them because it was sentient, and it deserved to be in its own home – it seemed wrong to keep it. I said if they wanted vengeance on the gang, I could help them. I told them what tracking spell to look out for – that I’d activate it when the moment was right for them to exert their revenge.”

Granger swallowed. “I didn’t expect them to exert it so thoroughly… Anyway, I’ve been practising that bloody Floo spell for weeks and weeks. Finally got it down to three minutes. It’s as difficult as Portus – possibly even worse – I hate it and will never cast it again. The Floo specialist who came to my laboratory gave me a decent tutorial and I studied the rest. I knew the nuns wouldn’t be able to Apparate across the Channel, but if I had a Floo connection open wherever I was when I activated the tracking spell, then we’d have a chance…”

Draco was too gobsmacked to make any sort of articulate commentary. He merely said, “f*cking hell, Granger,” and rubbed his palm across his forehead.

“I know,” said Granger. “I may be the more ghoulish of the opportunists between us.”

He stared at her. She laughed into her knees again.

“But – speaking of tracking – how did you find me?” she asked. “When Greyback destroyed the ring, I was convinced that I was done for – there was simply no way you’d have had time to even attempt an Apparition to me.”

“Your hairpins,” said Draco.

“My… hairpins?” blinked Granger.

Draco made a general gesture towards her hair. “They’re everywhere and you always have them on you. I’ve been doing it since our first meeting. They’ve come in handy a time or two.”

Granger pulled a hairpin out of her curls and cast a revelation spell. It glowed green.

“Of course,” continued Draco, “next to Miss Floo The f*cking Nuns In, it feels rather uninspired, now…”

“I think it’s brilliant,” said Granger, smiling at the hairpin. “The simplest ideas often are.”

“Right.”

“This explains Uffington.”

“Yes.”

“You’re a wily one.”

“So are you.”

Henriette popped into existence. “Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur, Mademoiselle – Madame Tonks is Flooing. She would like to come in, if this is a convenient moment? She has a Mademoiselle Brimble with her.”

“Send them in,” said Draco.

A moment later, Tonks’ voice echoed down the corridor as she queried Henriette. “Not interrupting, are we? They aren’t up to anything? A bit of slap and tickle?”

“Euh – non, Madame…”

Granger was pink in the cheeks.

Tonks burst into the room with a ridiculous amount of vigour, considering what they’d just gone through a few hours ago.

“Hermione, that is an outfit,” she said, spotting Granger’s pyjamas. “Small wonder Draco couldn’t keep his hands off you.”

Granger grew even pinker. “Tonks!”

“What? Is it not true?”

Brimble followed meekly behind Tonks, clutching at a stack of parchment.

It distracted Tonks from the pyjamas. “Right. Brimble’s got news. Tell us what you’ve found so that we can be properly outraged together.”

Henriette cracked into existence again. “So sorry – Monsieurs Potter and Weasley are at the Floo and they–”

Monsieurs Potter and Weasley had not waited to be invited in. Their footsteps and shouts of “Hermione? Malfoy? Where are you?” echoed through the Manor until Tonks stuck her head out of the salon and waved them in.

Draco’s vision of a quiet evening of rest and recuperation (and snogging Granger) was fast fading.

Henriette served opimum to the newcomers as they settled into sofas.

Brimble briefed them on her findings. In the end, the Auror Office really had done all it could have. Granger had been betrayed by two relative unknowns who would have been difficult to preempt.

“First bit of news – there’s been an arrest,” said Brimble. “A Mr. Terris has just turned himself in. Floo technician from the Department of Magical Transportation. Says he’s the one responsible for tampering with the hearth in Healer Granger’s laboratory. Greyback kidnapped his wife and children yesterday and gave him twelve hours to do it, or they died.”

“No!” gasped Granger.

“The family is fine – they were found bound and gagged, but otherwise unharmed. Mr. Terris is cooperating – it sounds as though he was quite repentant, actually – rather a lot of crying.”

Granger looked at Draco. “No strangling.”

“Yes, strangling,” said Draco, who did not find this to be an adequate excuse for what the man had done.

Tonks observed them with pursed lips. “Kindly discuss your bedroom plans at another time – Brimble is talking.”

Granger blushed. Weasley guffawed. One of Potter’s eyes twitched.

“As for my second bit of news,” said Brimble, taking out a long scroll of parchment. “This is a list of the dead. The ones whose remains we could identify, anyway.”

She held up the list. A name was circled on it.

A Miss Clotilde Fiddlewood.

“Who?” said Granger.

“What?” said Potter.

“No,” said Weasley.

“Shacklebolt’s assistant,” said Tonks, her lips pressed into an unhappy line.

“That old cacklebag?” said Draco.

That had been the witch who had looked familiar on the field – the one who had been patching the ward, barring their escape.

Brimble nodded. “We can’t interrogate her – obviously – but we are speculating that she may have overheard bits of Healer Granger’s very first conversation with the Minister. The one that triggered his protection request. Getting word to Greyback would’ve taken her months – he was deep in hiding at the time. We’ll be investigating what we can and we may never know for certain – but she was one of few individuals who could’ve known anything. And, of course, to find her running with Greyback’s pack, afterwards, is rather damning evidence…”

They sat in silence. Granger looked shocked. Draco shook his head.

Then, in the quiet, Potter said, “Greyback is dead.”

Saying it made it real.

Granger’s hands found her cheeks. “Greyback is dead.”

“Greyback is f*cking dead,” repeated Draco and Tonks.

“The arsehole is dead!” said Weasley.

They touched their cups of opimum together.

“Right,” said Weasley after downing his. He clapped his hands together. “What’s a bloke got to do to get a real drink round here?”

They decided to make a proper party of it. Patronuses and Jots were sent out. Soon, the salon was filled with family and friends – Lupin and the kids, Potter’s wife and tots, Luna Lovegood drifting dreamily about, Granger’s colleagues and star students, Shacklebolt (enduring much piss-taking on his choice of assistant), Aurors and their families, a host of Healers. Word of the victory and party got out and more people began to pour in, many in sleepwear because of the late hour – Longbottom and Pansy, Zabini and Patil, the entire Weasley clan (gods help Draco), Macmillan and other Ministry colleagues, and, finally, Theo, in a set of ridiculously sheer men’s pyjamas.

Henriette, Tupey and the kitchen elves were delighted to assist in the merrymaking. Tupey plied Weasley in particular with the hardest stuff in the cellars.

At some point during the festivities, Potter and Weasley waylaid Draco as he was making his way towards Granger. Draco found himself pressed into a corner by his favourite colleagues.

They were all properly sloshed.

“What?” said Draco.

“I knew it. I knew you were up to something,” said Potter, leaning in so close that his boozy breath wafted up Draco’s nose. “I saw how you looked at her.”

Draco pushed him away. “Back off, you speccy f*cker.”

“What are your intentions with Hermione?”

“My intentions? Have we returned to the Victorian era? Are you her father?”

“Answer the qu-question, Malfoy,” said Weasley, with what was presumably meant to be a threatening loom. (It ended up less than intimidating as he finished the movement by resting his head on Draco’s shoulder.)

“I haven’t any intentions,” said Draco. “Get off me.”

He held Weasley at arm’s length.

“You smell good,” said Weasley. “He smells good,” he repeated to Potter.

“Does he?”

Potter came in for a sniff.

“Get away,” said Draco, now holding Potter at arm’s length, too.

“Did you do something to her?” asked Weasley, one eye narrowed in suspicion (the other was closed and taking a nap). “Dose her with a love potion?”

“Of bloody course not – women fall for me all the time – I know that’s a novel concept for you–”

“What about you?” asked Potter. “Are you in love with her?”

“I – that is none of your business – and why don’t you ask her if she’s dosed me?”

“Because she’s not a – a scoundrel like you,” said Potter.

“A m-miscreant,” said Weasley.

Draco attempted to say “Tsk,” but he was so hammered that it came out as a raspberry. “You’re both under the delusion that she’s a perfect angel but she’s – t-ten times the scoundrel I am and that’s why I–”

“You what?” asked Potter.

“…Like her.”

“You like her.”

“Yes.”

“You’re her Auror, you know,” said Potter, aiming a vague finger in Draco’s direction. “That is unprofessional. Not allowed.”

“Unpfoff – unpfoffess – unprofessional,” repeated Weasley.

“Was her Auror. And I never – we didn’t cross the line – or if we did, it didn’t really happen–”

Potter blinked unfocused eyes. “Did it or didn’t it happen?”

“Dreams. By a window ledge. Fantasies. In Spain. Nothing real. It was Samhain, you know. We got drunk on fire – genuinely – you have to admire the Spanish, they know how to make a drink – or was it the Celts? Anyway, it was all – fantasies – gorgeous fantasies–”

“Stop talking to us about your fantasies,” said Weasley, looking alarmed.

“They are excellent, though. Right, my favourite one is when she–”

“No,” said Potter, pressing his hand to Draco’s mouth. “Do not.”

Draco beat his hand away. “Why are your fingers sticky?”

Potter looked at his fingers with intense focus. “Treacle tart,” he declared with a firm nod.

“There isn’t any treacle tart.”

Weasley, endeavouring to be helpful, poured his Firewhisky on Potter’s hand and all over Draco’s shoes.

“Thank you,” said Potter gravely to Weasley as he wiped his hand on his robe. “You are a true friend–”

“You idiot. Now my toes are moist,” spat Draco.

“–Unlike Malfoy, who is a tosser. Listen, Malfoy – if you do anything to yurt her–”

“Yurt her?”

“–Hurt her, we will yurder you. Murder you.”

“K-kill you in cold blood,” said Weasley. “Set fire to your house. Liberate your elves.”

“I would never do anything to yurt her,” said Draco in a rare, drunken plunge into genuine honesty.

“Wouldn’t you?”

“No. She’s – I – right, it’s none of your f*cking business, as I’ve just said–”

Weasley grasped Draco’s collar and, with a kind of plaintive desperation, said, “You promise you’d never do anything to hurt her?”

“Yes.”

Weasley pressed his forehead to Draco’s and stared into his eyes. “I think he’s telling the truth.”

“Stop that – get off me – you’re not a Legilimens–”

“Do we give him our blessing?” asked Potter, frowning into space.

“I don’t need your f*cking blessing,” said Draco.

“It would matter to Hermione,” said Weasley.

“She doesn’t need it either,” said Draco.

“Tell him that we’ll kill him if he hurts her,” said Potter.

“We already did,” said Weasley. “I think.”

“Right.”

“Do you think we should just – kill him now?” asked Weasley.

“Preemptively?” asked Potter.

“Yeah. I reckon that’d be proper proactive of us.”

“I like it.”

Draco pushed Weasley away. “For f*ck’s – stop breathing at me, Weasley – eurgh, why are you so moist – why is everything moist and sticky – get away. Right. I would never hurt her. She’s genuinely important to me. I care about her. A lot. Too much, really. To an idiotic degree. I wish I didn’t. But – I do and it’s – anyway, this is not a conversation I wish to have with you slobbering imbeciles. You can kill me if I hurt her – but I won’t – I would never – she’ll be the one hurting me, if anything – that’s my fear – my f*cking Boggart – all right? Have we finished here?”

Potter and Weasley narrowed their eyes, but it was unclear whether they were processing Draco’s diatribe or merely falling asleep.

“I think he’s all right,” said Weasley.

Potter nodded and said, “I’m satisfied.”

“Oh?” said Draco. “Are you? Good. Now bugger off. I need to change my shoes because you are literally incapable of holding a glass upright – Tupey! Fresh shoes and socks, please, Weasley had an accident.”

They rejoined the party, got even more drunk, and pissed away the night in high spirits.

~

Draco had fallen asleep on one of the sofas. He awoke at dawn with a stiff neck and a throbbing headache.

He rose and stepped over bodies in various states of consciousness. Granger was nowhere to be found.

Henriette was making her way through the salon, placing a croissant and a hangover potion beside every snoring guest.

“Where is Mademoiselle?” asked Draco.

“I believe she went to take some air, Monsieur,” said Henriette. “Shall I call her?”

“No, no – I’ll find her.”

Draco downed one of the hangover potions. Then he stood at the window and sighed a melodramatic sigh.

“Is everything all right?” asked Henriette.

Draco pressed his forehead to the cold window. “No.”

Henriette approached. “What is the matter?”

“Henriette?”

“Oui?”

“Je suis – je suis ensorcelé.”

“Ah!”

“Je l’aime de tout mon cœur, Henriette. De tout mon être.”

Henriette put down her plate of croissants and wrung her hands.

“Don’t be happy yet,” said Draco.

“No?”

“No. I haven’t told her. But I am going to go tell her. I am off to bare my soul, Henriette.”

Henriette watched him go with tears in her eyes and her hands clasped to her chest.

“Bon courage, Monsieur,” she said in a whisper.

The December dawn brightened the eastern sky.

Draco found Granger amongst silver birch and rising mist, walking a slow walk through the trees. It was cold.

She looked pale and tired as she stepped along the path. She had wrapped herself in a sort of shawl that looked suspiciously like one of Draco’s handkerchiefs, Transfigured. Her hair was only half-pinned and tumbled down her back.

She spotted him in the distance. She paused and watched him come to her amidst the frozen gorse and fen-sedge.

Everything about her seemed distinct and sharp, uncannily so. Breath misting from between parted lips. Fingers gripping the shawl. Dark lashes around bright eyes.

“You’re awake early,” she said, with a kind of soft surprise.

When Draco continued to stare at her like a love-struck cretin, she asked. “Are you all right? Is something the matter?”

He was taken by a kind of fool’s courage. An idiot’s courage.

It was true courage, for all of that. After this, things would never be the same again.

“Yes, something is the matter,” said Draco.

“Oh?”

“Something is very the matter. I need to – I need to tell you something. It’s stupid, and probably a bad decision, but it feels like it’s going to kill me if I don’t, so–”

Granger was regarding him with curiosity, with something serious – with her puzzle-solving look. She pulled the shawl more closely around herself.

Well, he was going to solve the bloody puzzle for her, right now.

“I don’t want to maintain the equilibrium,” said Draco. “I don’t want to quash anymore.”

“The… equilibrium?” repeated Granger. “Quash?”

“The – the back and forth – the not daring to do more – the not crossing the line. The blaming of booze for my lapses. The pretending I don’t care for you – that I wouldn’t die for you – I suppose that ship has already sailed, anyway. The denying – suppressing – slowly suffocating my heart – all of that.”

Draco took a moment to compose himself.

Not composed at all, he continued. “You’re – f*cking brilliant and beautiful beyond – anything. It’s actually quite unfair that one person should have all of those – attributes. And I want to be more than your Auror, and I want you to be more than my Principal, or Healer, or any of your – many and diverse – titles. I’m – I’ve fallen for you despite what has been, I swear to you, a most sincere railing against. I know it was wrong – inappropriate – contravened all the protocols – all that rot. I did everything a man could do to quash these things, but I – failed. You are too much. I couldn’t withstand you. You found fissures in my defences and you tore them into great bloody rends, and then you came to live in my heart, like some sort of – light in a dark place. And the worst part is, I know you didn’t do it on purpose. I know you didn’t ask for it. I know you were just being – you, your stupid, brilliant, do-gooding self. But you are – as it turns out – everything I want.”

He dared to look at her. There were tears in her eyes.

“Right – now I’ve bloody made you cry – brilliant–”

“M-me?” said Granger in a shaky voice. “I’m the one finding fissures? I couldn’t withstand you.”

“What?”

Granger took a breath. “I keep trying to control it but it’s – stronger than me. I don’t want it – I didn’t want it – I don’t know what I want. Yes, I do – I want one sodding night without thinking about you. I want to be in the same room as you without feeling that I’ll die if I don’t touch you – if I do touch you. I want my head to be my own again, and my heart. But you’re in them both, you idiot – you’re driving me round the bend–”

She brushed away a tear. “I just want to know – a bloody moment of peace, without you in my brain, but that is, apparently, too much to ask for.”

“What about me? I can’t – can’t cast the thought of you from my mind. You – your smile – you doing arithmancy – bloody Spain–”

“Do you know what my Amortentia smells like?”

“Do you know how much you haunt my nights?”

“I hate this,” sniffed Granger. “It’s rubbish. I hate not – not being in control – I shouldn’t have any sorts of feelings for you – this is your fault–”

“My fault?”

“Why did you have to be so–?”

“So what?”

Granger threw her hands into the air. “So everything! You were meant to be an arrogant, moderately competent Auror! You weren’t meant to be funny and endearing and heroic and – gentlemanly when it mattered. You weren’t meant to – to literally charm my knickers off and – worse still – worm your way into my heart–”

“Speak for yourself,” said Draco, outraged. “You’re the wormy one. You were meant to be an insufferable swot whose presence I couldn’t stand, not someone whose company – laughter – kisses – everything – I ended up craving like a bewitched, lovesick fool. Do you know how many bloody dates I went on to push you out of my head?”

“I went on a date with that stupid gardener!”

“What?”

“You set me up.”

“Gods.”

“How can I be in love with you? You’re Draco Malfoy.”

“And me? In love with Hermione Granger? Head over f*cking heels? I don’t do love. I can’t even say the word, it feels horrid in my mouth.”

“I should never have accepted this arrangement,” said Granger, addressing the sky. “I should have insisted on someone else, the moment I saw your stupid name on that stupid letter telling me that you had been assigned to me.”

“I tried,” said Draco. “I was told not to have a complex about Granger – well, here we are–”

“A complex?”

“–And now I have one – yes, a complex – a great bloody complex about Granger, beyond their wildest expectations.”

“I don’t want your complex.”

“Well, you have it – and far more besides.”

Silence fell. Granger wiped away a tear. Draco took a step closer to her. Their hands reached for one another’s.

“I feel as though I’ve given you a part of me that you could break,” said Granger. “Please don’t break it–”

“I shan’t break it. I would never. Potter and Weasley have informed me that they will kill me if I hurt you – not that their threats count for anything. And you have a part of me. I’m sick over it – you’d better not break it–”

“I would never.”

“–And why must you be so beautiful, even when you’re crying?”

“How do you make looking like a hungover vampire so alluring?”

“I’m going to snog the living daylights out of you.”

Her smile broke through the tears, a flash of sun.

She was happiness aglow in his veins. She had his little black heart in its entirety.

He closed the distance between them. He held her face in his hands. Their breath misted together in the cold air.

The sun rose in earnest, and brightened the snow, and greened the grass, and wreathed them in light.

He kissed her.

And it was the sweetest, most searing, most wondrous thing, to finally be able to do so, without interruption, without excuses, without breaking away. To do it knowing that his torment was shared, and had therefore become something else – a relief, a thundering joy.

He had a part of her and she had a part of him and it was going to be – it was going to be something beautiful. Could there be anything sweeter, could there be more bliss, than this?