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This is the Draco Malfoy and the Mortifying Ordeal of Being in Love - Chapter 13-23 Make sure you read Chapter 1-12 of this wonderful slow-burning Harry Potter Fandom universe fanfic first. Chapters 13 to 23 are where this story truly shines for me. The slow-burn tension between Draco and Hermione becomes sharper, funnier, and unexpectedly tender. Draco’s internal monologue is absolutely priceless, dramatic, self-aware, and painfully honest in a way that makes his emotional unraveling both hilarious and relatable. What I love most in these chapters is how the “mortifying ordeal” deepens. It’s no longer just witty banter and reluctant attraction; it’s vulnerability creeping in. The character development feels earned. Draco’s struggle between pride, old prejudices, and genuine admiration for Hermione is written with such intelligence and emotional nuance that I found myself rereading certain scenes just to savor them. There’s humor. There’s tension. There’s longing. And beneath it all, there’s growth. That’s why Chapters 13–23 are some of my favorite parts of the story. Ok, here we go: Draco did not see Granger again until mid-June. She came into her laboratory at Trinity just as he was recasting her wards. She looked as sweaty as he was, and rather more harried. “You’re limping,” observed Granger as she trotted past Draco, her Healer robes streaming behind her. “Perceptive.” “Bludger?” “Manticore.” This gave her pause. She pivoted. “Have you had it looked at?” “Obviously.” “By whom?” “Healer Parnell.” “Oh, he’s wonderful. Excellent. Bye.” With that, Granger closeted herself in her office. Draco might’ve been offended at this cavalier treatment of his esteemed self, except that he recognised the distant look in Granger’s eyes – the far away, thinking of something, probably solving world hunger look. Under the pretext of double-checking the interior warding, Draco sauntered into the laboratory proper. As always, it was irreproachably neat. It seemed to him that there were more bottles of Sanitatem than before, and also a few other healing potions of varying potencies, clustered into groups. Again, no written notes anywhere, nor any real indication of what Granger was working on. He was bending over a group of tiny phials, trying to determine if any of them contained either the Green Well sample, or the Beltane Ash, or the mystery substance she had harvested at Ostara, but he was interrupted by Granger poking her head out of her office. “You won’t find much of interest there,” said Granger when she saw him snooping. “I need to learn The Computer,” said Draco, a hand on his chin. “It would help.” “Teach me,” said Draco. He’d rather expected Granger to leap at the occasion. However, she said, “No.” “No?” “I’d rather keep you useless, for strategic reasons.” “Ungenerous of you.” “I know,” said Granger. “By the way, I have a favour to ask of you.” “The answer is no,” said Draco. “Brilliant,” said Granger. “That’s sorted, then.” She pulled her head back into her office and shut the door again. “What’s sorted?” asked Draco to the closed door. “Nothing,” said Granger from within. “Tell me.” “No.” “Is it to do with the Solstice coming up? Litha?” “Go away – you said you didn’t want to help.” “I’m opening this door,” said Draco. “Don’t. I’m not decent.” “Liar.” “It’s true. I’m undressing,” came Granger’s voice. It was slightly muffled. Draco paused. “Bit convenient, isn’t it?” “Just give me a sodding minute.” Draco gave her a sodding minute. Granger pulled open the door again. She was accompanied by the cold draft of cooling charms and a (surprisingly enticing) whiff of antiseptic and sweat. Her hair was a mussed-up bun at her crown. She had removed her Healer robes and replaced them with Muggle clothes. “You’re still not decent,” said Draco, observing her shorts and the low-cut top (still long-sleeved, however). “Please. This is normal attire when it’s bloody scorching. Are all wizards secretly nuns, or is it just you?” Draco considered this an attack on his machismo, and seriously contemplated offering to show Granger how much of a nun he was not, except he couldn't think of how to phrase that in a manly, virile way. “Have you changed your mind about the favour?” asked Granger, backing out of his way so he could come in. Draco took his usual chair in front of her desk and assumed a magnanimous pose. “I’ve decided to, at the very least, hear you out.” “Thank you for lavishing me with your charity.” Draco gestured at her to continue in a kingly sort of way. Also, he wasn’t having any difficulty focusing on her face and her low neckline was not distracting him at all. “I’m only asking you this because I know you are morally corrupt and have no ethical standards,” began Granger. “I would ask no other Auror what I am about to ask you.” “Strong preface,” said Draco. “I am flattered. Continue.” “How do you feel about thievery?” “In favour,” said Draco. “You don’t even know what we’re stealing.” “What is it?” “What if it were – theoretically, of course – a precious relic of critical religious significance?” “...When are we going?” “Have you got any plans for the Solstice?” asked Granger. “Thievery of a religious artefact with a surprisingly naughty Healer,” said Draco. “You?” A pleased look flitted across Granger’s face, then disappeared. “I have plans with a morally bankrupt Auror.” “He sounds like a catch.” “I’m beginning to think he is,” said Granger. Her withheld laughter made her eyes bright. “So tell me.” “Promise you won’t report me to the authorities?” “I am the authorities, Granger.” “All right.” Granger clasped her hands in front of her in a nervous knot. “I’m going to steal part of a skull.” “A skull.” “Yes.” “Human?” “Yes.” Granger watched Draco anxiously for his reaction. He made her suffer by staring at her expressionlessly for a full twenty seconds. She was holding her breath. “Diabolical, Granger.” Granger let out the breath. “Is the person dead or alive?” asked Draco. Granger looked scandalised. “Dead, of course.” “I don't make assumptions. Whose skull?” “Mary Magdalene’s.” Granger was holding her breath again. “What?” “I told you it was of religious significance,” said Granger. “Isn’t she wildly important to the Muggles? The Christian ones? Where is her skull kept? Are we going to raid the Vatican?” “Well, that’s the good news, I think. Her skull lies in a reliquary, in a crypt. And that crypt is in a quiet little monastery in the south of France.” “So what’s the bad news?” “Well – speaking of nuns – the monastery is run by the Benedictine Sisters of the Sacred Heart.” “And?” “They’re witches.” “Ah,” said Draco. “They’ve been undercover as a religious order for centuries, to escape persecution. They protected the Magdalene when she fled from the Holy Land. Stealing from them will be slightly more complicated than Apparating in and nicking their most precious relic.” “I assume that you have a plan,” said Draco. Granger looked offended that he would even ask. “Obviously. I am choosing a simple approach with the fewest moving parts possible. Your input as an Auror would be appreciated, incidentally.” “Tell me.” “The monastery is open for visitors – it’s a popular walk up for Muggles in the area. We are going to be bumbling Muggle newlyweds.” “Must we be bumbling? I shall find it difficult to remain in character.” “Yes, we must. Our walk up will coincide – unfortunately, silly us, we are so bumbling – with the Benedictine Sisters’ midsummer celebrations.” “Must we be newlyweds? We quite detest each other.” “I know, but yes. If the nuns try to bar entry, because of the midsummer celebrations – they probably won’t, but just in case – we’ll say this visit was the highlight of our honeymoon, and that the pilgrimage up was a wedding vow promise, and that all we want to do is pray to the Magdalene, and won’t they please consider making an exception? I will cry. You can cry, too. Hopefully they let the snivelling idiots in with minimal supervision.” “And if they don’t?” asked Draco. “That will mean they are heartless wretches and I shan’t feel bad for Stunning them to get in.” “See, that’s the problem with morals. I would’ve just skipped to Stunning.” “Yes, well, I have a slightly more developed sense of ethics than you do, so I would like them to deserve it in some capacity. Only slightly, mind. I can’t claim to be too noble, since I’m setting out to damage a priceless artefact. Though, it's for a very good cause – does that balance out? Anyway, by mid-morning, most of the Sisters will be down in the village – there’s a basilica there where the townspeople congregate with them. There will only be a skeleton crew left at the monastery, and, of course, whatever wards these witches have put up to protect the skull and their other relics.” “The priceless relics that they’ve been protecting for centuries. A few dusty Caterwauling Charms, I’m sure. This’ll be a doddle.” “That’s why I’d be rather pleased if you'd come with me,” said Granger. “I have some knowledge of wards, but yours eclipses mine. Now, in the event that things go pear-shaped, I’ve prepared a few – er – distractions that I’ll be planting as we do our innocent bumbling tour.” “What kind of distractions?” Granger waved her wand and a glowing rune came to life between them. She flicked her wand and displayed two or three more. Every one of them contained the radical Kenaz: fire. “Incendiary devices? In a monastery?” Granger bit her lip. “Yes.” “You’re a menace, Granger.” “But I’ve modified them – they will look a lot worse than they actually are. They’ll give the Sisters real trouble to extinguish, though. I integrated combustible metals.” The alchemist in Draco was intrigued. “What metals?” “Magnesium, lithium, potassium.” “Aguamenti will do bugger all,” said Draco. “They’ll need to find a dry extinguishing agent.” “Yes. By the time they work it out, we’ll be long gone. I’ve put a peripheral boundary on each explosion; the fires will look enormous, but the real damage should be limited to a square metre.” “And disguises?” asked Draco. Here Granger looked ambivalent. “I’ll leave yours to you. I was going to do a few simple glamours. I studied in France for two years and I was only recognised once, by a fellow English student. I don’t think the nuns in the country’s most remote monastery will be up to date on Hermione Granger’s most recent look.” “Fair.” “We’ll bumble our way through the monastery, Stunning and Obliviating as needed (hopefully not at all), and I shall take a fragment of the skull so tiny, they won’t even know it’s gone.” “And then? We Disapparate out?” “The entire area is warded against,” grimaced Granger. “That’s why we’re being Muggle walkers. We’ll have to trot along to the edge of the ward to Disapparate.” “Portkey?” “Too trackable, unless you’ve fixed the one you attempted in the ring?” “I haven’t,” said Draco. “That enchantment is a real bugger. There’s a reason why there’s an entire Department dedicated to Portus experts.” “Damn it.” “Brooms?” Granger responded to this intelligent suggestion with all the gratitude and eagerness that might have been expected, which is to say, none at all. “Why is it always brooms, with you?” she asked in a kind of snarl. “Because they’re bloody useful, and a good deal faster than bimbling back down the trail by foot until we can Disapparate. Unless you’re secretly a mountain goat Animagus?” “But how would we even involve brooms? Hide them on the trail in advance?” “Can you squeeze a broom into your Extended pockets?” “Probably,” said Granger, frowning. “Probably just one, given the awkward shape.” “That’s settled, then. Disillusionment and a quick broom-ride out. I’ve used it hundreds of times to get out of sticky situations. As soon as you hit the sky, they can’t see you at all – and you’re miles away before they can summon their own brooms.” Granger sighed. “Fine. Broom until we’re past the Anti-Apparition Ward. Then we Disapparate out. Only in the unfortunate event that we trigger a ward or they catch us with our hands on the skull and give chase. Otherwise, we leave the way we came.” “I’ll choose one of my racers,” said Draco, growing rather excited at the prospect. “I can attach a second seat.” For her part, Granger looked tetchy. “A racer. Wonderful.” “The point is to be fast. Shall we do a S.W.O.T. analysis?” “No. I know it’s a good idea,” said Granger. She looked pouty. “I don’t have to like it.” “Good. When shall I bring my broomstick for you to squeeze into your pocket? We’ll have to see if the shaft fits whatever minuscule crevice you’re offering, Extension charms or no.” Granger valiantly attempted to keep a straight face. “What?” asked Draco, his own face impassive. Granger collapsed into a restrained giggle. “W-why did you have to phrase it like that?” Draco’s poker-face was impeccable. “Like what?” “Like a horrid euphemism for – ugh – never mind.” “For what, Granger?” “I said, never mind.” Draco let up and smirked. “Who’s giggling about penises now?” Granger, realising that he’d been taking the piss, gave him a black look. “At least I’m not choking on an omelette while doing so.” “Choking while stuffing your gob at the Knob is a rite of passage.” Granger couldn’t help the snort that escaped her. “Stop.” “Now, if we can stop talking about penises for one moment–” “I’m not talking about penises – you are.” “I’m talking about broomsticks and pubs. I’m innocent.” “No, you’re maddening.” Granger pressed her fingertips to her temples. “Right. Let’s focus. I have places to be.” “Where do you have to be?” “Places,” said Granger. “As for us, we’re leaving next Friday. I shall Jot the details to you, but, in brief – we’ll Floo to Aix-en-Provence. I’ll drive us to the town of Saint-Maximin so that we arrive like Muggles.” “Fine.” “And keep this escapade to yourself,” added Granger. “No,” said Draco in a gush of annoyed sarcasm. “I was thinking of placing an advert in the Prophet.” “I just don’t want people asking questions–” Draco held up his hands to frame an imaginary headline: “Attractive Auror Agrees to Hare Off to France with Harridan Healer.” “Harridan?” repeated Granger, in a harridanly sort of way. “Or Harpy – would you prefer that? I’d like to keep the alliteration.” Granger’s nostrils flared. “I would prefer it if we brought this conversation to a close.” “Huffy Healer,” said Draco, generously. Granger’s jaw clenched. Given that he didn’t want to have his bollocks jinxed off, Draco rose to make his exit. “Raging Researcher?” he called over his shoulder. “Piqued Professor?” There was something delightfully murderous in the way she spat “Malfoy!” at his retreating back. When Draco had descended the stairs in King’s Hall, well clear of jinxing range, he took out his copy of Granger’s schedule and investigated the ‘Places’ she had to be. It was an Italian restaurant in an hour. Participant(s) unspecified. Draco stuffed her schedule back into his pocket. He had a certain suspicion that Granger had a date. And he didn’t care at all, and it certainly didn’t irritate him for no reason. He sent a Jot to Zabini, out of an abundance of – well, he’d call it caution – asking him if he had any plans that evening. Zabini said no, but he’d be glad to have plans; should they meet at the Macassar? Draco sent back his agreement. Theo was invited too, who suggested they invite Pansy, who brought her Longbottomed plonker of a husband, who invited MacMillan, who arrived with three Ministry colleagues, and they ended up making quite an evening of it. One of MacMillan’s juniors was a witch with whom Draco had slept a few times over the years. She gave him her amorous attentions all evening and he accepted them with a kind of listlessness – the touches at his thigh, the holding of his arm. However, when she trailed after him to the dark corridor leading to the loo, he found that he had no desire to pursue anything further with her. When he returned, very much un-mussed, and with an offended looking witch behind him, Zabini and Ernie both regarded him with a raised eyebrow. Whatever. As he shot back his Firewhisky, Draco reflected that at least he could rest easy that it wasn’t bloody Zabini that Granger was cosying up to tonight. ~ The journey from London to France went as smoothly as could be desired. Draco met Granger at one of the International Floo departures in London. After she pronounced herself satisfied with Draco’s holidaying Mugglewear (“Quite smart, really – you look like you own a boat.”) they stepped into the fire. Then, after a longish, three-minute whirl in the Floo that made Granger green, they found themselves at the hearth of the Tournesol in Aix-en-Provence. From there, Granger took over, navigating them to a car hire place, and then driving the forty kilometres to the charming seaside town of Saint-Maximin-la-Sainte-Baume. Their suitcases were in the boot, their snacks were in the back seat, and the car stereo played something that wasn’t Austrian folk music. Draco found it to be altogether a pleasant drive through olive groves, vineyards, and hilltops dotted with medieval ruins. Perhaps there was something to be said for the Muggles’ scenic routes, rather than the immediacy of Apparition. Granger was full of a kind of nervous energy that manifested itself in a stream of informative babbling paired with peppy driving. Draco endured the former and rather enjoyed the latter. Their hired Peugeot had looked, to Draco’s unpractised eye, like a stodgy sort of car, but Granger had awakened a zeal for life in the thing. They whizzed past meandering Provençal traffic without issue until Granger found a challenger: a black Citroën whose chief joy was racing to catch up and pass them, and then slowing down again in a pissy sort of way. “Twat,” said Draco, the third time this had happened. “A Parisian, of course,” said Granger, observing the registration plate. “I’ve half a mind to hit him with a puncture,” said Draco, spinning his wand between his fingers. “That wouldn’t be sporting,” said Granger. The road straightened out enough for her to attempt a pass. She shifted gears. “Hold onto your trousers.” The Peugeot’s engine whined in startled protest as Granger hit the accelerator. The car responded with an astonishing burst of speed. Draco’s head and body felt as though they were being pressed into the seat by the G-forces – a delightful sensation that made him want to whoop. The tyres squeaked and their small car surged ahead of the Citroën. “Cheers, dickhead,” said Draco, making the V-sign to the other driver as they passed. The man in the car made an equally friendly gesture back. As they whizzed down the road, Draco remarked, “I didn’t think this car had that kind of verve. What did you put in her for petrol, Pepperup? Oi – you had your wand out!” Granger was tucking something into her pocket. She started. “What? No.” “And you called me unsporting?” “I only gave us a bit of a boost,” said Granger, with a triumphant glare back at the other car through the rearview mirror. Draco observed her. “Granger’s Paradox.” “I beg your pardon?” “You’re a speed demon, and yet you hate flying.” “I’m not a speed demon,” scoffed Granger. “I’m just a bit impatient.” “You ski, too. Isn’t skiing rather an extreme sport? You launch yourself down the Alps at high velocity?” “Only if you put it that way–” “From the top of a mountain,” said Draco. “Thousands of metres in the air. Brooms will take you two hundred metres up, at the most extreme.” “It’s different when there’s nothing below you.” A lengthy argument ensued. Meanwhile, the country around them grew wooded. They took a slip-road off to a rural road, winding down through gorges and then back up again. They passed through convivial medieval villages and then down a sinuous country lane, which eventually brought them to vast flatlands striped with lavender fields and, finally, the sea. “Oh, how beautiful,” sighed Granger, in a moment of uncharacteristic softness. “A balm upon the soul,” said Draco, with enough of an edge to suggest cynicism, to cover the fact that he meant it. The picturesque town of Saint-Maximin came into view under the afternoon sun. “We’ll stay at the hotel tonight,” said Granger, “And we’ll do the walk up and the – the other activity – tomorrow morning.” Draco felt her give him a sidelong look, to which he quirked an eyebrow. “What?” “The nicer hotels were all booked up, so don’t be a prat about the quality of the place. It’s… older. The restaurant is apparently lovely, though.” “Is the hotel run by ogres?” “Of course not – this is a Muggle town.” “Then it’ll be fine.” “You’ve stayed in a place run by ogres?” “Yes,” said Draco. “A stakeout in Budle. I did learn a bed bug extermination spell as a result, so we’ll be sorted if you feel anything scurrying up your legs tonight.” “Eurgh,” shuddered Granger. Granger’s mobile, which had been serving as a kind of live map for the duration of the drive, suddenly announced that the Hotel Plaisance was coming up on their right. The hotel was old and tired, but beautifully situated. The small foyer was packed with other arrivals, all of whom were being served by a single, hard-of-hearing old woman, who moved with all of the agility of a mollusc. Eventually, it was their turn, and the woman gave them the key to their room and took their names down for a dinner reservation. The tiny room had a bed of questionable structural integrity, a lamp, a caved-in sofa, and an afterthought of a bathroom. There was a vague, fusty scent to the room, as though someone's great aunt had sprayed perfume and then died there in sad circumstances. “All mod cons, Granger,” said Draco as they took stock. “Sea view, at least?” said Granger, banging open the shutters to air things out. The bed squeaked as Draco sat on it and then sank almost to the ground, with intimations that it was planning on collapsing entirely under his weight as soon as he was asleep. Granger observed Draco where he sat, his knees almost at his chin. “The bed is yours,” she said with what she’d no doubt intended to sound like generosity. It sounded rather strategic to Draco’s ear. She had her eye on the sofa. “I’ll Transfigure this into something serviceable for myself.” “Something serviceable,” repeated Draco, as Granger undertook a complex, ten minute Transfiguration exercise, turning the sofa into a lovely, cushy-looking bed, in a regal burgundy. Granger missed the raillery. “That should do it,” she said, slightly breathless from the magical exertion. “Now. I should like a shower. What are your plans for the evening? Dinner’s at eight.” “My job,” said Draco, already warding the window. “I’m going to have a wander. I’ll meet you back here at quarter to.” “All right,” said Granger. She had pulled out a list. “What’s that?” “My itinerary for the evening,” said Granger. “...You only have three hours,” said Draco. Even from across the room, the list looked long. “I know. I’d better crack on. There are so many lovely little museums and bookshops – and of course, the basilica.” Granger grappled with her luggage, pulled out a change of clothes, and stepped into the bathroom. Draco left her to it and stalked the hotel's dingy halls, warding as he went. He did not find any baddies. There were only Muggles present. Granger’s plan, at least for Day One, was unfurling smoothly. Tomorrow was an entirely different story, of course. Draco returned to their room to read the tome on warding he’d brought with him. Granger had already left – all the better for him to squeeze in another bit of studying. He kicked off his shoes and stretched out on Granger’s bed, the book floating above him as he flicked through pages. Draco had been focusing his study on warding techniques on the Continent, but especially on the work of magical religious orders. He hoped that his readings on the warding systems of Cistercian and Dominican Monks would, at the very least, give him a clue tomorrow when he uncovered whatever the Benedictine Sisters had cast around their beloved relics. As promised, Granger returned at a quarter to eight. She saw him reading and immediately made a beeline for him. “Ooh, what’ve you got there?” “Studying for tomorrow,” said Draco. “Give me a minute – I found something interesting.” Granger approached the bed to read the title of his book. Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw that she had changed into a white, breezy sundress. Her hair was tied into a plait, though it was slowly unraveling. She smelled like sun on skin and something sweet. He took a deeper breath. Almonds? She was chewing on something. Draco held out his hand, his focus still on the book. “None left,” said Granger. Draco floated the book lower so he could look into her eyes. “Liar.” Granger sighed and pulled out a crinkly bag. “Datte fourrée à la pâte d'amande.” Draco took the proffered marzipan-stuffed date. It was exquisite. “Mm,” said Draco. “Bless the French.” He resumed his reading, but only for a moment, because Granger was hovering over the book in a jealous sort of way. He floated the book lower again. “Yes?” “Could I have a look?” asked Granger. “You can have it after dinner,” said Draco, floating the book back up again. Granger perched a thigh on the side of the bed. “Can I help you?” asked Draco, observing this activity. “Budge up,” said Granger. “We can both read.” “No, we can’t. Personal space, Granger,” said Draco, making a shooing motion with his hand. “This is my bed,” noted Granger, quite rightly. Draco shifted over with a grumble (there wasn’t much room to shift). “We’re about to go to dinner.” “But you found an Interesting Thing,” said Granger. Her eyes were alight with curiosity. She squeezed onto the bed next to him. The book floated above them. “This is–” began Draco. “Quiet,” said Granger. “I’m reading.” Draco lapsed into annoyed silence. Granger did not read, by the way – Granger devoured. Her reading speed outpaced Draco’s by fifty percent at his best guess, and he was himself a fast reader. However, he did not turn the pages to cater to her pace; he gave her a moral lecture about the importance of Absorbing the Information and Savouring the Text instead. She responded with a long and dramatic sigh. Draco felt the expansion of her chest against his side. That made him aware that Granger was there in a different way than her impatient presence. It made him alert and twitchy, because he was lying down on a bed with a woman, and that woman was Hermione Granger. If he’d ever been mad enough to imagine such a scene, he would’ve pictured a moment of recoil, of distaste, probably, at this level of closeness with his childhood enemy. Instead, she felt warm, and she smelled like sunshine and almonds, and her hair was touching his neck, and it was intimate and strange. He felt a kind of pleasurable paralysis, of not wanting to breathe, of not daring to move and accidentally touching her too much, or worse, causing her to move away. He turned the page, with no idea what he had just read. His eyes kept drifting from the book above them to her legs, which were bent at the knee, with one leg crossed over the other. Her dress was bunched up at her thighs, covering anything of interest – there was nothing indecent about any of it, really – and yet it felt illicit and thrilling, to see Granger’s legs from here. She had kicked off her sandals to join him on the bed. He could see the delicate arch of her bare foot, the tan lines where the sun had kissed her and then worked around the straps, the pink-painted toes. The delicate foot started to bounce. “You’re doing it on purpose to annoy me, being this slow,” said Granger. Draco snapped his eyes back to the page. “No, I am being attentive.” Granger waved her wand to tell the time – it was eight on the dot. “Ugh. We've got to go.” She rose and slipped on her sandals. “The Caleruega warding technique sounds terribly sensitive. Do you think the Sisters might be using that?” “They might be,” said Draco. (He found that his brain was working in a kind of slow motion; it was still processing her thighs and the bunched-up dress, and had not yet joined him in the present.) “We’ll have to be ever so careful tomorrow, if those things are as hair-trigger as this text suggests.” Granger was redoing her plait. Draco got a whiff of her shampoo. That brought his brain back to the present, because it liked it. She was still going on about the chapter they had just read, and whether Draco felt that he needed more preparation, and whether they should revisit the plan, and if so, which parts they should modify. Perhaps she should feign illness in the monastery to distract the Sisters while Draco went into the crypt, to buy him more time? But no, he hadn’t studied the maps as she had; it had taken her weeks to memorise the labyrinthine paths, &c. &c. Which was excellent, as it gave Draco time to Get a Grip. What the fuck was wrong with him? He went to the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face, and hopefully some sense into his brain. They made their way downstairs to dinner. ~ The restaurant was all a-bustle. It was a lovely outdoor installation on a long kind of wharf that extended out into the sea, crammed with as many tables as possible. Draco and Granger threaded their way through the other patrons to a table for two at the end of the wharf. It being midsummer, the sun was still hanging over the horizon at this late hour, tinging the sea gold and orange. It was an utterly gorgeous June evening; the breeze played lazily with their hair, the sea splashed along the edge of the wharf in musical little wavelets, the sea-birds weaved their wheels above. As it turned out, the half-deaf old lady who had taken their reservation had creatively interpreted their names. The slate placard indicated that the table was reserved for Hormone et Crotch. A solemn waiter came by to light the candles on the table. Granger’s lips were pressed tightly together. Draco felt an uncomfortable bubbling of hilarity. “Monsieur, the wine list,” said the waiter, handing it to Draco. “Merci,” said Draco. The waiter recommended the red; Draco went with that, because all of his brain power was focused on not bursting into a scream of laughter. Granger’s eyes flitted back to the placard. She let out a gurgle that she turned into a kind of cough. The waiter enumerated the evening’s menu. Granger nodded her approval of the buttered sole while Draco croaked out a yes for the fillet mignon. Granger was biting one of her knuckles. Draco heard her undertaking a deep breathing exercise. Finally, the waiter left. Granger collapsed onto the table. “Crotch,” she gasped, attempting to breathe. “H-Hormone?” wheezed Draco. Granger was a boneless mass of restrained laughter. Her shoulders shook. Draco fell back into his chair and actually felt himself disintegrate into mirth. “My god,” breathed Granger. “Oh my god… why… why…” Draco attempted to sober up, but then he looked at the placard again, and Crotch looked back at him in a beautiful flowing script, and he brought his napkin to his mouth to muffle himself. Granger took a deep breath. “What wine did you order, for us, C-Crotch–” Her voice veered high and she couldn’t finish the sentence because of her shrieking giggle. A few heads from the tables around them turned her way. She hid her face in her hands. “They’re going to think we’re already pissed and kick us out,” said Draco, valiantly straightening up and attempting to regain control. “Right.” Her face still hidden in her hands, Granger breathed. “Hide the placard. I can’t see it again. I will die.” Draco flipped the slate so that it was face down. “Done, H–” “Don’t say it,” said Granger. The waiter returned, bearing bread, butter, and wine. “Merci,” said Granger, wiping at a tear. As for Draco, he could hardly feel his cheeks. He gestured to the waiter to leave the wine bottle. After a bit more breathing, both of them had regained their self-control – well, mostly. Granger was avoiding looking anywhere near the slate. The sea caressed the rocky edges of the wharf below them. The patrons chattered, as did the gulls. The sun tilted lower. The bread was split and buttered and Draco poured the wine. “Cheers,” said Granger. “To success tomorrow,” said Draco, tilting his glass into hers. The final trace of amusement vanished from Granger’s face. She grew serious. Draco eyed her. He cast a silencing charm around them. “You’re nervous.” “Yes,” said Granger. Anxiety tightened the corners of her mouth. “A lot could go wrong and, to be honest, it frightens the bollocks off of me. I haven’t done anything like this in well over a decade. I’m a law abiding citizen now, you know.” “Mostly.” Draco could think of at least twenty laws that Granger had broken since he had been assigned to her in January. “Mostly,” conceded Granger. “Tomorrow will go according to plan. And if it doesn’t, you’ll set fire to the place and we can go steal a better skull. ” An amused huff escaped Granger in the face of this cavalier attitude. “You aren’t the slightest bit worried, are you?” “I promise I’ve faced missions far more nerve-wracking than a gaggle of nuns,” said Draco. “Have you?” “Obviously.” “Tell me.” So Draco told her. He shared two or three of his favourite stories, which prominently featured his own heroics and wits. Granger was not the captive, eyelash-fluttering audience that he usually shared these tales with, however. She was analytical and inquisitive, and asked some rather penetrating questions. Why didn’t he Silence the Sirens first? The knife fight was thrilling, but how did he let himself get disarmed in the first place? Why didn’t his emergency kit include blood replenishing potions? Shouldn’t all Aurors have a basic knowledge of the properties of Aconite? Why hadn’t he used a nerve agent on the troll? Why, indeed? Draco parried, and countered, and justified, and defended, until Granger was satisfied. He poured himself a second glass of wine, finding himself rather wrung-out and thirsty after the interrogation. His tales were usually followed by praise and gushing, and starry-eyed gaspings about his bravery and sagacity. With Granger? Not a chance. “At least one of us will be feeling confident, which is better than none,” was her closing remark. She drained her glass of wine. Draco offered to refill it and she acquiesced, saying that she needed it for emotional support. The waiter arrived with their orders. It was about time; Draco was ravenous. The car snacks and single stuffed date seemed very far away. Granger said, Bon appétit, and Draco responded in kind. He put away the fillet mignon with gusto. As for Granger, she poked distractedly at her plate, her pensive gaze on the coastline curving away from them. After five minutes of this, Draco lost his patience with her absent-mindedness. He tapped at her plate with his knife. “Food first, then thinking.” Granger blinked. Then she pointed somewhere behind him. “I think I can see the monastery.” Draco turned around in his chair to look at the sandy-grey protrusion jutting from a distant cliff, above the tree-line. “My word. That’s rather high up, isn't it?” “It’s almost a two hour climb.” “So eat. If you feel faint, it’ll be a broom ride up.” The threat was sufficient. Granger ate. Draco’s Jotter buzzed in his pocket. “My mother,” he said as he composed a response. “She wants to know that I’ve arrived safely.” “Does she know you’re here with me?” asked Granger. “No,” said Draco. “Only that it’s for work.” “Good.” Granger sipped at her wine. Draco sent back his response, assuring his mother that all was well and that he hadn’t been waylaid by French bandits. Granger was finishing her sole. She was struggling to keep a neutral expression; a look of amusement kept washing across her features. “What?” asked Draco. “Oh – nothing.” Granger found a fresh focus on a carrot, which she pushed about with her fork. “I didn’t know your mother used the Jotters.” “She didn’t. I convinced her to get one last week, since owls to France take so long.” Granger glanced up with a vivid interest that she was trying, and failing, to keep hidden. “Did you? Does she like hers?” “She does. What’s got you so intrigued?” “Nothing,” said Granger, making intimate eye contact with Draco’s chin. “Was that really your best try?” asked Draco in the face of this miserable failure. Granger offered him more wine in a transparent attempt to distract him, which only fixated him more on his line of enquiry. (He did accept the wine, however.) “Granger.” “Yes?” “Tell me.” “We should review our plans for tomorrow,” said Granger in another attempt at a side-step. “We’ve reviewed them ad nauseum. What is it about the Jotters?” Granger busied herself with pushing the carrot around again. Draco reached over and blocked her fork with his knife. “Stop punting the bloody legume around and answer me.” “Carrots aren’t a legume,” said Granger. In the face of Draco’s stare, however, she added, “It’s absolutely nothing – I thought your mother was rather traditional, so I was surprised that she’d even try a Jotter. That’s all.” “That’s not all, though,” said Draco. Granger tapped Draco’s knife with her fork in an unspoken request to remove it from her plate. He did not. Granger sighed. “You’re utterly unrelenting. Did you know?” “Yes. Now tell me.” “...Did you just steal my carrot?” Draco chewed. “Yes.” “Wow.” “You weren’t eating it, you were pushing it about on a forky carousel. Now, tell me.” Granger shifted back in her seat with a resigned sigh. “I rather thought you’d have worked it out by now.” “Worked what out?” Granger paused as though to gather herself. Then she asked, “Do you know who invented the Jabbering Jotter?” “...Wasn’t it the Weasley twins?” “No. They merely assisted the inventor in mass-producing and marketing them.” A slow dawning of realisation crept upon Draco. The witch across from him was now holding back a grin. “You’re the inventor of the bloody Jotters?” “Yes,” said Granger. “No.” “Yes.” “No.” “Yes.” Granger looked terribly amused. “Explain,” said Draco. Granger settled into a pose that Draco could only describe as professorial. She crossed her legs and held up her fork, ready to point to an invisible blackboard. “Instantaneous communication systems really took off in the Muggle world about 10 years ago. They already had a leg up over wizards with the telephone for the entirety of the twentieth century, but when email became common, and texting, and, later, instant messaging, wizarding communication methods went from old fashioned to utterly archaic. I’d already experimented with rudimentary Magical communication methods as a child – those Galleons, during the war – but I knew there had to be something more elegant, that retained that tactile feeling of parchment or a notebook, but that would be far more immediate than Owling.” Here Granger was interrupted by the waiter removing their empty plates. She accepted the dessert menu, then continued. “I love owls; I find them so quaint and dear, but so slow. Don’t look cross, they are slow – you said so yourself not a moment ago. And Flooing is only convenient if you’re near a connected hearth. I created the Jotters to supplement those means of communication, not replace them – I do love writing a good letter. I never expected them to be as popular as they are. The twins helped me bring them to market and they get a percentage of the profits.” Draco kept his features schooled into something neutral. The other option was a bug-eyed stare. Not only was this woman frighteningly intelligent, but she was also absolutely minted. Everyone had a Jotter. His own mother had a Jotter and was, judging by the buzzing in his pocket, rapidly gaining proficiency. Granger must be rolling in Galleons. Small wonder she handed off a sackful to a hag without a second thought. “So this is how you’re funding your bloody project,” he said at length. “Amongst other things, yes. I’ve spent enough time under the tyranny of granting agencies to enjoy the independence.” “But – everyone thinks the Weasley brothers invented the Jotters. Why aren’t you claiming credit? They’re revolutionary.” “They’re really not,” said Granger. “Muggle equivalents are ever so much more advanced – they can send each other photos and media and data of all sorts. They can have live calls with hundreds of participants. The Jotters are rudimentary. An improvement, but rudimentary.” Here Granger gave a shrug. “The bar was rather low. And as for the credit – I’ve had my time in the limelight. I’m not in it for the glory. I saw a problem that was in my capacity to fix.” “Is that what your project is about, too?” asked Draco. “A problem that is within your capacity to fix?” “Exactly.” Granger regarded him seriously, now. “I needn’t tell you that I’d prefer the truth about the Jotters to remain between us. I only told you because you were being so horridly insistent.” Draco eyed her. “You’re positively a mogul. A tycoon.” Granger laughed, but it was bitter. “No. Developing new therapies is terribly expensive.” “Is it?” “Yes.” Granger began to enumerate costs on her fingers, until she ran out of fingers. “Materials, space, laboratory staff, medical leads, legal staff, protocol writers, data scientists, staticians… testing for safety and efficacy is spendy too, of course – pharmacokinetic studies, preclinical toxicology testing, bioanalytical testing, and the clinical trials themselves. And the financial outlay to meet every requirement of the GCP, the GMP, the GLP, the MHRA, and the EMA is eye-watering.” Draco, whose eyes had largely glazed over, said, “Oh.” Granger shifted in her seat in a discontented sort of way. “My project involves complex biologics that are commercially unattractive and nigh incomprehensible to the monumentally idiotic wizards who hold the national purse strings for magical research. So I am very much on my own. On my own and, frankly, at rather an embryonic stage. I’m still doing in vitro research, trying to confirm that my target can actually be affected by an exogenous compound in the first place. Money doesn’t solve all problems, unfortunately.” The waiter returned to take their dessert orders. Granger flinched out an apology, having forgotten to even look at the menu, and made a haphazard selection of crème caramel. Meanwhile, Draco was struggling to understand the paradoxical phenomenon that was Granger. She could have been wealthy – extravagantly so. And yet, she chose to fund her research instead of enjoying a life of leisure. She worked approximately twelve jobs. She could’ve had her own country house, but she lived in a cramped cottage in the outskirts of Cambridge. She could have a full staff of house-elves, but she only had a cat and a grim tin of tuna in her cupboards. It made no sense. And yet, as Draco considered what he knew of the witch in front of him, it sort of did. She was too driven for a life of leisure. Too grounded for the extravagance of large homes and house-elves. Too much of a Do-Gooder to do anything but Good with that money. It was all terribly laudable. Dreadful, really. Granger cleared her throat. Draco realised that he’d been staring at her, and that the waiter was staring at him. “Monsieur’s dessert selection?” “What she’s having,” said Draco. “Une crème caramel pour Monsieur Crotch,” said the waiter, inscribing this precious information upon his notepad with care. Granger touched eyes with Draco. She held a hand to her mouth. The waiter left. Granger squeaked out a giggle, struggled to control it, took a large breath, and was still. “Hormone,” said Draco. Granger collapsed into a fit of uncontrollable giggling. “I told you not to do that,” she gasped, coming back up for air. “There is something gratifying about making you utterly lose it.” Granger sniffed and dabbed at her lashes with a napkin. “It’s a rare sight, I hope you’re appreciating it.” “I am,” said Draco. And he was. Granger’s dark eyes were bright with laughter. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips were reddened by wine. Her hair in its loose plait snaked down to her waist, a dark line against her white sundress. Her legs were curled under her; she looked dainty and fragile, and small enough to fit perfectly into a man's lap, if a man were thinking about such things. (Draco certainly wasn't.) And the candlelight loved her. It kissed at her forehead and flickered warm touches across her collarbone. It danced in her eyes. The effect was enchanting. Draco sank, unaware, into a state of soft fascination. An accordionist began to play, somewhere near the hotel, filling the air with romance. “Monsieur, your crème caramel.” The return to reality was jarring. “Merci,” said Draco, instead of sod the fucking crème caramel. Granger was eating her dessert, blissfully unaware of Draco’s reverie, thank the gods. He decided to blame the wine for making him such a daft, moon-eyed cretin tonight. That and too few recent shags, clearly, if he was going to faff off and daydream about Granger, of all of the witches in his life. It would help if she didn’t look like a lovely Grecian dryad tonight, about to join Artemis’ retinue. Since when was Granger beautiful? What an aggravating development. “Are you all right?” asked Granger. “Why?” asked Draco, injecting some irritation into the syllable, to sound Absolutely Normal. “You’ve hardly touched your dessert,” said Granger, gesturing to Draco’s crème caramel with her spoon. “Rather uncharacteristic.” There were other things going on that were rather uncharacteristic, but if that was the only one that the Brain was catching on to, that was fine by Draco. “I’m savouring it,” said Draco. He took a slow bite to demonstrate. Granger’s eyebrow twitched. “Stop that.” “Stop what?” asked Draco. “Being indecent with the spoon.” “I am using the spoon. Anything else is a figment of your imagination.” Granger narrowed her eyes at him. Draco took another slow bite, maintaining an obnoxious level of eye contact. Granger looked away. “Now you aren’t eating yours,” pointed out Draco. “I’ve quite lost my appetite, watching you snog the cutlery,” sniffed Granger. “You aren’t going to finish?” “No. Do you want it?” “I’d rather you choke it down and have strength for the monastery. If the nuns get shirty, tomorrow could be rather strenuous, magically speaking.” Granger finished her crème caramel doggedly, if not with enthusiasm. Draco found himself observing her now with a critical eye. When he had first met her, in long-ago January, he had been struck by the exhausted thinness that had made her face severe and gaunt. It seemed to him that she had a slightly healthier mien, now – but only slightly. She was a little less bony, a little rosier in the cheeks. Granger gestured to the waiter for the bill. “L’addition, s’il vous plaît.” Her raised arm made Draco realise that her dress had left her arms bare, something that Granger’s choice of attire normally trended against. And now, precisely because it was trying not to catch his attention, her left forearm caught his attention – there was a Notice-Me-Not charm there. He deliberately looked at the table next door, allowing Granger and her arm to slip into his peripheral vision. There: a blur across the skin of her inner arm. He realised what the glamour was covering with a sickening plummeting sensation in his stomach. A vivid memory returned, of Bellatrix’s handiwork, stark against Granger’s skin. Of Granger, limp and wrought-out, lying like a dead thing on the drawing room floor. Of the blood oozing out of the fresh-carved letters. Draco had never used the word Mudblood again, after that. Now there was something terribly sorrowful in Granger’s habit of wearing long sleeves. In the discreet glamour that she’d cast to be able to wear a pretty dress. Draco hid his own inner arm shame from the world, but he would’ve thought that Granger, of all people, would’ve been able to heal hers away. Clearly, she still bore the mark of Bellatrix’s knife. “Malfoy?” Draco blinked. “Hm?” “You’ve gone quiet.” Granger had settled the bill with Muggle money. She was rising from her chair. Draco rose with her. “Just thinking about tomorrow.” But really, he was thinking about a distant yesterday, when this witch had been mutilated in the halls of his home. And she still bore the scar, and she hid it, from him, and from everyone, but it was still there. A daily reminder for her, of cruelty and sick hate. Of how close she’d come to death. Of how near their world had come to a point of no return. He wished to say something to her – words of sorrow, or of apology – but such words did not come easily to him, and he couldn’t see such a conversation go anywhere but difficult, awkward places. As they weaved their way through tables back off the wharf, Draco concluded that this was not quite the moment. But, watching the blur of the glamour brush against her skirts as she walked, he determined that there would be A Moment, and he would find the words. Not tonight, but some night. The sun was finally setting, languidly, lazily, on this gorgeous evening, Midsummer less a day. Granger was looking wistfully along the rocky beach. “There’s meant to be a marker along there, where the Magdalene would’ve first set foot in France.” “I suppose that was on your itinerary?” “It was, but I ran out of time.” “Let’s go,” said Draco. Granger looked at him in surprise. “You’d come?” Draco gave her his most nonchalant shrug. “I fancy a walk.” Granger’s surprise turned to a prudent kind of delight. “All right, it’s about a fifteen minute ramble, that way. So the guidebook said, anyway.” They clambered and slid down large boulders to the rocky beach, where they found a kind of coastal path. Granger led Draco along, pointing out features of geological or historical interest as they went. The views became progressively more dramatic as they left the shallow bay that the hotel was nestled in and made their way around the headland. The tide began to come in. Draco rolled up his trousers and his shirtsleeves (ensuring, on the latter point, that his own glamour was in place), then tied his shoes together, and slung them over his shoulder. Granger carried her sandals hooked through her fingers. They splashed through salty rock pools, as warm as bathwater. The sound of the accordion on the wharf faded away; now it was only the heart-pulse of the waves. They meandered into a flock of hundreds of seabirds, which took off around them and unravelled into the skies in a whirr of wingbeats and sea-cries. It was a startling moment of sublimity that took a bit of their souls with it. Granger watched the birds’ disappearance into the blue with a soft sigh, her fingertips on her collarbone, her lips parted. Granger said, “Beautiful,” and Draco said, “Yes,” but they were not talking about the same thing. They continued. The marker for the Magdalene’s point of arrival was a modest stone, half-buried in sand, at the tip of the headland. A few cut flowers were scattered about, as well as candles gamely fighting to stay lit in the breeze. Granger furnished Draco with a great many details about the legend of the Magdalene’s expulsion from the Holy Land, and what disciples were with her, and when she had reached this shore. Draco cared little for the details, but he was glad of the excuse to keep his attention on her, on the way the wind wended her plait hither and thither, on her bare legs trickling with seawater. At one point, she almost lost her balance on the wet stones and her fingers touched his arm. They were quickly withdrawn. Draco said he supposed that there were worse places to land than Provence. Granger said she thought so, too. Draco asked whether the Magdalene would’ve eaten marzipan-stuffed dates when she was here. Granger fancied that she was the one who had brought the recipe over from the Holy Land, in the first place. Draco said that stealing the credit for such a sublime culinary creation was a classically French thing to do. Granger agreed. Then they lapsed into silence and they stood where the land met the sea, and breathed the sweet air, and were tickled by the salt breeze. Little waves strained to reach past their knees before atomising into brine. Draco found a seastar. Granger was delighted by the discovery and squatted down to look at it, and interrogated Draco on what species it was, and Draco said he hadn’t a sodding clue. They turned to walk back to the hotel, splish-splashing through the warm tide pools, wavelets clinging foamily at their ankles. Their hands brushed a time or two, and they said sorry, and stepped away from each other, and kept walking, and then their elbows brushed, by accident, because they’d drifted together again. The large boulders near the wharf presented more difficulty for Granger on the way up than down; she stood, irresolute, grasping the wand in her pocket, but there were Muggles about, and her plans to Transfigure a stairway were interrupted. Draco came up behind her and lifted her in one smooth motion, and received an indignant squeal and a face-full of sandy skirts for his troubles. Her waist felt narrow and taut between his palms, and warm. He didn’t need her help to clamber up behind her, but he nevertheless accepted the small hand she reached towards him and took amusement in the serious effort she put into her pull. They meandered back towards the hotel. The sun poured gold across the horizon. With the brightness behind her, Granger looked like she was wearing nothing but light. Chapter 14: Get Thee to a Nunnery Back at the hotel, Granger observed Draco as he attempted to Transfigure his bed into something sturdier than the present offering. Transfiguration became exponentially more difficult at scale, however, and all he managed to do was make it squattish and off-kilter. “A very fair attempt,” said Granger, patting him on the head. (He was too surprised to be indignant.) “I’m waiting for you to take pity on me,” panted Draco. Granger nodded with a kind of exaggerated benevolence. She spent ten minutes wrangling the collapsing frame into a comfortable bed, explaining what she was doing as she went, and what Principles and Laws Draco hadn’t quite been applying correctly, for a Transfiguration this large. “Why didn’t you stay in Transfiguration?” asked Draco to interrupt the lecture. “Why Healing?” Granger looked up from where she was transforming the worn coverlet into a plush blanket. “Transfiguration’s practical applications peak at the Mastery level – Doctoral studies veer into the abstruse and theoretical. Healing was a branch of magic that offered more scope to help people in the real world. And Healing harmonised more readily with my studies in Muggle medicine, of course.” The sad-sack, greying pillows were transformed into puffy white ones. Granger gave Draco a quick glance. “Did you complete further studies, after Hogwarts?” The question was posed with a self-conscious kind of curiosity. Draco thought that this might’ve been the first time that she had asked him something personal. “A Bachelor’s in Alchemy and a Mastery in Duelling,” answered Draco. “Oh! Well done. I always told Harry and Ron that they ought to consider something like Duelling. But, well–” Here, in the face of Draco’s cynically raised brow, Granger finished, weakly, “–They never loved academia.” “Those two knobheads don’t even have their NEWTs. They wouldn’t have survived a day,” said Draco, vexed that she dared consider them of his calibre. “They aren’t knobheads,” said Granger, a fist on a hip. “The entirety of the programme’s foundational year was theory and philosophy of martial magicks. When’s the last time Pot and Wheeze even read a book?” “Is that a rhetorical question?” asked Granger. “No. Answer me.” “Damn it.” Granger lapsed into silence as she thought, a finger on her lip. At length, having recollected no recent memory, she said, “Just because they haven’t mentioned reading a book to me, doesn’t mean they haven’t read one.” Draco dismissed this with a scoff. “Do Quidditch magazines count?” asked Granger in subdued desperation. “No.” “Years,” conceded Granger with an unwilling sigh. “You would’ve done better than that pair of plonkers,” said Draco. “Except for the practicals. Too much shrieking, insufficient cursing. Maître Toussaint would’ve eaten you alive.” “You did it in France?” “Université de Paris.” “Mm. Mind you, my French masters almost ate me alive. Their paedagogical methods consisted principally of browbeating. I did a concentration at the Sorbonne. I cried every day.” “Better than bleeding every day,” said Draco, with a heroic kind of nonchalance. (It was, in his defence, barely an exaggeration.) Granger bit her lip. “I’ll stop whinging then, shall I?” Draco almost offered to show her his more dashing scars, but recalled, just in time, that Granger had her own, and that it wouldn’t do to embark on a competition on that front. Now it was time to get ready for bed. An awkwardness made the room feel close and warm. Both of them carried on as though they didn't feel it. Granger changed into her sleeping things in the bathroom. She had apparently selected the most horridly modest cotton pyjamas in her wardrobe for this weekend escapade. “What?” she asked, in the face of Draco’s once-over. “Those put me in mind of McGonagall,” said Draco. “Are you going to pinch my ear and call me naughty?” “You find Muggle shorts indecent, remember?” said Granger. “My other option was a negligée, which would most certainly have offended your sensibilities.” Draco thought he'd rather have liked to see this negligée. Out loud he said, “More than this picnic rug you’re sporting? Impossible.” “O, yes.” Granger climbed into her bed. Draco noticed that she had appropriated his tome on wards. She waved a hand at him. “Well, go on then – go change, and let’s have a look at your haute couture jimjams.” Draco brushed his teeth and changed into his usual black silk pyjamas. It was a queer feeling, to await the judgement of Granger on his choice sleeping attire. Not that he gave a damn what she thought, or anything. He sauntered back out of the bathroom. “Careful, Granger: I’m wildly attractive in black.” Granger observed him over the book. “Irresistible,” she said drily. “I am undone.” The sarcasm was blistering. Draco flicked non-existent dust from his shoulder. “It is, at the very least, not a seat cover from the Hogwarts Express.” “Mm, rather lugubrious, though.” “I beg your pardon?” “Funereal, really,” sniffed Granger. “Who died?” “Your wit, about a minute ago.” “I was witty before?” “To a limited degree.” A smile was pulling at the edges of Granger's mouth. She held the book up to hide it. “More than I can say about you.” “Watch your cheek, or I shall revoke your reading privileges.” Granger held up her hands. “Pax. Cease-fire?” “I accede.” ~ Draco had nursed a suspicion that Granger was one of those hateful morning people. She proved it as soon as she could the next day, by launching herself out of bed at the unholy hour of half five. The sun rose with her on this Solstice morning and seemed equally fixated on denying Draco his preferred nice, healthy lie-in till 11 a.m. To further compound his irritation, Draco woke up hard. He remained unmoving, face down on the bed, as Granger faffed about with her suitcase, complained about getting naff all sleep, and finally got into the shower. He waved away his indecency with his wand, trying to recollect when he had last woken up with such a rager. Bloody hell, he needed a shag. Granger was quick in the shower. Then, smelling of soap and warm skin, she stood next to Draco’s bed and cleared her throat. “What,” said Draco irascibly into the pillow. “Are you up?” Draco thought he ought to nominate himself for sainthood, in view of the jokes that he did not make. “Go away,” said Draco. “We should leave soon,” said Granger. “You said eight,” said Draco. “It’s almost eight,” said Granger. Draco cracked open an eye to observe the clock beside the bed. “Load of tosh. It’s six. Kindly fuck off.” Granger, clearly full of anxious energies, hissed out a sigh. “All right. Fine. I’ll go find us some breakfast.” “Don’t come back till eight,” growled Draco in warning. The threat got Granger’s back up. “Or what?” “I shall bite off your head.” “Are you a werewolf?” asked Granger. “I might become one, for the purpose,” said Draco. “Fine. What d’you want?” “For you to go away. Evidently.” “To eat, I mean.” “Don’t care. Let me sleep.” “Fine.” Granger left in a bit of a huff. Draco attempted to carry on sleeping. Instead, he was visited by a second erection, which he irritatedly took care of in the minuscule shower. It was unsatisfying and he cracked his elbow against the wall doing it, but it was a release. Granger returned at eight on the dot – bless her for occasionally following instructions – bearing breakfast. This consisted of butter, jam, and a baguette, and for drink, two coffees. “They’re both for you,” said Granger, pressing both cups into Draco’s hands. “Hopefully you’ll be less arsey for the remainder of the morning.” Draco, still tetchy, took the offerings wordlessly, and popped off to the tiny balcony to enjoy them in peace. When he returned to the room (feeling substantially less inclined to tear off Granger’s head), Granger had donned her walking kit. “Shall we get our disguises on?” “Let’s,” said Draco. Granger turned the other way while Draco pulled on his bumbling newlywed Muggle hiker attire. He glamoured his hair to look less Malfoyish. Granger did the same, to look less Grangery. “Ready?” asked Granger. “Ready,” said Draco. They turned around and looked at each other. “Funny,” said Granger. “Hilarious,” said Draco. Granger had elected to make her hair white-blond and straight, and change her eyes to a cold grey. Draco had chosen a mop of dark curls and brown eyes. “You look terrifying,” said Draco. “You look ridiculous,” said Granger. “You look like the cadaver of a Veela.” “Your hair looks like a merkin.” This exchange of pleasantries completed, Granger asked, “Shall we crack on?” Draco nodded and slipped on the sunglasses that he had purchased for the occasion. They were heart-shaped and pink and wonderfully kitschy. Granger stared at them for a long moment, then declared that she wanted some too, and conjured a matching pair. Thus equipped, they began the hike up towards the monastery; a nice, sweaty preamble to a sacrilegious violation of a priceless relic. The way up was, as promised by Granger, a bit of a slog. It was early enough that the heat of the day didn’t utterly flatten them. As they progressed upwards, they were protected from the worst of the sun by a cathedral of trees that filtered the light into cool greens. White hyacinths dotted the undergrowth. It smelled of earth and mushrooms. Between gasps for breath, Granger provided Draco with histories of the various pilgrims who had walked this path, and the alleged Miracles that had followed. Draco said that, as riveting as these histories were, he would advise her to save her breath for the climb and concentrate. She did not heed his advice. About halfway up a steep ascent, her lecture distracted her too much and she tripped off the path and into a ditch full of brambles and mud. Her wand, which she’d been using to sear away thorny overgrowth, remained on the path with Draco. Draco, seeing that Granger was unhurt at the bottom of the ditch, took up a contemplative position, leaning his shoulder against a tree. “What you’ve done there, Granger, is gone arse over tit.” “Thank you for that instructive remark.” Granger was peevish, for some reason. Draco then generously explained to her what Principles and Laws of physics she hadn’t quite been applying correctly. Granger attempted a clamber out, which only sank her further in brambles. Draco observed with great interest. “Blondes really do have more fun.” Granger gave up on the climb, having been distracted by the torn-up state of her clothing, courtesy of the brambles. “Ugh. These were new.” “You look like you’ve lost a square go with a Jack Russell,” said Draco. Granger looked waspish. “Are you going to help me up?” “You’ve a broom,” said Draco. “No,” said Granger. “Pass me my wand.” “But the broom is right there. With you. In your pocket.” “No. Are you mad? It’s your fastest broom. I’ll give myself a traumatic brain injury.” Draco scoffed. “You aren’t that terrible at flying. Are you?” Granger glowered at him, both hands on her hips. Then she changed tack. “How’s your leg?” “...Fine.” “Liar. You’ve been favouring it the past quarter hour.” Which was true, but Draco had hoped she hadn’t noticed. “Do you want me to have a look?” asked Granger. “No,” said Draco. “Manticore bites are nasty,” said Granger. “Have you been keeping up with the exercises Parnell gave you?” “None of your business,” said Draco, because the answer was no, because he was a procrastinator, and then he forgot. “It’s your PCL, isn’t it? I can tell by your gait.” “You’re angling to bribe me with a Healing to avoid using the broom, aren’t you?” “Yes. Is it working?” Draco considered the muddy witch at the bottom of the pit. Then he considered the hilarity of watching Granger attempt to ride his broom. Then he considered the pain in his knee. The pain won out. He needed to be agile, for whatever the monastery was going to throw at them. Unfortunate. Draco tossed Granger’s wand down to her. She made quick work of her escape, thereafter. The earth before her split into a platform, which, propelled by thick roots, carried her back to the path. Granger with her wand back in her hand looked rather more dangerous than the wandless one in the ditch. She was eyeing Draco with something less than kindness for his giggle at her expense. The heat of it rather promised Revenge. However, a deal was a deal (bless her, you could always count on her for that) and Granger’s wand was soon pointed at Draco’s knee, and the relief of Healing spread across it. “You need to do the exercises,” said Granger, dusting herself off. “Healing can only do so much. Don’t be lazy. You’ve only got two knees.” “Yes yes, you’re right, of course. Let’s get on. We’ve wasted enough time with your dilly-dallying in ditches.” Now sound of body, Draco strode up the path, with Granger scurrying behind him to keep up, muttering rude things at his back. Finally, they came to the monastery. Granger had explained that it had been built at the entrance of the grotto where the Magdalene had first taken refuge, which now served as a chapel. Draco and Granger took a moment to camouflage their wands upon their persons and rearrange their mutually hostile body language into that of Bumbling Muggle Newlyweds. They walked next to each other, Granger’s arm hooked through Draco’s. Their first obstacle was the Sister at the monastery door–an older woman, observing their approach with a dour expression. “Ah non non non. Aucune visite aujourd’hui; le monastère est fermé,” said the Sister. Granger, wiping sweat from her brow, feigned shock, and asked why it was closed? The Sister explained that it was Midsummer; everyone was at the Basilica below. They were welcome to join in the celebrations there. There would be no services in the monastery chapel today. Granger made a fair approximation of distress. Draco jumped in with an explanation to the nun that the pilgrimage to the monastery was of Spiritual Significance to both of them, and that they had honeymooned here especially to visit. Wouldn’t she consider making an exception? Granger sniffed that all she wanted to do was light a candle and make a prayer to the Magdalene, because she was a Repentant Sinner, and needed Her sacred blessing. Draco made a great show of comforting his sobbing wife. (It felt interesting to cradle Granger and feel her breath on his chest through his shirt. It felt surprisingly… nice. He would go with nice.) He patted her bum theatrically; she stiffened and her grip on his arm grew pinchy. The nun pursed her lips as she observed the spectacle. Draco brushed the forefront of the nun’s mind with a light touch of Legilimency to determine whether he needed to start Stunning. He discovered that the sunglasses perched on their heads were the deciding factor: the nun concluded that they were gormless idiots, and that a brief visit would do no harm, despite the Prioress’ instructions. The nun led them through the small monastery and into the Magdalene’s grotto. “Quinze minutes,” she said with a severe finger wag. Fifteen minutes was most certainly not enough for their nefarious plans, but Draco and Granger burbled out some gratitude. “Doddery old piss bag,” said Draco as the nun left. “Shh,” said Granger. “She’ll chuck us out.” “Nunchuck us, you might say.” Granger made a wry face. “I might not.” Draco concluded that he was wasted on her. “You did a fair job at lying, at least,” said Draco. “I can lie,” said Granger. “I once bluffed my way past Gringotts goblins, you know. I do all right when I’m not being transfixed by those – those lances you call eyes.” “Transfixed, you say.” “Pierced. Impaled, even. Look away before you cut me to pieces.” Draco looked away, amused. He did not tell her that her eyes had a contrary effect – of drawing one in, of pulling towards. Sometimes, if he wasn’t guarded, locking eyes with her felt like falling, like plummeting head-first. But enough nonsense about eyes. They took stock of the grotto. It was far bigger than Draco had imagined – rather more of a cave – containing an entire chapel. The walls were dotted with votive candles. Fissures in the cave had been blocked up by stained glass, which bathed the place in deep reds and blues. There was no one about. In a dark corner of the cave, Granger Transfigured two statues into kneeling replicas of herself and Draco, and put a cluster of candles in front of them. Should the guard nun check in on them, their silhouettes would be hunched in quiet contemplation at the far end of the grotto. Granger also placed the first of her incendiary runes at the base of the Magdalene’s statue. “But not too close,” she whispered as she flicked the symbol into life. “I don’t want to actually damage it…” Meanwhile, Draco was casting his detection spells, which told him there were about five nuns on the premises. “There might be more. This rock makes it hard to say. So that’s five witches and untold amounts of wards.” “Much better than the usual fifty witches, anyroad,” said Granger. Satisfied with the arrangement of their stone Doppelgangers, Granger crept round the edge of the grotto and poked her head into the passage that led from the grotto to the crypt. Footsteps resonated from that very direction a moment afterwards. A younger nun appeared and asked, in surprise and annoyance, what Granger thought she was doing? Granger said, “Pardon, je cherche les toilettes.” The nun raised a finger to point to the excruciatingly clear sign above the door that said, ACCÈS INTERDIT, and asked if Granger could see through those silly glasses? Then she asked why they were even here, and who had let them in; the monastery was closed? And (suddenly noticing the stone Doppelgangers), what was that? The nun was getting too worked up to play Bumbling with. Draco cut her fact-finding mission short, Stunning her without fanfare. “Shit,” said Granger. “But, unfortunately, necessary.” Granger had insisted that she be in charge of any Obliviations. She removed the past five minutes from the nun’s mind with, admittedly, far more care than Draco would’ve. “Your Stun will hold for at least another twenty minutes?” asked Granger. “Half an hour, unless she’s got Troll blood.” “Good.” Granger Transfigured the nun into a pew and floated her against the wall. “Let’s get on.” Granger cast a Silencing spell around the two of them as Draco Disillusioned them, followed by Notice-Me-Not charms for good measure. They carried on, into the passage that led from the grotto to the crypt. As planned, Draco took the lead, doing a little recce around every corner before he let Granger follow. She dropped two more runes as they went. They met the first alarm wards at the downwards stairway into the crypt. Draco dismissed these without issue, but proceeded more slowly thereafter – now they were getting closer to where things might become interesting. They encountered two illusory staircases that led to oubliettes. Draco disarmed some nasty pressure-triggered traps (an Orb of Pestilence and a Rot Rune). Granger took care of a Searing Sacrilege aimed at their hearts. “The Sisters aren’t very nice,” she said. Draco could hear the frown in her voice. At the bottom of the stone stairway, the air grew stale and musty. They came upon the gate of the crypt, and with it, their first real challenge: a Blood Lock. “That’s Dark,” said Draco. “These nuns aren’t bollocksing about.” “We need that Stunned nun,” said Granger. “We should go back up–” “We don’t have time. Accio,” said Draco, waving his wand towards the Transfigured nun, who lay, pewishly, somewhere above them. “But that’s far too heavy for a Summoning...?” Granger clearly had no idea of Draco’s capabilities. He did not respond, focusing his will on the flight of the bulky pew, currently whizzing through the passage above them. Should any nun be unfortunate enough to be in its way, she would be summarily pulverised. There was some thumping as the pew descended the stairway towards them. “Wow,” said Granger at the sight of this absurd, yet impressive, display. “You just had to Transfigure her into the bloody weight of an actual pew,” panted Draco as the pew tottered into view. Granger undid the Transfiguration on the Stunned nun with mutterings about the importance of accuracy. Then Draco watched Granger’s Disillusioned shape hover indecisively over the limp body. Draco, seeing that Granger hadn’t the bottle to do the dirty part, pulled out his knife. “A light cut,” said Granger. There was apprehension in her voice. Bodily harm to others had been a distant, worst-case Plan F. Draco snatched up the nun’s hand and sliced open her palm. He pressed it on the Blood Lock’s smooth obsidian surface. “Better hope she’s got permission to open this, or we’re going hunting for the Prioress.” “I bloody well hope not – she’s probably back down in the village.” For a long moment, nothing happened. Then the Blood Lock glowed golden and popped open. Granger sighed out in relief. As Draco checked for further wards beyond the gate, she healed the Stunned nun’s hand, then Transfigured her again – this time, into a torch sconce to match the others along the wall. “Couldn’t’ve done that in the first place?” asked Draco. “There weren’t torches upstairs!” snarled Granger. “She needed to be camouflaged!” They moved into the crypt – wet-walled, mouldy, and stinking of centuries of death. Granger, tucked behind Draco, muttered directions to him as they went. She had committed the entirety of the labyrinthine area to memory, based on whatever ancient texts she had got her hands on. If their progress down one passageway was blocked, she would have three alternatives at the ready. Draco disarmed a series of increasingly malicious wards – wards that hardly merited the name, really; these were curses. He slowed them down to a crawl. “Fucking hell, a Gutting Glyph?” he muttered as he caught the next ward. “These nuns are murderous.” He felt Granger peek around his shoulder and watch his translucent wand disarm the thing. “These are rather Darker than I anticipated,” said Granger. “How are we doing for time?” “Five minutes till the bonne sœur at the entrance comes to badger us. Maybe ten if she backs off at the sight of our pious heads.” “This is going far slower than I would’ve liked,” said Draco, picking up his pace, his wand held high to detect further threats. “I know,” said Granger, worry tightening her voice. They continued into progressively narrower passageways, past several centuries of stacked bones and bodies mummified by the passage of time. Draco’s wand being otherwise engaged, Granger conjured a circle of blue flames around them to light the way, along with her Lumos. For a suspiciously long time, there were no other interruptions. Then they came to a grinning goat’s skull, floating in the middle of the passage. It looked inoffensive and inert, simply suspended in place. Carved into the dusty floor below it was a pentagram. Draco grit his teeth: this one, he’d read about in the text about the Dominican monks. “What is it?” asked Granger to Draco’s back. “Beelzebub’s Barrier,” said Draco. “I had rather hoped we wouldn’t encounter it.” “Why? What happens if we trigger it?” “A rather serious case of demonic possession. That neither of us is devout enough to deal with, by the by,” said Draco. “Ugh. How do we disarm it?” asked Granger. “Human sacrifice.” “What?” “Shall I summon the nun?” “No. We’ll find another way round. Hang on. Let me think of a detour. This was the most direct route, of course...” After a few moments of thinking – during which Granger drew out her mental maps on Draco’s back and gave him a shiver – she guided them down another passageway. They were both aware of the time ticking by. Granger spelled out another of her incendiary runes, then said, “We’re past the fifteen minute mark.” “We can expect hostility on the way back,” said Draco. “Hopefully only the four nuns.” “The runes should provide a distraction,” said Granger, but there was anxious irritation lacing her voice: this wasn’t going according to plan. The new path led to a Cloud of Contagion and a Carcerem sine fine ward, both disarmed by Draco. As he worked, Granger, fretting about the time, took a step ahead of him to peer around the corner. In Granger’s defence, Draco also wouldn’t have expected another ward so soon after these two – but there it was. Granger tripped it, and a flurry of Arcanist’s Arrows flew at them from all directions. Only Draco’s reflexes saved them from death by impalement; as the fiery arrows whizzed, he pushed Granger into the wall and cast Obice circum. The arrows embedded themselves into the glow of his shield instead. “You idiot!” said Draco, his face in Granger’s invisible hair. “You properly dropped a bollock on that one. You were to stay behind me at all times!” “They put three wards within two square metres?” gasped Granger from somewhere in his chest. “Evidently. And now we’re in a nice pickle,” said Draco as the arrows exploded against the shield. “A pickle?! That’s what you’re calling this hellscape?” “Do something about the bloody fire before it takes down my shield!” Granger, spurred into action, slid her wand under Draco’s arm and waved out a complex command in runic. The fiery arrows fizzled out. “You’ll have to teach me that one,” said Draco, pushing away from her. “Another time,” said Granger. There was a shakiness in her voice, though whether it was nerves or fatigue, Draco wasn’t certain. Every incendiary rune and spell she used she was placing was a drain on her magic, just as every curse he was breaking was a drain on his. Neither of them had expected to be this strained. At Draco’s count, they had broken over twenty curses in the span of a quarter hour. “We’re getting close – this is the last corridor,” said Granger as they approached. The ceiling lowered the further they progressed. “Are you sure we aren’t going into a bloody burial chamber?” muttered Draco as he half-crouched to keep advancing. “Yes. This is the right way. I’m sure they tightened it up on purpose–” Draco stopped abruptly. Granger walked into his arse, swore, then removed their Disillusionments so that they could see each other. Draco shifted so that Granger could observe the almost invisible reddish glimmer across the stone floor, under the glow of his wand. “These fucking nuns,” said Draco. “What is it?” “One of the Torments invented by the Carthusians. They called it Spiritual Sanctification. Satirical buggers.” “What’s it do?” “An area-of-effect Crucio. Easier than continually casting it. Great for dungeon floors.” “A Crucio carpet?” “Essentially.” “Horrid,” shuddered Granger. “Any alternate routes?” “The Beezlebub blocked off the main artery. We need to face it, or cross this–” As she spoke, a spark of purple shimmered in Draco’s peripheral vision. He tackled Granger out of the way just as the spark burst into a whip-lash of vicious violet light. The curse hissed against the wall where Granger’s head had been. “What was that?” Granger’s mouth was open as she watched the corrosive purple ooze gnaw into the stone wall. “Mind Flayer,” said Draco, regaining his feet. “Delayed onset. Nasty.” “Mind Flayer?” repeated Granger, clambering to her feet as well. “These bloody nuns…” “Broom,” said Draco, his attention back on the Torment. “We mustn’t touch the floor. And don’t suggest Wingardium Leviosa instead.” “I wasn’t going to,” snapped Granger, pulling the broom out of her Extended pocket. “I wouldn’t trust myself in these close quarters, not with a great bloody body like yours to heft about…” They mounted the broom, both keeping their legs unusually tightly wound. The ceiling was so low here that even at that, with their heads brushing the stone above, Draco’s knees were inches from the Torment. “These fucking nuns,” he muttered as he steered them with utmost delicacy over the five metre long patch of suffering. Granger was focused on strangling the broom with her hands and her legs. They passed the ruddy patch. Draco lowered them to dismount. Something gold was glittering at the end of the passage: it looked like the reliquary that Granger had described to him. Fucking finally. “Wait!” hissed Granger. “Look!” Above them, and visible only thanks to Granger’s circle of blue flame, a rune was carved into the ceiling. Draco pulled the broom back up into a hover. “What is it?” “Ethos?” said Granger, tilting her head and talking to herself. “Raidhu? But why is it…? Oh! But I didn’t know you could do that? What?! This usage isn’t in any of the syllabaries... ” “What the bloody hell is it?” repeated Draco. “I think – based on an extremely preliminary analysis – it’s – I suppose you could call it a Rune of Inverted Ethics?” “Inverted… Ethics?” repeated Draco. He had expected something rather more lethal. Inverted Entrails, perhaps. “It would reverse whatever your normal moral standpoint would be,” continued Granger. “I think. It would flip your intentions.” “So you’d come off the Torture Carpet hating the nuns, and wanting to kill them all and destroy the whole place, and then you’d be hit by that and…” “Love them, want to help them, and not do the naughty things you had set out to do, yes,” said Granger. “Brilliant idea, to put it last. Let me take care of this one. Can you fly us up closer?” Draco moved the broom up and held it as steadily as possible as Granger drew out the counter runes. This exercise took what felt like an eternity. Draco kept casting detection spells behind them, aware, now, that there would almost certainly be a search on for the Bumbling Muggles. He fancied that he heard voices. The ceiling crackled and the rune disintegrated into dust. “Sorted,” said Granger. “Finally.” They dismounted from the broom. Draco took point again, so aggravated at the delays that he’d half a mind to reactivate all the wards and drag the nuns through the bloody labyrinth, to get a taste of their own medicine. At last, they came upon the Magdalene’s reliquary. The entire thing looked to be made of pure gold. It shimmered in the darkness, save for the Magdalene’s skull, which jutted out blackly. Heaped on either side was more gold – crucifixes, goblets, statuettes, and coffers overflowing with coin. Draco detected no further malicious spells, so they approached. An inscription glittered below the reliquary. “Noli me tangere,” read Draco. “Touch me not. Well, that’s excellent.” “We are only going to tangere her a little bit,” said Granger, biting her lip. “What’s that flask beside her?” “The Sainte Ampoule. Alleged to contain earth, soaked in Christ’s blood, collected by the Magdalene from under the cross.” Draco let out a whistle as they approached the reliquary. “This lot’s got to be worth a few Knuts.” A hoarse voice spoke in French. “A few? Cheeky little bugger.” Draco and Granger both jumped out of their skin. Hominem Revelios ricocheted against the walls as they cast them, to absolutely no avail. Draco flung a Protego around Granger. The voice spoke again: “My only visitors in centuries, so, of course, they are irredeemably stupid.” “Oh my god,” gasped Granger, “It’s the skull.” Draco stared at it. “Hello,” ground out the skull to Draco. “You’re pretty.” “Merlin’s tits,” said Draco. “I like you.” The skull grinned in his direction. “Give us a kiss.” Chapter 15: Noli Me Tangere Draco had experienced a great many strange and wonderful things in his life, but being chatted up by the skull of a long-dead saint certainly ranked amongst the most bizarre. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shriek to the good Sisters about intruders,” said the skull. “I shall blast you into bits if you try,” said Draco. “Promises, promises,” said the skull. “Please – are you the Magdalene?” asked Granger, her shock now making way for wide-eyed curiosity. “An echo of she who was once known by that name,” said the skull. “A ghost? Spirit?” “There are many States of Being.” Draco elbowed Granger. “Not the time.” “Right, let’s rather discuss what a pretty lad like you is doing in a place like this.” “I’m up to no good,” said Draco. “Obviously.” “Ooo la la, a bad boy,” said the skull. Granger was fixed in a state of utter entrancement at the skull. Draco elbowed her again. “Do what you came here to do. We need to leave.” Granger seemed to come to. “Right – I have to – but–” There were voices coming down the passageway. “We’ve got company,” cut in Draco. “Set off your charges.” Granger raised her wand and muttered harsh words of ancient runic. Draco felt gooseflesh rise on his arms as her magic washed out of her. Five brilliant sparks burst out of her wand and whizzed down the passage to detonate their counterparts. There was a moment of pure, perfect silence. Then the crypt, the passageways, and the grotto, were rocked by explosions. Screams echoed distantly. A fine dusting of stone coated Draco, Granger, and the Magdalene’s reliquary. From the passageway, there came no further sounds. Granger had her hands on her knees, breathless from the magical exertion. “What have you done?” asked the skull. “Bought time,” said Granger. “Do the thing,” said Draco, standing guard at the passage. “Quickly!” Granger was agitated. “But it’s sentient! It wasn’t meant to be sentient!” “Sentient is a rather optimistic term,” said the skull. “But you can perceive!” said Granger. “I can’t just – just–” “Just what, precisely?” “I need a little piece of you,” said Granger. “Tch. You and the rest of the world. Bits of me have been stolen over centuries and centuries, you know.” “Get a bloody move on!” said Draco. Granger slipped a rather wicked looking osteotome out of her pocket. “Yes. My jaw lived in Rome for 700 years; we have only just been reunited.” “H-have you?” “In 1295. Thanks to Pope Boniface the Eighth, bless his pointy head.” Granger was now edging towards the skull. “I er – I see that your occipital bone is cracked. D’you mind if I tidy it up a bit?” Draco rolled his eyes heavenward. Granger was trying to get consent from the bloody skull. “Noli me tangere,” said the skull. Granger, the osteotome in one hand and her wand in the other, said, “I’m sorry about this.” She Vanished the reliquary’s glass away. “So sorry – but it’s for a good cause, I promise…” “Noli me tangere,” repeated the skull as Granger’s hand approached. “You will regret it.” Something in the skull’s tone made Draco turn. He reached out and grabbed Granger’s arm, just in time to join her as the skull – a bloody fucking Portkey – transported them out. ~ They materialised in a dungeon, ten metres above the floor, and began to plummet downwards. As though in slow motion, both of them swiveled to see a ruddy shimmer across the stone floor below: Spiritual Sanctification. Their saving grace, as they fell, was that they both had their wands out. Granger flung a Wingardium Leviosa at Draco just as he cast the same at her, and then they hovered, utterly at the mercy of the other’s willpower, inches over the Torment. Granger was doing a decent job at holding his ‘great bloody body’ aloft, but there was something febrile in her magic; she wouldn’t be able to hold him for long. Draco himself was beginning to feel lightheaded: the day’s magical output was catching up to him, and even keeping Granger’s lithe figure afloat was taxing. “Broom!” gasped Draco. Granger tossed the skull to Draco, who caught it like a bony kind of Quaffle. She pulled out the broom. In a feat of awkward, floaty acrobatics, she got a leg over it. Then, under her unpractised hands, it moved towards Draco in whippy, uncertain jerks. When Granger got close enough, he pulled the tail-end to him, and collapsed onto it behind her. “Fuck!” puffed Granger, utterly winded. Draco was fuming. “These bloody, gods-damned nuns!” “Oh my,” said the skull as he passed it back to Granger. “This hasn’t happened since the Dark Ages. What a thrill!” Draco floated the broom up and down the narrow dungeon, his wand aloft, looking for a way out. “This stone must be metres and metres thick,” said Granger, casting bursts of Transfiguration spells at the wall as Draco glided them past. “I can’t do a thing past the inside layer.” “We could try to brute force a few Bombardas,” said Draco. “But that would drain us both – and who knows what’s on the other side.” “Oh, about fifty enraged Sisters,” replied the skull. “They’ll have sounded the alarm by now and all flown back up from the Solstice do. Oooh, I hope you don’t meet the Prioress, my dear, she would leave your pretty face quite unrecognisable.” “There’s got to be an entrance – how else do they fetch the prisoners?” Draco redoubled his searching. “We need to find it – that’ll be the weak spot.” “I wager there isn’t one. They probably lift the Anti-Apparition Ward and pop in to pick the tortured corpses off the Crucio Carpet,” mulled Granger darkly. “Clever thing,” said the skull. “Quiet, you – it’s your fault we’re here.” “I tried to warn you,” said the skull. “Don’t you speak Latin?” Granger was now grasping at her person. “I have a million things in my pockets – but what do I do with them? Do we lay traps? Do we make explosives? They could let us rot in here for years before they come and fetch us. I have enough food for – er – months, maybe? How will we sleep over the Torment? I could make us hammocks?” In the course of her hand-wavy blathering, Granger inadvertently presented A Solution. Draco seized her by the wrist. In their shared wand-light, her ring glimmered. Granger followed his line of sight. “But – you said you didn’t finish the Portkey.” “I didn’t.” “So – so what are you thinking?” Draco rapped his fingers against Granger’s wrist. “I don’t know. A possibility. I couldn’t fix the final destination to a desired location. The Arithmancy is all correct, there’s just a stupid hiccough in the tail end I haven’t worked out.” Granger was now getting excited. She twisted towards him on the broom. “So you’re saying it works, but we haven't any idea where we’ll end up?” “Yes.” Granger held out her hand to him. “Activate it.” “You don’t understand. I have no bloody clue where we’ll end up,” repeated Draco. “It might be the bowels of the earth. It might be the inside of a volcano, or the depths of Atlantis. We could die the moment we arrive – crushed, or burned, or asphyxiated.” Granger searched his eyes, looking as flummoxed as he felt. “Fifty angry nuns descending upon us in holy wrath, or asphyxiation?” Draco ran a hand down his face. “Fuck me. How the fuck did we get here?” “Ooh, do the Portkey, do the Portkey!” said the skull. “I want to see the world!” “You choose,” said Draco to Granger, ignoring the skull. Granger turned away from him on the broom and thought. “You’re doing a SWOT analysis,” said Draco, watching the twitch of her fingers. “Shh.” “What’s a swot analysis?” asked the skull. “What she does best,” said Draco. (It was a good thing that Granger wasn’t listening; unasked-for fondness had slipped into the statement. Eurgh.) Granger came out of her process looking determined. She twisted back towards Draco on the broom. “Portkey. Wands out, ready to Disapparate the moment we materialise in the Other Place. Even in the most hostile environment, whatever damage we sustain in that split second should be Healable.” “Even lava? We’re taking a big bloody risk.” “We have the skull. And I have lives to change for the better. Let’s check the stupid thing for tracking spells; we don’t need the Sisterhood following us to wherever we end up.” The skull was subjected to diagnostic spells from both Granger and Draco. Neither of them was gentle about it, but the skull seemed to have little feeling. “That tickles,” said the skull as it was suspended between the two of them and sprayed with spells. “It’s clean,” said Draco at length. “Only echoes of the Portus.” “Which was a brilliant idea. A single non-malicious spell at the very end. Right into a dungeon. Bloody nuns.” “All right,” said Draco. “Let’s go. But first, I want to leave a few thank-yous for the Benedictine Sisters of the Sacred Bollocks.” “Ooh, naughty,” said the skull as Draco tucked a few maledictions, curses and other devilry into the stonework. Sod his fatigue. He needed vengeance. “Ready?” asked Draco, his wand-tip at Granger’s ring, prepared to activate the Portkey. Granger met his eyes and nodded. She was on edge, but she wasn’t afraid. Brave fucking witch. “Portus,” said Draco. ~ The Portkey sucked them through the Anti-Apparition Ward in a prolonged, sickening drag. Draco wasn’t sure what he was gripping harder: his wand, Granger’s waist, or the broom between his legs. They materialised about sixty metres above the ground – thank the gods for the broom – above a strange, surreal scene. They were flying above a cluster of boats, grouped about as though moored at a marina – but there was no water. As far as Draco’s eye could see, dunes undulated, on and on into the horizon. Granger’s head swivelled about too, observing the place, her curiosity overrunning her fear of flight. A wisp of smoke emanated from her ring – the last of the imperfect Portus fizzling out of existence. Hot wind blew grit into their eyes and chapped their lips. “Of course we wouldn’t end up in, say, Kent,” said Draco. “That would’ve been rather too convenient,” said Granger. “But I’ll take this over the centre of a volcano – and we didn’t get Splinched by poorly executed Arithmancy. Well done.” Draco flew lower, casting detection spells towards the graveyard of ships. There was no living thing within. “I’m going to take us down. We need to rest – we’re both bollocksed.” “Agreed.” They landed amongst the rusting hulls and found a spot in the shade of a smaller ship. Granger tumbled off the broom in that ungainly way of hers, stayed on all fours on the ground for a long moment, and then regained her feet. She groped about her pocket until she found her Muggle device, which she pulled out in triumph. However, the triumph was short-lived. Granger paced, held the mobile up high, held it low, pressed a few buttons – but whatever it was meant to do, it wasn’t doing. “No service,” sighed Granger. “We’re out of range of Muggle telecommunications. I’d have liked to know where we are.” “A great bloody desert like this? Somewhere in Africa would be my guess.” “That was mine, too,” said Granger. “There’s a place called the Skeleton Coast in Namibia, famous for shipwrecks amongst the dunes. But that theory is buggered by the rather conspicuous absence of the sea. Perhaps the boats will give us a clue.” She walked, speculative, towards the prow of the ship that they were sheltering under. Faded characters were scattered about that would’ve once spelled the vessel’s name. Granger’s hands found her hips. “Cyrillic?” “...Are you suggesting we’re in Russia?” “I’ve no idea,” said Granger, sounding, for once in her life, utterly bewildered. They set aside the mysteries of their present circumstances to replenish their strength. Draco was keen on a rest – he had a nagging worry that the nuns would somehow find them, and he was presently too magically fatigued to take on fifty of them in a firefight. “Where’s the skull?” he asked, all of a sudden, as the last ten minutes had been free of its croaky remarks. “In my pocket,” said Granger. “With a Muffliato around her temporal bones. I’m tired of her running commentary.” “Good shout. D’you have anything to eat in that pocket?” “Obviously.” Bits of rusted-out boat were minimally Transfigured into a makeshift low table and stools. Draco noted that none of Granger’s usual flourishes – or concern for accuracy – were on display. The stools peeled old marine paint upon their bottoms; the table threatened a side of tetanus with their dinner. Granger was tired. And yet, she still managed to surprise him. Fishing things out of her Extended pocket, she placed the makings of a real meal upon the table. A baguette, pâté, and various cheeses were laid out. Then came an assortment of charcuterie, some cornichons, and olives. A container of spiced aubergine salad followed. She surveyed the table. “What am I missing? Oh! The drinks.” Bottled water (“Grossly overpriced”) and a bottle of white wine (“No idea if it’s good; the bottle was pretty”) followed. Granger passed Draco the wine. “Would you chill this? We might as well do the thing properly.” Draco passed several cooling charms over the bottle. “Right. I can at least feel as though I’ve contributed something to this repast.” It was nothing but a throwaway remark, but Granger took it seriously. She frowned at him. “Contributed something? Malfoy, today would’ve been impossible without you. I would’ve taken a wrong turn at the first hallucinatory staircase and ended up in an oubliette forever. And if I hadn’t, I’d be demonically possessed – or very dead. You knew the counter-spell to every sodding thing we encountered. You curse-broke your way through a labyrinth that hasn’t been penetrated since the Dark Ages. You half-arsed a Portus on this ring, and it bloody worked, and we’re here, and alive, because of you. You were–” Here she paused, and searched for words, and seemed to grow self-conscious. “You were extraordinary,” she finished, quietly. She cleared her throat, avoided his eye, and busied herself with her wand. “I’ll conjure some glasses, shall I?” As for Draco, he said nothing, because he was wrestling with a swell of pleasure at this slew of compliments, and amusement at Granger’s discomfiture, and what felt like the warmth of a blush at his cheeks, only he didn’t blush, because he was Draco Fucking Malfoy, so it was probably sunburn from this damned desert. “One last thing before we eat, if you don’t mind,” said Draco, opting to violently change the subject. Granger looked up. “What?” “Finite incantatem,” said Draco, pointing his wand at her. Her hair, in a lank blonde ponytail, returned to its full, brown curls. Her eyes, growing dark and warm as the glamour faded, flashed her amusement at him. “Shall I do you?” “Do.” “Excellent. I’m tired of the merkin. Finite incantatem.” Draco felt the quiver of her magic through his hair and the caress of it across his eyes. It felt, perhaps, even more intimate than a touch would’ve been. He ran a hand through his hair. “Less pubic wiggy?” “Eh,” shrugged Granger, but she was holding back a smile. “You can just say my hair is magnificent, you know,” said Draco. “It’s adequate, for a wizard who just broke into a crypt and fled from nuns. Shall we eat?” They ate and drank and rested, and began to replenish their depleted magical energies. Draco shared his shock that Granger was able to put together a meal not comprised of tuna and Cheesy Wotsits. Granger said that she had a packet of Cheesy Wotsits in her pocket, just for him, since they lingered so powerfully on his psyche. Draco asked if she had a few cat hairs too, to complete the experience. Granger said, of course, and plucked two out of her pocket, and wafted them in Draco’s direction. Draco said thank you, he felt quite at home now, and also, would there be Banoffee pie for dessert? He’d half expected Granger to produce one, but she demurred: “The village's shops didn’t carry those.” Her dessert offerings were more of those marzipan-stuffed dates, dried figs, and apricots. “You know,” said Draco as he chewed on a date, “We could ask the Magdalene if she brought this recipe over, after all.” “Oh!” gasped Granger. And then, after half a moment’s thought: “Let’s!” The skull was summoned out of Granger’s pocket and the Muffliato was dismissed. “Hello, what’s this?” asked the skull, its shadowy eye-holes gazing at the ship’s hull. “Are we at sea?” “No,” said Granger. “But would you settle a line of enquiry for us? Did you bring the recipe for marzipan-stuffed dates to France from the Holy Land?” A date was held in front of the skull, for illustrative purposes. “What is that? A clam?” “Well, that’s settled, then,” said Granger, eating the date. “You have restored the honour of an entire nation,” said Draco to the skull. The skull’s attention turned to him. “O, it’s you. Do you know, I was just thinking you’d look better as a blonde.” “Thank you,” said Draco. He and Granger exchanged a look of realisation – the skull had now seen them sans disguise. “Can skulls be Obliviated?” asked Draco. “They’ve got no brain.” “We’ll have to try, now that she’s seen us,” said Granger, looking serious. “She has a mind, anyway.” The skull, who had been completing an assessment of Granger, said, “As for you, you’re rather less corpsey than you were before.” “Bit rich, coming from you.” “I was a great beauty,” said the skull. “You still have gorgeous cheekbones,” said Draco. The skull giggled – a mildly disconcerting sound. Draco noted that Granger had pulled her osteotome back out – she was finally going to get that sample. She angled the skull towards Draco. He distracted it by flipping his hair and looking at it seductively. Granger pressed the bevelled edge of her instrument along an already jagged part of the skull. There was a dullish snap as a piece broke off, which she transferred to a test tube. “What was that?” asked the skull. “Did you hear something?” “No,” said Draco. Granger produced a sack, which she threw over the skull so that it would see them no longer. Then she pointed her wand at the bump in the bag. “Obliviate.” The skull’s muffled and confused voice came through the sack. “Sister Sophia? Is that you? Why is it so dark?” Granger cast Muffliato and Silencio upon the sack, and stuffed it back into her pocket. She looked regretful. “Religious historians would give their eye teeth to have a chat with her. Can you imagine–” “No,” said Draco. “I know, I know,” said Granger, though the pain of the missing knowledge made her clutch at her breast. “I’ll send her back to the monastery as soon as we reach civilisation. Hopefully her safe return keeps the nuns off our backs.” “I rather fancied a duel with the Prioress. She sounded like a fury.” The meal being over, they crawled off of the uncomfortable stools and stretched. Granger produced a large, puffy blanket, which she placed upon the sand. She laid down upon it and Draco invited himself to lie down next to her. “She did sound like a fury,” said Granger. “Sod Aurors and the Order – we should’ve sent French nuns after Voldemort.” “Did you see that labyrinth? The good Sisters would’ve overthrown him in five minutes. We’d be living in a new, nunnish world order.” “Everyone would wear habits,” said Granger, a laugh in her voice. “You’d have positively thrived.” “I merely express surprise at Muggle skin-showing,” said Draco huffily. “Not objections.” “Dismay, rather.” “Astonishment. It’s culture shock.” “Don’t robes interfere with the checking out of bums?” asked Granger. “They are a blight on the entire sport.” “Then?” “I didn’t really think about the alternatives, until – until quite recently.” “You don’t know what you don’t know,” nodded Granger sagely. “Exactly. I’m developing a new esteem for Muggle fashions – they know how to do bums.” Granger laughed. Draco raised his wand lazily and floated the wine bottle over to them. “You know – the sun is setting here.” Granger’s voice was thoughtful. “It was midmorning at the monastery. That means we’ve jumped eight or ten timezones ahead, depending on our proximity to the equator.” “Where would that put us? Western China?” Granger had turned onto her stomach and edged towards the side of the blanket. She was scribbling a map into the sand. “Er – possibly. Any number of places, depending on how many zones we jumped. Iran… Oman… any of the ‘Stans…” Draco floated over the dried figs and chewed on those while Granger made her speculations. “Oh!” said Granger. “What?” She passed him something for his inspection: a whitish, elongated seashell. “This used to be a seabed,” said Granger as she peered at the sand. “How curious.” Now she was passing her fingers through the sand, digging up more desiccated bits of sea-life. Her eyes were alight with inquisitiveness. All of the day’s troubles – the curses, the near-death experiences – seemed to have faded away in light of this fresh mystery. With her hair strewn with crypt dust, and a purplish line of Mind Flayer residue across her cheek, and her torn-up walking kit, she looked rather like a wild-eyed archaeologist, seeking answers amongst the endless sands. The effect was quite fetching. Had anyone told Draco, months ago, that he would’ve found a banged-up, dirt-smudged witch digging about in sand fetching, he would’ve scoffed. But there it was. “That’s a Scaphopoda,” said Granger in reference to the shell in Draco’s hands. “But I don’t know what species, so that won’t help us narrow down our location.” Draco examined the shell, concluded that it was, indeed, a shell, and passed it back to her. Their fingers touched. Hers were warm, his were cool. “Sea urchin,” she said, holding up another whitish thing, but round. “Fascinating.” Granger returned to studying her erstwhile map, now scattered with bits of shell. “I don’t know enough about ancient seas to make any kind of intelligent supposition, based on these creatures. It’ll be dangerous for us to Apparate anywhere, given that we haven’t any idea where we are on the planet. I think our next plan of action should be a reconnaissance flight to see if we can find civilisation, and hopefully an internationally connected Floo.” Draco popped himself onto his elbows. “I’m sorry, did you just say flight?” “Yes.” “As in, use the broom?” “Yes.” “You? Willingly? Want to use a broom?” Granger looked a combination of miffed and harassed. “Yes, all right? It ended up being terribly useful. Don’t be smug about it.” “Too late.” “I can see that.” Oh yes, he was smug. Granger, with her Firmly Established Opinions on Everything, had changed her mind about flying, of all things. He dearly wanted to rub it in, but self-control prevailed. “The sun’s setting. Let’s wait until it’s under the horizon, and then do a little recce from on high. If there are settlements about, they’ll be lit up, and we’ll be able to see them from miles away.” Just as Granger was nodding her agreement, an odd sort of groan echoed across the dunes towards them. “Did you just hear a cow?” asked Granger. “A cow? That sounded like Weasel on the loo.” “Eurgh – don’t be – oh! Look!” A herd of – of something – came into view over the dunes. They looked like gazelles who had been half-Transfigured into tapirs. “Oh, I’ve read about those – they’re Saiga antelope!” said Granger, leaping to her feet. The animals paused at the sudden movement. They eyed Granger as though she was the half-Transfigured oddity, and not them. Then, with a strange loping gait, they carried on. “Queer looking things,” said Draco. “Magical?” “Mundane.” Granger was on her tiptoes, watching the herd pass. “Exceedingly rare, though.” The lead animal groaned its peculiar moo and the herd disappeared behind a dune. Granger returned to the blanket and kneeled at her sandy map. “This will help situate us. Those antelope have a narrow range. We’re somewhere in Central Asia.” Granger bit at her lip. “Population centres will be few and far in between.” “We’ll fly south or west, then,” said Draco. “Definitely not north.” “Agreed – nothing but Russia’s steppes that way.” “I’d give it another hour,” said Draco, eyeing the sun as it sank behind the dunes. “Then we can fly.” Granger stretched out on her back next to him and tucked her hands behind her head. There was a smile in her voice when she next spoke. “I can’t believe I saw a Saiga antelope.” “I can’t believe we had a chinwag with Mary Magdalene’s skull.” “And we were almost outwitted by nuns.” “Those nuns were savage old birds. My next warding will be inspired. Shall I cast Beelzebub's Barrier at your lab?” “Could do. A spot of demonic possession would inject some vim into Trinity’s halls.” Soon, the sun was nothing but a golden memory reflected in the firmament. There was no birdsong in the desert; all was quiet, save for the plaintive whistling of the wind amongst the rusted-out hulls. The wind quietened as the world darkened. The moon emerged and painted the dunes a silvery white. Then, in the black stillness above them, constellation after constellation of stars glimmered into being, and galaxies, and nebulas innumerable. Draco had never seen a sky like this one, so alight with its own brilliance, shimmering with mighty mysteries of worlds far away. Together, in awed silence, Draco and Granger observed the whirling radiance above. Their hearts felt strangely full, and their troubles small and distant, under such living skies. ~ Neither Draco nor Granger had planned for a nap, but magical exhaustion took its toll and knocked them both out for two hours. On the bright side, Draco awoke feeling positively rejuvenated, and ready to take on a hundred nuns, should circumstances require it. Granger, as she uncurled herself, also looked reinvigorated. A few lively wand-waves packed up or erased all traces of their passing. And then it was time to fly. There must’ve been eagerness on Draco’s face, because Granger held the broom from him, and said, “Just because I think it’s a good idea doesn’t mean I’m going to enjoy it. Making me scream in terror is not the object of this exercise.” “I would never,” said Draco, feigning offence as he set aside nefarious plans to do just that. Granger, with a look of profound mistrust, passed him the broom. Draco mounted, and then angled his way towards her for her to hop on. She twisted her hands together, took a breath, muttered about bloody brooms, and, finally, clambered on. “You do better when you don’t have time to think about it,” remarked Draco as Granger wedged herself between his legs. “Like in the crypt.” “Imminent death does push slightly-less-imminent death out of my mind,” said Granger with a tight jaw. Draco cast the usual assortment of wind-breakers and warming spells. “Ready?” “No,” came the strangled response. “Just go.” Draco did not wait to be told twice. He kicked off with a will, eager to get lost in these skies with their millions upon millions of stars. The post-apocalyptic scene of the corroded fleet of boats grew smaller and smaller, until the hulls were mere specks below. As they reached flying altitude, Draco revelled in the views. There was no sea here, but an ocean of silver dunes, undulating without end all around them. Above, long lanes of stars streaked – gates to strange eternities. It was Awesome in the true sense of the word and filled Draco with profound wonder. To his surprise, Granger had her eyes open. She breathed out a single, stupefied, “Wow,” and then went silent. Draco struck a south-eastern course. His broom hummed under him, wanting to be given its head as they flew. But this broom, the newest model Étincelle, was the quickest in Draco’s collection and he dared not go faster than he already was. Despite the wind-breaking charms, Granger’s ponytail had half unravelled and was having its way with his face. And, of course, the witch herself would kill him upon landing. After a time, Granger asked, “Why’s the broom buzzing at us?” Her question was laced in unspoken fear of a malfunction. “She wants to go fast,” said Draco. There was a pause. Then, timidly, Granger asked, “How fast?” Draco gave a moment’s thought to his answer, which took the form of a question: “How fast does your car go?” “I’ve broken two hundred kilometres per hour – in Germany, mind.” (Draco did not understand why Germany was relevant to this statement.) “We can do two hundred on the broom,” said Draco. “If you’re game.” Draco knew Granger’s body language enough now to see that she was torn, even without a view of her face. “This is a bloody big desert,” she said after some musing. “It is.” “We’ve been flying for twenty minutes and we haven’t seen a single sign of human habitation.” “Correct.” “We’d cover much more ground at speed.” “We would.” Granger straightened up between Draco’s arms. “Let’s do it. Cast a few more wind-breakers – I’m going to do something with my hair.” Which was excellent, because between Granger and her cat, Draco had now ingested enough hair to last the week. He slowed them down to cast his spells as Granger coiled her ponytail into a plait and tucked it into her top. Granger’s voice was tightened by nerves. “Don’t accelerate too fast or I shall fall.” “You won’t fall. I’m holding you.” “I know.” “It’ll be just like we’re in your car,” said Draco, edging the broom up to speed. “My car has seat belts and is solidly on the earth at all tiiiiiiimes–” Granger’s statement gave way to a shriek as the broom surged ahead. Draco wondered whether he ought to slow down – and then he realised that the shriek had turned into a delighted, adrenaline-filled laugh. The speed had Granger half enjoying herself, half frightened out of coherent thought. “Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Draco as the dunes turned to a silvery blur below them. “Oh my goddd–” “You are keeping an eye out for lights, aren’t you?” “Ughfrlp.” “Good.” They streaked across the desert, meteoric. Draco wished for a shooting star, so that they might race it. Since Granger was doing so well, he gave the broom her head, and she spiritedly jetted forth even faster, and now the dunes were a silver radiance below, and the stars were a dazzling whirl. He held Granger tightly, partially to keep her safe, partially because he wanted to, because the feel of it was enjoyable – the holding of this slightly mad, brilliant witch, who passed her weekends skylarking about crypts, and who provoked him at every turn. She was warm between his arms, and she smelled like travel dust and adventure and exhilaration. The whole thing was mad – the holding of Granger as though he wanted to, the flying over these unsettled wilds, the having no actual clue where on Earth they were, the illegal and unfinished Portus, the talking skull, the whole of it. Absolutely mental. He had loved every minute. “There!” said Granger, suddenly. She made the mistake of holding out her arm to point. At this speed, it was whipped backwards and smacked Draco in the temple. “Sorry!” blurted Granger. “But – look!” To the south of them glowed the yellow glow of Muggle lights. At first they dotted the sands, here and there, and then they began to form long, parallel lanes. Roads. “A city!” said Granger. Draco flew them lower and slower. As they slowed, Granger cast Disillusionments on the two of them, lest a Muggle be stargazing on a night like this. They skimmed the rooftops now, looking for more clues on their location. Signs across shopfronts were in Cyrillic and, oddly, Arabic, with what looked like Korean Hangul thrown in to confuse any lost witches and wizards as much as possible. Granger asked Draco to slow down further so that she could consult her mobile, now that they had reached civilisation. “Tashkent,” she said. “Bless you,” said Draco. “No, it’s where we are. We’re in Uzbekistan.” “My word,” said Draco. “That’s a step off the beaten path.” “This is excellent. There's a British embassy here. There’ll be a Magical consulate tucked in there with them. We’ll be able to Floo home.” With that, Granger's mobile began peppering directions out to Draco, which led them to the roof of the British embassy, which was closed for the night. Draco broke them in and sniffed out the Consul’s chambers (his was the only trace of magic in the entire building), and they startled the poor wizard awake. Draco intimidated the Consul into lighting the international Floo flue, despite their lack of any kind of documentation, and Granger Obliviated him, and Draco cast a Sleeping Charm on him, and then they were whisked back to London by blue flames. Draco reflected that he and Granger made a rather decent team. They were spat out on British soil twenty minutes later, after the longest and most dizzying Floo journey that either of them had ever experienced. Draco rolled out of it; Granger plopped down bonelessly. Then, on the cold floor of the London warehouse that served as the Arrivals platform, Granger laid herself down and did not move. Draco, who generally fared better than her in all things spinny, had a look about. His knee was stinging at him, unhappy with the way he’d landed on the concrete. “They’ve put in a line of domestic Floo hearths,” he said, returning to Granger’s limp corpse. “We can each Floo straight home.” “Shan’t,” said Granger. Draco came to stand next to her and contemplated her greenish mien. “You look ready to be sick.” “I feel it,” said Granger. “It’s one more little spin in the Floo.” “Go away and leave me to die,” came Granger’s feeble voice. Draco, who fancied a hot shower and a nap, was moderately tempted, but leaving his Principal queasy and utterly prone on the floor was, unfortunately, contrary to protocol. “Haven’t you some potion to take for the nausea?” “If I so much as smell a potion, I shall decorate this floor with aubergine and–” “Shh,” said Draco. Footsteps were ringing across the warehouse. Draco knelt beside Granger. “There’s an agent coming and we haven’t got an explanation for how we just got spat out of Tashkent with no papers, nor a stamp from the Consul. We have to go.” “Shit,” said Granger, raising her head weakly off the floor. “They’ll find my Extension charms, if they search us.” “And we’ve still got the bloody skull. That’s a stolen Artefact – not to mention precious enough to spark an international incident.” “I heard an arrival, I tell you,” came a man’s voice. “Impossible,” came another. “There’s nothing scheduled till Istanbul at half-past.” Granger held out her arm and whispered, “Disapparate us.” “Where?” “Bloody anywhere!” Draco grasped her arm and Disapparated as quietly as he could. Chapter 16: The Seneca ~ The bath and the nap which had been at the forefront of Draco’s mind inspired his choice of destination. He and Granger materialised in the foyer of the Seneca, London’s choicest wizarding hotel. Draco hoisted Granger up to her feet. The employees at the Seneca were the epitome of discretion, including the witch who stepped out from behind the front desk, took no notice of their filthy clothing, and graciously asked if they were looking for a room, or dining at the hotel? The mention of dining made Granger go dangerously green. Draco propped her onto a bench and made arrangements for a room with the front desk witch. The woman, sensing that they wanted a room more than chit-chat about the hotel’s amenities, summoned an ornate key, whisked them to the lifts, and enquired if they had any luggage? (No, nothing, and certainly no illegal skulls, thank you.) And so Draco reached the end of this bizarre day, in one of the Seneca’s famous suites, overlooking the Kensington Palace gardens, with a droopy Granger thrown decoratively across a chaise longue. On the low table next to her, a carafe of water magically materialised, as well as a bucket. Thoughtful sort, that front desk witch. Deciding that Granger had been sufficiently provided for, Draco went off to shower. That was a delightful experience, far more enjoyable than the small closet provided by the Hotel Plaisance. Draco turned on every single jet that was available, amused himself with the soap selections, and didn’t crack his elbows against a wall once (which was good, because he had a nice bruise going on his left one from that morning’s activities). Thoroughly clean, now, Draco decided that he was a little peckish, and placed an order for a light dinner with the mirror. Then, given that he hadn’t any clothes save for the reeking pile that he had stripped off, he pulled on a fluffy white dressing gown and matching slippers. As he tied the dressing gown, he made sure that the V at the opening properly exposed the best of his chest (because he liked to show off in general, and not because of Granger in particular). Water droplets glistened artfully across his pectorals and down to where the top of his abs peeked out. Then he fixed his hair so that it was appropriately, sexily mussed up, for that post-shower, delicious look. The mirror commented that he looked quite divine. “I know,” said Draco. He emerged from the shower in a mist of well-being, sexiness, and soap. And he needn’t have bothered with any of it, really. Granger didn’t even look up when he exited the bathroom in his steamy glory. She was engrossed in her mobile. The water had been drunk and the bucket looked unused – at least she was feeling better. “The Aral Sea!” exclaimed Granger, her eyes riveted on the mobile. “That’s where we were. It was almost completely desiccated in the 60’s because of Soviet irrigation projects...” A blow-by-blow account of the Sea’s disappearance followed, with much outraged commentary from Granger on what an ecological disaster it was. Meanwhile, the sexy droplets of water dried off of Draco’s pectorals, uselessly unseen by any audience whatsoever. Sod the Aral Sea; where was Granger’s concern for Draco’s desiccated chest? “Riveting,” said Draco. Granger, detecting his lack of enthusiasm for her information dump, lowered her mobile. She looked him up and down, from the ends of his artfully tossed hair to his slippered feet. Her sole comment: “Haven’t you any clothes?” “No, I haven’t, given that my luggage is currently enjoying a sojourn on the coast of Provence, along with yours.” “Ugh.” Granger tilted her head back against the chaise longue in exhausted annoyance. “I’ll make arrangements to have it sent back. And the car! We’re going to get about twelve parking fines, not to mention a nice kerfuffle to have the thing returned. Why can’t anything be simple? Right – I need a shower next, if you’re done. I stink of crypt and now I’m self-conscious about it because you smell g– you smell like soap.” With that, Granger rose, and proceeded to monopolise the shower for a full hour. Draco’s room service shimmered into existence on the low table. “Granger,” he called at the bathroom door, “there’s food – do you want any, or shall I eat it all?” “Have it all,” came Granger’s voice from amidst the sound of spraying. “I just want tea.” “Ask the mirror,” said Draco. “The mirror?” “Yes, for the tea.” Draco heard the mirror interject that the tea would be up momentarily. Granger thanked it. Interesting feeling, to be talking to Granger while she was naked. Draco made it all the way to dessert (chocolate bonbons) before Granger came out of the bathroom. She, too, was now wearing a dressing gown – ridiculously oversized on her. Draco noted that Granger had not strategically left a V open at the front – rather, she had crossed both sides into each other so high that the robe covered her to her chin. Nor had she sexily mussed her hair, which was a wet pile on top of her head, held in place by her wand. She shuffled over in too-big slippers. “What?” she said as she noted Draco’s observation. Then she looked down at herself. “Rather like a gnome in a housecoat, isn’t it? I’d like to know whose boat-like feet these slippers were designed for?” A steaming pot of tea popped into existence on the low table as Granger approached. She pulled some pillows off of the bed and made a cosy nest for herself on the floor next to it. “What are you doing with your clothes?” she asked, with a gesture at the torn, stained pile she had left in the bathroom next to his. “I unstitched my Extendable pocket. I can’t decide if it’s worth sending them to laundry? Do we donate to orphans?” “Burn them,” said Draco. “But what about the orphans?” “The orphans can burn them to warm their hovels. Stop talking about the reeking clothes. You’re putting me right off my chocolate bonbons.” Granger sighed at him, like she wanted to tell him that he was dreadful, but it wasn’t worth the effort, because he already knew that. Then she noticed a note on the table. “What’s this?” “A welcome note from the hotel,” said Draco. Granger picked up the note, which was addressed to– “Miss Hormone and Mr. Crotch,” read Granger. She set it down. Slowly, her hands rose to cover her face. Then, for a long minute, her shoulders shook, and she made small sounds, muffled by her hands. “Er – are you laughing, or crying?” asked Draco at length, because if it was the latter, he supposed that he ought to do something? “Both,” hiccoughed Granger. She sniffed, then rose to fetch a tissue. When she returned, her eyes were bright, and a bit red around the edges, and her nose was pink. She resumed her seat at the low table and poured herself tea. “I can’t believe you did that to me again.” “They wanted names downstairs,” shrugged Draco. “Though I rather suspect the witch knew who we were.” “Do you think so? We came in looking like a pair of Muggle ruffians, one of which was bilious, and the other limping like Mad-Eye.” “I wasn’t limping like Mad-Eye.” “O, yes, you were. Still are, though the heat from the shower helped you. Do you want me to heal it again?” Draco pondered this, then swallowed his pride and slid on to the floor next to her. He flipped open the dressing gown to expose his knee. “I didn’t realise you observed me so closely,” said Draco. (Because she certainly didn’t observe the things he wished her to observe, the irritating creature.) Granger’s wand tickled at his leg hair as she passed it over his knee. “Don’t flatter yourself; it comes with my job. Rather like how you assess everyone as though they’re a secret assassin.” Draco scoffed. “It’s true,” said Granger. “You eye everyone up like you’re deciding how best to break their necks. To say nothing of your devious uses of Legilimency.” She muttered a Healing spell, then added, “It’s not a complaint, mind you. It does feel safer to have someone of your calibre about. Especially today – today would’ve been an absolute catastrophe, had I attempted it on my own.” Draco supposed that he could inform her that she'd performed quite competently in the field herself, and that he had been properly impressed by a few of her stunts, but Granger completed the Healing and the moment passed. She gave his knee a pat, as though he were a naughty boy who had fallen out of a tree, and not an Auror who had been attacked by a rampaging Manticore. “There. Now, no more dramatic rolls on concrete for a week. Parnell won’t be as nice as I am.” Then she pulled at the edge of Draco’s robe and tucked it forcefully under his thigh. “...I promise no dangly bits are going to escape without permission,” said Draco, observing this activity. “I’m not chancing it, especially with a man named Crotch.” Draco released an unexpected snort of amusement, so strong that it hurt his nose. Granger looked prim. “Today has been a comedy of errors.” “Right. Let us not tempt the Fates,” said Draco. Which was a big fat lie, because Draco had had a vague, not quite formed idea of Tempting the Fates by looking wildly seductive for absolutely no reason and seeing where that went (it had gone precisely nowhere). There had been an interesting sort of potential in hot showers and a luxurious hotel suite, and being all but stark bollock naked with a witch. But that was all it was – potential; existing in possibility, but not in actuality. With any other witch, yes. With this witch? No. This was Granger, and Granger was, well – Granger. Now she kicked off her oversized slippers and moved to the window. She undid her hair from its wet pile and untangled it with her fingers. The curtains opened magically as she approached, desiring to show off the exclusive view of the Kensington Palace gardens. As she combed out her hair, Granger admired the vista, and regaled Draco with bits of Muggle and magical history on the place. The sun was setting upon the British Isles, as it had set hours ago in the graveyard of ships in the desert. “Two sunsets in one day,” said Granger with a sigh. “Rather magical, isn't it?” And she stood in the red light, rather magical herself, as though touched by fire. And gloaming fell upon the great city of London, and the sky turned to purple, and then, finally, came night. Draco had a glimpse of an enchantress with a cascade of hair tumbling down her back – and then she twisted it up, and she was Granger again. Draco joined her at the window. “Rather fewer stars than with the ships.” “Rather,” said Granger, peering upwards. “Should anyone seek our counsel on where to build the next great wizarding observatory, we will have an answer.” “Does that happen to you frequently? Being asked where to build observatories?” “O, daily. Hourly, even. Doesn’t it happen to you?” “Of course. I field incessant enquiries as I care for the orphans.” “Good of you.” “Noblesse oblige.” Granger glanced up at him with a look that told him he was an absolute smart-arse. Unless he was mistaken, there was a kind of latent fondness in it, though it was very, very deep down. She pulled her robe more tightly around herself. “D’you think that mirror would send up some clothing for us? I don’t fancy going to the foyer to Floo in this finery.” “You're ready to face the Floo again so soon?” asked Draco. He had been rather enjoying this interlude of peace and luxe decadence and – well, nice company. It was the détente after an Adventure. If it was strictly up to him, he would’ve planned untold hours of idleness in fluffy beds, and several more delectable meals, and visiting the spa, and perhaps a massage. He would’ve most certainly carried on until past Monday, with an explanation to Tonks that he and Granger were Recovering from an Ordeal. Granger, however, did not seem to have even considered this delicious potential for lazing about. Granger was not that sort of woman. Granger was the type to drag you on a violent adventure, reduce your brain to boiled mash through hours of curse-breaking, impose exhausting transcendental moments upon you under the stars, have you fly her across a desert, and then, over tea, expect you to form some some kind of intelligent opinion on Soviet irrigation projects. Beastly. “Am I ready? No. But I must get on. I have so much to do, now that I have the fragment. And Crooks will be waiting, you know.” Draco strode to the mirror to cover his mild disappointment. “Very well. Let’s make arrangements for the clothes.” The request for robes was made, for a tall wizard and a witch of the approximate height of a pixie. (Granger stuck her head into the bathroom and corrected this non-error.) It took about a quarter of an hour for the clothing to be sent up – Draco supposed that the unusual request must’ve sent the hotel’s house-elves all of a dither. Eventually, their dinner things faded off of the table, and two tidy packages surfaced. The staid establishment had sent up equally sedate attire. The clothes were in the traditional style, with a great many buttons for Draco, and a great deal of lacing up for Granger. “Well,” said Granger, eyeing her dark blue robes, “It’ll do to get me to the Floo, anyway.” “Look – underthings,” said Draco, holding up a spectacularly unsexy pair of bloomers. “You can look like my great aunt Auriga.” “Ugh – no.” Draco added the bloomers to the orphan burning pile. Granger went into the bathroom to change, while Draco made relatively quick work of his new attire, save for the buttons, which were too finicky for him to fasten using his wand. He did them halfway to his throat, and then decided that he didn’t care enough to do them up further. They were only making themselves decent for a walk across the foyer to the Floo, after all. Granger popped out of the bathroom with a similar problem, though hers consisted of ribbons and laces. “I see that these robes come with an assumption that the wearer will have a lady-in-waiting. Would you help?” Draco, having no idea how to tie proper knots for a lady’s robe, opted to grasp a handful of the ribbons and shove them into the back of the dress. And he did not spend a moment thinking about how Granger was not wearing underthings, thank you. “That doesn’t feel quite right,” said Granger as the ribbons were stuffed in. “No. It’s utterly shambolic.” “The naughty bits are covered, that’s what matters.” They stopped in front of the mirror for a look before they descended to the foyer. Draco said that Granger looked terribly like a Pure-blood wife, off to drop off the sprogs at King’s Cross, in 1961. Granger said that Draco looked like he’d just exited Scotland Yard in 1825. The mirror chimed in to register its opinion that they were “An exceedingly handsome couple.” Granger shuddered; Draco ran away. The Seneca’s foyer was irritatingly busy. Draco, doing mental arithmetic involving two sunsets, realised that it was only Saturday night in London. The crowds made more sense, then; the Seneca’s dining rooms were the place to be for a certain slice of London’s wizarding set. The Floo hearth was just across the foyer, crackling cheerfully at them as they exited the lift. Granger’s stride lengthened. “We can finally put this surreal day behind us–” Then she stopped, and grasped Draco’s arm in her pinchy grasp, and whipped him towards her. “What–” “Shush,” said Granger, flattening herself against the wall and manoeuvering Draco to stand in front of her. “Stand there.” “What are we–” “Be big. Why are you always large and in the way, except when I need you to be?” asked Granger in a peevish whisper. “Shield me.” “From who?” asked Draco, dearly wishing to turn around and assess the Secret Assassin, and perhaps murder him in cold blood. “Cormac.” “McLaggen?” “How many other bloody Cormacs do you know?” asked Granger. She raised her hands to Draco’s robes and pulled up his collar, as though the flaps would afford her more privacy. “What’s he done?” “Oh, he’s only been infatuated with me for years. Tenacious kind of man. Sticky. Viscous, really. Stay there, his group is about to go into the dining rooms. No – wait – they’re still talking. I’m going to cast a Notice-Me-Not. Oh no – Derrick’s just spotted you, I think. It’s your stupid hair. Like a beacon across the bloody Pennines. No. They’re coming this way. I was never here. Goodbye.” With that, Granger slipped under Draco’s arm and attempted to dart back towards the lift, but it opened and a veritable flood of ladies and gentlemen ready for dinner poured out, and battered her to the side like a piece of flotsam. Granger Disillusioned herself and asked why the lift was a bloody bollocksing clown car. Draco, having gathered that his role was now to distract and deflect, turned around and greeted the approaching Derrick with a handshake (“Peregrine, my little lamb chop, how are you?”) and McLaggen with a very long double handshake: “Hello; I don’t believe we’ve met, Draco Malfoy – yes, I know I need no introduction – are you here for dinner with this scoundrel? I believe I remember you from Hogwarts. Do you still play Quidditch? You must join us at the pitch. Peregrine comes on occasion, still a decent beater, though the swing’s less powerful than it used to be – a touch of arthritis in his shoulder, I fancy, poor blighter. Do join us. Wednesday nights at the Manor. We’ve only had one death in five years. It’s all in good fun, really...” McLaggen had grown into a tall chap, as tall as Draco, and quite handsome, so Draco decided immediately that he didn’t like him. The man looked frightfully confused at Draco’s effusive greeting, which probably ran contrary to Draco’s general reputation as an arsehole. By the time McLaggen had regained possession of his hand, however, Granger had disappeared. “Right,” said Draco, “I must be off.” “Aren’t you dining, Malfoy?” asked Peregrine. A grin played across his mouth. “Or did you have other business you were getting on with?” “Other business?” repeated Draco with an innocent blink. “I could’ve sworn I’d seen Hermione with you,” said McLaggen, sidestepping around Draco to look towards the lifts. “I’d know that witch anywhere.” “Hermione? Hermione Granger? With me?” said Draco, his eyebrows at his hairline. McLaggen, still gazing longingly beyond Draco’s shoulder, did a kind of double-take towards him. “Oh – er – well, I suppose I might’ve been seeing things.” Peregrine scoffed. “They’d sooner kill each other than talk, I’d wager.” McLaggen’s gaze slid to Draco’s half-unbuttoned robes, and then to his crooked collar, which looked rather like a lady had gripped it in the last five minutes. “I suppose,” he said, but there was doubt in his voice. Draco decided that a spot of Legilimency was in order, to quantify that doubt. And besides, Granger had felt unsafe and fled from this man, and given that his Principal had felt threatened, Draco was well within his rights to investigate. This sound reasoning completed, Draco touched at McLaggen’s mind to see if this wanker had the slightest training in Occlumency. He did not. Draco made a few remarks on the recent win of the Kestrels over the Cannons. When both of his interlocutors were occupied with the subject, he had a look at McLaggen’s brains, such as they were. He kept his examination at surface-level, flicking through the man’s most recent thoughts. He saw himself as McLaggen had seen him across the foyer, pressed against the figure of a woman in navy robes, with dark hair piled onto her head. Then he saw the woman’s back as she slipped towards the lift, undone ribbons streaming behind her. McLaggen was certain that Draco had been snogging someone, and almost certain that it had been Granger. Only the formal robes had thrown him off – that and the fact that she’d been with Draco Malfoy, of all people. The cognitive dissonance of the latter point rang throughout the memory. Then Draco found associated memories: Granger speaking at the Ministry a year or two ago and then fleeing from McLaggen’s amorous attentions; Granger giving McLaggen flustered excuses to avoid a dinner date as he grasped at her hand; Granger at a pub with her friends, cornered by McLaggen near the loo and fending off his drunken kiss, something like fear in her eyes. Every memory was tinged by McLaggen’s mounting frustration, longing, and a chilling ongoing obsession with Granger. Draco fought a very real urge to break McLaggen’s handsome jaw. Any further delving into the wizard’s memories would bear the risk of discovery. Draco retreated from his mind and seamlessly rejoined the conversation with a snide remark on the performance of the Kestrels’ Chasers. Meanwhile, he added McLaggen to his blacklist. They said their goodbyes. Draco grinned as he shook McLaggen’s hand. “Enjoy your dinner. See you at the pitch, I very much hope.” Derrick and McLaggen left. Draco stalked off in search of Granger. “Here,” hissed a familiar whisper as Draco passed the lifts. Granger’s voice led to a sort of conference room, just off the corridor. It was dark. “Is he gone?” asked Granger. “Soon,” said Draco. “Their reservation is at half-past. Where are you?” “Here.” Granger undid her Disillusionment. “Why do you look so murderous?” “What? This is my usual face.” “No: your eyes are flashing.” “We had an argument about Quidditch.” Granger’s dark gaze studied Draco in the penumbra. She had a hand on her hip. “Quidditch.” “Yes.” So focused was Granger’s study of his eyes that Draco reflexively Occluded, even if Granger wasn’t a Legilimens. Granger saw the change and her focus grew even more acute. “You’re lying.” “Let’s go to the Floo.” Granger refused to be distracted. “What happened?” “How long are you going to let McLaggen terrorise you before you curse off his balls?” “I knew it,” said Granger in a shrill mix of triumph and annoyance. “You used Legilimency on him. You can’t do that.” “I can and I did.” “Those are private matters. They have nothing to do with you.” “He’s a danger to you.” “What exactly did you see?” “Enough to decide that he’s a threat.” “A threat?” repeated Granger. “He’s just a handsy idiot. I can, and always have, handled him, in the way I deem most appropriate. If I thought hexing off his balls was the correct approach, I assure you that I would’ve done so.” “Why haven’t you?” “Because there are larger things at play.” “What larger things?” asked Draco. "And don't say his penis." “Disgusting. No. He’s on the MNHS Foundation Trust and on St. Mungo’s Board of Directors. Even reporting him would have repercussions I need to balance carefully – much less a direct attack on his genitalia.” “He’s one Firewhisky away from cornering you in a toilet and Stunning you,” said Draco. Granger made a gesture of flat dismissal. “He would never cross that line. He’s not that stupid. He toes it – that’s all. Stop looking like that, like you’re about to go duel him in the foyer.” Draco scoffed. “He isn’t worthy of a duel; I’d happily curse him in the back.” “No cursing. No nothing. None of this has anything to do with you. You shouldn’t have seen any of it.” “Nothing to do with me?!” repeated Draco with fresh pique. “I’ve been mandated to keep you safe. That is literally why I am here, right now, dressed like a Victorian barrister, after a day of frolicking about labyrinths!” “To keep me safe in the scope of my activities as a researcher – not my personal life!” “This may shock you, but if you’re injured or incapacitated in your personal life, there would be a definite impact on your ability to research. Or do you disagree?” Granger raised her eyes to the dark ceiling. “You’re acting like McLaggen is going to tear me limb from limb.” “Were you in his head?” “No.” “Then I’ll decide what he’s likely to do,” said Draco, tapping at his own chest with unnecessary force. Granger studied him. Then, warily, she asked, “Did you see him want to tear me limb from limb?” “No,” conceded Draco. “But you’ve maddened him for years.” “I know.” The quarrel was blowing itself out. Granger’s hands were now hooked onto the back of a chair, rather than balled at her hips, and Draco had stopped looking murderously in the direction of the foyer. “Are there any other randy suitors that I need to be aware of?” asked Draco after a beat. Granger put a fingertip on her lip and thought. At length, she said, “Not to McLaggen’s extent.” “That doesn’t inspire confidence.” Granger tossed her head. “What can I say; I’m magnetic. I can’t even walk across a room without wizards falling into my lap.” Draco recognised an echo of some of his own claims during their dance at the Delacroix party – at this very hotel, in fact. It was the exaggerated accent that got to him. “I do not sound that posh, Granger.” “Oh yes, you do. You sound like you’re about to go to the opera after a day of shooting innocent wildlife. Partridges, probably.” “I rather thought you were going to say orphans.” “You are terrible, but not that terrible. Now, promise me you won’t go and do something stupid about McLaggen.” “I promise I shan’t do anything stupid about McLaggen,” said Draco, truthfully. Granger’s eyes narrowed at him in the shadowy room, and she wisely rephrased her demand. “Promise you won’t do anything about McLaggen, full stop.” “No,” said Draco. “Please.” “No.” “Malfoy.” “Fine. I promise.” “I wish I believed you.” “I wish you did, too.” Granger massaged her temples. “All right. I will take you at your word. I have no other choice.” Draco did not bother to point out the severity of this mistake. Now Granger stepped to the conference room door and poked her head out. “I think the coast is clear.” Draco joined her at the door to ascertain the same. “Right. Notice-Me-Nots, this time, and a brisk pace.” Thus equipped, they traversed the busy foyer, and made it to the hearth without further interruption. “The Mitre,” said Granger, tossing in Floo powder. The flames turned green and awaited Granger’s approach. Granger looked over her shoulder towards Draco, a new hesitancy in her expression. “Poor darling. Be brave,” said Draco in mock encouragement. Granger straightened. “I was going to say thank you, for today, but never mind.” “Only doing my job,” said Draco, with as much devil-may-care insouciance as he could inject into it, as though today hadn’t been a Wickedly Dangerous Ordeal. “Right. But perhaps a bit above and beyond.” “Nonsense.” Granger sighed. “All right. Goodbye, then.” “Granger.” “What?” “Tell your cat I said pspsps.” Her smile was brightness. She turned and disappeared into the fire. And, briefly, it felt like there was less gravity in the room. Chapter 17: The Dinner / Draco Malfoy Almost Causes The Next Murder Sensation ~ To Draco’s devious pleasure, McLaggen took him up on the invitation to pop by the pitch a few weeks later. An unfortunate sequence of events occurred, which had positively, absolutely nothing to do with Draco – wet conditions, terribly aggressive Bludgers, temperamental brooms – that resulted in McLaggen taking a tumble off his broom from 30 metres up. “I say,” said Davies, watching McLaggen being carted off the pitch by mediwitches. “That Bludger had it in for the bloke.” “I didn’t even hit it that hard,” said Zabini. “Poor old egg,” said Draco. “First time back on the broom in a while, as I understand it.” “Perhaps Bludgers can smell fear,” suggested Zabini. “Hope it doesn’t put him off the sport,” said Davies. “We need a decent Keeper. Bickford’s moving to Spain.” The general mood was a little subdued after the accident. The players decided to call it quits for the night, said their goodbyes, and Disapparated off to shower. All except for Draco, who found, to the contrary, that the accident had had a stimulating effect on his morale. He left the pitch feeling quite invigorated. ~ Granger had a grievance to air. This development was heralded by her silvery otter, which found Draco the next evening. The timing was hideous; Draco was on a sensitive stakeout in Fowlmere, about to apprehend the notorious Thomas Talfryn. “You! You promised you wouldn’t do anything!” shrieked Granger’s otter into Draco’s face. “You are the worst!” The shrill sound of Granger’s voice echoed through the alley where Draco had been hidden. Talfryn, who had been smoking in a doorway, just out of Stunning range, started – and Disapparated. “Fucking fuck!” hissed Draco. The otter, having conveyed its message, disappeared. With a snarl, Draco pulled out Granger’s schedule. She was home. Which was perfect, because he was going to murder her. He Apparated to her cottage in an exceedingly foul mood. He swept her wards aside and stormed up the path to her front door, which he proceeded to hammer. Granger flung open the door with a vehemence that suggested that she, too, was on the warpath. “You’re a bloody idiot,” said Draco, by way of greeting. “Me?” said Granger. She was wild about the eyes. “Me?! You’re the idiot! You weren’t to touch McLaggen!” “You just ruined my best chance to catch bloody Talfryn with your stupid otter!” “You sent McLaggen to A&E!” “I’ve been pursuing Talfryn for three fucking months!” snarled Draco. “Guess who was on shift at A&E last night?!” screeched Granger. “Talfryn has charges against him longer than my arm! Beast-baiting! Forgery! Blood sports! Racketeering! Cruelty to Magical Creatures! Extortion!–” “I had to take care of that troglodyte for four fucking hours! You broke all of his limbs!” “–Fraud! Assault! Smuggling! And you utterly bodged it! Now he’s gone again!” “McLaggen lived his every bloody hot nurse fantasy last night, thanks to you!” said Granger, jabbing her finger in Draco’s chest. Draco snatched her hand and pulled it down. “If you could keep your fucking emotions under control, I’d have my man in shackles! But no! You had to send your rabid otter!” “My emotions?!” blazed Granger. “You’re the one who worked himself up into a lather over McLaggen!” “You’re the one who spectacularly bollocksed my stakeout with your shrieking!” “If you had kept your word, none of this would have happened!” “I didn’t even do anything – the man fell off his broom like the hollow-headed cretin he is!” “I don’t believe you for an instant!” “Believe whatever you want!” “I will – you’re an opportunistic ghoul!” “You’re a quarrelsome bloody shrew!” “I can’t stand you!” “I can’t stand you!” Then they stood, tempers ablaze, lips parted, breaths coming quickly, and waited for the other to spit out a retort, so they might continue tearing off each other’s heads. Somehow, in the process of their screaming match and finger jabbing, they had come to stand close together. Granger was on the doorstop, so that, for once, her height almost matched Draco's. He felt her breath flutter against his chin. Her anger made her glow; her gaze was afire with the heat of her conviction; her cheeks were flushed. She wanted to throttle him as much as he wanted to throttle her. And there was a moment of madness, where the fulcrum between rage and passion wavered and tilted, and he could’ve throttled her, or he could’ve crushed his mouth against hers, hard, to do something with the intensity of the feeling; to shut her up; to prove a point. The mad possibility was contagious – her eyes flitted to his mouth. Then she blinked and, like a thing awakening from a trance, looked distantly shocked. Realising that he was still gripping at her hand, Draco released it, and took a large step back. Granger, too, took a large step away, and looked like she’d rather toddle back to the crypt and throw herself onto the Crucio carpet than be there. Her blush carried up from her cheeks to across the bridge of her nose. Draco, feeling utterly thrown off-kilter by the Moment, cleared his throat, cast about for a thing to say (nothing was forthcoming), and then said he’d best be off, as it was getting dark. Granger looked anywhere but at him and said, “Right.” Mutually satisfied with this mature, robust conclusion to their quarrel, they stepped apart even further, and Granger made as though to shut the door. There was a long, sustained meow from somewhere in the garden. In the shadows, an orangey blotch advanced towards them. The cat paused at Draco’s feet, and then, as though it was bestowing a great gift upon him, it wound itself around his boots and coated his trousers in orange. Draco was almost as wrong-footed by this as by the Moment with Granger. He hardly knew what to do with himself. However, when he bent down to stroke the cat, it hissed at him, and fled back into the dark garden. “It’s on his terms, and his terms only,” said Granger. “Pernickety creature.” “He is.” Granger studied a bit of peeling paint on the doorpost. Draco stared at the wisteria. Granger bit her lip. “Did I really ruin your stakeout?” “Yes. Did McLaggen really end up with you last night?” “Yes.” They muttered something that may have been, to the listener with impossibly acute ears, an apology, in a language principally consisting of mutters and throat-clearing. Their seething fury gave way now to a certain degree of abashedness, which Draco was more adept at hiding than Granger. “Did he really have all of his limbs broken?” asked Draco. “All. And a concussion, to boot.” “Ah. Poor boy.” “Blood sports, though?” asked Granger, with a bit of Do-Gooder anxiety creeping into her voice. “Nundu-baiting,” nodded Draco. “Talfryn’s made a bloody fortune on it, too.” “Nundu?! How is he even keeping one captive?” “We aren’t sure – a tranquiliser cocktail, no doubt. Stunners.” “Shit,” said Granger, looking freshly guilty. “Indeed.” The conversation petered out. The wisteria’s long fronds fluttered in the breeze, so Draco looked at them again, out of pure intellectual curiosity. Granger took a powerful interest in a crack in the threshold. Draco was about to say that he had to be off – again – but Granger’s stance shifted. She was no longer positioned to pounce at his throat – she was half turned into the house, hesitating over something. Normally, Draco would’ve prompted her, rudely, but today, he rather felt that he had used up his rudeness allowance. Granger cleared her throat and spoke in a smallish voice. “I had something I wanted to show you.” “What is it?” Granger disappeared into the cottage and returned with a newspaper clipping. She passed it to Draco. It was from the seventh page of the Prophet and titled, Plundering in Provence! The article described the theft of a relic from a monastery that Draco had certainly never heard of in his life. The burglars were described as uniquely powerful individuals with a penchant for arson, who had defeated nigh-impenetrable security measures, unbroken since 1008. Our readers will be as flabbergasted as the investigators when they learn that the prized relic – the skull of a saint – was returned to the monastery anonymously a few days after the break-in. Investigators suspect that the burglars may have been thrill-seekers looking for a challenge. A few of the Sisters sustained non-life threatening injuries following the intrusion. When asked whether the investigation would continue, French authorities said, “Quelle question idiote, la relique est de retour, non?”, which your correspondent takes to mean ‘No.’ “I got my alliterative headline,” said Draco. “You did.” Granger twisted her hands together. “I got what I absolutely didn’t want, which was publicity.” “You will be the prime suspect, certainly,” said Draco. “Everyone knows that beloved Healer Hermione Granger is secretly a thrill-seeker and an arsonist.” Granger gave him a reproving look. “Be serious.” “I am. You’re a perilous sort of witch.” Granger plucked the article out of Draco’s hand, pulled out her wand, and burnt the clipping. “See? More arson,” said Draco. “And we can add destroying evidence to your list of crimes.” “You’ll have to arrest me, if I continue down this troubled path.” “I’m already thinking of it. Did the skull end up being useful? Please tell me it was worth the faff.” “It was,” said Granger. “Immensely. I’ve made significant strides.” “Good.” Granger leaned against the doorpost, a small amount of her awkward tension gone. “My next frolic will be devastatingly boring, in comparison.” “I’ll believe that when I see it.” “It’s true. I’m only going to Hogwarts.” “Whatever for?” “A medieval text. One of Snape’s.” “Ah,” said Draco. Snape had bequeathed the entirety of his library to Hogwarts, and had thus, in one fell swoop, made the school’s rare book collection almost as extensive as that of most universities. “That won’t be till later in the summer, at Lughnasadh. Not because any magical potencies are at play, mind you. It’s just my next weekend off before–” A shrill sound interrupted her. Draco’s first thought was a ward alarm. He whipped around, brandishing his wand, with every intention to maim. Granger gasped, “I left the cooker on!” Draco had smelled something burning, come to think of it, but he’d thought it was the bit of newspaper. Granger plunged into the house. Draco followed to witness whatever entertainment was to come. She pulled something out of the cooker – something quite black. Draco opened a window and conjured a stiff breeze to air the place out. “Well,” said Granger, looking sad. “That was dinner.” “Mm mm,” said Draco, observing the coal. Draco had naively thought that her font of fury had been drained. He was wrong. Granger always had an additional supply of wrath. “This is your fault,” said Granger, turning towards him with a hand on her hip. “You distracted me.” “What was it?” asked Draco, to ascertain whether he should feel bad. Granger pointed to the bin. A box was sticking out of it, which indicated that it had been Miss Mabel’s Frozen Fish Pie. “I haven’t the slightest regret,” said Draco. Granger scraped the blackened heap into the bin along with the box, which was, in Draco’s opinion, where it had belonged in the first place. Now Granger was poking about her cupboards, the contents of which were two tins of tuna, dried beans, and a packet of biscuits. “Take-away it is. I usually pop round to the shops at the weekend. Stop looking so judgy.” Draco, feeling very judgy indeed about the dried beans, was struck by an impetuous, mad, wild idea. “Granger.” “What.” “Come with me to dinner.” Granger, who had disappeared halfway to Narnia to retrieve a stale box of crackers, pulled out of her cupboard. “What?” Draco repeated himself slowly, with interpretive gestures, so that she would understand. “You. Me. Dinner.” He might as well have suggested setting fire to a children’s hospital, for all the shock his suggestion generated. “You want to eat dinner with me? Tonight? On purpose?” “No,” said Draco with a thick layer of sarcasm slathered across the top. “By accident. We’ll trip up to the table with our mouths open and mash in some hors d’oeuvres.” Granger was still looking at him askance. Draco raised his eyes to the ceiling. She was making such a Thing of this. “I promise that if I were going to poison you, it would’ve been upon my arrival, not now. There’s a rather large amount of food waiting for me at the Manor. And it would delight the elves. And,” he hastened to add, “My mother is in Florence.” She was still regarding him in a suspicious kind of confusion, her arms crossed in the typical Granger defence stance. “Why?” “It’s my fault you burnt your cardboard pie.” Granger’s raised eyebrow suggested that a lot of things were his fault, for which he’d never attempted to make amends previously, so he would have to pardon her misgivings. “Shall we go?” asked Draco, ignoring these rather just qualms. Granger stood unmoving, studying him sceptically, as though she was trying to work out his Ulterior Motive. It was a stark and aggravating contrast to the typical witch’s reaction to a dinner invitation from Draco Malfoy, which was usually breathless yeses and a great many giggles. Not that he was inviting her to that kind of dinner. He was simply observing the distinction. The smell of burnt fish pie wafted from the bin and settled around them in a gentle, tragic aura. It spurred Granger to action. She crammed the bin’s lid on tightly, turned, and made for the stairs. Women didn’t run from Draco, as a general rule – quite the contrary. It was an unfamiliar and unpleasant sensation. “Oi,” said Draco, vexed. “I’m going to change,” called Granger. “I’m not going to the Manor in my house things. Besides, I stink like burnt.” Draco, as he watched her and her bum sprint up the stairs in her short Muggle shorts, vaguely wanted to say that he didn’t object to the house things, and that it was only her and him at dinner, so it didn’t matter, and plus, she often smelled a bit like candle smoke, and it didn’t bother him in the least. However, Granger was upstairs, so Draco kept these mawkish sentiments to himself. He waited for her to change, which took approximately two business days. Then she came came a’tumbling down the stairs, wearing a red summer dress. “There, now I’ll be presentable.” “Presentable for whom?” “I don’t know,” said Granger, pulling her hair into a low side bun that was, somehow, both elegant and messy. “Being with you attracts chaos; I half expect Shacklebolt to decide to pop in for a chit-chat.” Draco felt that the chaos attractor was her, but, nevertheless. “I rather hope he does. He can tell Tonks I’m building a rapport with my Principal and not being a frightful bully.” “You aren’t a bully. You’re just pushy,” said Granger, sliding on strappy sandals. “I’m pushy?” “Bit bossy, really.” “Oh, this is rich.” They Apparated to the Mitre, and from there Flooed to the Swan, and from there they Apparated to the Manor. It was the same trajectory that they had taken on that fateful night when Granger had popped into existence on the Manor’s Quidditch pitch, only in reverse – and in less frantic circumstances. This thought also seemed to have crossed Granger’s mind, as they materialised at the Manor. Just as Draco was stealing a glance at her, Granger met his eyes. Then she held up her hand. It was trembling only slightly. “Progress,” said Granger. Draco said, “Well done,” with quiet sincerity. The Manor’s large front doors swung open at their approach. One of the younger house-elves scurried across the entrance hall with a high-pitched word of welcome – and then he saw Granger. He squeaked in surprise, Disapparated, and then his high voice echoed from the kitchens: “Master is home! And he brought a lady! Make whipped cream!” Then the elf Apparated before them again, as though he hadn’t gone anywhere in the first place. “Welcome, Sir and Miss.” “Thank you, Tupey. Could you tell the kitchens that I will be joined by my colleague, Healer Granger, for dinner?” Draco might as well have broken the house-elf’s heart with this clarification. “Of course, Sir,” he said, his large eyes filled with sudden devastation. “And we want to dine on the south terrace,” added Draco. Tupey bowed and Disapparated. Distantly, his shrill voice echoed with a request to cancel the whipped cream. Granger looked bemused. “...Whipped cream?” “Never mind that,” said Draco. “Let’s have an aperitif to start. I think we’ve just launched a panic in the kitchens.” Granger was not quite so fixated on her feet as she’d been during her last visit. She glanced about, taking in the white walls, the enchanted clusters of candles floating every few paces, the fires ablaze in the many hearths. The new Manor was a sight less dreary than the old. Draco steered her to one of the salons, which was well-supplied with all manner of snacks. They had twenty seconds to select a seat and pick at olives before Tupey materialised again, desiring to know what they’d like to drink. “A cognac for me,” said Draco. “And for Colleague Healer Granger?” asked Tupey. “Red wine, please.” “Cabernet Sauvignon? Merlot? Pinot Noir? Malbec?” asked Tupey. Granger appeared paralysed by the onslaught of choices. “Er – I’ll try the Malbec. Thank you.” Tupey bowed and Disapparated. Next came Henriette, who was slightly better at concealing her excitement (only her quivering ears gave her away). “Mademoiselle Granger,” she said with a curtsey, before proffering a tray. “Roulades de courgettes, noix épicées au piri-piri, blinis de saumon et de chèvre au pesto.” The tray of amuse-gueules was set to hovering next to Granger. Henriette Disapparated. Granger opened her mouth to say something, but there was another crack, and Tupey Apparated with the drinks. Draco was given his with the usual amount of politeness, but Granger’s was placed in her hand with the utmost care. Tupey Disapparated. Draco opened his mouth to speak, but a third elf Apparated from the kitchens to ask whether Colleague Healer Granger had any allergies or preferences the kitchens should be aware of? She did not. The kitchen elf Disapparated. Granger attempted a comment, but Henriette cracked into existence with serviettes and tiny forks, and Disapparated again. Draco and Granger eyed each other warily as silence descended upon the salon, half expecting another loud crack to interrupt their next attempt at conversation. “They are a bit – a bit intense, aren’t they?” said Granger. “They are positively itching for guests,” said Draco. “When my mother is away, there aren’t any functions to host, and there’s only me to feed.” “This entire tray is enough for dinner,” said Granger, selecting a salmon blini. “Er – no. Save your appetite.” They meandered towards the south terrace. It was an exquisite summer night, warm, but blessed with a sweet, playful little breeze. The breeze toyed with the escaped tendrils of Granger’s hair and tugged at the hem of her dress. Not that Draco was looking at her. The grounds were illuminated at night by enchanted candles and lanterns at the foot of every tree, and strung along all of the footpaths. In some ways, the effect was even more magnificent than during the day – the fountains and water features shimmered and the flowers were luminous, as though glowing from within. Draco left Granger to admire a prospect of the gardens while he strode ahead to see if the table was ready. He was satisfied by what the house-elves had put together on such short notice: a silver table and two chairs, a surfeit of summer flowers lending their perfume to the night air, and a real extravagance of lanterns and fairy lights. It was, however, terribly romantic. Henriette was laying it on rather thick, given that Draco had specified a colleague. He had had countless dinners and drinks with colleagues and collaborators al fresco over the summer, and Henriette had never once seen fit to decorate with roses. Red roses. “Henriette?” he called. “Oui?” replied Henriette, cracking into existence at his side. “You are a scallywag.” “Je ne connais pas ce mot,” said Henriette, shrugging her lack of comprehension. “The roses, Henriette.” “What about them, Monsieur?” “They are too much.” “Too much what, Monsieur?” “Too much everything, Henriette.” “Il faut se laisser ensorceler, Monsieur.” Which was just what Draco was asking for, really – unsolicited mysticism about allowing himself to be bewitched. “Take them away, Henriette.” “They are at the peak of their bloom, Monsieur. It seems a pity to waste them.” “Nevertheless, I’d like–” “Oh!” came Granger’s voice. “The roses!” Henriette gave Draco a long look which suggested that, as always, she knew best, and if he’d stop second guessing her, he would also stop making a fool of himself, the silly boy. Granger was clutching her hands together, standing before the table. “How beautiful! I’ve never seen this variety – is it double-flowered? – and the colouration, it’s so deep!” “It’s the Apolline,” said Henriette. “The rose garden is quite resplendent with them, Mademoiselle. You should go for a walk after dinner. I am sure Monsieur would be pleased to escort you, in Madame Malfoy’s absence.” The Monsieur in question gave Henriette a quelling look in the face of this fresh impertinence. Granger, however, found a vast delight in the idea, and said that she would adore it, and asked where the Apolline had come from, and how long they had had her, etc.? “Food first, then feminine ecstasies about the rose garden,” said Draco. Granger and Henriette both regarded him coolly and made Draco feel the weight of their Low Opinion of him. Henriette indicated that she would fetch their first course. Granger took her chair with a sniff. “I wouldn’t want my feminine ecstasies to get in the way of your masculine appetites, of course.” Draco hid a smile in his cognac. “And what do you know about my masculine appetites?” “Only that they are unrelenting.” “Accurate.” “And impair your judgement.” “Sometimes.” “We can only hope they will be satisfied by Henriette’s entrée, then perhaps we can have a civil conversation about roses, uninterrupted.” “Partially satisfied, probably.” Granger regarded him with narrowed eyes, as though she was detecting the double-entendre, but wasn’t quite sure he meant it. Draco decided to let her stew in the incertitude. “Tourteau frais, décortiqué par nos soins,” announced Henriette, as she and Tupey arrived with crab and herbed butter. They ate. Granger was dainty about it, as she tended to be, and easily distracted by long looks out past the terrace and onto the candle-lit grounds. Now she had her chin propped onto the back of her hand, and was gazing at the evanescent beauty of a row of poplars, whose young leaves shivered in the breeze like silvery medallions. Draco half wanted to interrupt her and bring her back to the important things (himself), but it was also rather nice to sit in companionable silence and sip their drinks. Dinners at the Manor were normally agenda-driven affairs, with either the guest or Draco having something to gain or something to lose. This one was unique for its lack of any of those pressures; Draco had no manoeuvering to do and knew he wasn’t being manipulated against. They were merely eating together as he made small reparations for a burnt fish pie. Granger had no designs on his fortune or his person. Sometimes, being with her was easy. “Risotto au basilic,” said Henriette, sweeping away their crab and depositing a plump dollop of risotto in front of them instead. Basil wafted deliciously off of it. “How do you know so much about roses, anyway?” asked Draco. “My mum used to grow them,” said Granger, with a kind of laboured insouciance. “Used to? She’s quit the hobby?” “I don’t know. I haven’t seen my parents in a few years.” “Oh.” Given that she was trying to look unaffected, Draco did not question her further on the subject, which he thought showed great delicacy. However, Granger continued. “I Obliviated both of them during the war. Sent them to Australia to keep them safe. By the time I’d found them again, it was too late to reverse the spell without risking damage to their minds. They’re living quite happily in Adelaide and have no idea that they ever had a daughter.” Ah, yes, just what Draco had been hoping for. Some light-hearted reminiscing about wartime tragedies. He didn’t bother with words of sympathy because he didn’t really do those, and she wouldn’t believe he was being sincere, anyway. “This explains how careful you are with Obliviate,” said Draco. “Oh, yes. It was a hard lesson to learn. Minds – memories – aren’t to be tampered with lightly. And I systematically dismantled eighteen years’ worth. That had repercussions.” “It kept your parents alive,” said Draco. “It did. At a cost.” Granger finished her wine. “Anyway – it’s too beautiful an evening to be maudlin. Let’s talk of other things.” Draco finished his cognac so that her empty glass didn’t feel lonely. He was sensitive that way. He eyed Granger. “You rather look as though you have a subject in mind.” “Broken promises,” said Granger. Accusation lingered in the statement. Draco raised an eyebrow, feeling rather targeted. “I’ve broken a promise?” “Yes.” “Have I? Illuminate me.” Just as Granger was about to speak, Tupey cracked into existence to suggest a Sauvignon Blanc for the next course, given that it was fish. Draco and Granger agreed. Tupey served the wine and Disapparated. “The archaeologists’ report on the Celtic ruins,” said Granger. “The ones you found under the dungeons. You never sent it to me.” Draco sat back in theatrical shock. “You’re right. I never did. Caught en flagrant délit.” “Je sais,” said Granger, looking grave. “A terrible breach of trust.” “Will you ever forgive me?” “No. I quite fancy holding a fearsome grudge about it. Perhaps launching a wholescale feud.” “You say that as though the houses of Granger and Malfoy weren’t already feuding,” said Draco. “True,” said Granger. As Granger mulled over this new complexity, Draco waved Henriette towards them and sent her to fetch the archaeologists’ report. Henriette returned with a thick roll of parchment in her hands and a quizzical look on her face. She then offered to fetch other reading materials more suited to a summer evening, such as some books of French poésie? “No, thank you, Henriette – that will be all,” said Draco. “Mademoiselle has peculiar literary tastes and prefers to read about dead monks.” Henriette Disapparated with a shake of her head. Granger accepted the scroll with a smile playing across her lips. “When you put it that way, I most certainly sound peculiar.” Draco shrugged. “Peculiar is, at the very least, not boring.” “I accept your poorly delivered, backhanded excuse for a compliment,” said Granger, unfurling the scroll. “I wouldn’t want you to become conceited, you know.” “No. You are unerringly vigilant on that front.” Granger sank into the report, leaving her risotto to grow cold on her plate. She occasionally remembered Draco’s presence, which was signaled by an “Oh!” and then a sharing of some fascinating snippet or other. Henriette Apparated with the next course and gave Granger a reproving look when she took stock of the situation. “Mademoiselle! J’ose vous rappeler que vous êtes à table.” Granger jumped and blurted out an apology, and tucked the scroll away. She looked abashed as Henriette took away the risotto (now a congealed lump) and replaced it with the fish. “Turbot poêlé, artichauts poivrade et citron confit.” Henriette deposited Granger’s fish and artichokes with particular firmness, with intimations that if she did not consume it all, there would be Words to be had. The effect of Henriette’s menacing looming was somewhat lessened by the fact that her nose barely came above the table. However, Granger, wide-eyed, said the turbot looked utterly delicious, and crammed a few forkfuls into her mouth under Henriette’s watchful eye. Satisfied, Henriette Disapparated. Granger choked down her fish with the help of some wine. Draco was holding back laughter. “You look properly terrorised.” “She is frightening.” Granger cast a furtive glance over her shoulder and then looked back at him. “And I’m sorry – that was terribly rude of me. I got engrossed and I – I didn’t realise.” “I should like to have a look about for a Boggart,” mused Draco between his own bites. “Perhaps in one of the spare rooms.” Granger blinked. “A Boggart? Whatever for?” “I have a feeling yours will now take the shape of an eighty year old French house-elf and I’d like to confirm the theory.” Granger bit at her lip to keep from smiling. “You think you’re terribly funny.” “I am,” said Draco. “And what form would yours take, should we go Boggart-hunting?” Draco sat back and steepled his fingers together. “Now, that’s a question. I haven’t encountered one since the war. I’d like to think it would no longer be Voldemort springing up at me like an Ennervated cadaver.” “Well, what’s frightened you recently?” “Would you like me to be honest with you?” “I’d prefer it, but I don’t expect it,” sniffed Granger. “There was a moment today, on your doorstep, when you looked like you were about to Transfigure me into an insect and stamp on me.” Granger looked as though she were making special note of this new idea. “What kind of insect?” “I don’t know – I’d assume a loathsome little cockroach.” “Nigh unkillable,” said Granger, shaking her head. “Poor choice. I’d go with something more squishy. Though, if I was to kill you, I’d like you to know that I wouldn’t use Transfiguration.” “Oh, good. That wouldn’t be sporting. How would you do it, then?” “Perhaps tie you up and let Crookshanks have a go. Then I’d only be an accessory to murder.” “The first part of that sentence was promising, until you brought in the cat.” Granger took no notice whatsoever of this mild flirtatious overture. She was reminiscing. “He nearly suffocated Ron, once. Laid down across his face while he was sleeping. I harbour a private fear that it was on purpose.” “Well, that’s settled, then: my new Boggart is your cat.” Granger didn't give him the honour of an all-out laugh, but she hid a smile behind a sip of wine. Henriette returned to inspect Granger’s progress. Granger said that it was all delicious, and that the artichokes in particular were the most perfectly prepared that she had ever had the pleasure of eating. Henriette said, “Parfait. They have a great many health benefits, you know, artichokes.” “Do they?” “Oui, oui, so many nutrients and vitamins. They are also an aphrodisiac.” Henriette Disapparated after conveying this vital information. Granger contemplated her empty plate with a kind of consternation. Draco dearly wanted to laugh. “I’ll know what to blame, should you get handsy,” said Draco. Granger turned her gaze to his equally empty plate and said, “Likewise.” Tupey and Henriette Vanished the empty plates and served dessert. “Millefeuille à la vanille de Bourbon,” said Henriette, presenting the final course with a flourish. Tupey proposed a sweet Sauternes wine to accompany it, which Draco and Granger accepted. Granger pressed her fork into the tender millefeuille. “Henriette, Tupey, I need to thank you. This meal was a great deal better than what I was going to have tonight.” Henriette curtseyed and Tupey bowed. “I’m certain Miss Mabel makes a cracking fish pie,” said Draco. “Pardon? Who is Miss Mabel?” asked Henriette. “Is it your house-elf, Mademoiselle?” “No,” said Granger. “She is, er – she makes fish pies that you can buy at the shops. Well, I’m not actually sure she’s a real entity; it’s all marketing, probably…” “Frozen fish pies,” said Draco to Henriette. “Frozen pies that Mademoiselle keeps frozen, and then pops in the cooker when she has half a moment to think about feeding herself.” Henriette gasped at this revelation. Tupey’s hands flew to his mouth. “And when that fails, Mademoiselle has two tins of tuna and some dried lentils. Those are the entire contents of her cupboards.” Draco grew grave. “I’ve seen many troubling things in my life, Henriette, but Mademoiselle’s cupboards are another thing entirely.” Henriette’s hands were upon her heart; her eyes were wide. “Non!” “Oh, oui. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.” “Monsieur is slightly exaggerating,” said Granger, her grip on her fork suggesting that she might poke Draco with it, if he didn’t stop scandalising the elves. “You’re right,” said Draco. “There was also a box of crackers, only a few years old. Bit dusty, but still good.” Henriette and Tupey both looked at Granger and seemed ready to weep. “I hadn’t gone to the shops yet this week,” said Granger, in an attempt at reassurance. “That’s why my cupboards were so empty. I was a bit busy.” “O, yes,” said Draco. “Because they’re usually filled to bursting, aren’t they?” He’d been waiting for Granger’s under-the-table kick, and it came. He snatched her ankle in his hand and tutted. Granger tried to regain possession of her foot, but Draco informed her that being kicky meant that she had lost foot privileges. Henriette was oblivious to the exchange, too busy being distraught about why nobody was helping Mademoiselle and her empty cupboards? Tupey seemed on the verge of hyperventilation. “I have a Modest Proposal,” said Draco. Granger’s leg twitched. Draco’s grasp held firm. And that was all it was – a grasp. Her ankle was bare and soft under his palm, and his fingers were curious about the delicate shape of her bones, and what it would feel like to trace them, but he did not partake. It remained a grasp. Because this was Granger. And he had no interest whatsoever in caressing her ankle. And if he had any interest in doing so – which he didn’t – it would be the fault of the artichokes. Granger didn’t quite seem to dare demand her foot back out loud in front of Henriette, because that would lead to uncomfortable questions about why she had attempted to kick Monsieur at the dinner table, which was a gaffe far greater than reading. “What Proposal?” asked Granger in a kind of growl, as of a cat caught by the scruff of its neck. “The house-elves are bored out of their skulls without my mother and her fêtes – why don’t you give them permission to pop in once or twice a week, and fill up your cupboards? At least until my mother is back?” “Absolutely n–” Draco gave Granger's ankle a squeeze before she could devastate the elves. Henriette and Tupey swiveled towards Granger as she spoke, hearts in their eyes at the thought of her empty pantry just waiting for attention. Henriette’s hands were pressed against her breast; Tupey’s were folded into a kind of supplication. Their swimmy eyes positively shimmered. Granger’s voice died. “Absolutely necessary, I think Mademoiselle was going to say,” said Draco to the elves. Granger gave him a look suggestive of a second incoming kick, if only she wasn’t frightened of losing possession of her other foot, too. She gave the elves her best attempt at a smile. “Perhaps Monsieur and I could discuss the details in private?” “So it’s a yes, Miss?” asked Tupey, breathless. “Of course it’s a yes,” said Henriette, starry-eyed. “Mademoiselle would never be so rude as to turn down Monsieur’s offer. She is too bien élevée.” Granger’s smile was quite fixed. The elves bowed and curtseyed half a dozen times, then Disapparated to the kitchens to share the good news. “You would try the patience of a saint,” said Granger through a clenched jaw. “Return my foot before I turn you into that cockroach.” Draco relinquished possession of her foot, probably a bit slower than necessary, the tips of his fingers brushing at her ankle as he let go. She noticed. There was a flush of pink across her cheekbones. Possibly the wine. Possibly other things. “I’ve only spoken to one saint, and she quite liked me,” said Draco, running his hand through his hair. Granger, blush notwithstanding, was exasperated. “She’d only spent five minutes in your precious company, not long enough to discover how endlessly aggravating you are. Like imposing house-elves on me, of all people. What was the thought process, if any, behind that decision?” “I saw a problem that was in my capacity to fix,” said Draco. “It’s a life philosophy I learned from a rather clever witch.” Granger stared at him. The double blow of her own words and the genuine compliment threw her entirely off-kilter. She sat back, struggling to remain cross. “You are – you are simply –” “Indescribable, I know,” said Draco. “Must you always have the last word?” “Only on the rare occasions when you permit it.” Granger was struggling with her lingering annoyance and amusement. Her eyes sparkled with it. It made for a rather lovely picture. “When does your mother come back to England?” “Not for another fortnight,” said Draco. “Then you’ll be free of the elves. But in the meantime, you’ll have given them back their joie de vivre.” Granger was looking in the direction of the kitchens. “Very well. But only because I don’t want Henriette to think me mal élevée for rejecting your offer. I think she would take personal offence.” “If Henriette had concerns about your upbringing, she would’ve snubbed you from the beginning. She is a rather opinionated elf. Now eat your millefeuille, or she’ll be scolding you again.” Granger turned her attention to her plate. Draco sipped at the sweet wine. “What was the whipped cream for?” asked Granger. “That is a private matter and it would be best for you to forget it.” “Hm,” said Granger, studying him over her glass. They finished their desserts. Henriette materialised and kindly reminded Monsieur that he was meant to take Mademoiselle through the rose garden. Then she stood, her small hands curled onto her bony hips, and stared intimidatingly at him until he got up and offered his arm to Granger. Granger’s touch on his arm was light, at first, but after a few steps, her grip tightened. “Shit. Is the ground a bit wobbly, or am I completely battered?” “We are both steeped to the tonsils in wine,” said Draco. “Tupey’s attentions were – unrelenting.” It was a miracle neither of them had said something tipsy and stupid yet – but the night was young, and the path to the gardens beckoned, and the possibilities for stupidities glimmered like the candles that lined the way. They wandered through a double row of lilacs heavy with bloom. On their right stood the greenhouse, its warm glow dappled by the riot of mauve blossoms. The breeze made the blossoms quiver in a butterfly-tremble; the light shimmered across the path. In the mingling shadows, Granger held up her hand so that it was silhouetted against the light of the greenhouse. It was steady. It was her left hand that she held up. Her arm was bare and against the skin of her inner arm lay that blur. Granger turned, intending to continue down the path, but Draco interrupted by committing the first of the evening’s stupidities. Later, he would blame the wine. He took her wrist – gently, but she nonetheless flinched – and pulled it toward him. Granger was shocked. “What are you–?!” “I didn’t realise you still had this,” said Draco. He turned her wrist so that the blur of the glamour caught the vacillating light. “Well – I do.” Her voice was uncertain. She stared at him with a wide-eyed wariness – a wild thing about to pull away and run. She smelled like the sweetness of the Sauternes. Two heavy words that Draco had been carrying since Provence came out with difficulty. “I’m sorry.” “It was your mad aunt, not you.” “I did nothing to stop her.” To this, Granger gave no answer. “I suppose that if there was a way to heal it away, you would’ve found it,” said Draco. “I would’ve. I tried a great many things, but…” “Some things don’t heal.” “No. They don’t.” Granger was quiet for a moment. Then she waved the glamour away to reveal the word. “Ugly thing.” The old injury stood clear on her skin, as raw as the day it had been carved. It glistened still. Draco’s mouth was cottony and dry. For a moment she was 17, lying as though dead on the drawing room floor, mere metres from where they stood. Then she was Granger again, a burning intelligence, a world-changer, but still, for all that, marked. Draco’s hold on her wrist grew a little tighter – shame and sorrow. “Does it still hurt?” asked Draco, because it looked too raw not to. “Sometimes. I’m used to it, now. Or I just forget.” Draco had never had any intention to show her his own inner arm shame – all the more shameful because it had been willingly acquired. And yet, he found himself unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeve. What was left on his arm was a distorted, half-faded Mark. It was a grotesque mix of black flesh and raised scar tissue, now, from failed attempts to remove it. “Oh,” gasped Granger. “Mine’s uglier. In every way, Granger. I wanted it.” The gasp had been shock more than horror. She was observing the twisted flesh with a Healer’s eye, one that had seen worse things. Granger was silent for a long time. At length, she said, “But you don’t want it any more.” “No.” “That’s what matters.” “It doesn’t erase the past,” said Draco. The defiled arm he held between them was an eloquent attestation of that. “No. But the choices you’ve made since define you more than those you made then.” “Do they?” “You were sixteen years old. You were – we were all – child soldiers flung into a war, trying to do what we were taught was right. Trying to protect our loved ones.” “Must you be so terribly forgiving?” “It’s been fifteen years,” said Granger. She lowered her own arm. She looked weary. “I can assure you that I’ve ruminated on the matter at length. I’ve forgiven those who deserve it.” “It rather interferes with my wallowing in self-reproach.” “Wallowing isn’t productive.” Now it was Granger’s turn to take his wrist. She pulled it to a triangle of light amongst the shadows and leaned in to observe the Mark more closely. Draco wanted to pull away – but she had been brave enough to let him look at hers, so he mustn’t be a coward now. Her finger brushed over scarred ridges and half-melted flesh that had never felt the touch of another's hand. She looked heartsick. “You tried to curse it off?” “Yes,” said Draco. Amongst other things. “Years ago, now.” His arm twitched under her scrutiny. He wanted to put the Mark away again: it was so ugly, so misshapen, so full of hideous memories and shame. “I don’t think there’s much I could do with this one, either,” said Granger. “In terms of Healing, I mean.” The thought seemed to make her sad. “Mine is a memento of some terrible decisions. It’s well deserved. Yours – yours is a wretched tragedy.” “It is,” said Granger. Then she added, “Well, they’re both tragedies in different ways.” More righteous forgiveness. It made Draco want to flee. They stood in silence. And now she knew some of his griefs and he knew some of hers. There was an intimacy to it. To being seen. It was unfamiliar, tender to the touch, unnerving. They stood in silence and yet it wasn’t silence, it was thick and dense and whirling. It weighed upon their eardrums and chests like a pressure. “I should like a pithy conclusion, or words of wisdom,” said Draco, to cut through it. “Yes, please,” said Granger. She seemed relieved. “I meant from you.” Granger clasped her hands before her and looked up to the stars, as though she might find the pithiness there. “The Ennervated cadaver of a man who gave us these scars is quite dead.” “And we’re alive.” “I think that’s good enough.” Draco rolled his sleeve back down and did up his cufflinks. Granger glamoured her scar back to the discreet blur. “It’s too beautiful an evening to be maudlin,” said Draco. “I do not sound that swotty,” said Granger. “You do. Shall we have a look at the roses? Have your feminine ecstasies at the ready.” They wandered down the path that curved through the candlelight until they reached the rose garden. At their feet, Midnight Violets peeped, here and there, lured out by the crescent moon. Their footsteps were slow and drunk and deliciously aimless. It was perfect; Draco knew too little of roses to give a real tour and Granger was content to meander from one to the next without plan nor purpose, touching at their loosely cupped petals. Pretty names fell from her lips as she recognised a few: Annabelle, the Wildfire, the Apolline, the Duchess, Ivory Kiss, Claire, Crimson Romance. Fairy lights twinkled amongst the rose bushes. Petals drifted onto the path. A nightingale sang and fountains gurgled. Granger, with a kind of dreamy-eyed tipsiness, said it was like being in an enchanted glade. Draco wanted to have a go at her for being sentimental, but he found himself also in a soft, mellow kind of mood. The kind of mood in which he might tell a witch that yes, the roses were sweet, but she was the sweetest thing in the garden, just to see her blush. He did not, because he was made of stronger stuff. Fragrances, delicate and elusive, teased at their noses. Granger tried to name the scents and held up the roses to Draco, so that he could try, and he stood next to her, closer than necessary, and they made idle guesses together – apple, vanilla, clove, myrrh, honey – amongst the damask. His wine-drenched mind collected impressions. Delectable nearness. Being close enough to feel her giving off warmth. The rose she held to his face, so close that his lips brushed its petals. The moonlight on her skin. The escaped curls of hair at her nape. The corner of her mouth. The biting of her lip. Eyelashes against a cheek. They moved to the next rose. This one, Granger was convinced smelled of apricots. Draco came to stand behind her and leaned over her shoulder. To him, it was tangerine. Granger smelled it again, and said no, apricots, most certainly. And Draco leaned in closer and said no – tangerine, don’t be silly. Granger theorised that they might’ve found an Amortentia rose; that would explain the discrepancy. Draco said he would be sure to record this discovery. They moved on to the next one, a splendid white rose. Granger cupped its heavy head and drew it out. Draco came behind her again and they both smelled it at the same time, and her cheek brushed his chin. He caught himself, just in time, as he was about to put a hand on her waist. That way lay madness. The curve of her skirts brushed against the front of his trousers. Her hair tickled at the side of his face. Granger said it was coconut and dared him to disagree. Draco disagreed as a matter of course – it was kiwi. Kiwi?! repeated Granger. Kiwi, said Draco. Granger said that she would have him sent to an otolaryngologist, if he didn’t stop this nonsense. Draco said the only nonsense here was the word otolaryngologist. The sweet paralysis was coming over him again, of not wanting to move, of lightness in his veins, of limbs feeling weightless and eyelids feeling heavy. He wanted to put his chin where her neck met her shoulder and just stand there. He wanted to say things in her ear and feel her shiver against him. He wanted to linger here, being stupid about kiwi, for an age or two. He wanted to float. It was the wine, certainly. And the artichokes. They moved to the next roses, small wild things that grew in bunches and smelled like vetiver. Granger asked if she might pick one. Draco did so for her; it seemed ungentlemanly not to. And he gave it to her, his arm wrapped around her from behind, and their fingertips touched, and that was as close as they could get – touching fingertips over a rose. She looked over her shoulder at him to say thank you, and their eyes met, and hers were dark and curious and his were light and keen, and it was universes colliding. It was all of those contrapositions of Light and Dark and Muggle-born and Pure-blood and Order and Death Eater and terrible incompatibility after terrible incompatibility. The violent polarities that made them who they were. They fell into each other a bit, in that moment of collision, a bit drunk, a bit soul-tangled. She slid the rose into her hair and turned away. They came to the end of the rose garden, where the hedges grew thickest and stupidities might be said most freely. Where terrible incompatibilities stopped meaning so much, because, here amongst green boughs and the rustling breeze, they were just a man and a woman, meandering through a garden, being idiots about roses. They found a seat on a stone bench near a fountain adorned with chubby Cupids. Granger curled her legs under herself. The rose in her hair was askew, so Draco reached over to fix it, expecting to do so suavely but finding instead that he was transfixed by a feeling of exquisite nervousness, the likes of which he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager. Granger breathed out a thank you. Her cheeks were pink. They talked of things trivial and not, of roses and cupboards and scars and war and artichokes and fish pie. They looked up at the smouldering stars, and the nightbirds warbled their unearthly cadences, and roses dropped their petals in beautiful melancholy. An hour drifted by, and then two, and then three – though it felt like they’d only just sat down beside each other on this damp bench amongst the roses to witter away the evening. The memory of that night would remain with Draco for a long time afterwards, moon-kissed and sweet. The light in her eyes, the taste of wine, the glitter of starshine in the fountain, the slow seduction of the roses. Il faut se laisser ensorceler. Chapter 18: Amends I have something for you, came a Jot from Granger a week later. I think you lot would call it a lead. On the Nundu-baiter. Well???, answered Draco. Off to teach. Can you meet at 6? said Granger. Where? The café at Trinity, said Granger. I've got another meeting there just before. If I run late, don’t barge in shouting about brooms. It’s with a Muggle. Draco was grateful for the instructions, as he typically arrived early and charged into cafés, shouting about brooms. He tossed the Jotter aside to check Granger’s schedule. The Muggle in question was Gunnar Larsen, the head of Skjern Pharmaceutics. At 5.55 p.m. a Disillusioned Draco strode to the Muggle café at Trinity College, curious about Granger’s ostensible lead on Talfryn. He saw her through the café window, still deep in talk with a man. Draco had formed a comfortable mental image of this Larsen fellow: a smallish and thin scientist type, probably balding and bespectacled. Instead, sitting across the table from Granger, was a six-foot-something, eighteen stone hulk of a man. His hair was reddish-blonde, as was his rather impressive beard, and his eyes were a penetrating blue. He was a Viking in a three-piece suit. There was probably more curly chest hair peeking over the top of his collar than Draco had grown since puberty. Draco decided that he didn’t like him. Still Disillusioned, he slid into the café after an exiting customer and leaned against a wall to eavesdrop. Granger and the Viking were chatting mostly in jargon (his, slightly accented). Granger was explaining, in that passionate way of hers, something about adaptive immune systems and microenvironments. Larsen responded something about checkpoint inhibitor therapy, to which Granger replied with vast enthusiasm. The Viking’s eyes were riveted on Granger in a way that Draco didn’t like. There was something predatory about it – something hungry. And Granger was gesticulating away and too busy being excited about nanobiologics to notice. Suspicions began to percolate: was this meaty Muggle going to try to steal her ideas? Make money off her? Literally eat her? There was only one way to find out. Draco’s dive into the man’s mind was over as soon as it began. He found himself butting against extremely sophisticated mental barriers, the likes of which only a highly trained Occlumens would have in place. So Granger was wrong. The man wasn’t a Muggle. The Viking, feeling the attempted intrusion, turned to where Draco was Disillusioned. His piercing eyes roved across crowded tables, trying to pick out his attacker. Granger asked him, “Is everything all right?” Larsen turned back to Granger. “Yes – my apologies, Professor. I thought I’d heard something.” They continued the conversation, though Larsen’s responses were reduced to distracted monosyllables. Draco's first reaction – to supplex the man through a table and ask him what he was playing at – was made difficult by the crowds. (To say nothing of the fact that Draco wasn’t actually certain that he could throw him.) His second thought was to Stun Larsen and rip through his mind to discover what his designs were, but again, the crowds, and besides, the man was an Occlumens. He’d need to soften him up first, then render his brain into purée. Granger checked the time and rushed the meeting to its end. Larsen shook her hand (her entire arm, really) and weaved through the tables. Draco saw him systematically observe every patron in the café as he walked to the door. Was this just to remember faces, or was he a Legilimens, too? Draco followed Larsen into the street with vague thoughts of a Stunner to the back and a Side-Along to an Auror holding cell for a friendly chat. However, as soon as Larsen found a doorway out of view of the Muggle public, he Disapparated. Draco did not like that at all. He was a mixture of perplexed and irritable as he rejoined Granger at the café, Disillusion removed. For her part, Granger hadn’t any idea of what had just transpired, and she met his approach with a cheerful wave. She had bought him a coffee and one of those toffee panna cottas, but it was simply Not The Time. “Let’s go to your lab,” said Draco in lieu of a greeting. “We need to talk in private.” Granger’s cheerfulness faded. “Oh – but I–” “In private,” repeated Draco. Granger snatched up the coffee and panna cotta as Draco swept her out of the café. When they arrived at Granger’s office, she sat at her desk and Draco began to storm from one end of the small room to the other. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” she asked. Draco paused in his pacing, his Auror robes whipping dramatically about his boots as he did. “Larsen. He’s not a Muggle.” Granger’s eyebrows rose to her hairline. “...What?” Draco resumed his pacing. “He was Occluding as he was speaking to you in the café. Whatever he’s told you he is – he isn’t.” Granger stared. “I’m going to set aside the question of why you were spying on my guest at a meeting that had nothing to do with you–” “Good, that’s not the important bit.” “–But I’ve looked into Larsen. I do background checks on everyone I consider for collaborations. He is everything he said he was.” Here Granger rose and rifled through a filing cabinet, pulling out a few sheets of paper. “PhD from LMU Munich, the European Commission has confirmed all of his patents, his firm went public last year and very much exists – he’s invited me to visit, in fact…” “Invited you to visit? I can tell you now you’re not bloody going. Why is he pretending to be a Muggle?” “I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t know I’m a witch? I met him at a Muggle conference; I don’t introduce myself as Doctor Granger the Witch at those events. He might do the same.” Granger was looking at Draco like he might be making much ado about nothing. Draco disagreed. “And the Occluding?” prompted Draco. “I’ve no idea,” admitted Granger, pressing a finger to her lip as she thought. “He knows you’re a witch,” said Draco. “He must do. The wizarding world is too small for him to never have heard of Hermione Granger, unless he’s got nano-ears on top of his nano-brains.” “Nano-brains? He’s quite a brilliant scientist.” “And also a brilliant Occlumens. Who was making damn sure that, if you happened to have a peek in his mind–” “Which I would never do – I’m not even a Legilimens–” “–If you did, you wouldn’t see anything. He’s hiding something.” Draco almost walked into the wall and pivoted to stride forth again. “Stop bouncing about like a sodding ping-pong ball.” “I’d like to interrogate him,” declared Draco. “Interrogate him?” “Friendly-like.” “Please tell me what comprises a friendly interrogation by Draco Malfoy; I’d love a laugh.” “We use you to lure him out to the pub. Get a few pints in him. More than a few, given the fellow’s sheer mass. A spot of Veritaserum, just because he knows how to Occlude. Take him out round the back, tie him up, pry open his eyes, and voilà. Answers. He’d wake up with a bit of a headache and be on his merry way.” “And you? A nice fine and loss of your job for breaking about thirty laws?” Draco waved those minor, vexatious concerns away. “May I suggest that at my next meeting with him, I simply ask him?” said Granger. Draco paused his striding to consider this. “And you think he’ll be honest with you?” “I don't know. But it’s a start – and a rather less drastic approach than yours.” “When do you next meet him?” “We’re to continue talks in a fortnight.” “All right. But I’m going to be there.” Granger opened her mouth to speak. “No,” cut in Draco. “This is the same man you met the week someone tested out your wards. Who lied to you about being a Muggle. And who was Occluding so hard I bruised my brain trying to get in. Don’t argue with me.” “...I was just going to ask if you could be Disillusioned, if you were going to be in the same room. So he isn’t immediately suspicious about me having an escort.” “Oh. Yes.” Draco swept to the other end of the office. “But I’ll be close. I didn’t like how he looked at you.” “How he looked at me?” “Too hard. Too much.” One of Granger’s eyebrows quirked at him. “His eyes aren’t half so penetrating as y– as other people’s, I can assure you.” “He didn’t smell right,” said Draco, swishing his robes about him to pivot again. “What does that even mean?” “I don’t know. Instincts, Granger. I wish you’d be more in touch with yours.” “I prefer hard facts, as a rule.” Granger sniffed. “Can we set aside the mystery of Larsen for a moment, to talk about your convict? And will you sit down, before your spinning about makes me ill?” Draco sat. “He’s not a convict until he’s tried and sentenced. But yes. Lars the Arse can wait. Tell me what you’ve been up to – sans permission, of course. I would like to register my disapproval, incidentally.” The look that Granger leveled at him was most unimpressed. “O, because you ask for my permission to jump into my life all the time.” “That’s an entirely different affair.” “I disagree vehemently. But let’s not get sidetracked, or we shall never get to the point.” Draco gestured at her to proceed. She gave him a hard stare which informed him that she didn’t require his permission on that front. “I had a think about what you said, about how your man was keeping the Nundu down. They’re meant to be all but impossible to keep in captivity.” “Correct.” Granger pulled some documents out of an envelope. “I assumed that you’d already have checked up on all tranquiliser suppliers or manufacturers in the UK, Magical or Muggle, to see if you could find anything interesting.” “Naturally.” “My thinking is that he’s finding a supply of incapacitating agents overseas – black market – otherwise the sheer quantities he’s ordering would be sure to raise eyebrows. And I assumed you’d also have looked into all of the remote drug distribution systems you could think of, to see if that would lead anywhere.” “Obviously.” Draco rolled his hand in an impatient gesture. “Skip to the findings, please.” Granger gave him a long look informing him that she would get to the findings when she got there, and should any impatient twats have objections, they could fuck off. Draco’s hands occupied themselves with the panna cotta instead. Granger resumed. “Given that your man is a wizard, I thought it’d be unlikely that he’d go for a dart projector – he wouldn’t know how to use a gun. Nor could he install a sophisticated vaporiser system for the immobilising compound he’s using, not if he’s hop-skipping across the country with this poor beast. Ingestibles would be too difficult to dose, especially if the Nundu refused to eat.” “All excellent deductions.” “The most portable, failsafe system would be something wizardish he could modify to use a ballistic syringe, filled with his tranquiliser of choice, wherever he’s sourcing that. And as it turns out, there are very few ballistic syringe manufacturers, globally. Did you know that?” “No,” said Draco. “Me neither. It was a convenient discovery – narrowed the search down rather a lot.” Granger pushed her document towards Draco. “This one does the most business with the UK – a German company. We haven’t a massive demand for the things, mostly a handful of Muggle zoos. But there is one private buyer who has been making repeated, large purchases over the past three months. The manufacturer will have a shipping address on file. How you decide to go about obtaining that information, I leave to you.” Draco took the document, unsure of what impressed him more – Granger’s work, or the fact that she had somehow squeezed in the time to do this amongst her obscene amount of existing commitments. “Thank you,” he said, examining the document. “An attempt to make amends,” said Granger. “Plus, I feel awful for the Nundu.” This made Draco sigh through his teeth. “If this leads anywhere, I shall need to make amends for McLaggen.” “I’m not sure that’s possible,” said Granger, wrinkling her nose. “I saw things. I heard things.” “I’d offer you an Obliviate, but…” There was a knock on the door. One of Granger’s students brought in a package, hissing with a slightly leaky cooling agent, that needed to be signed for. “Another pet project,” said Granger in response to Draco’s interrogative glance. “One of – well, far too many.” “I’ll let you get on with it, then,” said Draco, rising. As Draco made for the door, Granger called, “Malfoy?” “What?” “Be careful, won’t you?” Draco waved over his shoulder and left. ~ Granger’s lead ended up being rather a solid one. How could it be anything else? It was Granger. The shipping address led Draco to a nondescript importer, who was passing the goods on to a known small-time miscreant, who was transferring them to a warehouse, which was being accessed at indecent hours by a handful of other known delinquents, who were dropping them off at a ruined fort in Norfolk. The fort was suspiciously well warded for an abandoned place. And nearby Muggles had recently submitted noise complaints – apparently, something occasionally roared at two in the morning. Draco informed Tonks and they began to put together a mixed team of Aurors and Magizoologists, preparing for a full-scale raid in three days’ time. And Draco was left pondering what he would do to make his own amends. Now he owed Granger. Bugger and blast. Keep tomorrow eve free, he Jotted to her. I have something to drop off. If it’s McLaggen’s head on a platter, you can keep it, said Granger. I would never be so crass, responded Draco. No? It would be something a bit more elegant. Use him as compost in the gardens and then send you a bouquet. A charming combination of gentlemanly and psychopathic, was the dry response. I’ll be home after 8. Draco duly Apparated at Granger’s cottage after eight, bearing a precious thing that was not McLaggen’s severed head. Granger looked unusually tired. Draco knew from her schedule that she had been putting in long hours at her laboratory that week, but seeing the shadows under her eyes made him ponder quite how late. However, he was pleased to find her at the table with the remains of an actual meal – a stew of some kind, bread, and a bowl of yoghurt. He made no comment; she didn’t need an I-told-you-so to know that his idea had been a good one. Granger eyed him and his rectangular parcel with wariness. “Well, I suppose it’s the wrong shape for McLaggen’s head.” “Perhaps I put it in a box, just to trick you.” “Rather a large box.” “Maybe it’s an arm instead.” “Eurgh.” Granger’s hands were clasped in front of her, but nervously – as though she knew, logically, that it wouldn’t be a body part, but also knew Draco enough not to be too certain about that. Draco placed the parcel on the table with care. “First, I want you to know that this was an absolute pain in the arse to find.” “Oh?” “Secondly, I want you to know that I was originally going to use this as leverage to blackmail you.” This remark caused Granger to cross her arms. “You were going to blackmail me?” “Well – bribe, perhaps more accurately.” Now Granger’s arms were crossed and her hip was cocked. Disapproval and amusement warred for primacy. “You were going to bribe me?” “Yes.” “In exchange for what?!” “For you to tell me what your project is about,” said Draco, loosening the thick satin that wrapped the object. “You are utterly shameless.” “I didn’t, though, did I?” “No. I suppose that showed a real strength of character,” said Granger. Draco stepped aside and motioned Granger forward. She approached the table, mingled curiosity and worry in her eyes. The satin wrappings fell away to reveal an ornately carved box. Granger glanced at him. “If this is a head, I will scream.” “Open it.” Draco found himself holding back a grin. Granger pried the lid off of the box. Inside it, within folds of the finest silk, was nestled a book. Its title shone in worn gold lettering: Revelations. Granger gasped and stepped back, her hands at her collarbone. Then she said, in a breathy kind of shriek, “How?!” “A friend of a friend.” “But – but the last undamaged copy was destroyed when Glyndwr burnt down–” “Was it?” Draco leaned against the table to better take in the giddiness. “Are you sure?” Granger approached the box again and peeped over the top, as though the tome might disappear if it felt too crowded. Then, without a word of warning, she launched herself at Draco, seized his face, and planted a kiss on each of his cheeks. Before he could so much as twitch out a response, she had released him again. Now she was back at the box, her hands clasped at her mouth. “This can’t be! I’m dreaming.” Meanwhile, Draco was recovering from the joyful assault upon his person, and thinking that Granger had felt rather nice all pressed up against him, and smelt good, and her lips were soft. She had leapt away too quickly for him to make any kind of further assessment. Which, frankly, felt like a pity. But it was Granger he was being wistful about, and so he, too, must be dreaming. Now she was walking about in a tight circle, muttering about a burning abbey. “I can’t keep this,” she said at length. “It’s far too precious. When I’ve studied it – oh, I do hope the portions I’m missing are extant in this one – I’ll have to give it to one of the libraries. I can’t keep it to myself.” “Do whatever you want with it. It’s yours,” said Draco with a nonchalant shrug. The nonchalant shrug was to show that he was cool and unaffected, rather than feeling stupidly pleased that she was so happy. “Goodness,” said Granger, her hands upon her cheeks, which were rather pink. “I think if you’d tried to bribe me with this, it would’ve worked.” “It would’ve? Bugger it all.” Draco put an arm between Granger and the box. “I take it back. You can’t have it.” Granger gave him a look of utmost reproach, which, of course, made no impression whatsoever. “You wouldn’t do that to me,” said Granger. “Wouldn’t I?” “No. We've just established that you have a real strength of character.” “I lied. I’m a craven double-crossing coward.” “I might’ve believed that if you hadn’t provided evidence to the contrary over the past several years.” “What evidence? I deny everything.” “You’re Tonks’ favourite, and it’s not because you flee from the baddies.” “I’m her favourite? Tss. Did she tell you that?” “Lupin.” “Rubbish,” said Draco, though he was rather pleased. Granger pressed a single finger to his hand and, from that mighty fulcrum, lowered his arm. “I suppose that this unspeakably precious gift must mean my lead on Talfryn got you somewhere?” “It did. We know where he is.” “Do give him my regards when you bring him in. What’ll happen to the Nundu?” “A few Magizoologists are joining us on the raid. They’ll assess the beast and decide what to do with it.” Granger nodded. Then her attention was back on the tome in the carved box. Draco saw the polite, restrained impatience in her stance, in the way she was twirling the tip of her plait. “I’ll leave the two of you alone, shall I?” said Draco. Granger gave him a Look, but she flashed him a smile. “Jot me next time you’re meeting Larsen,” said Draco. “I’m not through with him.” “Understood.” “And if he shows up unanticipated – any kind of out of the blue, chance meeting – activate the distress beacon. Three turns on the ring.” Granger tore her attention away from the book to regard him with surprise. “Really?” “Yes.” “Even if I run into him when I pop out to get milk?” Draco held up a hand to stop her there. “First of all, you manage to pop out to get milk once a year–” “Hey.” “–Secondly, yes, especially that kind of off the cuff meeting. I don’t trust him. No wizard Occludes for an entire conversation unless he’s hiding something significant.” “All right, all right,” said Granger. “Having you Apparate into Tesco in your full Auror kit would be terribly amusing to witness, anyway…” She walked him to the door and leaned against the frame as Draco readied his wand for his Disapparation. A parting glance at her became a double-take, because Granger – her arms loosely crossed, her eyes warm, the memory of a smile on her lips – almost looked as though she might actually like him. “Thank you again,” she said. “For the book.” “Amends,” shrugged Draco. “A fair and just reparation for the damages caused.” “I’ll keep the head for next time.” Granger laughed. “Make it the bouquet, rather.” “Fine.” “Bye, Malfoy.” A general lightness of being always accompanied Disapparation, didn’t it? Chapter 19: The Nundu / Trying Times for Draco Malfoy Draco was feeling good. He and four other Aurors had set up a broad Anti-Apparition Ward half a kilometre away from the fort, with the old ruin at its centre. The team had been briefed by the Magizoologists accompanying them on the dangers of the Nundu – its lethal venom with no known antidote, its aggression, its wicked agility. The Aurors were to deal with the naughty wizards and the Magizoologists with the beast. At Draco's signal, they began their stealthy assault on the fort. The Magizoologists were a well-trained bunch who kept well behind the Disillusioned Aurors, per their instructions. Two half-asleep watchmen were Stunned, Silenced, and immobilised with cuffs. Then the Aurors moved into the fort proper, after Draco had rid the door of wards and Buckley had taken care of the rather complex Magical locking mechanism. “German-made,” Buckley muttered by way of apology for taking so long. Now they advanced down poorly lit corridors rife with ill-cast wards. Draco took care of the latter as Buckley raised his wand in a detection spell. He signalled two more guards ahead, which Goggin and young Humphreys crept onwards to take care of. They came across a guard room, which was a mess of decrepit furniture and new sleeping bags, old food and heaps upon heaps of the ballistic syringes that had proven so critical to track Talfryn down. Two Aurors stood sentinel as Draco and the others pulled in the Magizoologists to inspect the syringes and their contents. They concluded that it was etorphine hydrochloride – a Muggle opioid. “Very potent,” said the most senior of the Magizoologists, a witch called Ridgewell. “Muggles use it to take down rhinoceroses. A squirt of this will stop a human heart in half a minute.” “Blimey, they’ve got enough here for two dozen rhinos,” said her younger partner. “Or one very large Nundu.” They discovered a stash of small crossbows in a dark corner. After a brief conference, two the Magizoologists equipped themselves with them: “We’ve got our own sedatives,” said Ridgewell, “but we know these will work, if ours don’t.” “Wait here,” said Draco as he opened the door to the next passage. “We’ll go ahead and clear the way. And what’s that bloody smell? Is it…?” Ridgewell sniffed at the air, looking rather like an English Setter about to point. There was a foul, pungent smell seeping into the room. “That’ll be the Nundu,” said Ridgewell. “Male, judging by the potency. If you spot it, don’t make eye contact, move slowly, and come back to us. I’m not sure Disillusionment works on Magical felids.” Draco, who was rather more interested in Talfryn than the Nundu, slipped into the corridor, flanked by Buckley and Humphreys, with Goggin bringing up the rear. Fernsby was left to protect the Magizoologists. As they advanced, their detection spells suggested three more nearby human presences in the fort – as well as whoever else might be behind the metres of rock ahead of them. And underneath them– “Something big,” said Humphreys, holding her wand to her ear as she knelt on the floor. “It’s growling, too – I wonder if it’s dinnertime.” “Happy to let the Magis deal with that bugger,” said Buckley with a shudder. There was a cry of frustration up ahead. The Aurors crept up close enough to hear someone swear. “I can’t fucking Disapparate,” came a rough voice. “You try.” “Idiot,” came a drawl. There was a moment of silence, and then, “I can’t either.” “Fuck!” came a third voice – Talfryn’s. “Anti-Apparition Ward. Sound the bloody alarm, you idiot! Accio broom!” The Disillusioned Aurors slipped into a kind of inner courtyard. Goggin got a Stunner off on the drawly wizard just as he’d lifted his wand to raise the alarm. A broom whizzed by Draco in the dark. He hit it with an Incendio; it was a smouldering stick by the time it reached Talfryn’s waiting hand. “They’re here!” said Talfryn, backing into a corner behind a half-collapsed pillar. “Finite incantatem! Finite incantatem! Hominem Revelio!” He was casting the spells in the general direction of the passage the Aurors had emerged from, hoping to hit someone and break their Disillusionment. His remaining acolyte joined him behind the pillar and did the same, forcing the Aurors to take up defensive positions behind piles of rubble. Talfryn swept his wand into the air to set off an intruder alarm. From a room behind them came footsteps, and then, suddenly, the courtyard was crawling with two dozen wizards. “Shit,” hissed Humphreys. Things had just become interesting. “I’ll take the left with Goggin,” muttered Draco to Humphreys and Buckley. “You two stay here and distract – mind you keep moving so they don’t pin you.” Now that they were heavily outnumbered, there would be no fighting nice. Which was excellent, because Draco preferred to fight dirty – Disillusioned and with liberal use of Legilimency. Goggin was an excellent partner; the Irishman was a brawler at heart and loved an opportunity to get messy. Goggin’s Disillusioned shape bobbed behind him as Draco weaved to the ragged line of men that was forming around Talfryn. He went ahead, softening the ranks with Stunners while Goggin cleaned up after. When he tired of garden variety Stuns and Petrificus Totalus, Draco added a little spice. Having identified the better fighters through observation or Legilimency, he cast a few of the more magically demanding Turncoat jinxes – and briefly, those opponents fought for the Aurors, until their colleagues cursed some sense into them. Buckley and Humphreys pounded Talfryn’s line with explosive spells and kept their enemies’ attention on the front of the courtyard. Aguamenti was being sprayed where things (or people) had caught fire and added a heavy steam to the atmosphere. This was ideal for Draco and Goggin, who were even more difficult to spot within. They continued their advance towards Talfryn. Goggin came behind Draco to Stun any who were still twitching after his passing. He secured them with the satisfying click of the cuffs. Draco’s Legilimency showed him one man’s intent to collapse a pillar into the corner where Buckley and Humphreys had holed up. Fatigued by his repeated Stunners, Draco switched it up – a flick of his wand took the wizard out at the knees. Then he blinded him. Then he severed his Achilles tendons. All non-lethal measures, of course; Draco played by the rules. Mostly. Gradually, their adversaries became aware of a growing stillness on their left flank as Draco and Goggin moved in, while Buckley and Humphreys hammered them with an unfriendly barrage of spells. An unlucky Finite Incantatem hit Goggin and revealed him. Goggin Disillusioned himself again immediately while Draco levitated the big man to a spot fifteen metres away, just before a Bombarda exploded where he had stood. “Cheers,” came Goggin’s throaty whisper. They continued their advance. Stun, curse, Legilimens, dodge Finite, Stun, Turncoat Jinx, Impedimenta, dodge, blind, Legilimens, Stun. Their numbers reducing alarmingly, Talfryn’s remaining men were now Disillusioning themselves as well, screeching Protego! and scattering across the courtyard. It was the Aurors’ turn to fire Finite Incantatem at will. The Anti-Apparition Ward was a double-edged sword. Draco dearly wished that he could Apparate to Talfryn’s side and take him, but he was only two-thirds of the way there. At Draco’s count, there were only four opponents left, plus Talfryn. Buckley was hit with a Finite emanating from somewhere near Draco. Suddenly in the realm of the visible, he was forced to dodge behind piles of boulders before a friendly Disillusionment from the east side of the courtyard removed him from sight again: Humphreys. Draco systematically ploughed the ground near him with Petrificus Totalus until he got the Disillusioned wizard who had hit Buckley. Three left. “Yer man’s goin’ for that chain,” gasped Goggin. Draco whirled to see Talfryn launching himself at a dangling chain connected to an ancient pulley. The pulley was connected to a large grille laying across a hole in the ground. “Shit!” said Draco. Both Aurors aimed desperate long-range Stunners at Talfryn. By some miracle, Goggin hit the man’s leg and Draco his shoulder, but Talfryn had already wrapped his arms around the chain and his Stunned body pulled it down. There was a grating sound as the grille was slid out of place. Then a rumbling growl shook the very stones under their feet. The Nundu leapt out of its underground prison and was now loose in the courtyard. A fetid odour accompanied it, enough to make the weaker-stomached men retch. The Aurors called out their retreat; they were not equipped to deal with this beast. Draco heard Goggin’s breathless run at his side as they sprinted for the passage. The Nundu turned to them. As it transpired, Disillusionment did not work on Magical felids. Draco made a note to tell Ridgewell, should he survive long enough to speak to her again. The beast was tracking their movement, as well as that of a handful of other invisible-to-them figures in the courtyard. As the Nundu’s eyes slid over him, Draco felt, for the first time in his life, what it felt like to be prey – the yellow gaze had a paralysing effect. The creature’s movements were so easy and sinuous they were hypnotic. Its scarred, Magic-repelling hide, bristling with venomous spines, rippled as it walked. Draco’s wand felt as useless as a twig in his hand. He and Goggin stilled and looked at the ground, as they had been taught by Ridgewell. It was one of the singular most difficult things Draco had ever done. His every instinct was screaming at him to flee or to fire a Bombarda at the creature’s face. He could hear Goggin swearing a constant stream of fuck under his breath. There was a scuffle at the passage that led to the exit. Two of Talfryn’s men were fighting to get through before the other. The Nundu leapt, crossing the courtyard in two graceful bounds. The men’s Disillusionment dissipated as they died, one crushed by the creature’s weight, the other casually decapitated by the sweep of a paw. His head rolled to Draco’s feet like a gory Quaffle. The passage was too small for the Nundu to enter. It turned its attention back to the courtyard, its nostrils flared wide, venom drip-dripping from its muzzle. It was sniffing for something. Another of Talfryn’s Disillusioned men made a run for it. He was summarily killed, cut in two bloody halves by a bite. That was, at Draco’s best count, the last of Talfryn’s crew. Now there were only Aurors left standing. The Nundu turned its nose back to the wind. It found what it had been sniffing for: Talfryn’s Stunned body. Talfryn was snatched up and tossed into the air like a child’s plaything. He hit the wall with a musical crunch. Then the creature eviscerated him with an easy swipe and began to eat. Slowly, amongst the wet sounds of Talfryn’s innards being slurped up, Draco and Goggin moved towards the passage. Draco hoped that the Disillusioned Buckley and Humphreys were doing the same – no sudden movement, no eye contact, just an uninteresting drift towards safety. The Nundu raised its head. It looked to the east of the courtyard. Humphreys. The creature ambled towards the eastern corner with a kind of lazy anticipation. Draco couldn’t blame the young Auror for the explosion of spells she cast towards the beast; he would’ve done the same, had he been cornered. She sent something cutting at its face; it shrugged it off with a sneeze that scattered venom in a two metre radius. Draco raised his wand; Goggin’s Disillusioned arm by his side did the same. “Confrigo, as hard as you can go,” said Draco. They slashed their wands downwards with identical timing, causing their spells to twin together and hurl like a fireball towards the beast’s flank. The spell exploded upon impact, leaving their ears ringing. Humphreys was hit by the percussive force of the blast; she hit a wall and lost her Disillusion. Draco could see her crawling away through the smoke. And the Nundu? It had been knocked sideways by the explosion, but now it regained its feet and shook its mane, as though this had been a playful shove and not a deadly spell. It turned the considerable weight of its attention to Draco and Goggin. “Shite,” said Goggin. They raised their wands. The beast leapt. Goggin hit it with a Bombarda in its open mouth, which bought them a moment of respite as it landed, mere metres from them, and hacked out a cough wet with venom. Draco’s Blinding Jinx was next, aimed at the eyes, almost at point-blank range. It did nothing but seal one eye shut – and piss the thing off. Draco and Goggin scrambled backwards as pneumatic whizzing filled the air. The Magizoologists had come. They peeked out of the passage and peppered the beast with the ballistic syringes and their own tranquilisers. At this distance, half of the syringes were bouncing off the Nundu’s hide. Buckley, limping badly, was dragging Humphreys towards the safety of the passage. Fernsby stood guard in front of the Magis and thickened the air with Protegos before darting out to assist Buckley. Ridgewell Conjured a herd of small leaping things which danced around the beast and distracted it for a moment, until it vomited out its venom and they all dissolved. It bought enough time for Draco and Goggin to pull themselves behind a boulder. The Nundu’s attention turned to Humphreys and Buckley. A dozen syringes were embedded in its shoulder and neck – to, so far, minor effect. The Magizoologists levitated half a dead doe, stuffed with tranquilisers, towards the creature. It batted the doe aside, having learnt in the course of its captivity not to trust any meat except what it had killed itself. The Magizoologists launched projectiles full of inhalant sedatives which exploded at the beast’s feet. This had been their last-ditch plan, as the inhalant would be just as dangerous to the Aurors as it would be to the beast. Draco and Goggin cast Bubble-Head Charms at each other and staggered further away. The Nundu stepped through the purpling cloud with a hiss, and, finally, showed signs of slowing – one eye jinxed shut, blood running from its mouth, sedatives in its bloodstream and lungs. Its remaining eye was fixed on the stumbling Humphreys and Buckley, who were both now being dragged by Fernsby. Draco saw the sweep of the tail and the lowering of the hindquarters that signaled an imminent pounce. He slashed his wand towards the chain and pulley and whipped the chain around the Nundu’s hind leg just as it leapt. Goggin joined him, his wand crackling with effort as they pulled the chain backwards through sheer force of magic. The Nundu was forced back, its claws digging deep gouges into the rocky ground. The injured trio of Aurors collapsed into the relative safety of the passage, leaving Draco and Goggin to face the beast. The Magizoologists were scrambling to distract the creature, Conjuring a female Nundu (ignored), more meat (swatted aside), prey animals (ignored), a cage around it (smashed to bits), and, finally, launching enough immobilising agents to sedate twelve rhinoceroses. Draco believed the tales, now, of a single Nundu wiping out entire villages in Eastern Africa. The Nundu had half-collapsed – the sedatives were finally working. Its remaining eye was bleary, its mouth hung open, its legs grew boneless. It bared its fangs at Draco and Goggin and a hot stream of venom jetted out at them. They dodged and were separated by a hissing black-purple flow. Draco was on the side of its remaining good eye. He aimed another Blinding Jinx just as the beast turned its heavy head to him and bared its fangs again. He got the beast in the eye, the beast got him across the throat with searing venom. The pain of it shocked his system. His Bubble-Head Charm vanished. He gasped out to breathe and took in a lungful of sedative-filled air. As the Nundu finally collapsed, so, too, did Draco. ~ Draco awoke to a white ceiling streaking past him, as though he or the ceiling were moving at high velocity. There were raised voices and indistinct words and sounds of general chaos. Running feet, clinking equipment, the whirr of wheels. Then there was a crisp voice of command. The voice was reassuring, somehow. It was the voice of Competence and Order, and it was Good. His body was no longer his body; it was a thing chiefly composed of pain. He could not scream. His ears caught words and communicated them to his numb brain. Envenomated. Respiratory depression. Paralysis of the diaphragm. Lethal dose. And then, distantly, he could hear a scream. But it was not his – it was his mother’s. “Get her out,” said the Voice of Competence. “I’ll speak to her when I’ve saved this one’s life.” ~ Draco awoke to another white ceiling. This time, it was not whizzing by impossibly fast. He took this development to be good news. Other good news: he felt no pain. In fact, he felt excellent. He had never felt so wonderful in his life. Full of vitality. Full of joy. “Full of painkillers,” came a kindly voice. “You’re stuffed to the gills with them, child. Don’t try to get up. I’ll fetch your Healer.” The kindly voice belonged to a matronly sort of witch in light green St. Mungo’s robes. A nurse. Draco watched her leave, giggling at the odd fish-eye effect occurring in his vision, which made her bum hilariously large. Then he blinked and the walls began to squeeze inwards. If he closed his eyes, he saw kaleidoscopes. An orange cat and a Nundu, whirling into each other, fighting one another in concentric spirals, on and on and on. He opened his eyes again. He was at St. Mungo’s. He was alive. Shouldn’t he be dead? “You should,” came the cutting Voice of Order. “Am I saying everything I’m thinking?” asked Draco of the ceiling, with a deep philosophical curiosity. “Yes, and you will for another few hours, at least. You’re on a little cocktail that affects neurotransmission. It was the only way to manage your pain during the procedure. You’ll probably experience hallucinations – if you haven’t already, of course.” The swot was strong with this one. In a kind of slow motion, Draco turned his head to observe the Healer. Her deep green robes swam into sight. Her mouth was set in a straight line, but her dark eyes were warmed by concern. She was beautiful. The light behind her glowed into a blinding halo. He thought he heard the sound of hymns. “How are you feeling?” she asked. “Positively top-hole,” said Draco. “Are you an angel?” The Angel-Healer did her utmost not to laugh – which was an angelic sort of thing to do, and only further proved her secret identity. “You can trust me,” said Draco. He attempted to tap his nose but poked himself in the eye instead. “I’ll keep your secret.” The Angel-Healer did not respond; she was reading a chart. “I had an operation?” asked Draco. “We’ll talk about it later. When you’ve slept this off a bit.” Something about her authoritativeness was terribly familiar. “I know who you are,” gasped Draco. “That’s good.” “You’re Hermione Granger.” “Correct.” She rose. Her robes danced about her in green swathes of colour. “Your mother is frothing to be let in. She Flooed back from Italy as soon as we sent word. But I want you to sleep first. I’d prefer you to have your mouth under control before you see her. All right?” “Fine,” said Draco. “Excellent. Have a nap. We’ll talk again when you wake up.” Draco, with an effort, patted the bed. “Join me,” said Draco. “No.” “Why not?” asked Draco in a long sort of whinge. “Because you don’t know what you’re saying,” said Granger. There was restrained amusement in her voice. “I hope you don’t remember this, for your sake.” Draco, with a distant thrill of horror, heard himself say, “I want to kiss you.” “No you don’t.” “Come and sit in my lap.” “Go to sleep, Malfoy.” Granger was a distant figure now, melding in and out of the shadows of the corridor. She shut the door behind her. Draco closed his eyes. The Nundu and the cat continued their whirling battle, on and on until he fell asleep. ~ Draco woke up again. Something about the sun streaming through the window told him that it was the next day. Unfortunately, he remembered every word of his conversation with Granger. Where was the Nundu? Could it come and finish the job of killing him? The kind nurse was back. She fussed a bit over Draco’s sheets and then applied a paste that smelled strongly of pine to his neck. “Dittany?” “Vahlia. It should help with the scarring.” The nurse cast a few diagnostic spells on him and seemed satisfied by the results. “You are doing remarkably well, Mr. Malfoy, all things considered. Your mother is here. Do you feel like seeing her? You needn’t if you don’t want to.” Draco nodded. A few minutes later, his mother rushed in and embraced him in her thin arms. She looked frightfully shaken, pale, and tired. She perched next to the bed and fussed over him at length, enquiring about how he felt, how his neck felt, whether he could breathe, whether he could swallow, how he had slept, and so on and so forth, until Draco’s mouth grew dry and he had to call for water. Draco learned that his team had made it out of the fort with a mix of injuries, though none as dire as his. This was his third day at St. Mungo’s. The Nundu had survived and been transported back to the wilds of Tanzania. And the baddies? The beast had taken its blood-soaked revenge on Talfryn and company. Many were dead. Those that had survived the courtyard massacre were awaiting trial. Narcissa squeezed Draco’s hand. There were tears in her eyes. “But enough about them. I am so – so happy to see you well. I very nearly lost you. I don’t know what I would’ve done.” Narcissa stopped and took a deep breath to force down a sob. She didn’t like to cry. “I’m going to be fine, mother,” said Draco. Narcissa straightened and dabbed at her eyes. “Don’t be cavalier about it. You almost weren’t fine. You almost died. The Granger girl – Healer Granger – she was instrumental. Nobody knew what to do. That venom doesn’t have a known antivenom. Most of the Healers didn’t even know what a Nundu was. Neither did I, mind you – what possessed you to go in pursuit of such a creature, I shall never understand. You were as good as dead. But she knew things. Muggle things, I think. She whisked you away for four hours – I composed an entire eulogy in my head – and when she came back, she said you were going to live.” Draco squeezed his mother’s hand. He attempted humour. “Will you write the eulogy out for me? I should quite like to read it.” Narcissa sniffed. She rose and strode to the window with her back to Draco. Her thin shoulders shook. “Can’t you take a desk job?” she asked breathily. “Quit this terrible Auror business?” There was a knock on the door. Narcissa wiped away her tears. With her back ramrod straight and her usual severe expression back into place, she went to answer. It was Granger. She wasn’t wearing her Healer robes, today – it was her professorial Muggle attire. Another of those high-waisted skirts and silky blouses. “Oh – er, I’m sorry for interrupting,” said Granger. “I can come back later.” Draco couldn’t really see what happened next – his mother lunged into the corridor with her arms spread wide, and all he heard was an oof from Granger as she was, presumably, hugged quite hard. There was the sound of weeping. Some awkward words of comfort. Then his mother’s heels click-clacked down the corridor. Her voice, thicker than usual, asked where the loo was. “Er – your left,” came Granger’s voice. “No, your other left.” A door slammed. Then, silence. Granger poked her head into Draco’s room. “And how are we?” “A sight better than her,” said Draco. “She’s had a rather distressing few days. She was convinced that you were going to die.” “So I gathered.” “One of my attendants had to Stun her.” “You Stunned my mother?” “Yes. She went quite mad when she saw you on the stretcher. She was a danger to herself and hospital staff.” “I am terribly sorry that you had to witness that.” Granger’s expression grew rather wistful. “It means she loves you very much. You’re lucky to have that.” “...Right.” Granger was being a bit standoffish, hovering at the door. “Aren’t you coming in?” asked Draco. “Oh, I’m not on duty today. I was just popping round to see how you were getting on. I’ve got to be at Trinity in a quarter hour.” “Teaching?” “Examining. A PhD viva.” “Are you going to be nice?” “In direct proportion to the strength of the candidate’s thesis.” Granger stepped back into the corridor and glanced down it. “Should I send someone to check on your mother?” “No. Let her compose herself. She detests crying and she loathes public displays of affection, and she’s just done both with you.” “Perhaps I should leave, before she comes back,” mused Granger. “She won’t have to relive the ignominy of the hug so soon.” Draco agreed; however, there was one thing that he wanted to address, in private, before Granger left – his anaesthesia-fuelled idiocy. “Might I borrow your wand?” he asked. “Whatever for?” “I – unfortunately – remember the things I said yesterday.” “Oh.” “I’d rather like to Obliviate myself.” “No self-Obliviations. You can use Firewhisky, just like everyone else.” A bit cheeky, sometimes, was Granger. “Right,” said Draco. “Then I’ll be off to the pub as soon as bloody possible. When can I leave?” Granger finally abandoned her post at the door to enter the room. She examined the documentation variously pinned or floating above Draco’s bed. Then she cast a series of diagnostic spells which glowed in abstruse green schemata above his chest. “Frankly, I could have you discharged tomorrow morning,” said Granger. “But no alcohol for at least a fortnight, I’m afraid. You’ve just survived a lethal toxin, kindly allow your body to recover before you begin to imbibe another.” “Not even a Butterbeer?” “No.” “But I have things I need to forget.” “So do I.” Granger’s mouth quirked. “Bloody hell,” said Draco, running his hand down his face. “It happens all the time,” said Granger. “All the time.” “Yes.” “You get called an angel all the time?” “Truly.” “And invited for a nap?” “Yes.” “And sitting in laps?” “So frequently I’ve stopped taking notice.” “Fuck,” said Draco, reliving the memory again. “I’m going to go now,” said Granger. There was a warble in her voice, the kind that indicated that she was on the verge of laughter. She left. Draco did not – repeat, did not – look at her bum as she walked away. For all he knew, some lingering trace of the cocktail would make him blurt out something stupid. All right, so he stole one glance when she was already well out of the room. Narcissa returned, nose powdered, eyes glamoured to be bright rather than red. “A brilliant girl,” she said of Granger. “Quite brilliant. But what in heaven’s name was she wearing today?” Draco did not inform her that he rather liked it. Narcissa had endured a great many shocks already. Finally convinced that her only son, her treasure, the apple of her eye, wasn’t about to pop his clogs, Narcissa retired to the Manor. Draco joined her there the next day and was near-suffocated by the joint attentions of his mother and the worried house-elves. For the next week, his every step – amongst a steady stream of friends and well-wishers – was haunted by either an elf or Narcissa bearing Vahlia ointment or restorative soups or warm compresses. He languished in delicious self-indulgence under their care for the first few days, and then grew tired of it, and took to hiding in distant reaches of the Manor grounds for the rest of his recovery. One morning, when Draco was feeling sociable enough to join his mother for breakfast in the dining room, he found her hard at work on a truly breathtaking floral arrangement. It was alive with movement – hummingbird hyacinths fluttering, the glitter of ruby poppies, the dance of halla vines. “You’ve outdone yourself, mother,” said Draco. “Do you like it? Good. I hope she does, too.” “She?” repeated Draco. Narcissa spared him a look over her shoulder, as though to check that it was, indeed, her son behind her, and not a stupid idiot who had snuck in unannounced. “Yes, she. Healer Granger. Who else?” “She will positively adore it, I’m sure.” “It’s to be delivered later today.” “One of the elves? I’d suggest Henriette, she–” Narcissa interrupted with severity. “A house-elf? Really? That witch saved your life. You are going to take it to her, with as much effusive thanks as you can convey.” She slid a thick envelope under a ribbon at the base of the arrangement. “My words of thanks, I wrote. I doubt I’d be able to speak them without further hysterics. I’ve embarrassed myself enough on that front.” Now Narcissa dusted her hands and stepped away from the flowers, observing them with a critical eye. She called for Tupey to bring more ribbon. “And your other task, Draco, will be to uncover whatever cause is near and dear to Healer Granger’s heart, and ensure that our name and Galleons are immediately lined up in support of that cause.” “I had been thinking the same,” said Draco. “Unless it’s more of that chicanery about house-elves.” “Right.” “Or Muggle things. No Muggle things. Well – perhaps yes to Muggle things. Have they got orphans? See to it that you find out.” “Of course.” There was a lull in the conversation. Narcissa cleared her throat and, with casual insouciance, said, “Speaking of elves – they mentioned that you’d had a great many dinner guests in my absence. I’m glad that you were able to keep them occupied.” “Happy to,” said Draco, with an equal measure of insouciance. “They did very well.” “They mentioned, en passant, that Healer Granger had been by,” said Narcissa. Draco felt that they had just arrived at the real crux of the conversation. “She did come by, yes.” “...Might I inquire about the subject of discussion?” So his mother was going to be nosy about it. Not a surprise. “I had to make amends – I made her burn a pie,” said Draco. “You made her burn a pie.” “Yes. We were quarrelling about her otter.” “Her otter.” “Yes. She was partially in the right, mind you; I did concuss McLaggen.” “You concussed McLaggen?” “Amongst other things. He hadn’t much in the way of brains anyway. Have we finished with the quizzing?” “I must confess I’m left with more questions than answers,” said Narcissa. “Henriette also tells me they replenished Healer Granger’s larder?” “Oh, that. Yes – I was rather dismayed to find that the witch who was to save my life was subsisting on dried goods and tinned tuna. And it gave the elves something to do.” Narcissa looked eminently confused, but said, “Of course.” Draco turned the insouciance up a notch. “It was a dinner with a colleague, nothing more.” “A colleague?” “Ministry business; terribly dull and also top secret. Can’t discuss it.” “I see,” said Narcissa. “I shan’t pry further, then.” “That would be the best course of action.” Narcissa’s speculative look was interrupted by a crack. Henriette popped into being and curtseyed. “Pardonnez-moi for the intrusion, Madame, Monsieur. Monsieur Draco, Madame Tonks is Flooing for you.” Draco left his mother to her confused dissatisfaction. Tonks’ head was protruding from the fireplace in the Floo parlour. She said something that might’ve been “Wotcher,” but might’ve also been a sneeze. “Do you want to come through?” asked Draco. “No, haven’t the time. I just wanted to observe you with my beady eye–” as she said this, her eye grew quite beady “–and ensure that you did survive the Nundu venom. The rumours are true. Show me the injury; it must be dramatic.” Draco tugged down at his collar, which was gooey with Vahlia ointment. “Oh, my! Are they saying it’ll heal?” “Probably,” said Draco, grimacing as he replaced the collar against his still-raw neck. “Better it doesn’t – the scar would be quite dashing.” “How are the others?” “O, you know, a little worse for wear, a bit limpy, a bit bruisy. Goggin and Buckley are still coughing up inhalant; we’ll have to devise better than the Bubble-Head Charms, next time.” “And Humphreys?” “She’s developed a phobia of cats, poor thing.” Now Tonks’ arm was sticking out of the fireplace. She shook out a scroll. “But look at this: you lot cuffed twenty naughty wizards, all told – other than the dead ones, I mean. They must’ve been planning for a show that night, that’s why there were so many of them there.” Draco crouched to examine the list. “Shit – we got Hawkes? Kerr was there? I didn’t recognise him.” “And Royston. Lovely harvest. One of our best in years. I’d offer you a pay rise, but, you know.” Tonks gestured to Draco’s grandiose surroundings. “It seems a paltry sort of bonus, considering. I thought I’d offer you something else as a reward.” “Oh?” asked Draco, curious about how one rewards the man who has everything. “Absolute freedom on your next assignment – you choose from my box of surprises.” “Goody.” “And I’ll be taking you off the Granger protection jobbie, because that is the kind of tender-hearted, grateful cousin I am. I know you were never keen on that one.” Draco felt himself grow unaccountably tense. “What?” Tonks, under the impression that she was making a grand and generous gesture, wiggled her eyebrows at him. “I know. I was thinking of Humphreys. They’d get along, wouldn’t they? Better than the two of you, anyroad.” “Humphreys couldn’t – Granger has a cat,” said Draco. To his ears, the weakness of the excuse resonated embarrassingly through the Floo parlour. Tonks scoffed. “Humphie would work around it. Don’t be silly. Or perhaps I slip the job to Goggin to keep his nose unbroken for a bit; the man gets into a punch-up with every mission…” Tonks withdrew her head from the flames. Draco heard her screech, “Someone kill the bloody thing!” Her head popped back into view. “Sorry. Weasley is having a crisis: there's a spider.” The interval had given Draco time to work out an excuse. “Not Goggin, for Granger,” he said, keeping his voice disinterested and neutral. “Not any of them, really. My family rings are a rather key component of the game. I think it’ll be best for me to stay on this one.” Tonks arched an eyebrow. “Really? Are you sure?” “Yes. We’ve found an – an equilibrium,” said Draco. “An equilibrium,” repeated Tonks with unnecessary poshness. She was fixing him with a shrewd look behind the mockery. “All right. The offer stands, should you change your mind. I’ll see you next week?” “Before, no doubt. I’m being suffocated.” Tonks tutted. “Poor darling. Enjoy the remainder of your convalescence. My regards to Narcissa.” Tonks’ head disappeared from the fireplace with a pop. As the flames in the hearth resumed their normal colour, Draco was left to ruminate on the unexpectedness of his reaction at the thought of losing the Granger assignment. His response had been almost physical, almost jealous. He dearly hoped that Tonks hadn’t noticed. He also pondered the uncomfortable question of why he hadn’t let the Granger job go. Some immediately obvious reasons sprung to mind. Well, not exactly reasons – memories, rather, of specific moments: a golden evening on a beach; the way she bit her lip when she didn’t want to laugh; roses and their bewitching effects; the feel of her joyous kisses. But these were not reasons and were therefore easily dismissed as pointless Sentiment. After some grasping about for sounder arguments, which took altogether too long, Draco concluded that it was because he was an Auror with pride, who wanted the job to be done right, and who wanted to see the thing through to the end. There. That was better. It all made sense. And if a minuscule part of him enjoyed Granger’s ludicrous ‘holidays,’ or took delight in her company, or had rather begun to look forward to seeing her, or any such nonsense, it was vastly overpowered by this robust rationale. His mother called him into the dining room to advise him that the flower arrangement was completed, and that he could deliver it to Granger at his earliest convenience. Draco sent a note to Granger enquiring about her availability that evening. She’d be at the pub with Potter and Friends, but home by nine. Would that suit? Draco replied that it would. Home by nine. Granger was a wild one. That night, Draco retired to his chambers for a shower and a shave. As he dabbed a drop of cologne on his wrists, he felt oddly like he was preparing for a date. Which was idiotic, because all he was doing was being an errand boy for his mother, really. When he dressed, he made sure that his collar remained half-open to show off the dashing injury. But only because it was so dashing, and not because he wanted to solicit any kind of fussing or attention from Granger, or anything like that. Chapter 20: Draco Malfoy the Errand Boy, Life and Times of 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. Chapter 21: The Mortifying Ordeal Begins 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. Chapter 22: Lughnasadh / The Top of the World ~ 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 23: Draco Malfoy, Notorious Auror 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.” Make sure you read Chapter 24-34 of this amazing Draco/Hermione lovestory, and the climab in Chapter 35 and 36.

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

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